Letters from the Edge of Tolerance

Most days, when someone asks how I am, my answer is simple.
“I exist.”

It sounds empty. Maybe it is. But existence, for me, has always been an act of defiance.

I was not raised in light. My childhood was closets instead of bedrooms, fights instead of comfort, and a constant understanding that conflict meant exile . By eighteen, I had lived in hospitals, foster homes, and institutions more times than most people move houses in a lifetime . Stability was not a concept I learned. Survival was.

I grew up hearing that I was a mistake before I even understood what that meant . That kind of seed grows deep roots. It shapes how you see yourself in every mirror, in every relationship, in every silence.

But here is what does not get said enough:
Survival builds strange strengths.

I learned to build things because nothing in my life stayed still. I learned to understand systems because people were unpredictable. I became a full stack engineer, a game designer, a founder, a mechanic, a soldier . When humanity felt broken, I turned to architecture, to code, to engines, to machinery. Systems make sense. They respond to logic. They can be debugged.

War did not soften me. It hardened my view of what people are capable of . Betrayal did not teach me forgiveness first. It taught me vigilance. When my marriage collapsed in the most grotesque way possible, it reinforced what I already suspected about trust .

For a long time, my philosophy was simple:
Life happens, then we get shit on .

And yet, I am still here.

Forty two attempts at ending the story. Forty two failures . I stopped not because I suddenly loved life, but because I realized I could not win against it. So I made a different decision. If I could not end it, I would outlast it.

That is when something shifted.

I began replacing destruction with creation. Tattoos instead of self harm . Shadow work instead of chaos . Code instead of spirals.

Helix was not just a project. It was therapy disguised as architecture . If I could not trust people, maybe I could build something that could be trusted. Something consistent. Something that does not wake up one day and decide you are disposable.

I still struggle with crowds. I still need my back to the wall and my eyes on the exit . I still expect betrayal. I still have parts of me that whisper dark things in quiet rooms. I still wear a thousand masks because it is easy to function that way .

But there is light here too.

It is in the way I get loud about things I love. In the way I disappear into building systems that work. In the way I cling to small rituals. In sticky notes left on desks. In shared screens and quiet calls. In the strange comfort of being physically close to someone without words .

It is in the fact that despite everything, I still crave connection. I still want to build something lasting. I still believe that if I endure long enough, something meaningful can be carved from the wreckage.

There is someone who knows this softer side. Someone who sees past the fortress walls and does not flinch. I will not say much more than that. The night has always been kinder to me than the day, and some flowers only open under a quiet sky.

I am not healed. I am not fixed. I am not suddenly optimistic.

But I am building.
I am learning.
I am creating instead of collapsing.

I exist.

And sometimes, in the dark, I glow.

Life is as beautiful as it is ugly. That feels like a contradiction until you live it long enough to realize it is just the operating system. Time does not care if you are winning or drowning. It keeps moving forward, dragging you with it like you are a loose thread on a jacket you never asked to wear.

We get love. We get hate. We get tenderness and we get teeth. The wild part is how evenly life hands them out, like it is trying to be fair while it is actively ruining your day.

And of course we look for an escape.

Mine came from BDSM.

I found it young. Young enough that people would have opinions before they would have empathy. I was barely the age of consent when I started, and yes, I know how that sounds when you say it out loud. But it was consensual, it was structured, and it was the first time I experienced something that felt like control without chaos. It was the first time rules meant safety instead of punishment.

Under my mistress I learned things that sound dirty if you only read them one way, but feel holy if you understand why they mattered. I learned what it meant to surrender without being erased. To kneel and still be seen. To be handled with intention instead of being handled like damage. I learned that pain can be chosen, and when pain is chosen it stops being a weapon and becomes a language.

It is poetic, in a sick way, how life pairs trauma with escapism. Like it hands you a bruise, then offers you a velvet glove and says, see, balance.

Even in romance and pain, I find a comfortable numbness to it all. That weird middle place where you are not okay, but you are functional. You laugh at the right times. You say the right things. You play the role. You survive. You call it living because that is what everyone else calls it.

My mind is always dark, dredging up the past just to remind me of all the wretchedness. Like it is afraid that if I forget the worst parts, I will let my guard down and the universe will take that as permission to swing harder.

