Writing. | J Cooper

Tag Archive: Writing.

Chapter 5 : Kindergarten IQ and Crayon Prophecies

Filed under: Uncategorized — Leave a comment

October 9, 2025

By the time kindergarten rolled around, I had almost mastered the art of pretending to be a normal kid. Almost. I knew how to lose at Candy Land without flipping the board. I stopped blurting out movie quotes from films that hadn’t come out yet. And I really tried to stop finishing adults’ sentences just because I already knew how they ended.

But school? That was a different battlefield.

At home, I could get away with being “precocious” or “clever.” My parents chalked it up to natural smarts. Grandma called it “a gifted spirit.” But in a classroom full of five-year-olds who thought triangles had four sides and glue was a gourmet snack? I stood out. And standing out was dangerous.
It started innocently enough—a pop quiz on colors. I finished it in seconds. Then numbers. Then came shapes.

Mrs. Janson, who wore enough perfume to stun a rhino, held up a hexagon and asked, “Can anyone tell me what shape this is?”

Before I could stop myself, I said, “Technically, that’s a regular convex polygon with six equal sides and angles.”

The whole class went quiet. Mrs. Janson blinked. “…Hexagon,” she said slowly.

“Right,” I mumbled, slinking down into my seat. “That’s what I meant.”
From that moment on, she watched me differently. Not with Grandma’s curiosity or warmth, but with concern. Like I was a toddler holding a loaded weapon. Surprised. Wary. A little afraid.
Two weeks later, I was pulled into a quiet little room with a woman in a beige pantsuit and an overly friendly voice.

“We’re just going to play some games today, okay, sweetheart?” she said, pulling out a stack of laminated cards.

I’d been in this room before—just not in this life. This was where they sent the “weird” kids. The ones who didn’t fit into the boxes. In my last life, I was labeled as special needs because of a speech impediment, untreated ADHD, and anxiety I didn’t have the words to explain. I remembered the humiliation. Being pulled from class. The stares. The way adults talked about me instead of to me.

But this time? I had four decades of coping skills. I just had to not screw this up.
I deliberately got a few answers wrong so I wouldn’t come off as some kind of genius. I wasn’t—just someone who remembered everything. I played dumb. Pretended I didn’t know how to spell giraffe, even though I’d once written a research paper on their mating patterns.

But then she asked, “Can you count as high as you can for me?”
And I slipped, “Do you want prime numbers or just whole numbers?”
She blinked. “Just… regular counting is fine.”
I froze. “Oh. Uh… one, two, three…”
I counted to a hundred before I got bored.
Her pen scratched across her notepad like a guillotine.
After that, the school psychologist started sitting in on our class. The principal made too many appearances. I overheard teachers whispering about “gifted testing.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept wondering: What if they figured me out? Would they move me to a special school? Scan my brain? Lock me away in some research lab? But the tests came and went.
The school handed my parents a glowing report filled with praise and long acronyms. “Highly intelligent,” it read. “Possible signs of asynchronous development.” Even as an adult, I had never heard that phrase.

So, first chance I got, I looked it up.
Asynchronous development means growing at uneven speeds—like a kid whose brain is ten years ahead, but whose emotions are still learning how to share crayons. It was their explanation for why I seemed gifted… but also off.

They recommended enrichment classes, puzzle-based learning, and extra reading time. Mom beamed. Dad high-fived me and told me how proud he was. Grandma just gave me that long, slow look over her glasses—and said nothing. Later that night, I caught her standing in the hallway, holding something in her hands.

It was my drawing—the one I’d made in crayon with big, blocky letters:
“SPACE SHUTTLE CHALLENGER WILL BLOW UP IN 1986. 7 ASTRONAUTS DIE.”

She still had it. And now, she was just staring at it, like she was remembering that I’d written it a whole year before it happened. Remembering how distraught I’d been after the explosion. She didn’t see me at first. She just stood there, brushing her thumb along the edge of the paper like she was trying to feel the truth in it. Then she noticed me, set the drawing down and hugged me tight.

“Be careful,” she whispered. “I don’t think the world is ready for you yet.”
I stared up at her. “What?”
“You know things you shouldn’t. Even things that haven’t happened yet.”
My throat went dry. “Grandma…”

She pulled back and looked down at me with the same warmth I remembered from the last life. She had always stepped in when Mom was too cruel. Had covered for me. Held me during panic attacks. Sat with me through heartbreak and silence. She had been the mother I never had and here she was again.

“I don’t know how or why,” she said softly. “But you were just a little boy one day… and the next, you weren’t.” So I told her everything.

She listened—quiet, still—and when I finished, she didn’t run. She didn’t call anyone. She didn’t panic. She just hugged me again, and let me cry.

Because for all the fantasy this sounds like, reliving your childhood when no one knows you’ve done it before is lonely. Isolating. I was a middle-aged man in the body of a kindergartner. Hanging out with kids felt… weird and parents didn’t understand or would believe anything I said.

“I believe you,” she said. “I don’t know why. But I do.”
I gave her a few small stock tips. Told her what to buy, when to sell. Nothing outrageous—just quiet security. And then I had to have the hard talk.

I told her that in my previous life, she passed away in 2017. Health complications. So I begged her to take care of herself. I offered to go on walks with her, tempted her by saying I’d tell her more stories about how life unfolded the first time. We talked for over an hour and when I finally went to bed, I realized something I hadn’t dared to hope: I wasn’t alone anymore, I had Binx and I had my grandma. I was building my life. Making small corrections where I could.
And maybe—just maybe—I could do more.

He was smaller than I remembered.
Jordan Downing.
In my old life, he was the first person to ever make me feel worthless at school. The kid who mocked my speech issues relentlessly—something that, thankfully, wasn’t a problem this time around. He made me a social pariah in second grade. He pushed me into a trash can in fifth. He made sure everyone saw when he “accidentally” spilled milk all over my Hobbit book in seventh.
He was hell in a red windbreaker and Velcro shoes and now, he was standing in front of me, holding out a sticky graham cracker.

“Trade?” he asked.

My first instinct was to swat it away. To glare at him with all the fury of a man who’d been humiliated in public, left alone at lunch tables, and talked into silence. I wasn’t the same helpless, scared kid I’d been before. A few years after high school, I got into mixed martial arts, which I studied for three years. Then a buddy convinced me to join him in kickboxing, and I spent another four years training. This time around, I knew how to fight. I wasn’t afraid of getting hit.

But then… I looked again.
He was just a kid. His nose was runny. His smile was honest. He was still around my age—it’d be another year before we started first grade together. And that’s when it hit me like a freight train: He didn’t know who he was going to become. He hadn’t done those things to me yet. He hadn’t hurt me. Not yet and maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t, if someone reached him before the damage took root.
I took the graham cracker and nodded. “Trade.”

We sat in the sandbox, silent and sticky-fingered, while I wrestled with one heavy, impossible thought: If I could change him… what did that make me? A redeemer? A manipulator? Or just a guy trying to stop the next wave of pain?

Tags: family, fiction, life, love, Writing.

