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Letters from the Edge of Tolerance

This is where I document life lived with CPTSD, ADHD, DID, OCD, abandonment trauma, rage, and the long term psychological consequences of instability. Not for sympathy. Not for inspiration. For examination.

I write about trauma the way a mechanic tears down an engine. Piece by piece. What broke. Why it broke. What it still does under stress.

You will find poems that bleed without asking to be saved. Essays that dissect ethical BDSM, power exchange, dominance, consent, and responsibility without romantic illusion. Reflections on betrayal, identity, dissociation, religion, rage, control, and the uncomfortable mathematics of trust.

This is not a healing space. It is an honest one.

I do not frame survival as beautiful. I frame it as necessary.

If you are looking for optimism, look elsewhere.

If you want unfiltered analysis from someone who has lived at the upper edge of tolerance for decades and still functions, read on.

Existence is not always a gift.

Sometimes it is a condition.
5 months ago. Thursday, September 18, 2025 at 7:13 PM

This is my attempt at a sweet and happy poem so please let me know how it is

 

 

Sunlight spills gently across the earth,
a golden warmth that lifts the heart.
The world stirs softly in its glow,
and I feel it brushing against scars I carry,
reminding me that joy can be simple,
as simple as morning air, laughter shared, and open skies,
or the sound of my children’s laughter chasing through the day.

Love lingers like a steady flame,
quiet but unyielding.
It wraps around the weary edges of my soul,
turning sharp corners into softer ones,
filling silence with gentle promise.
In its warmth I recall the boy I once was,
looking for kindness in places that betrayed me,
now finding it within the arms of love itself,
and in the tiny hands I hold, reminding me of the beauty of fatherhood.

Sunshine and love; two gifts that rise together,
reminding me that even after long nights,
time still turns, the dawn still comes.
There is light, there is warmth, there is care,
and though I carry shadows,
they soften beneath this radiance.
In their embrace, I remember:
life is not only endured,
it can also be cherished,
especially in simple moments;  a shared meal, a quiet hug,
or a child’s sleepy head resting against my chest.
And for the first time, I dare to believe
that sweetness belongs to me too.

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