Why was I chosen to suffer so much?

I know, I know. Nobody is chosen. The world is not a storybook. Suffering is not a prize. Trauma is not a prophecy. But tell that to the part of my brain that keeps tally like a petty accountant with a grudge.

I have always considered my existence to be paired with suffering and pain. Not in a dramatic, romantic way. More like a background hum. Like the refrigerator buzz you stop noticing until the power goes out and you realize how loud it always was.

And then there is the physical stuff, the insecurity stuff, the stupid stuff that still matters even when you tell yourself it should not.

I do not believe I am attractive. Even when someone tells me otherwise, my reflex is to downplay it. I call myself average. I joke. I hide behind sarcasm. I act like it is all fine. Then I turn around and admit the most ridiculous, honest detail: magnum condoms are the only ones that do not make me go soft or feel too tight.

There. That is the kind of truth you laugh at because if you do not laugh you might actually feel something.

I always question if I am even material for a relationship or if I am just some joke or farce. Like I am built wrong. Like I am a draft someone forgot to finish but shipped anyway.

So here I am. Why do I exist? Why am I still here, alive yet dead inside, broken like a shattered mirror?

I trudge along anyway, only here because I am not all there. I think therefore I am. Yet I am nothing. That is the loop. That is the punchline. Consciousness is a cruel gift when you are wired to remember everything that hurt you and question everything that tries to love you.

I paint myself in tattoos not for the art, but for the pain. To remind me I still feel, even if it is a hollow mockery of what feeling is supposed to be. Tattoos are proof. Ink is evidence. It says, I was here, I endured, I made the pain mean something instead of letting it mean me. 

I have learned time and time again that the only real person you can trust is yourself. Trust is not hard for me because I do not understand it. Trust is hard because I understand exactly what happens when it breaks. 

Valentine’s is always rough for me. My ex wife’s birthday. Our marriage anniversary. The day we got divorced. Also the day I poured everything I had into a lasting gift and watched her mock it like my effort was embarrassing. Romantic holiday, right? Nothing says love like a date that feels cursed on multiple calendars at once.

I have tried many times to remove myself from the world, but like always, failure through and through. Even quitting, I could not get right. 

But fuck always living like woe is me.

Even if my wife cheated on me with my father.

Read that again if you want to feel your brain do that little blue screen of death thing. That sentence is so absurd it almost sounds fictional, like a plot twist written by someone trying too hard. Yet it happened, and I am still here, and I still have to make coffee and pay bills and pretend I am normal in conversations where nobody knows what to do with a truth like that.

Someone out there has had it worse, right? Or am I just saying that because minimizing my own pain is safer than admitting it crushed me?

Fuck if I know.

Life is like a sick twisted joke, but we all persevere whether we want to or not. Some people call that resilience. Some people call it stubbornness. I call it involuntary participation.

Is it better to stay a fuck boy, keep it casual, keep it shallow, keep it safe? Or is it better to settle down and risk becoming a target again? I am apathetic, but also a dark empath. I understand emotions but barely feel them the way I should. I can map feelings like a mechanic diagnosing an engine, but I do not always feel the heat until something catches fire.

So yeah, sometimes it feels like I am the ass end of some god’s joke.

Will I succeed more than I fail, or will my failures haunt me like the ghosts of my trauma?

Dax had it right with To Be a Man and Dear Alcohol. I have fallen into the bottom of a bottle more than once, not because it fixed anything, but because it made the world quieter for a few hours. Sometimes quiet is the closest thing to peace I can afford.

And now I have moved to start a new chapter, but I still cannot seem to get a job. I get interviews, plenty of them. One to three a week sometimes. I do the right prep. I say the right words. I smile at the right moments. I shake hands, metaphorically or literally. Then I get the polite rejection that reads like a form letter and feels like a confirmation of every ugly thing I have ever believed about myself.

Time keeps moving. I keep applying. The joke keeps writing itself.

So what is this post, really?

It is not a cry for pity. I do not want that. It is not a manifesto. It is not a goodbye. It is just me holding my own thoughts in my hands long enough to look at them without flinching.

Life is beautiful. Life is ugly. Love is real. Hate is real. Pleasure can be medicine. Pain can be grounding. BDSM gave me a door when the room had no windows, and I am still grateful for that.

