I didn’t grow up with stability. My earliest years were spent in a house where “home” felt more like punishment than comfort. At one point, my bedroom was literally a storage closet. I learned early that conflict equaled exile, and that lesson shaped the way I see the world.
My dad wasn’t much better. His cruelty left me believing I was a mistake before I even had the words to describe it. Between him, my mom, and the endless cycle of foster care and hospitals, I grew up convinced nothing, and no one was permanent.
By 18, I’d been in multiple institutions and foster placements. I carried diagnoses like CPTSD, ADHD, DID, and abandonment issues. My IQ tested high (141), but trauma warped how it expressed itself, sometimes razor-sharp, sometimes spirals of overthinking.
I came to accept myself as sapiosexual at 23. Two years later, when I told my dad, his reaction was rejection and hostility. When I introduced my boyfriend, he tried to throw me out of his house. That burned into me: if family won’t accept me, who will?
I spent five years in the Montana Army National Guard as a Bradley Fighting Vehicle Maintainer. I expected pride, but instead I left with deeper hatred of humanity. Seeing war firsthand convinced me humanity is a plague, and in my darkest thoughts, I’ve believed the world would be better with fewer people in it.
Religion once gave me structure—I was Pentecostal during my marriage. But betrayal by my wife (with my father, no less) shattered that faith. Now, I call myself spiritual, not religious. I study many beliefs, take what resonates, and discard the rest.
I’ve attempted suicide 42 times and failed at each. I tattooed a semicolon and “42” on my left thumb to remind myself: 42 times I tried to end the story, and 42 times it continued. I don’t see life as a gift, at least not for myself. I see it as something forced on me. But sheer vindictive will keeps me going. I live to prove wrong everyone who said I couldn’t.
Inside me, I’m not alone. I live with three different people. Myself, my shadow, and the chaotic insanity that whispers twited thoughts.
My coping has evolved to form many things. Shadow work and meditation to face the dark. Tattoos instead of self-harm, pain turned into meaning.
I struggle with crowds, I need my back to the wall, and I need my eyes on the exit. Calm feels foreign; survival is my normal.
Relationships are complicated. I’ve been betrayed in the worst ways. I expect betrayal from everyone, eventually. Still, I crave connection I’m kind (though an asshole at times), I want trust, and I want someone to prove my worldview wrong.
My tattoos are survival marks: My left arm covered in runes (“Druid’s Mark”). My right arm a memorial for friends and my sister. My left thumb, semicolon + “42.”.
At the core, my philosophy is simple: Trust no one. Expect betrayal. Life happens, then we get shit on.
And yet—I keep going. Because I exist. Because I endure. Because even if I don’t believe I was meant to be here, I am. And I’ll keep proving wrong the ones who tried to bury me. And thus Forward i march, seeking and searching for that which i have never known.