Comment

Chapter 4: The Ice Cream Truck Incident

Filed under: Uncategorized — Leave a comment

September 26, 2025

By the time I turned three, I was growing more accustomed to my diminutive body. Then, on January 28th, the Challenger exploded. The first time this happened, I’d been too young to really understand. This time, I felt it. I was crushed by an overwhelming sense of loss. Angry that I couldn’t do anything to prevent it. Upset with myself—for trying to do something selfless and failing, I knew it wasn’t my fault. But I felt guilty all the same. It was a hard lesson: sometimes knowledge of the future hurts more than it helps.
There’s something strange about knowing too much when no one thinks you know anything at all. For the most part, I kept my head down. I made harmless predictions. Avoided anything that might scare people. And when I did steer things, I kept it subtle. But then… the ice cream truck showed up. It was one of those little summer staples. Tinny jingle looping on repeat.
Rolling down the street at five miles per hour.
All the neighborhood kids came running—sticky fingers, wrinkled dollar bills—laughing and screaming like the world was perfect. But I knew better.
I remembered the story. One of the younger boys had darted into the street that summer.
I’d been three the first time it happened. I remembered the scream, the blood and the way the ice cream truck never came back. How my dad rushed outside and shielded my eyes before I could see too much. I remembered the funeral.
Now sitting barefoot on the porch steps—three years old again, Flintstones Push-Pop in hand—I watched the same moment begin to unfold. The same boy, the red ball. His distracted mother, the same sprint into the road. I had seconds to react, I didn’t think. I just screamed his name.
Loud. Panicked. A toddler’s shriek, but sharp enough to cut through the noise. The boy froze. His mom turned and caught him just before he could continue towards the street.
The driver braked. Eugene missed the bumper by inches.

 The next few days were... weird. The boy’s mother thanked my mom.
 “He must’ve just sensed it,” she said, “Kids are intuitive like that.”
 But my mom started watching me differently too. Less with warmth. More with... unease.
 “How did you even know that boy’s name?” she asked me later.
 I shrugged and said I had played with him one of the days my dad had taken me to the park. But that moment didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like I’d stepped over a tripwire I hadn’t realized I was near.
 That night, across the dinner table, Grandma gave me a look—just for a second—that told me she knew. She still never said a word about it, or me. Just handed me an extra scoop of macaroni and cheese, which was and still is my favorite. But the way she looked at me when she did, it was like I’d passed some secret test.

 The next morning, I woke up early and sat by the window, watching the sun rise over a world I knew too well. Because that was the cost of knowledge, I could stop a tragedy...

But not the suspicion that followed. And if I wasn’t careful, I knew it was only a matter of time

Tags: family, fiction, life, love, Writing.

Comment

To know you twice Chapter 3.

Filed under: Uncategorized — Leave a comment

September 17, 2025

Chapter Three: Operation Crayon Nostradamus

My first real test came in the form of Crayola and credibility. I’d relearned how to scribble, but now I had something to say. Using the only medium available to me—construction paper and crayons—I wrote a note in big, clumsy letters:

“SPACE SHUTTLE CHALLENGER WILL BLOW UP IN 1986. 7 ASTRONAUTS DIE.”

I showed it to my mom, She laughed.
“What a big imagination you have!”

Then I showed it to my dad.
He studied the drawing for a long time, furrowing his brow at the big, blocky letters and the crude sketches.

I still lacked the fine motor skills to make my body obey.
It didn’t help that I’d never had much artistic talent, and even as an adult, my handwriting had been… atrocious.

Later, my dad took the drawing to show his mother. The two of them talked about it in hushed whispers. That Sunday, he took me to church—where my grandma led a prayer.
For me and I screamed inwardly, inside my head.

Not because I was mad at her, but because I realized something: I was powerless. I could remember dates. Disasters. Warnings. But no one would take a toddler seriously. Not even if I spelled out words no two-year-old should know. Not even if I wrote out the truth in crayon. It freaked everyone out. They didn’t take it as a warning—they saw it as something wrong with me. Something unnatural. Worst of all, the explosion wasn’t even close yet. It was still a full year away. No one was going to remember some scribbled warning from a toddler twelve months from now.

I had no credibility. No way to prove what I knew. No way to stop what was coming. I couldn’t save them. Not yet and that hit me harder than I ever expected.

So, I pivoted, I started small. Predictions I could make that didn’t sound insane. I told my mom the neighbor’s power would go out. It did.

When our new kitten was stolen, I immediately told my dad I’d seen the neighbor take her. I hadn’t, not really. But, I had remembered it took us a year to find out the truth the first time. By then, too much time had passed. The evidence was gone. My family didn’t want to fight over it. But this time, my dad went next door and told her that his son had seen her pick up the cat. An hour later, Binx was back in my arms. I cried, not just from the joy of having my kitten returned to me, but in reality It was the first real, meaningful change I’d made. It mattered more than I expected. Because having Binx back in my life made me feel a little less lonely.

One day, I said Grandma would call at exactly 3:17 and She did.

I said it would rain tomorrow—even though the sky was blue and the weatherman had promised sunshine. It rained.

That’s when my grandma started watching me differently. She wasn’t scared, she wasn’t suspicious. Just… careful. Like she was tuning in. Studying me. Curious.

Some days I swore she knew something. Or at least suspected.
She never said anything out loud, but there was something in the way her eyes lingered—like she was quietly cataloging everything I said.

She hadn’t figured out the truth. Not really. I think she just sensed it. That something had changed in me. That I was different.

Sometimes, I thought she saw me the way a person might look at a child prophet—wandering the house barefoot, making little predictions in between snack time and Sesame Street. And in her silence, I felt both comforted… and exposed.

Then, one day, while she was babysitting me, I caught her in bedroom—standing in the soft glow of morning light, holding something in her hands. It was the drawing. My drawing. The one with the crude letters:
“SPACE SHUTTLE CHALLENGER WILL BLOW UP IN 1986. 7 ASTRONAUTS DIE.” She’d kept it. Folded, creased, but intact.

She didn’t see me watching from the doorway. She just stared at it for a long time, her thumb brushing over the edge of the paper like she was trying to feel the truth in it. Then she quietly slid it back into small shoe box and shut the lid. I had recognized that shoebox, she had kept it for years, would put anything I would collect or make in that box, I had changed that too. Because I never made that note before.

That moment never came up in conversation. She never asked me about it. Never called it out. But after that, she started calling me by my full name more often and when she hugged me, it lingered. Just a little longer than before. I never knew for sure what she believed. But I think—deep down—she believed something had happened to me or was happening. In the other life, she was always quick to notice whenever anything had changed or had become different.

Tags: family, life, love, memories, Writing.

Comment

To know you twice. Chapter 2

Filed under: Uncategorized — Leave a comment

September 3, 2025

Chapter Two: Training Wheels and Time Bombs

By the third week, I’d stopped trying to walk like a grown man and started shuffling like a toddler again. I had to. The cognitive dissonance was too much. Every time I stubbed my toe on the edge of the couch or tripped over my own feet, it felt like the universe reminding me I wasn’t in control—not anymore.

But I had plans. Big ones.

I knew what stocks to buy. What companies to bet on. What disasters to warn people about—if I could ever figure out how to speak like an adult without freaking everyone out.But those weren’t the things that haunted me the most.

It was the people, the ones I’d lost. The ones who had hurt me. And the ones I still missed… even after everything. I found myself watching my dad through new eyes.
He was so young, so full of energy—not yet worn down by years of hard parenting, debt, two divorces, bad decisions, and my mother.

My mother…

She had become physically and verbally abusive toward the end of their marriage and only got worse after she won custody of me. There were things I’d blamed her for later in life. I hadn’t forgiven everything—but I understood more now. Age and knowledge had softened some of the sharp edges, even when part of me still wanted to cling to my anger.

But they were still married now. The abuse hadn’t begun yet.
Maybe… maybe I could approach everything differently. I wasn’t a kid this time. Well—at least, not mentally.

One afternoon, I sat in a plastic chair in the backyard, pretending to play with a red dump truck, when it hit me like a lightning bolt:

If I wanted to meet the people who mattered in my old life, I’d have to steer the world toward them… or steer myself. Could I still meet David, my best friend from high school?
He’d moved into my old neighborhood in 1996. But what if his parents took a different job this time? What if I didn’t go to the same school? Or worse—what if I did meet him again… and he wasn’t the same? Would I try to shape him? Turn him into the version I remembered? Would I even have the right? Was that even friendship anymore? I didn’t know.