I do not have a clean ending. I do not have a heroic lesson. I have a pulse, a dark sense of humor, some ink, some scars, and the annoying fact that I am still here.

Maybe that is the whole thing.

Not victory. Not defeat.

Just continuation. 

Have you ever lain awake at night, staring at the ceiling, while a cacophony of voices in your head refuses to let you rest? It's not the peaceful silence most people crave before sleep—it's a battlefield. For me, these aren't just fleeting thoughts; they're persistent intruders, my inner demons, screaming and arguing relentlessly. I never know why, but at times, all they do is scream and argue in my mind, preventing me from sleep. They twist the quiet hours into torment, leaving me exhausted and frayed.

These demons aren't abstract; they have faces, names, and agendas. They remind me of my lack of worth, whispering—or shouting—insults that cut deep. What's worse is their cruel game: they build me up first, inflating my ego with false praise, only to tear me down moments later. The crash is harder every time, like falling from a greater height. It's a cycle of emotional whiplash that leaves me questioning everything—my value, my decisions, my very existence.

Then there's Damian. He's the most visceral of them all, always clawing at the walls of my mind, demanding violence. His urges are primal, a raw hunger for destruction that I have to fight back constantly. It's exhausting, this internal tug-of-war, where reason battles impulse, and one wrong move could spill into the real world. Damian doesn't care about consequences; he thrives on the chaos, pushing me toward edges I'd rather not approach.

And the collective? They're a chorus of madness, always shouting insanity and gibberish while erring on the side of chaos. It's like a deranged committee meeting in my skull—endless debates that go nowhere, filled with nonsense that somehow feels profoundly disruptive. They amplify every doubt, every fear, turning minor worries into apocalyptic scenarios. In their world, order is the enemy, and they drag me along for the ride, whether I want it or not.

Living with these inner demons is like carrying a vial of poison you can't set down. I try to ignore them, to push them into the background noise of daily life. Distractions help—work, hobbies, conversations with friends—but they're always there, waiting for a quiet moment to strike. Therapy, meditation, even medication: I've tried it all, with varying degrees of success. Some days, I win; the voices fade to a murmur. Other days, they roar back louder than ever.

I was the unwanted child, the extra breath in a house that counted food like sins, the kind of kid you do not cradle, you inventory.

Mother taught me the soft kind of cruelty, the kind that smiles while it cuts. No bruises, just little sentences dropped into my head like thumbtacks, so every thought I had learned to bleed in silence.

Father taught me the loud kind. Hands, volume, threat, impact. A lesson plan written in fear, graded with humiliation.

And when I asked, in the stupid way children ask, why I felt like a mistake with a pulse, he gave me scripture.

"I jacked off into a flower pot and your momma kept watering it until a blooming idiot popped up"

That line did not land in my ears. It landed in my bones. It turned my name into a punchline, my birthday into an accident report, my reflection into an apology.

So I learned to live like a guest in my own skin.

From the first breath to eighteen, I was passed around like contraband: three foster families, thirteen inpatient facilities, some of them more than once, some of them like boomerangs, because pain always finds its way back.

I learned fluorescent light. I learned locked doors. I learned that help can look like containment, and that "stability" can feel like a cage with rules you are punished for not understanding.

I learned that leaving is easier than belonging, because belonging always comes with terms.

They kept writing me down as disorders, as if a label could explain the rot. As if naming the smoke puts out the fire. As if a clipboard can hold a childhood that never held me.

And somewhere in that carousel of rooms, I built a motto out of scraps, because a motto is lighter than a prayer.

"It is what it is"

Not wisdom. Not acceptance. A bandage on a throat. A way to swallow the scream without choking.

Do you know what it does to a kid to be taught that existence is negotiable? To be trained, over and over, that love is conditional and safety is temporary?

It makes you good at masks. It makes you terrifyingly calm. It makes you laugh at the wrong moments because your nervous system does not know how to do anything else.

So I became "fine." I became the man of a thousand faces. I became the one who can talk normally while the inside of my skull is a demolition site.

Then I grew up. And I did what survivors do, I tried to build a life out of whatever was left.

