joining the flock

In the summer of 1986 I joined the United States Army Reserve. I was 19 years old and had no inkling of the nature of my upcoming journey. I was young and naive with high expectations and childlike dreams. 

I required money for college; that was my primary reason for joining. I wanted to become a lawyer. Serving my country was an afterthought. The GI Bill was my road to higher education and a better future. I had initially walked into the Air Force recruiters’ office, college and jets on my mind. My scores were insufficient, so I could not join to become a pilot. I had to choose from jobs within my test range. Dejected, I ambled down the hall to the Army recruiters and officially joined the Army Reserve as 71L (Administrative Specialist), my MOS (Military Occupational Specialties). I don’t fully recall why I wanted to change, but felt compelled to do so.

Basic training and AIT (Advanced Individual Training) were at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. At the time, Fort Jackson was said to be one of the most grueling basic training forts in the United States. I was unable to confirm this at the time, but it certainly felt like the truth. AIT was not as challenging, but still intense and demanding. 

I left Fort Jackson and headed back to the North Bronx, now officially a private and reservist. My monthly duty station was Fort Totten in Queens, built in 1862 (named Fort at Willets Point) and renamed Fort Totten in 1898.  Each month I made the long trip to Queens to spend two days conducting military business. It was unimpressive and uneventful. Once per year we went away for two weeks, with my first two week trip landing me in Colorado, knee deep in sidewinders and what felt like twin suns.

After nearly two years and incessant indecisiveness regarding what I wanted to study in college, I decided to join the Army full time. Becoming a lawyer no longer felt like a fit. I imagined defending the guilty and immediately became disinterested. I then decided to become a computer programmer and began learning C, C++, FORTRAN, COBOL and Pascal. While I enjoyed learning the many programming languages, I didn’t envision myself programming day in and day out at a corporation. Pre-lawyer dreams of becoming a singer, model and actress had long been dashed to the wind due to lack of support. I needed to get away. The Army was my escape. Silly, I know this now.

My first duty station as a full-time soldier was West Germany, Deutschland, winter 1988, Christmas week. I learned to stick shift in Deutschland and drove on the Autobahn (Bundesautobahn), speed limits be damned, within two days of learning manual transmission.  I rode on the U-Bahn, the railway system with no booth clerk at many stops.  A small ticket machine stole their jobs and left the honor system as a replacement. Some days I purchased my ticket, other days I took a chance, hoping a conductor wouldn’t float through to check tickets and give tickets to the dishonorable. I was caught once without a ticket, but that did not deter me from periodically rolling the dice like some Germans. My adventures in Deutschland are extensive and will find their way in other stories on another day. Of all the stories, however, there is one more I will share here. I was there when the Wall came down and many East Germans left what some would consider their prison and others would call their home. Small cars I called shoes, all piled high with luggage sometimes twice the height of the tiny cars, moved along narrow streets in West Germany. Droves of East Germans, excited to reunited with Westside family members, flowed like a stream over unfamiliar asphalt. The influx, although expected, was still a shock to the system in the West. I witnessed it. Got a piece of the wall and a cut of the original fence that remained before the wall went up. It was surreal to be there, a witness to transformative history.

Promotion to Specialist • West Germany 1989

I gave birth to my first daughter in Frankfurt, West Germany, October 1990, then decided it was time to extricate myself from an environment I had slowly realized was not conducive to the life I wanted for my child. After a bit of research, I found a loophole that allowed me to leave the military. I was tempted to remain in Germany given that I had fallen in love with the land and the people. But youth and inexperience planted fear in me, so I left. 

I learned many valuable lessons while in the military. It is an experience I cherish. I am not a “patriot” like many of my veteran friends. The military did, however, provide me with opportunities. I have been asked many times over the years if I would do it over, would I join again? No, never again. I would definitely not do it again. I believe the universe repeatedly attempts to provide us with lessons. If we avoid a lesson one way, we are given the lesson another way. I believe I would have received whatever lessons I learned in the military through some other means or method.