I’d never heard of anything like this happening before to anyone. As far as I knew, I was the first—maybe the only one. I still didn’t understand how or why this was happening to me.

But I was also… depressed. I missed elements of my old life. I missed being an adult. I missed my adult friends, my adult freedoms and God did I miss technology.

I had no idea how dating was going to work for me now. Then again, I had gone through my entire school career—elementary through high school—single. So maybe I wouldn’t try to change that part. All I knew was: I didn’t want to live forty more years just watching life happen.

Not again. If I had to relive it all…I was going to make it count. Even if it meant going through braces again, puberty once more, even if it meant re-entering the chaos of adolescence with a mind that had already survived it once. Here I was: Reinserted back into my two-year-old body. Reliving it all—whether I wanted to or not.

Tags: fiction, life, love, mental-health, Writing.

Comment

To know you twice:

Filed under: Uncategorized — Leave a comment

August 29, 2025

I recently got a notification I’ve been getting traffic on my blog, so let me bring it back to life! I’ve still be writing, working on a few projects, so here’s the first one.

This is a short story I started working on, inspired by a thought exercise I came across on Facebook. The question was:

“What would you do if you woke up tomorrow, and it was 1985—and all your memories of this time had been nothing but a dream?”

My first thought was, “I’d probably have some sort of existential crisis. I carry 42 years of life inside me, and if I suddenly woke up as a two-year-old again, I’d need some serious help readjusting.”

That led me down a rabbit hole: What if someone really did go to sleep one day, only to wake up in the body of their two-year-old self? What if they retained perfect recall—every detail, every mistake, every triumph from the life they’d already lived?

What would that even feel like? How would you handle it?

With those questions echoing in my head, I just started writing. I don’t know if anyone else will like it or not, but here it is—my story:

To Know You Twice.

To know you twice.

It was just a normal day when it all happened. I was 45 years old, had just gotten home from the gym, and spent some time playing one of my favorite video games—Final Fantasy VII Rebirth Part 2. It’s based on the original Final Fantasy VII, which first came out in 1997.

The remake felt deeply nostalgic. I’d heard plenty of people complain about how it diverges from the original—how much they hated that—but I found myself enjoying it. It wasn’t just replaying a familiar game; it was like discovering a whole new story hidden inside an old favorite.

I remember falling asleep watching Netflix, and when I woke up, I screamed.

Not because I was in pain—though my joints ached in ways I didn’t understand—but because the room was all wrong. The bed was different. And above me was the underside of a bunk bed, the kind my older brother used to sleep in when we were kids.

The ceiling was textured, stuccoed like popcorn, with a brass light fixture I hadn’t seen in decades. The room felt off—filled with toys I didn’t recognize, plastic shapes dangling from the ceiling, spinning lazily in the warm sunlight coming through a window that didn’t belong to my current apartment.

The silence was thick in that way only the past can be. No buzz of cell phones. No hum of air purifiers. Just the distant sound of someone humming and the sharp scent of baby powder.

I tried to sit up, and that’s when I realized:

My arms were short.

My fingers were pudgy.

And when I cried out in panic—because I did cry—it came out as a high-pitched, breathy wail.

I scrambled off the bed, heart pounding, but my coordination was a mess. My brain fired commands with the precision of a soldier—but my toddler limbs flailed like I was drunk.

Then the door creaked open, and a voice I hadn’t heard in over twenty years called out.

“Sweetie? You’re up early!”

My mom.

Not the hollow, weathered woman who passed away seven years ago, her eyes tired and her smile gone. This was her—young, full of energy, smiling in a faded Care Bears t-shirt.

She stepped into the room and scooped me up like I weighed nothing.

I—forty-five-year-old me, trapped inside a two-year-old body—stared at her like I’d seen a ghost. Because I had.

None of this was right. Nothing made sense. I still remembered my life. No, not just remembered—I could see it. Every detail. Every sound. Every moment. Crystal clear.

I’ve always had a decent memory, but this was something else. This wasn’t normal recall—it was like I had developed photographic memory overnight. Not just a sharper mind, but perfect memory. Like hyperthymesia or whatever Sheldon Cooper had in The Big Bang Theory.

Chapter 1: The First Week Was Hell

I could barely speak. It was like my brain hadn’t adjusted to my new body—or maybe my vocal cords just weren’t ready. I couldn’t walk straight either, even as my mind screamed at my legs to stop wobbling. I’d wake up crying from vivid dreams—paying bills, heartbreak, losing jobs, making love, burying friends. And every morning, I’d wake in this impossibly small body, feeling hopeless, with no clue how to escape it—or if escape was even possible.

It took a full day to accept this wasn’t just some ultra-realistic dream. I was two years old again and the year was 1985.

It’d be decades before smartphones, the internet, or streaming. I had no idea if things were truly happening again—or if I could change anything at all.

Could I heal? Could I avoid the traumas I’d already lived through once? Was this a second chance… or was I dead, reliving my memories?

But no. That couldn’t be right.

Because the moment I woke in my two-year-old body, I had already made changes—small ones, granted, but real. I was talking. Or at least, trying to. Whenever I attempted to speak like my adult self, it came out as high-pitched babble.

I began using the toilet on my own, astonishing my parents.
They gushed over the fact I no longer needed a diaper, like I had magically potty-trained myself overnight. It was… embarrassing. I knew how to drive and do my own taxes, and yet here I was, being celebrated for pooping in a little plastic chair. I recognized how absurd it all was—but I also understood: this was the body of a toddler, and I had to work within its limits.

I got frustrated constantly. My fingers wouldn’t cooperate. My balance was a joke.
But my mind—my mind was sharper than it had ever been.
Not only had I retained every memory, it was as if my brain had been tuned to a higher frequency.
I remembered everything with terrifying clarity. And I had no idea how my parents would react if they discovered their toddler could read at a college level… or solve long division in his head. I wrestled constantly with whether or not to reveal how much I knew.
Would anyone believe me? Would they think I was a prodigy—or worse, possessed?

And if someone did believe me…Would they keep my secret? Or would I be exposed?

Would I be taken away—tested, scanned, poked, locked in some sterile room while scientists tried to figure out how I worked? So, I stayed quiet, watching, thinking and Playing the part for now. Because I remembered everything.

From Turtle Mania to the Challenger explosion. From Y2K and 9/11 to the rise of smartphones and the COVID pandemic. The sting of betrayal. The warmth of forgiveness. The thrill of redemption.

I remembered all of it, every moment, every lesson. Every second chance. At first, I thought maybe it was a test. A second chance, divine reset. But then a darker thought crept in:
What if I lost it all again? Would I still meet the people who made me… me?
Would I screw it up? Some, I wouldn’t mind never meeting again. Others—I would miss dearly. Then there was my ex, Connie.

Would I see her again? Would she want to see me again? For me, she had always been the one who got away. We had a stupid argument and broke up when I was 40.
It was one of those fights where, if we’d both just stopped being so damn stubborn, I truly believe we could have made it work. But that one, stupid fight… it ended everything. Still, I wondered: Would fate cross our paths again? Would she love me if she met me now—like this?

Could I stop the pain I knew was coming… without screwing up the joy that came after? If I tried to steer events away from tragedy, would anything that followed still be real?
Could I rewalk the same path? Would I even want to? Would it be fake… or wrong? Was I just a ghost of the man I used to be, wandering through a childhood I’d already survived once?

I had over four decades of knowledge, instinct, pain, and perspective in my head.
But I still had to drink from a sippy cup and I still had to take naps—where I wouldn’t sleep, just lie there quietly, thinking.

Tags: life, love, mental-health, scfi, Second chances, Writing.