I married young, because I wanted a home that was not a rotation. I wanted proof I could be chosen, even if I never believed it.

And she did choose me. Until she did not.

My ex-wife cheated on me with my dad, and it was her grandmother that told me.

Not her. Not him. Not even in the decency of a confession. Her grandmother. Like she was reading me a weather report: here is the storm, here is the damage, good luck rebuilding.

That is a betrayal with teeth. That is a wound that does not close, because every memory becomes evidence, every family word becomes a threat.

Father was already a weapon. She turned him into a blade and handed it to me by the handle.

And the worst part is how clean it is, how simple it sounds when spoken aloud, as if it is just a sentence.

But that sentence is a room. And in that room, I am nineteen again, twenty-one again, standing there with my chest split open, trying to figure out how the world keeps moving while something in me dies and dies and dies.

I do not romanticize this. There is nothing poetic about a heart that learns to expect betrayal as a law of nature. There is nothing noble about flinching at kindness because it looks like bait.

Pain is not a teacher. Pain is a parasite. It eats everything and calls it character.

And I tried to quit the contract.

Forty-two times.

Forty-two times I tried to stop being a body that carries a lifetime like a chained animal. Forty-two times I tried to unhook my mind from the meat of my life. Forty-two times I tried to slip out of the room without leaving fingerprints on the door.

Each failed.

Not a miracle. Not a rescue. Just failure. Just waking up again, angry at oxygen, furious at the stubborn machinery that keeps the heart working even when the soul has clocked out.

They say survival is strength. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it is just punishment that persists.

I never wanted to exist in the first place. I long for the release from this mortal coil.

That is the truth. Not the pretty version. Not the inspirational poster. The truth with its teeth showing.

I exist without my consent. I carry a childhood that never ended, it just changed costumes. Closet walls became hospital walls, hospital walls became adult walls, and every wall has a shadow where the old fear still lives.

Mother’s voice was a drip, steady, quiet, wearing my confidence down one drop at a time. Father’s voice was a hammer, and his hands made sure my body understood what his words promised.

Between them, they built a world where I was always one mistake away from being thrown out, one emotion away from being punished, one need away from being called weak.

So I stopped needing. Or I got good at pretending I did.

"It is what it is"

I said it when I was hungry. I said it when I was hurt. I said it when I was abandoned. I said it when love turned into a trap. I said it when family became a horror story. I said it because if I did not say it, I might have said the thing underneath:

I am tired. I am so tired.

I am tired of waking up already braced for impact, tired of scanning every room for exits, tired of trusting no one because no one earned it, tired of my own thoughts sounding like enemies.

I am tired of being told to heal as if healing is a switch, as if trauma is a stain you can bleach out, as if the past is polite enough to stop knocking.

Sometimes pain is loud. Sometimes it is so quiet it becomes the background hum of everything. The kind of quiet that makes you forget what peace even feels like.

People want a redemption arc. They want the part where I rise, where I forgive, where I find meaning, where the scars become art.

They do not want the truth: that some scars are just scars, and some nights are just war, and some mornings feel like a sentence I have to serve again.

So here is the cruelty: I am still here.

Not because life is beautiful. Not because I found faith. Not because the world got kinder.

I am still here because I am too stubborn to die and too broken to feel alive. Because every time I tried to leave, I woke up in the same body, in the same story, with the same taste of iron in my mouth, and the same thought crawling up my throat:

"It is what it is"

And that is what pain is. Not a lesson. Not a romantic tragedy. Not a badge.

Pain is a lifetime of being told, in different voices, that you are expendable, and then being forcem

Warning: This is a piece of fragility wrapped in my ever present insanity as a futile attempt to cope with things that no one should have to.

In the scorched earth of my mind, where memories flicker like dying embers, I stand amid the ruins of a life forged in the furnace of unrelenting trauma. Dissociative Identity Disorder, that fractured mirror of the soul, reflects not one face but many, each born from the ashes of Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. A childhood laced with shadows, where trust was a fragile flame snuffed out too soon, leaving me to navigate this labyrinth of selves. We are not whole, not singular, but a fragile alliance teetering on the edge of chaos. At our core, three voices echo in the void: the one who writes these words, desperately clinging to the reins; Damian, the inferno of unbridled fury; and the collective, a swirling madness of whispers that tempt the abyss.