I remember all that I’ve gained. I also realize all that I’ve lost by joining.  In the end, it balances out. I suppose. It is what it is. I had an experience. It was valuable. It is over. I honor it and would never wish to do it again. I do not believe anything but bullying is solved by war. Death always follows. For a moment in time, I was a part of that as I out-processed soldiers for the Gulf War, Operation Desert Shield. The hands of time cannot be reversed. And that is ok. I am here and I know something I did not know yesterday. 

in the small places

Remembering Her Through Streams of Words

I’ve always felt that I, human, am frighteningly small and whatever this is that we exist within is big, bigger than anything I could describe with human words. Not even numbers, math, arithmetic can illustrate what this is in ways we can fathom. Or even believe. Yet, we are in it. We are swallowed up by it. It ingests us and digests us as we move through it, trying to find our way to the other side of it. If there is another side. If there is only one side. 

We are the grain of sand upon the beach of these galaxies, all swimming inside a mass of multiverses. We are floating through space, circling things we cannot see, and being encircled by things we may never see.

I bend inquisitive words to my will, hoping to breathe life into the mouths of their newly fleshed selves, hoping these words will help me to feel big inside this nameless ancient thing. I wonder about this hope I carry and whether it is authentic. Do I truly want to feel big? Do I want to know what this is? Or do I want to feel a greater sense of what I am in all this? Maybe I am terrified of the realization that I am sand. Or the molecule that sits upon the sand. Or the molecules that make up the sand. Maybe this is what frightens me, to realize how seemingly insignificant I am in all this. I am absent the ability to understand it. We all are. So there is no one I can turn to for answers, because we are all the many molecules moving around inside the form that is sand. Trapped by invisible limitations that won’t allow us to be anything other than sand; anything other than human. We cannot escape, we can only be.

I’m lost. I wake each day, sun warming my skin, and find myself yet again trapped inside this mysterious flesh that won’t set me free. Each sunrise renders me small and ever shrinking. I am acutely aware of this aging body I inhabit that will one day stop. I will be motionless, still, ceasing to realize the smallness of everything I’ve ever known. Becoming smaller as the abyss takes hold. Ultimately, ceasing to realize the bigness of all that I will never see or hear or smell or touch. Will there be something else once I leave this prison? Or should I count this as a mysterious gift I cannot decipher? Will there be the chance to explore that which is bigger than me, and smaller than I could ever imagine? Does that which is smaller than me contemplate its existence in the way that I contemplate mine? In similar ways? Maybe we are the only beings that contemplate existence. Will I enter the light or the darkness, or a peculiar amalgam of both? Will I go into permanent unconsciousness or permanent existence and sentience? Will I BE; or not be?

I think. 

Then…

…I bake words in hot ovens so they may rise. I fry them in cast iron pots, black and seasoned over the years to add flavor to everything that touches them. I take words into my hands and toss them in a buttered pan, so they can flavor my existence and find the truths I cannot see. The words seek out the roads less traveled, the paths to uncharted places only the stars have seen. I want to go there, to the uncharted places. I want to become big; then small enough and wise enough to commune with the ones who know what it is like to feel small. They live and love and look up and out, wondering what else there is…who else there is. I sauté words, preparing them for my still growing imagination. I imagine big, trying to offset my feelings of smallness. I have trouble seeing the power of smallness in this moment, even though I know there is power in the small. I know it. I do.

If we let it, realization of our pending death could open portals into other worlds (and words). Maybe only into the worlds in our mind, but maybe into tangible worlds waiting for us to find them. If we fearfully attempt to pretend death isn’t coming, we could deny ourselves a magical journey. 

My stepmother died Friday, April 20, 2018. She was kind. 

Her journey thrust me into deep meditation. I went to the hospital. Saw her lifeless body. Her mouth was agape due to rigor mortis, so it could not be closed. It was surreal. She’d only been dead for two hours when I arrived. Her body was still warm. 

Warm.

Warm.