Comment

You don’t define me. Ch. 2

Filed under: Life — 1 Comment

April 4, 2019

“Childhood should be carefree, playing in the sun; not living a nightmare in the darkness of the soul.” – Dave Pelzer, A Child Called “It”

One of the worse things I learned about myself is that I’m an accident and an abortion survivor. I won’t lie it’s something I often myself thinking about, wondering if I should even be alive. Sometimes I feel like I’m some great cosmic mistake who’s not suppose to be here, which would explain why I’m so broken, why all my relationships inevitably fall apart any why I always end up alone. But it’s also why I value my friendships so much, because everyone else drifts away and I often find myself the outcast, even among my own family. I grew up being very close with my cousins and siblings and watched as they all drifted away, hanging out with each other more and more and me less. I watched events unfold as if I’m just a passenger, or a witness. Watching everyone else develop these close relationships, inner jokes without me, as they invite me out less and less, until they stopped all together.

The day I learned about being an accident, should have been one of the best days of my life. On the day I graduated High School, my mother finally finally confessed to never loving me, telling me that my dad was the only one who wanted me. She told me that no one would ever love me, because I was worthless and too pathetic for anyone to love, which at the time combined with me having my heart broken and finding out the reason my heart had been broken was because I was betrayed by a good friend who I had trusted without question, only to learn she had betrayed me out of petty jealously. That revelation, coupled with my mom telling me how no one would ever love me, lead me to attempting suicide the first time. Because I had enough, I was tired of being hurt, being lied to, being manipulated and just losing all the time. I know everyone always likes to say suicide is a permanent solution for a temporary problem, or how people who commit suicide are just selfish. But they’re wrong, I was hurting, I was in pain and I couldn’t see an end to it. I had been hurting for 16 years and I just finally had enough, I broke and I fell to pieces.

The following is how it all began, I don’t know how I survived, or why I’m still here. But I can I’m grateful to still be here. My life was no fairy-tale, still isn’t, but I had a pretty awesome father, met some incredible people, dated some fantastic girls who I still believed were way out of my league and made the best friends anyone could ask for, friends who became my extended family.

When my father met my mother she already had a son from a previous marriage, but my dad had always loved kids and had wanted a child of his own. That being said he did love my older brother as if he was his own, which is something I do deeply believe, because I watched how my dad treated other kids who weren’t his, including my step-brother and sister. However my father had always wanted to someone to carry on his own name and talked my mother into trying to have another child. My mother was reluctant and didn’t really want to have more kids at the time, but did always want a daughter.

However after several months of trying to no avail, they gave up on trying. Months later I was finally conceived. In the months following my mother’s pregnancy I became a weapon. I’ve come to learn about this after my mother tried convincing me that my father was abusive and that he used to beat her. My dad would later admit to me that he did get rough with her on a few occasions, but only because whenever she would get mad or upset with my dad, she would begin punching herself in the stomach while asking him how he liked it. She even went as far as throwing herself down a flight of steps on her stomach, threatening to kill me if she didn’t get her way. So my dad did admit that he did eventually snap and pin her to the ground, where he began hitting her face with his fingers, asking her how it felt, going as far as threatening her in no uncertain terms of what he would do if she killed me, or caused me to have brain damage from the abuse she was trying to inflict upon my unborn self.

Of course years later my mother confirmed my dad’s side of the story, by telling him, she tried having me aborted and when that didn’t take, she tried having a miscarriage and that the only reason I was ever born was because of my dad, telling me he was the only one who ever wanted me and made her have me.

After the divorce my mother would often tell me that my farther didn’t really love me and that he was only good to me so that I would go live with him when I became old enough to decide. Telling me that my dad just didn’t want to pay child support and if I lived with him he would send me to military school so that he would never have to see me anymore. Which in hindsight I realize that her threat didn’t make much since. If my dad merely wanted to get out of paying for child support, sending me to military school would be counter productive. But she would still tell me all these terrible things about my father, trying her best to turn me against him and worse it almost it worked. She had me questioning everything, I didn’t know what was true or what wasn’t. I was beginning to wonder if I was loved by either of my parents at all. I felt like a weapon that both parents tried using to hurt the other.

Eventually I did ask my dad about the abuse allegations my mom had said about my dad and her, he said, “Yeah, I’m not proud of it, I used to smack her around, but that was because whenever we had a fight while she was pregnant with you, she would start punching herself in stomach, or throw herself down a flight of stairs on her stomach, once she even tried stabbing herself in the stomach, so sometimes I would lose it, I would smack her or wrestle whatever weapon she was welding to get her to drop it. I had to hold her down to keep her from hurting you and you haven’t even born yet. So I yeah I said and did some things I wasn’t proud of, but when I see something like that, it hurt me and I lost it. I mean you were my son, it killed me seeing her trying to hurt you just to spite me.”

So when my mother once told me how she always wished I would just kill myself, because I was a mistake she never wanted. It was a truth I always suspected in a sense, but never wanted to believe it. Yeah I hated her at times, but I still loved her, she was my mother and I wanted her to love and accept me. I kept thinking about the few times she was kind to me and it tore me apart. I was in the mindset that I had to somehow earn her love, believing I just wasn’t good enough. I longed for her love, I starved for it. Everyday I had wished and hoped I would have the kind of mother I could talk to about anything, to be comforted by her, not broken down day after day.

My birth didn’t help matters much, for my mother had been a model and had wanted to have a natural birth, like she did with my older brother. But I got turned around and started to come out backwards, forcing the doctors to perform an emergency C-section on my mother in order to save my life. (Promptly ending my mother’s career as a swimsuit model and I suppose giving her one more reason to hate me)

From what my dad tells me, they started fighting more and more. It got so bad that my dad started working all the time just to avoid having to go home to her. He preferred to be so tired from work he wouldn’t care about whatever fight my mother would try to have with him. In the weeks and months that followed after my birth, things between my parents had become strained. From what my dad tells me, they started fighting more and more. It got so bad that my mother would call up my dad’s work just to fight. Which prompted my dad into tell his work not to take her calls anymore. Things worsen and they’ve begun talking about getting separated. My dad would then spend more and more nights at his mom’s instead of going home, because she was driving him nuts.

The following is my dad’s recount of these events that my mother later confirmed, by telling me my dad had kidnapped me. But wouldn’t tell me how he managed to kidnap me. Only tell me that he was crazy and how I didn’t know how scary he could be.

My dad says “I just gotten off work earlier that day your mother had called my work and almost got me fired by trying to start a fight me with over the phone, so I had to hang up on her and told work if she called back to tell her I was busy. So when my shift ended I really didn’t want to go home and put up with her mouth, so I got in my truck and was about to just head over to my mom’s and stay the night. But As I started driving I heard a voice say telling me to go home. But I didn’t want to.

“So I was like ‘No way, if I go home she’s going be there and she’s going to want to fight and I can’t deal with it anymore.” ( I don’t know anyone’s religious views, but my dad believes it was God speaking to him and so do I )
God responded, “I said go home!’ and my father argued back and forth with the Lord until finally my dad relented and said,
“Okay, okay, I’ll go home and just get some clothes then I’m going to leave, is that okay with you? “He asked and was answered by silence.

My dad drove home that day against his better judgment and found my mother had taken my older brother and left, but she left me sleeping at the top of the stairs in my sleeping carrier, apparently she hadn’t even bothered to strap me in. But there I was, all alone asleep at the top of the stairs. My dad then picked me up, gathered my things and packed some his clothes, then took me to my grandma’s house.

My dad still has the old home movies chronicling my extended stay with me and him at my Grandma’s. My dad was all torn up about how anyone could abandon their child, he couldn’t believe someone would just leave a baby who could barely walk alone in a house, not knowing if or when my dad would ever come home. It then took my mother a week to call my dad and ask if he had me. Because apparently my mother took my older brother and left for God knows where and ‘forgot’ me. Then it took her a week to call around to see if my dad even had me and it was then she started going to work on manipulating my father into letting her see me.