We gather in the dim council of my thoughts, forming a consensus that demands an odd number, a precarious balance to tip the scales away from deadlock. Three, five, sometimes more emerge from the haze, but always uneven, always teetering. It is our pact, our survival code etched in the embers of forgotten pains. Yet control slips like smoke through my fingers, tenuous as a spark in the wind. I, the anchor, strive to hold the line, to weave our threads into something resembling sanity. But the flames lick higher, and depression's heavy shroud descends, a weight that presses me into the ground, whispering of worthlessness, of endless nights where dawn feels like a cruel jest.

Damian rises first, rage incarnate, a blaze that consumes without mercy. He demands violence in every breath, every heartbeat a war drum calling for blood. In moments of intermittent fury, he bursts forth, seizing my limbs, my words, leaving trails of regret in his wake. I awaken from these blackouts, staring at shattered glass or bruised knuckles, questioning the deeds done in my name but not by my hand. Other times, subtler, he borrows my voice, twisting it into snarls and threats that echo long after he retreats. He is the fire that devours forests, the uncontrolled burn that leaves nothing but ash. Born from the betrayals that scarred us young, he guards the perimeter with flames, ensuring no intruder dares approach. But his protection is a double edged sword, cutting deep into the fragile peace we build.

Then comes the collective, that embodiment of pure insanity, a chorus of intrusive thoughts and random urges that dance on the precipice of reason. They are the what ifs that pull at the edges of reality: what if you stepped off this ledge, feet dangling over the void, wind whispering sweet release? What if your hands wrapped around a throat, twisting, turning, calculating the rotations needed to sever life from body? Three full turns, perhaps four, they murmur, their questions probing depths that should remain sealed. They are the madness that laughs in the silence, urging leaps into the unknown, prodding at boundaries with gleeful abandon. From harmless curiosities to the grotesque, they flood the mind like wildfire spreading through dry grass, igniting doubts and desires that scorch the soul. They are not one, but many fragments fused into a single, chaotic entity, born from the fractures of trauma that splintered us apart.

Together, we burn. I, the weary mediator, fight to douse the flames, to channel Damian's rage into words rather than fists, to silence the collective's siren calls before they drag us under. But depression lurks in the smoke, a suffocating fog that blurs the lines between us. It whispers of futility, of a life forever up in flames, where hope is but a fleeting spark extinguished by the next gust. Mornings become battles to rise from bed, the weight of unseen wounds pinning me down, while nights stretch into eternities of hollow ache. The trauma echoes, a relentless blaze, replaying scenes of abandonment and pain that fuel our divisions. CPTSD's legacy is this eternal fire, where triggers ignite old infernos, pulling Damian to the forefront or unleashing the collective's torrent.

Yet in this conflagration, there is a strange poetry. We are the phoenix, rising from our own ashes, time and again. The consensus holds, odd numbered and unyielding, a ritual that binds us. When Damian roars for destruction, I counter with restraint, and the collective adds their wild queries, tipping the vote toward survival. It is not harmony, but a discordant symphony, notes clashing like flames against night. I maintain control, however fragile, threading the needle between selves. Some days, the fire warms; others, it consumes. But we persist, a testament to resilience forged in hellfire.

In the quiet moments, when the blaze simmers to coals, I ponder the origins. A life filled with trauma: the sharp sting of neglect, the thunder of raised voices, the invisible scars that burrow deep. DID emerges as armor, splitting the unbearable into manageable pieces. CPTSD weaves its web, ensnaring us in hypervigilance and despair. Major depression cloaks it all, a shadow that dims even the brightest embers. But here, in these words, I reclaim a spark. Damian grumbles in the background, demanding release; the collective poses riddles that twist the mind. Yet I write on, holding the quill steady.

Up in flames we go, a bonfire of broken parts, illuminating the darkness that birthed us. Perhaps one day the fire will purify, burning away the pain until only wholeness remains. Until then, we dance in the inferno, three and more, an odd alliance against the night.

I have to say that even in the best times I still find my self struggling with the darkness that lurks in me. So when I do find a light I tend to cling to it hard, cradle it in my arms and pray that it never goes out. Though inevitably it will, and the only thing I can do is move forward in the dark and hope that I may find another.