No movement. No breath. No heart beat. Lifeless.  But warm. Warmth is life. 

It was life.

I kissed her forehead and my lips warmed. I spoke to her, feeling that she was still traveling and would hear my words. I wanted my imagining to be true, for her traveling soul to smile as I spoke. 

I wanted her to have a soul. 

So I spoke to her, not knowing if what I conjured in my mind was true. As I sat staring at her, I no longer knew what was true. In truth, I never did. I’ve always tossed our existence around in my mind, never landing on anything I could say I know for sure. We make claims about faith and hope and utter knowings we cannot prove to anyone but our dream-selves. Our fear of not knowing gives rise to claims of “personal journeys” only we can experience. There it is. No proof required. Convenient methods we use to allay our fears. We are creative beings. We are. 

I watch.

She seemed small on that hospital bed; small, vulnerable and helpless. Not even the doctors could bring her back. In that moment, they were helpless demi-gods who once dreamed of omnipotence. They left the room, dragging their words behind them, littering the floor with their helplessness. She was a prisoner inside a body that was warm, but motionless. And she was leaving this place, never to return. She was inside a cage-less, warden-less, fence-less prison that would hold her for a time we can never number. We often ponder how long we could or might live, but we rarely ponder how long we will be dead. If we care for this body, we could be here for 90 years, maybe more. When that time expires, we will be dead for millions, billions, trillions of years…if this is all there is, this moment, this body and these words I leave for you to read. No soul-spirit, just words that will one day ash and find the wind. If this is all there is. If.

I realize now that the small places are not much different from the big places. Just as a thing can be so small we cannot see it, a thing can be so big we cannot see it. That is the way of galaxies. We are here, in this big thing, but cannot see it or its neighboring galaxies with our naked eyes. Everything is big and small all at once. 

This was my stepmother on the hospital bed, big and small all at once. She reminds me to be humble and live well. Because there is a journey up ahead that nothing in this life can prepare us for. This journey could be magical or tragic. But it will be.

hate speech vs my mighty voice

Mighty Voices Rise

I don’t give two damns about “hate speech” against me, a brown woman. Not two. I have a mighty voice and know how to defend myself against words meant to cut my soul. What I care a lot about is whether someone attempts to do me physical harm, cut my skin. That is my biggest concern. Not the small words of small people with small minds. My words are too mighty to be concerned with the infantile ramblings of those who have nothing better to do with their lives than discuss people.

I wish to be left alone and allowed the right to get away from any “hate speech” I don’t want to hear.  Don’t allow anyone to follow me around for the sole purpose of speaking to me any kind of way (they can say what they want without forcing it on me) and don’t allow anyone to touch me, harass me or bully me. My physical person is more important to me than a bunch of words (venom) coming out of an idiots mouth.

Further, I want those who wish to say hateful things to express themselves freely, please, so I know exactly who to stay away from. If those who hate me are silenced, then they could do me even greater harm in the dark because I won’t know who is doing things to me. Could be denying me a job, spitting in my food, giving me wrong medicine, whatever. I need to know who to stay far away from, or who to report if they attempt to deny me access to something I have the right to access.

Nope, don’t ban a thing for me. Keep them away from me. That is all. I know how to use my mighty voice against those who bring small words pushed from the depths of their small souls.

existence remembered

The words leave, drifting atop my misconceptions. I am looking backwards.

Why did we come here?

Was it only to see if being human was a strange fad, something new for our soul to do? Or was it something real and lasting and developed from a wanting, from a need to exist inside a space filled with wonder and amazement?

Why are we here? Ask yourself that question without waiting for the answer. Speak the truth to yourself without hesitation. Let the wind hear you, me, us. Because at the end of it all, even the gods will kneel before us, endlessly wondering how we made it through.

They will discover that we fought our way through with the sword of love. Because that is the only thing that could keep us here, the love-fight; that need to recreate our authentic soul existence on Earth.

We came here because of the remembering.