I’ve learned the following from stories told me by both my father and mother at different times, I had to put the pieces together myself. My mother never told me that she had abandoned me in our house when she took my brother and left home. She only told me my dad had me at his mothers, but would never tell me how he had managed to take me, or why he was keeping me away from her. When I asked her, she only told me that my dad was crazy and a maniac.

After my mother finally got around to contacting my father and inquiring about me, she began asking to see me. At first my dad had refused, but then my mother began playing her games. She knew my father still had feelings for her and used those feelings to her advantage. She began telling my dad she wanted to talk through things and try to make it work, even going as far as telling my dad that her and her sister Terry had gotten me some new clothes and baby stuff that they wanted to give me. Eventually my mother managed to talk my dad into meeting at her parents place, under the guise it would be a neutral location. My dad was lead to believe that there was no way my mother or her sister would try anything with her mom and very elderly grandmother being at the house.

Figuring it would be safe to agree to my mother’s terms he went along with it and when he got there my mother began acting super sweet and complacent. All the while she kept asking my dad to let her hold me, which he refused, because he had a feeling if he let her hold me, she would try to take off. Eventually she talked him into bringing me into the house, showing off the new things her and Terry had gotten me. One of which being a new carrier, that she kept trying to talk my dad into letting me try out.

Eventually my dad reluctantly came into my house and sat me down in the carrier with my mother’s mom watching me. My mother then lead my father upstairs to her grandmother’s bedroom to talk and attempted to convince my dad into putting my diaper bag down which he adamantly refused.

Mother then began trying to seduce my dad, trying to get him to take off his clothes, but he kept saying no and freaking out a bit knowing her mom and grandmother were right downstairs. My mother continued telling my dad how sorry she was for everything, how much she loved him, cared about him and how much she needed him.

My mother then began taking off his belt and pulling down his pants and again my dad tries to resist. But she manages to distract him just enough to get his pants down, which is when she finally strikes and rips my baby bag from my dad’s shoulder, then shoves down. In a seconds my mother was out the bedroom door and down the steps, shouting for grandmother to get up stairs. Because my mother knew that my mother’s grandmother was very frail (She was in her 70s at this time) and knew my dad wouldn’t shove her down the steps in order to get to me.

My dad now well aware that this was all a setup, gets to his feet in little time, pulling on his pants and giving chase. He knew she intended on taking me back, why he had no idea, but he couldn’t risk letting her having my life back in her hands. So my dad explodes out of the bedroom after her and she’s already down the stairs and my dad’s heart sinks as he nears the stairs and sees her grandmother coming up. (My mother and her sister had sent her up to serve as a road block) By the time my dad gets past her, my mom is already outside loading me into the car.

“How can you let her do this?” My father asks my mom’s family, sickened by how they were and willing to risk her elderly grandmother with their whole charade. If my dad was any other person he could have very well shoved her down the stairs, but thankfully he didn’t.
By the time my dad was out of the house my mom is already pulling away and determined to get me back, my dad races to his truck and begins to chase after her..
(My dad tells his side slightly more colorfully with how he’d swore he was going to kill her for abandoning me, then stealing me) So then begun the car chase.

Tags: Abuse, anger, anxiety, broken, Child abuse, depression, divorce, family, love, recovery, Writing.

Comment

You don’t define me.

Filed under: Life — 4 Comments

March 4, 2019

The first time I attempted suicide I was eighteen years old and I had just graduated High School. I should have been looking forward to the future, getting a job, working, continuing my education and having the time of my life. Instead, what should have been one of the best days of my life, quickly turned to one of the worst days of life and for the longest time, things didn’t get any better.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was suffering from depression, anxiety and C-PTSD. Back then I really didn’t know what depression was, or what it meant to suffer from it. I only I was unhappy with my lot in life and had often hoped and prayed to be involved in a school shooting or an accident, just so that I would die. The only thing that kept me from killing myself up until I attempted to so was my faith, I didn’t want to risk going to hell and the fact I was terrified of the pain, as well as surviving having done serious damage to myself. I was suffering and didn’t know what to do and no one seemed to want to listen.

Whenever someone mentions being depressed, having anxiety, a form of PTSD, most people tend to just roll their eyes. Which is understandable, they’ve become such thrown about phrases that they’ve almost lost all meaning, no one knows if someone is just being dramatic, just wanting attention, or is honestly crying out for help. It’s this fear of not being taken seriously, or mocked that often prevent us from speaking up.

Worse though for me, is when people tell me to get over it, or try to compare their struggles with mine and how they’re fine. Telling me I need to buck up, toughen up and just let go as if it were that easy. In truth no one can really understand what it’s like being me unless you’re like me. This goes for everyone, I know everyone gets depressed from time to time, that everyone experiences anxiety in one form or another. But that’s different from being clinically depressed and living with anxiety every day.

Those of us who suffer as I do know that it doesn’t just go away, I wish it did, I really do. But I struggle with my demons every day; I have both good days, bad days and really bad days. They’re days when I want to avoid people, just because it’s so exhausting or just because I don’t even like being around myself. Then I have terrible days, those are the days when I need to be rescued more than ever. But almost every day I think about taking my own life. Yes, it’s because I have depression and I have C-PTSD, it’s also that most of the time, I’m just so tired of hurting, of being lonely, of struggling just to get by and just being let down. I once told someone that the only person, who disappointed me more than God, was them.

Truth is, depression isn’t cute or funny and it’s definitely not sexy. It’s a living thing. It exists by feeding on your darkest moods and emotions and it’s always hungry. It never really goes away. Anything that challenges it, anything that makes you feel good, anyone who brings you joy, it will drive them away so it can grow without interference. Its goal is to isolate you. At its worst, it will literally paralyze you, rather than allow you to feel anything at all. At its worst, you are numb and you are drained and immobilized by it. And it’s not that those of us who suffer from the disease want to push you away. For there have been times I could be in a room surrounded by friends and family and still feel no one else’s’ warmth or touch. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been surrounded by people and still felt alone, hurt and like a burden or a joke to all those I loved and care about.

I’ve always believed that everyone else would be so much happier if I just went away. You see depression sucks, I mean it literally sucks, it takes away your happiness, your joy, leaving you as nothing more than a hollowed out husk of the person you were before. But that’s how depression works; it’ll drive you to your knees with the soul crushing weight that no one should ever have to bare alone. It will prey on your darkest thoughts, telling you that no one loves you and it’ll tell you that every negative thought you ever had about yourself is true and how bleak your future really is.

I’ve come to learn however that depression lies. But I still wrestle with it. It’s an ongoing thing that never goes away. Yeah there’s medication out there, but that takes awhile to find the right dosage. Even then I had stop taking it, because the pills just made it hard for me to focus. It was like my head was in this thick fog and my creativity; my dreams and passions couldn’t find their way through. And the pills never really stopped the suicidal thoughts that still crept into my mind. So I try to combat it by keeping myself busy, staying active. But every day is still a struggle. Because depression doesn’t play fair, it’ll take any advantage it has to gain control, to grow and to eventually destroy you, worse is how seductive it can be sometimes. Like someone calling you to bed after a long hard day and telling you how you deserve a little rest and relaxation.