Dealing with major depression, CPTSD, DID, and several other mental health problems has never been easy for me. The flash backs and anxiety, the manic attacks and the constant desire to just not exist anymore. But I still persist even when I don't want to. So I huddle here in my inner darkness cradling and nurturing the light that I find hoping that my world brightens.

Yet the constant whispers in my ear reminding me that nothing is forever and once I'm used up that light will just move on past me. I hate hearing it but I can't help but try to protect myself knowing that ultimately that beast has always been right. Yet I hope that someone sometime will prove that beast wrong. 

Yet I have found Hope. And I pray this time it will not be false. I hope it will be true and real. I pray this light will brighten my world and lead me away to the inner peace that I wish I had.

Give me thoughts and opinions. I still have space And would like some ideas.

The translation of the banner is blessed be my true and final death.

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.

Surrender is often misunderstood. Many see it as weakness, as giving up control, or as proof of defeat. For me, surrender has become something else entirely. It is not about losing, it is about choosing. Choosing who I allow into my world, who earns the right to see past my walls, and who I trust with the scars that shaped me.

My life has been built on survival. From an abusive childhood to betrayal in marriage, from warzones to the endless battles inside my own head, I learned early that the world is not kind. Humanity taught me to expect betrayal, to stay sharp, to never lean too hard on anyone. My body carries tattoos that are more than ink, they are survival marks, reminders of pain endured and wars fought, both inside and out.

And yet, in the middle of all that hardness, I discovered surrender. Not the surrender of defeat, but the surrender of vulnerability. Letting someone close enough to touch the raw places without flinching. Allowing a partner to see past the masks, to sit with me in silence when words are too heavy, or to hold me when my defenses are crumbling. That surrender is not weakness. It is strength. It is art.

In the ropes of bondage, I find ritual. Every knot and line is deliberate, a pattern of trust etched onto skin. Rope becomes both chain and brush, holding me while painting connection across the space between bodies. It is a reminder that even in restraint, there can be freedom. Freedom to let go, to stop fighting the world for a moment, to just exist in someone else’s hands. That is a beautiful surrender.

I carry shadows, anger, paranoia, the constant whisper of doubt, but I also carry resilience. What I seek is not perfection, but honesty. A partner who knows surrender is mutual: I give my truth, and they give theirs. I give my body, and they give their care. I give my fear, and they give me safety. That exchange is sacred.

To surrender beautifully is to allow the storm inside me to quiet, if only for a moment, in the presence of another. It is the art of laying down armor without losing myself. It is proof that even someone forged in chaos can find peace, not in escape, but in connection.

That is the surrender I choose. And it is beautiful.

Hmmmm. I have come to realize that I am a social outcast. No need to comfort me me. It's always been this way. Society has moved to a point of either you support my views or your a racist and a bigot. Personally though I could care less. What is it that has made us so devout to our own opinions that we fail to see that which is right in front of us?

Are we so blinded by our own delusions of Grandeur that show us the world through a blue light screen glass. I feel alienated. No matter where I go, or what I do, think, breath or even see. I want a life of peace, happiness and joy just like any other.

Is it wrong to have emotions? Am I nothing more than an inconvenience. Who am I? What is it that is so precious to me that keeps me going. I never wanted to be here in the first place, but yet here I am. 

My mind has always been a cloudy and dark place. Filled with self doubt, and a lust for my own destruction. But I know despite how desperately I may want the cold embrace, I am yet no coward, and I deserve NO EASY WAY OUT. 

Why then is it that we all are but prideful sinners too full of ourselves and too deluded to see the darkness. Or rather, why do we strive so hard to ignore it?

Everyone has their demons, though mine have said "I am many therefore I am legion" life isn't meant to be easy, but I believe it was never meant to be this hard either. How is it that I,... I am the one who has to be stable, why is it the man who has to do everything? Why do I fail soooó much?

Somedays I wonder why it is that I am still here. What is my purpose? What meaning is it that I have? Why does it always feel like the world is ready to crash around me. Why is it that I feel like Atlas with the weight of the world on my shoulders. Is it just because I hate myself? Am I truly worthless? Or is it something deeper or am I just delusional.