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parallel universe

In the space of memory resides the fence we stand atop, teetering on the edge between hard ground and water. In that space we remember the moments that embrace us before we have a chance to embrace them. They catch us unaware and ask us the hard questions we’re not ready to answer.

Why do you feel?

I feel because my joy stitches the wounds of my pain, and salves them into healing. My joy mercilessly threads itself through the flesh of agony, reminding me that in time, the scars may not fully disappear, but they will no longer be noticeable to the world, nor to me. They will be seen only in quiet moments, when the sun is high, or the night stand lamp casts a light over the flesh of my ancient wound.

My joy spoons itself into the mouth of my sorrows, provisions to save it from starvation and death. I am intertwined inside myself, mixed in with everything I have ever seen or known. I am my happiness; I am my disappointments.

Another word is needed, one that melds this essence of me; a word that says, I am everything all at once, in this moment—in this parallel universe.

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your lies

Your lies won’t save you from death. You will die anyway. Death is the great truth teller. When it comes, all you will know in that moment is the truth; which is, you will soon be gone, into the wind, into oblivion, into another existence, into…

Whatever you go into, it will be the ultimate and final truth. You cannot lie to someone about your own dying.

Bravely be authentic and honest while here.

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finding the true days

I do not celebrate culture created holidays. None of them.

I celebrate each day, all 365 of them, and find ways to make them beautiful and special. If I desire to give someone a beautifully wrapped gift on any given day outside of a holiday or birthday, I will do so and have done so.

Why? Because I don’t need society’s prompts to tell me when to enjoy family, or show/express love to someone with a gift. As an example, I abhor Valentine’s Day because it shows me that it requires commercials and advertising and marketing for my loved one to remember me in tangible ways. They need the prompt of a day and millions of people following suite on that day to remember (or show) what i mean to them. I do not care what other women (or men) think about that day. It is an insult to ME and how I want to be loved and remembered.

I want to be loved on random days, when nothing special is happening except my lover remembering his love for me. Give me a gift wrapped present while we sit on the beach in our bathing suits. Or while I’m standing in the shower on any given day. Give me a gift wrapped present while I’m in the kitchen cooking, hands dirty, back tight from the work of mixing and kneading. And when I ask what it is for, tell me, simply, “Because you are beautiful inside.”

Remember me because you need to, not because someone told you to. Allow remembering me to become as natural as breathing.

Don’t buy me a diamond. They are cheap soul gifts. Everyone wants them because they’ve been told they are rare. I am far more rare than a diamond. See my unique worth, my soul worth, the worth without a price tag, but a soul tag. Buy me a Lemurian Seed crystal ring, or an Azurite ring, something no one else would think to do, because you see ME and that I deserve (need) something outside of the cultural norm. Or, even more precious than crystals, invite me for a walk through the park, simply because you want to hold a space with my energy, just us, sharing presence. Don’t follow the crowd, follow my heart. Find the authentic me in the midst of the social construct and reach me there. Why? Because I don’t want to be your Valentine. I want to be the woman you see, soul naked and true, wanting love, not things.

I am not a holiday. I am a person. My needs are not confined to 10 – 20 moments on a calendar, that calendar that so many flock to to find camaraderie and…love…family…connection. Some seek the calendar even to find themselves. I do not live there. Never will.

I am connected everyday, in every moment, and want to live that with people who see that my worth is outside of time; outside the confines of the contrivances of limited humans who believe a day on a calendar is what I’m worth.

So on this day, I will not say happy holidays, or merry anything. I don’t need to. I give love everyday. I show those whom I love their worth everyday. I wish people well 365 days of the year. Today is just another day for me, and like all others, it is a moment for love in all its forms. So today, I say, I love you. I loved you yesterday. I will love you tomorrow. And I hope two weeks from now you wrap a small gift for your lover, your friend or your child. Or spend a day with them, just because they deserve it.

Don’t allow a calendar to trap your love within the confines of a day. Love fiercely each day…and SHOW it.