Having anxiety on top of depression often validates your depression. Anxiety is debilitating. It feels like a constant heaviness in your mind; like something isn’t quite right, although oftentimes you don’t know exactly what that something is. But it feels like acid in your stomach, burning and eating away at the emptiness and taking away any feelings of hunger. It’s like a tight knot that you can’t untwist. Anxiety feels like your mind is on fire, over thinking and over analyzing every little, irrelevant detail. Sometimes, it makes you feel restless, becoming constantly distracted. It feels as if your thoughts are running wild in a million different directions, bumping into each other along the way. Other times, it makes you feel detached, as if your mind has gone blank and you are no longer mentally present. You dissociate and feel as if you have left your own body. For me anxiety feels like there is a voice in the back of my mind telling me that everything is not okay, when everything in fact is. Sometimes the voice tells me that there is something wrong with me and that I’m different from everybody else, that I’m a failure, that everyone is judging me, or just pitying me. Other times, it feels like taking a test you’ve been studying for and when you look down at the questions nothing makes sense and you don’t know any of the answers, worse is it feels like your whole life, your future is determined by how you answer.
In short, It’s like this voice that tells you that your feelings are bad and that you’re a burden to the world and that you should isolate. It makes everyday tasks, such as making simple decisions, incredibly difficult. Anxiety can keep you up at night — tossing and turning. It’s like a light-bulb that comes on at the most inconvenient times and won’t switch off. Your body feels exhausted, but your mind feels wide awake and racing. You go through the events of your day, analyzing and agonizing over every specific detail. Much like depression, anxiety never really goes away. It sucks and I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy.

So when I discovered I’ve also been dealing with C-PTSD from the years of childhood abuse I’ve endured. I was like “Wow…that’s swell.” I didn’t want to believe I had yet another psychological disorder. But understanding what it was I had, helped me understand more about myself, why I am the way I am. Because for years I’ve had people tell me I was just weak, how I should have went into the military to be toughened up. But in truth, I’m a bit of a badass, because I’m still here despite my issues.

You see In PTSD, your brain may replay a incident over and over again to help you process your emotions. It can become an endless loop that is actually more upsetting than the initial incident, as your unexpressed emotions continue to pile up.

C-PTSD is ongoing or repeated interpersonal trauma, where the victim is traumatized in captivity, and where there is no perceived way to escape. Ongoing child abuse is captivity abuse because the child cannot escape. Domestic violence is another example. Forced prostitution/sex trafficking is another.
The following are some of the symptoms and impact most felt by complex trauma survivors.

1. Deep Fear Of Trust People who endure ongoing abuse, particularly from significant people in their lives, develop an intense and understandable fear of trusting people. If the abuser were parents or caregivers, this intensifies. Ongoing trauma wires the brain for fear and distrust. It becomes the way the brain copes with any further potential abuse. Complex trauma survivors often find trusting people very difficult, and it takes very little for any trust built to be destroyed. The brain senses issues and this overwhelms the already severely-traumatized brain. This fear of trust is extremely impactful on a survivor’s life. Trust can be learned with support and an understanding of trusting people slowly and carefully. This takes times and patience. Believe me when I say, people like me are trying.

2. Terminal Aloneness
This is a phrase I used to describe to my Therapist — the terribly painful aloneness I have always felt little connection and trust with people, people like me often remain in a terrible state of aloneness, even when surrounded by people. I described it once as having a glass wall between myself and other people. I can see them, but I cannot connect with them. Another issue that increases this aloneness is feeling different to other people. Feeling damaged, broken and unable to be like other people can haunt a survivor, increasing the loneliness. It’s like feeling like a living ghost.

3. Emotion Regulation

Intense emotions are common with complex trauma survivors like myself. It is understandable that ongoing abuse can cause many different and intense emotions. This is normal for complex trauma survivors. Learning to manage and regulate emotions is vital in being able to manage all the other symptoms, but it’s not easy and incredibly difficult. Best way I can describe this is, imagine you’re on a strict, healthy diet, and every day you have to drive in a car, or sit at a table watch someone eat your favorite food, where they’re always asking you if you want some and you always have to say “No.” Now multiply that by like a thousand.

4. Emotional Flashbacks flashbacks are something all PTSD survivors can deal with, and there are three types:
Visual Flashbacks – where your mind is triggered and transported back to the trauma, and you feel as though you are reliving it.

Somatic Flashbacks – where the survivor feels sensations, pain and discomfort in areas of the body, affected by the trauma. This pain/sensations cannot be explained by any other health issues, and are triggered by something that creates the body to “feel” the trauma again.

Emotional Flashbacks – the least known and understood, and yet the type complex trauma survivors can experience the most and what I suffer from. These are where emotions from the past are triggered. Often the survivor does not understand these intense emotions are flashbacks, and it appears the survivor is being irrationally emotional. When I learned about emotional flashbacks, it was a huge light bulb moment of finally understanding why I have intense emotions. Why I tend to break down in tears when having an argument, or just trying to tell someone I can’t do something they were counting on me to do. This is because the emotions I felt back when I was a kid are being triggered all at once. But, there is no visual of the trauma – as with visual flashbacks. So, it takes a lot of work to start to understand when experiencing an emotional flashback.

5. Hypervigilance about People
Most people with PTSD have hypervigilance, where the person scans the environment for potential risks and likes to have their back to the wall.
But complex trauma survivors often have a deep subconscious need to “work people out.” Since childhood, I have been aware of people’s non-verbal cues; their body language, their tone of voice, their facial expressions. I also subconsciously learn people’s habits and store away what they say. Then if anything occurs that contradicts any of this, it will immediately flag as something potentially dangerous.
This can be exhausting. And it can create a deep skill set of discernment about people. The aim of healing fear-based hyper-vigilance is turning it into non-fear-based discernment
.
6. Loss Of Faith
Complex trauma survivors often endure a loss of faith. I have struggled with my faith more times tan I care to admit. I often thought if I take my own life, God would have to apologize to me.
But this loss of faith doesn’t have to just be about religion, but faith in people, the world being good and about yourself. Complex trauma survivors often view the world as dangerous and people as all potentially abusive, which is understandable when having endured ongoing severe abuse.
Many complex trauma survivors walk away from their religious beliefs. For example, to believe in a good and loving God who allows suffering and heinous abuse to occur can feel like the ultimate betrayal. This is something needing considerable compassion.

7. Profoundly Hurt Inner Child
Childhood complex trauma survivors, often have a very hurt inner child that continues on to affect the survivor in adulthood. When a child’s emotional needs are not met and a child is repeatedly hurt and abused this deeply and profoundly affects the child’s development. A survivor will often continue on subconsciously wanting those unmet childhood needs in adulthood. Looking for safety, protection, being cherished and loved can often be normal unmet needs in childhood, and the survivor searches for these in other adults. This can be where survivors search for mother and father figures. Transference issues in counseling can occur and this is normal for childhood abuse survivors. I can’t tell you how many times I met a girlfriend’s parents and would often begin viewing their mother as a motherly figure for me. Even my last supervisor, I found myself thinking of her as a motherly figure and she inherently had a very motherly personality, where my department would often refer to her as the mother of the circulation department.

8. Helplessness and Toxic Shame
Due to enduring ongoing or repeated abuse, the survivor can develop a sense of hopelessness — that nothing will ever be OK. They can feel so profoundly damaged, they see no hope for anything getting better. When faced with long periods of abuse, it does feel like there is no hope of anything changing. And even when the abuse or trauma stops, the survivor can continue on having these deep core level beliefs of hopelessness. This is intensified by the terribly life-impacting symptoms of complex PTSD that keep the survivor stuck with the trauma, with little hope of this easing. Toxic shame is a common issue survivors of complex trauma endure. Often the perpetrators of the abuse make the survivor feel they deserved it, or they were the reason for it. Often survivors are made to feel they don’t deserve to be treated any better.

9. Repeated Search For A Rescuer
Subconsciously looking for someone to rescue them is something many survivors understandably think about during the ongoing trauma and this can continue on after the trauma has ceased. The survivor can feel helpless and yearn for someone to come and rescue them from the pain they feel and want them to make their lives better. This sadly often leads to the survivor seeking out the wrong types of people and being re-traumatized repeatedly.