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do not look for me here

If one day you desire to find me, don’t look for me here. Search for me in the quiet space, that place where only you and I can dwell. There will be no more hunger for my body but instead a hunger for my soul. There will be no more pretense, only naked and raw authenticity, our minds and secrets disrobed forever. In that moment I would become you and you would become me, and there would be no more hiding from each other, because we cannot hide from ourselves.

Flesh to mind, mind to flesh. Syncopating, melding into one mind, yet still shapeshifting between the objective and subjective, the singular and the plural; the me, the you, the us. Shapeshifting for survival.

No, don’t look for me here. Search for me in the quiet places, on the planet of my mind where only you and I can breathe and dwell; shapeshifting to exist.

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the potential for a memoir

One of my advisors a year ago encouraged me to write a memoir based on a writing prompt during one of our residency workshops. He was so enthralled by what I had written within the ten minutes given, he promptly shared his excitement with my previous advisor, who accosted me at our next workshop.

I have never thought about writing a memoir. Who the hell am I? I never imagined I had anything interesting to share. The writing prompt was meant to draw out a past memory, nothing more. But when he insisted that I consider the memoir after what I wrote, I began to toy with the idea.

Some of you have read the very short opening of my piece. The overall piece is now nearly 100 pages. For both those who have read the opening and those who have not, I’d be interested to know if you read what I’ve shared below (what I wrote during the workshop), would you be curious and want to read more?

Be honest. I have thick skin.


I was born beneath Cuba, across the waters of the West Indies on an island that lives and breathes Bob Marley. It was 1967. While papa, my grandfather, was mending the house he built with his bare hands, civil rights marches were happening in “foreign” the place the locals called America. As King, Jr. lay dead, murdered by the mindset of the majority, I learned to walk on hot stones. The light of a man went out. I was oblivious to this then. I lived in a place where electricity and running water and indoor plumbing didn’t reach us. The outhouse was dark at night. But my uncle would take me there sometimes. At other times the chimmy, as my grandmother called it, would be pulled out from under the bed, squatted over, then slid back filled with yellow waste that reminded us of our simple life.

I was small and grass blade thin but I remember the mangoes and jackfruit and star apples and ackee and ginepes and the flowers I used to make jewelry, little necklaces and bracelets, bright and red and beautiful. I want to remember the name of that flower, but time sends memories away to places we can’t find.

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blue elegance

Writing Prompt: Elegant

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.

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The waters are not blue. They are the mirror for the royal skies that look down at an elegant white-blue swan reflecting off the mercurial lakes of a thousand lazy yesterdays. The swan glides across the time engorged waters, filled with stories of ancestral swans, regal, majestic. White feathers tinted to match the coming dusk and darkening waters. It rises above its own elegance. We are spellbound by the quiet and peace it exudes.

i want to tell you something

macro-319237_1920-2016-09-8-12-49.jpgi want to tell you something.

i want you to know how sorry i am that i could not save you. maybe it was never my job. i don’t know. all i know is that i wanted to see you flourish in a world filled with people fighting their way toward extinction. i wanted to see you transform this place into the paradise you live inside your dreams.

i want you to know that the god inside you is immortal and waiting for you to see her. you won’t need a mirror when you decide to look her in the eyes. you will be seeing inside self.

i want to tell you something more.

we are one, and all our dreams meld into each other, folding over time and space until they are inseparable. our dreams un-begin and un-end atop and inside a circle. in this place, we are one. always.

 

a return to locs

My DNA has warned me that if I keep on with this nonsense about growing out my natural hair without locs, there will be hell to pay. I get death threat-like whispers from my cells that I need to restart my locs, or else.

This is a trying time, when the body actively participates in dictating aesthetics. And almost violently invading mind and soul to the point of unrest.

Like elephants, my cells’ memories are keen and strong. They want “their” locs back.

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i am wanting

I no longer remember who I am, nor why I am. Inside this foreign skin I breathe. I inhale the world I’ve wished for in far away dreams and exhale the world I exist in, bedeviled by those who swim in blood red ego.

I am wanting yesterday, packed up to take with me into tomorrow. It is in that place ahead where I’ll find what I seek. I am wanting.

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final semester

Last semester. I need to get through this. Can’t let illness stop me.
Whatever lives, breathes, thinks, intervenes, loves, sees….
…ancestors, alien overlords, yoruba deities, universe, omniverse, multiverse, reincarnation overseers, ancient scientists experimenting with the DNA of various species throughout the universe….
….please, see me, and get me through this so I can complete my time in this realm doing what I enjoy without hindrance.
Otherwise, please open the portal so I can go home.

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un-yesterday

There is nothing here. Only waves of memories folding over unrelenting experiences.

I will no longer question my thoughts, but instead, carve question marks into stones; and diamonds and gold. Carve them into clouds and raindrops and the wind.

My footprints will become question marks left behind as I crease the sands that endlessly wash away billions of forgotten lives; faces with no names; names with no faces, shadows of people without faces or names. Lives and thoughts never to be touched again live inside the footprints that lead back to un-yesterdays.

I am nothing here but a wisp of dust that dreamed it was once human. I am existing here, in the un-yesterday, a shadow cast upon myself.

I was once human.

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the mold in me

I’ve been away for the last two weeks. My vow to write daily has been broken by debilitating illness. You see, I was poisoned by mold which ravaged my body systemically and to the point of near immobility.

The signs were all there, with one member of the household exhibiting symptoms we could find no reason for. She was constantly having dizzy spells that threatened to black her out. What made it more confusing was that she continued to have the symptoms even when she went to visit another family member in another state. Little did we know that she was going from one mold filled environment to another, hence the continued dizzy spells.

It would take months before I began to feel the same dizzy spells she describe, a whipping effect that lasted for not much more than a second, but threatened to crumble me to the floor.

Another member of the household also began to complain of the same type of dizzy spells, albeit far less frequent for him.

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Air cleansing plant (the name escapes me) at my family member’s home today. I spent a lot of time outside with this one.

Long story short, given that I work from home and rarely got out, I ended up being affected the most. The symptoms progressed from one or two dizzy spells per day to several throughout the day. By this time, our other family member was away with a friend in Denver and having virtually no more dizzy spells. Of course, she was out of the mold filled environment.

I, however, continued to deteriorate. Beginning three weeks ago, it got to the point where I could hardly walk and couldn’t breathe. Sadly, given that the effects of mold toxicity are not taught to physicians and not of primary concern in emergency situations, not only is there no immediate testing for mold inside the body, but for some strange reason, the tests given always return either a healthy body with no problems, as it was in my case, or some systemic issue that doctors do not connect to mold, but can never find any remedy. A particular organ will be affected, for which medication does not work to heal.

After a while, I could hardly see straight to walk. My vision was blurring on and off. I was dizzying out of control, weak and unable to breathe without it feeling like someone was standing on my chest. Even when they checked my lungs, they could find nothing wrong. I needed a specialist, but no one wanted to properly address my issues because their tests came back showing I was healthy. Therefore, sending me to a specialist seemed to be low priority. During my last trip to the emergency room because I was unable to breathe, rather than suggest a lung specialist, the doctor prescribed me anxiety medication, which I promptly left in the emergency room.

I began to do research and found others who had not only similar, but the exact same stories of incompetent doctors who would even go as far as to state that mold cannot make one sick. This ignorance flies in the face of numerous studies that prove beyond a doubt that toxic mold not only can make one sick, but kill us.

Let me share some of history in brief. I left the United State Army twenty-five years ago. From that time until today I never took another shot of any kind, not even a flu shot. Because of that, I have never been healthier. In that time, I may have caught the flu twice, maybe three, times. I rarely go to the doctor, visiting only if I have a serious problem, which was rare. Prior to this mold incident that has had me visiting the doctor frequently in the last six months, I had not been to the doctor in nearly a decade beyond a one year check-up through the VA Hospital; not even a gynecologist. I’ve caught two colds in ten years, with the last cold I caught about five years ago.