10. Dissociation
When enduring ongoing abuse, the brain can utilize dissociation as a coping method. This can be from daydreaming to more life-impacting forms of dissociation such as dissociative identity disorder (DID). This is particularly experienced by child abuse survivors, who are emotionally unable to cope with trauma in the same way an adult can.

11. Persistent Sadness and Being Suicidal
Complex trauma survivors often experience ongoing states of sadness and severe depression. Mood disorders are often co-morbid with complex PTSD.
Complex trauma survivors are high risk for suicidal thoughts, suicide idealization and being actively suicidal. Suicide idealization can become a way of coping, where the survivor feels like they have a way to end the severe pain if it becomes any worse. Often the deep emotional pain survivors feel, can feel unbearable. This is when survivors are at risk of developing suicidal thoughts.

12. Muscle Armoring
Many complex trauma survivors, who have experienced ongoing abuse, develop body hyper-vigilance. This is where the body is continually tensed, as though the body is “braced” for potential trauma. This leads to pain issues as the muscles are being overworked. Chronic pain and other issues related such as chronic fatigue and fibromyalgia can result. Massage, guided muscle relaxation and other ways to manage this can help.

All of these issues are very normal for complex trauma survivors. Enduring complex trauma is not a normal life experience, and therefore the consequences it creates are different, yet very normal for what they have experienced and endured.

Not every survivor will endure all these, and there are other symptoms that can be endured. I always suggest trauma-informed counseling if that is accessible. There are medications available to help with symptoms such as anxiety and depression. But they tend to be fairly expensive.
Lastly, I advise that empathy, gentleness and compassion are required for complex trauma survivors. We are not people and trust me when I say, we are trying and doing our best.
Now all of this was a long way of be saying, I’m going to try to publish a book based off my series “Scars Of Who We Are.” but through the lens of now knowing that I have C-ptsd. I’ll also be going more in depth about what it was like growing up in an abusive home, developing c-ptsd, surviving bullies and my own suicide attempts when it all became too much for me to handle, but more importantly how I survived. If you like to help, please donate to my campaign, give as little as or as much as you’d like. Then maybe together we can work to end the stigmata and help those who need it, get the help they need. Thank you. https://www.gofundme.com/getting-published-quotyou-don039t-define-mequot&rcid=r01-155172294681-3f3710972b504c1c&pc=ot_co_campmgmt_w

Josh A. Cooper.

Tags: Abuse, anxiety, c-ptsd, Child abuse, depression, God, Healing, Health, hope, inspiration. Writing., relationships, Suicide, Write, Writing.

Comment

Health, Fitness and fandom!

Filed under: Life — Leave a comment

September 8, 2014

10593093_10204711928699615_7144798508613740004_n

My younger cousin got married, and this is his wedding photo

Before I get started let me please apologize for being so late on turning out this blog. It’s been a few weeks late, but I’ve been a bit swamped with this wild and crazy thing called life, but I have been writing more, nearing the completion of my manuscript “Losers” with just two chapters two go before I start the dreaded rewrite and editing phase.
But I started this journey of taking my personal fitness seriously a little more than a month ago, I wasn’t sure how much progress I would see, using the products by Nutrilite but thanks to Rhodiola, I have I’ve been more focused in my workouts, with more drive to really push and challenge myself. So even though it’s only been a little over a month, I have had some immediate improvement and I’m looking forward to trimming down, by adding more lean muscle to body mass.
So today, for my personal fitness test for 6/20/14, results were. (I do each exercise for one minute, with a minute to rest in-between each workout)
New results 7/20/14
Switch Kicks: 94 110

Power Jacks: 56 62

Power Knees: 94 101

Power Jumps: 40 50

Globe Jumps: 9 11
Suicide Jumps: 16 19

Push up Jacks: 30 35

Low Plank Oblique’s: 45 55
Summery Weight lifting current weight.
Dumbbell chest press 65 lbs up from 55
Shoulder press 70 lbs before was 40
Pull-ups-50 was 30/
T-bar Row-120 was 70 lbs.
Dumbbell curls -50 lbs was 45
Leg squat 310 was 285 lbs
So one of the reasons I started pushing myself harder in the gym, taking my diet and workouts more seriously is so that I could get into superhero shape for Fandom Fest! Which was amazing and I had a spectacular time and recommend everyone to cosplay as their favorite character at least once, because well, it’s really a pretty amazing experience. Kids look up to you and can’t help but smile believing that you are that actual super hero.
But I have learned a great deal from my last adventure to Louisville for Fandomfest, which was taking a couple of friends and getting a room at the Galt House. Which is one of the nicest places I’ve stayed while traveling and it was in short walking distance to the Louisville Convention Center.
Although, going online I’ve read and heard a lot of complaints from other attendees as well as Venders. But personally, I had a great time. I was even a little sad when it was all over and found myself wishing it went on longer. Plus I did end up spending a lot of money and probably would have spent more if more Venders were actually at their booths, or let people to actually look inside and around their booths (Because some just sat in a chair blocking passage into their booths and didn’t seem too interested in moving or getting up.) But I realized I should have brought more money and next year I’ll try to be better prepared. Because my friends and I spent a lot of money while we were down there, and made sure to spread the wealth by buying from several different venders.
Sometimes I think people just like being angry and complaining even when they have nothing to complain about.

On the downside, I did meet Anthony Mackie who was a bit of a tool. I mean the guy couldn’t have looked more and gave off the impression that he was annoyed for just having to be there. I don’t know if it was because there was barely anyone in line to meet him, or what, (however he was a late addition)
Although on the upside, I did meet Sam Huntington, Sam Witwer and Meaghan Rath of ”Being Human” and let me just say, they were awesome! All three of them were very nice, very down to earth and hilarious. They made my weekend and all of them seemed very excited to be there, to meet the fans and I mean really meet. I think Sam Huntington and I talked for a good twenty minutes before I realized I was holding up the line, so I shook his hand and quickly skedaddled before a lynch mob could form behind me. But Sam Huntington was great, and played in some of my favorite movies, “Fan Boys” Detroit Rock City,” Etc.
Sam Witwer was also very cool and down to earth, asking everyone if they were having a good time. And he was really relatable, easy going, funny and down to earth. I know it sounds like I having a bit of a man crush on the guy, but hey, I’m a fan of his as well, and loved all the “Star-wars-The force unleashed” Video games. Plus he seemed genuinely interested in everyone and really seemed to care about what people thought of the con. Also, on a side note the guy knows his material; he corrected a buddy of mine and some of his Star-Wars knowledge and some of the star-wars items he bought while at the con. Then of course he wanted to know what all we’ve seen and done so far and when he saw our bags asked if he could see what we had bought. The man is literally one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. He had no problems in stopping for pictures or just walking around the convention, talking to fans and venders alike.

Meaghan Rath, is absolutely adorable and even more gorgeous in person, with a bubbly, fun loving personality, almost just like her character on Being Human. Which was very pleasant to see and unfortunately I didn’t talk very long to her, partially because I got all giddy and nervous, which made it difficult to form complete and coherent sentences. But the cast was also anxious about our photo opts, And Huntington had asked if I got the chance to show him our photo when I picked it up, but unfortunately by the time my photo was ready, I missed him. So I tweeted the guy and he tweeted back and even followed me on twitter!