Basically, I don’t like doctors and try to avoid them like the plague unless there is something wrong with me that my natural remedies and organic lifestyle cannot heal. So it was rather frustrating to go to the doctor and be treated as though I was some mental case merely suffering from anxiety. Given my history, if I go to the doctor, trust, it is for a valid reason. I am certainly having a serious problem.

Needless to say, this was the issue with everyone’s testimonial I read. Some were more lucky than I to find specialists who fully recognized the debilitating and dangerous nature of mold and what it can do to the body. And, took measures to remedy the issue. They were the lucky ones. Many were not so luck, as was/is the case with me.

Once I recognized, too late, that it was the mold making me sick, I left the house within a week. By then, I was unable to move, couldn’t stand in the sun and could barely eat anything given that the mold caused me to develop a leaky gut, which made eating certain foods impossible. I would have a horrible reaction to them. In under two weeks I lost 11 pounds.

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Cactus waiting to bloom at my family member’s home today.

My weight is still down, but since being in Florida and out of that toxic house in Mississippi, I have been healing. I am temporarily staying with a family member until our apartment is ready.

After about three days, the breathing issues died down. I am now able to breathe much better without laboring. The dizzy spells slowed down in the last three days. I have been on a strict regimen of anti-fungal, antimicrobial and anti-parasite herbs, as well as probiotics and fresh squeezed juices. I have, for now, cut out all sugar based items, including fruit (I love fruit), in order to starve the mold out of my system. Mold thrives on sugar of all kinds.

I have, sadly, become my own doctor given that the VA Hospital and the local hospital were virtually useless in addressing my issue. I’ve had to do my own research and figure out how to self heal through the personal experiences of others who also received poor professional care.

I found a family who, through extensive research and trial and error, healed themselves. This is important given that most who suffer from toxic deteriorating mold exposure never recover. One close friend of mine told about her friend whom she helped get out of a mold filled dorm which was later shut down by the health department given the toxicity of the mold. She said he has never been the same since.

I ordered the family’s book and have been taking much of their advice. I’ve always eaten healthy and clean, so I am hopeful that my progress will be accelerated. Today is the first day I’ve felt well enough to type anything. I had not been online or checked email for more than ten days.

Every now and then if I eat something detoxing I go into an hour or so tailspin. But I’m clear that it is the effects of detoxification and the mold kicking up into my blood stream to be expelled. Generally I am feeling much better, walking better and, most importantly, I can breathe.

This has been a huge lesson for me. Never again will I simply look at mold, spray it with vinegar and bleach, watch it disappear, then assume it might not still be hiding behind the walls and growing out of control.

I implore those with mold to remediate it if they can afford to, or leave the home. Your life is worth more than a house. If you are in an apartment, call the health department. You could be suffering from illnesses directly related to the mold and not realize it, all the while thinking it’s an isolated health problem. Remember, mold destroys systemically. It kills neurons in the brain, which is what was happening to me why I was losing my motor skills. It harms every organ, every function, from the pituitary gland to the thyroid gland and more. It breaks down your cellular structure and disrupts your DNA and RNA. Everything you can imagine is destroyed by toxic mold in the body.

Mold is everywhere in nature. We live on a planet filled with mold. But it is unnatural and deadly to live with mold concentrated inside the home where most live in air conditioners or heaters, never opening windows to let fresh air pass through. The most dangerous aspect of mold is that it is just as harmful, if not more, dead. Mycotoxins are released into your bloodstream from dead mold, which is probably why I feel dizzy and weak after taking an ant-fungal/antibacterial/anti-microbial.

This has been the reason I have not posted in a while. My mind is still a bit foggy, so I hope this post isn’t too scattered. I am, however, resting as much as possible and healing slowly.

I am hopeful that I will be able to post tomorrow. Maybe a short poem if I feel well enough. In the last week I have had up and down days, but writing was always on my mind. I wanted to share my journey many days ago, but was simply too weak to do so.

Until next time, live well and mold free beautiful people.

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