Cosplay
I have finally embraced my cosplaying nature, and even if dressing up for a convention may not be your thing, I highly suggest you give it a try, rent a costume and go to one of these conventions. It is awesome and incredibly cool. Not only does it make everyone excited to see you, its cool having everyone you meet wanting to get their picture taken with you. Which is an awesome high all on its own and it also serves as a great icebreaker. So if your usually shy like myself, it becomes much easier to approach and talk to random strangers when you’re dressed as a superhero and well, people love superheroes. Plus, in a strange way, it really does make you feel all super. But dressing up is really cool for the kids and seeing how it just makes their day when they see you. I even had one six year old, ask me out to dinner with him and his family, and then offered to share his ice-cream with me after I politely declined.
On the reverse side of that however, I did get groped, fondled and more or less glomped by several drunk women and one in particular who jumped into my arms while I was walking around downtown, throwing her legs around me, as she kissed and nibbled my ear, telling me how much she loved Captain America, while I literally was at a loss and all I could think to say was,
“My…aren’t you friendly?”

Not going to lie, made my night.

All in all, I had a blast and it was one of the best weekends of my life. I can’t wait FandomFest 2015 and can’t believe I’ve waited so long to go to one of these conventions. Yes, I did spend a lot of money, and even though I brought my computer I wasn’t productive at all, in fact I don’t think I ever took it out of my bag, I was just having too much fun. Which I really think everyone needs to remember, that these conventions are just that, fun, opportunities to come out of your shell and just be as nerdy, or as geeky as you want.

Tags: Being Human, convention, fandomfest, Fitness, fun, Health, Sam Huntington., Writing.

Comment

One last time.

Filed under: Short Stories — Leave a comment

August 6, 2014

“This is the last time huh?” I ask, sitting on the corner of the bed, swinging my feet a couple of inches off the floor, as she roots through her closet of old clothes.

“Scratch-” she says my name limply, like she’s embarrassed or ashamed by it now. We had grown apart, it’s true, and we barely talk anymore and we play even less. I couldn’t help but feel like I was already being forgotten.

She turns and looks up at me with those sad eyes, ringed in messy eyeliner and a fresh coating of lip-gloss over her mouth. I think about her a lifetime ago, back when she first discovered make-up in in her mom’s purse and how we laughed as I smeared her eye shadow across her eye lids and I threw the compact power across the room, making it snow. I tried confessing to the crime and tell them it was me, but they didn’t listen and only you got in trouble. You cried into your pillow and told me leave you alone, to just go away, but I stayed by your side all night anyway, stroking your hair and telling you silly stories just to see you smile, to hear you laugh.

“Come on, “ I beg, I’ll play whatever you want, I’ll be the dragon with tiny wings growing out of his back, or be your roommate as we play house, I’ll let you be the princess in a big marble castle and chase you around in the falling leaves, or we can just sit and talk.”

Her phone rings, and she turns aside to flick the glowing screen sideways. It’s another message from her school friend.

“Is she nice?” I ask, like a jealous boyfriend.

“Yeah, course she’s nice.” She replies defensively.

“What all do you do?”

She shrugs.

“I don’t know. Talk, I guess.”

“You don’t play games? Like the dragon and the princess, do you jump in puddles like we used too, or roll around in piles of dead leaves?”

“No…” She mumbles. “She’s really not into all of that.”

When she’d started going to school I’d sit on her bed, watching out the window and wait for her school bus to pull up and spill her out. She’d be dragging a bag of books, with her hair all a mess, spilling out stories about her day, her teachers and the friends she made.

I was there when the first boy she ever liked broke her heart and she came and sat next to me crying and I sat with her, telling these kinds of hurts will happen and how it was a good thing. Because it tells her she’s still here, she’s still alive and reminds her that the hurt doesn’t last forever. Then I’d begin a tickle fight, which I would always win. Some days we’d sit in bed together and play for hours. Sometimes she wouldn’t go to school the next day and I’d have her to myself for a whole twenty-four hours.

“Can’t we just play one more time?” I ask

She sighs and looks at her phone again.

“Please.”

There’s a cold feeling in my bones, like the empty space of the room is eating away at me and the only thing keeping it at bay is her eyes. They’re fixed on me; smudged eyeliner and the chin jutting out like she used to do when she was smaller and wanted to look braver.

“I have to go.”

She stops at the door and looks at me. There’s a look in her eye that says she knows it’s the last time we’re going to see each other.

“I have friends now,” she says. “I don’t need you anymore.”

She leaves and I look at the closed white door and feel the emptiness come rolling in.

“But I do.” There is no one left to listen as I fade away and become forgotten in the waves of times, waiting for the day she has a little girl or boy of her own who’ll dream of me too.

Years past and I’m swimming in nothingness, until one day, I open my eyes and I’m back, it feels like waking from a dream, but nothing feels real. Then I look around and see how everything is so different and unrecognizable. Then I see him, the small blond haired boy, sitting all alone in his bed and staring fearfully at his closet door. I hear him calling out softly for his mother who can’t hear him and I follow his gaze, seeing the closet door opening slowly inch by inch. I act without thinking, charging at the door and slamming it shut, I’ll always protect him from the monsters that lurk in the dark.
Then I feel his tiny little hand tugging at my coat and I look down, as he asks,

“What’s your name?”

“Scratch,” I say, smiling warmly and ruffling his hair, then for perhaps the first time I see the resemblance.

“Scratch? My mom used to tell me stories about you.”

I smile and nod and say, “Yes, I knew your mother.” Then I take his hand and guide him back to his bed and begin tucking him in, as he asks me to tell him a story, so I take a breath and begin telling him stories his mother and I used tell each other back when she was just a little girl.

Tags: friend, growing up, imaginary friend, Imagination, life, monsters, Writing.

Comment

Something imaginary….

Filed under: Life — Leave a comment

May 21, 2014

“A daily dose of daydreaming heals the heart, soothes the soul, and strengthens the imagination”-Richelle E. Goodrich

We used to play ninjas, army men, crime fighters and superheroes and I always stood by your side through better or worse. I had your back, but you always knew that.
When you felt alone, we’d talk a bit. You always had fun stories to share, and I’d listen, hoping I could offer some sound advice. And when you were bored, we play and sometimes you’ll pretend to be me and I’d pretend I was you.

When times were bleak, you’d turn to me to cheer you up, and sometimes I failed you. And it would always hurt and leave me feeling I had somehow let you down. It was worse during those times you cried yourself to sleep and I would watch over you, wishing I could stop it when you were getting beat, which left me feeling helpless, like a phantom limb unable to shield you from the endless abuse.

You brought me into this world and gave me purpose, to keep you happy, safe, and entertained, distracted you from the cruel and mundane, keeping you from going completely insane.
But you started getting older, into girls with cooties (which we both always knew was bogus, but you always hid it well), into fast cars, video games, and going to parties with pals- I had your back, telling you to kiss the girl, or when to hold her hand. I would scare off the monsters that lurked in the dark, shield you whenever you were afraid of falling asleep. And even though the monsters stopped coming, you were still afraid.

I couldn’t fight these new fears.

You feared what was in your future, you were afraid of the unknown and more importantly you feared growing up. Same as me, but I always knew you’d make it through. You and I were martial art champions, seasoned warriors and veterans of countless wars. We were heroes’ kid, just you and me and I always knew how strong you really were.

But as you got older, I started feeling older too. I felt dusty, my shine had gone dull. But you were bright and knew the world in your own way now.
You were going make it without me, but I could live with that.

I waved goodbye at your graduation, but by then you had stopped being able to see me. I’m okay though, you and I had a good run. I’ll miss you little buddy and I know you’ll miss me too, because you named me and I can feel you thinking about me from time to time, and I know you’ve been writing about me, which makes me proud that you still remember. So kid, even though you can’t see me like you used to, I’ll be with you whenever you sit down, with pen in hand and begin writing down those memories, turning them into stories.

Sincerely me.
Your imaginary friend,
Shadow.

“I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth is more potent than history. That dreams are more powerful than facts. That hope always triumphs over experience. That laughter is the only cure for grief. And I believe that love is stronger than death.”
― Robert Fulghum,