Isn’t it amazing how time works? Out of all the things in the universe, time is one thing you cannot revisit or change. You can’t manipulate it or correct it. It can not improve, or fail, it just is. It just exists.

Five years ago, I embarked on a journey for salvation. A bit dramatic, I know, but it is the truth. I decided it was time to complete the last sacrament of my Catholic faith; the Sacrament of Confirmation. I had realized that my daughter, one year old at the time, was going to need to be Baptized. Being her mother, and not being confirmed, seemed silly to me. How was I supposed to instill values, my values, our values, our faith and love, with the bases that I had not completed the Sacraments myself? I had the initiation and promise to walk in the footsteps of God at my Baptism completed. I had the initiation of the communion with my First Communion completed, but I didn’t have the Sacrament of Confirmation completed. The confirmation is important because this sacrament solidifies your stance with your faith in God and the Catholic faith as an adult. We spend most of our lifetime being adults than we do being children, well, most of us anyway, therefore, this Sacrament was important to me. My goal was to solidify my faith journey and start my life right again.

I decided to take the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults or RCIA, course at my church. I finished the course and was confirmed by the time my daughter turned one. At my confirmation, the Bishop of the Diocese who was blessing the ceremony randomly came up to me to ask if I would be teaching next year. Surprised and completely thrown off, I answered with “No, Bishop, I just got confirmed, I wouldn’t be able to teach anything.” He then proceeded to tell me that I looked like someone who was itching to minister. Coincidently, I was someone who was “itching to minister.” Later that evening, my teacher, Ms. Veronica, asked me if I would be willing to teach the class with her in the upcoming year. I obviously felt unprepared and confused and my face showed it. This was the second time I was greeted in this manner. “Why me? Is it God calling? Should I answer?”, I thought. A few moments passed and I agreed. I accepted to help out for the next year.

I joined the ministry of teaching and began the process of getting certified as a teaching ministress with the Parish Ministers’ Formation Program or PMFP. Before I could apply for the actual PMFP course, however, I had to complete one year of volunteering in RCIA. I had at least the next two years planned out; First year: RCIA. Second year: RCIA and PMFP. The control was real here. I had a new job, I was on track with my faith journey to God, my daughter was finally baptized and life was decently in order. But then, time snuck up on me.

Covid-19 created a whirlwind of events. I lost my grandmother, my step-mother and even Ms. Veronica, all in the same year due to Covid-19 and cancer. It was too much. But I was determined to continue. I completed the first year of volunteering as an RCIA Teaching Member on Easter Sunday and I was ready to start the PMFP course. The Deacon of our church and I had created a great plan with the teaching strategy of RCIA and all felt solid. I received the dates for PMFP and I was excited. In July, my husband and I bought our first home and were very busy on remodeling to finally move in. I was ready and anticipating my upcoming next step. Life could have not been more perfect. Except, time got me again. I became pregnant.

For most in my position in the Church, this would seem like a blessing. But it didn’t feel that way. I was depressed beyond belief. My first pregnancy nearly cost me my life and the life of my first daughter, resulting her to come premature. I didn’t want this. Prior to this, I didn’t believe in birth control. Even though my OBGYN recommended me to get on birth control since I had a very dangerous pregnancy, I refused. I quickly regretted not taking his advice. I was scared. I was anxious. I was confused. I was mad as hell. To fast forward the details, I got over this. I accepted it and came to terms with, “It’s not the baby’s fault. I want the baby, I love the baby. I want to have the baby, but I hate pregnancy. Everything about pregnancy, and blood, and vomiting; I hate it all. But I am so excited for the new life I am creating.” If you’re a mom who struggled with pregnancies, you would understand and know what I mean.

October came quickly and so did my belly. PMFP and RCIA’s new year started; and I was pregnant. I tried, I really did. But after some months, I had to pause. Because I was in pain and weak from the morning sickness that I was blessed with every day, I had to take a break from PMFP and RCIA. I needed to re-group. I needed to have my baby, finish the remodeling that was left untouched since we found out I was pregnant and I needed to figure out when my first born will go to school. Although the schools were returning to traditional classrooms, my first daughter was still doing virtual learning. It was tough. To have a kid in school, another one that was recently born and only having my husband’s income because the E.D.D. had not processed my maternity leave pay and FMLA didn’t kick in yet, was tough. Making sure my daughter had an education, making sure they both had health insurance, making sure the bills were paid with one income, having things break down in our new home, going to all of my post-pregnancy appointments, going through post-partum depression… again, going to the baby’s first year appointments, getting back on anxiety medication, figuring out baby-sitting for both girls and preparing to go back to work… it was tough. It is tough.

My first born is turning five years old soon and my second born is turning two years old. My, how has time treated me. I never went back to complete my PMFP course and I have been struggling with keeping up with RCIA since I came back from a maternity break. In fact, this is why I’m writing all of this now. To get it out. I couldn’t do it anymore. I need to pause time… again.

Last night, I broke down. I’m losing myself. Well, I was losing myself. I spoke to Deacon last night and he reminded me of a few key things. Walking with God has four steps. God first, family second, work third and ministry last. I have no sense of direction right now. I used to love being in class to share the knowledge and theological studies I had adopted. I loved seeing the face and eyes of realization on my students when they realized that following God is not hard. Which its not. This is personal. I’ve lost the motivation to continue RCIA and definitely lost track of time. I knew that going into this ministry was going to be a new challenge but I didn’t count on everything becoming so heavy. In a 48-minute conversation, Deacon and I concluded that I will be taking a break from ministry. God, it was heavy coming to that decision, but I had to make it.

It’s very bitter-sweet to accept taking a break from something i have been doing for four years. I am very saddened by it, but I need to breathe. Having to attend classes and prepare for classes, and hear so many stories and try to keep them motivated while not motivated myself, was nearly impossible. I made it work for everyone but not myself.

Being the main parent in our home has and is taking a toll on me. My husband, a contractor, is on his mission to create an establish and functioning company, and I support him. But I just can’t right now. I want to start again. I want to be happy again. I want to go back to attending MASS on Sunday with my family, because I was the reason they went in the first place. I need to get back on track.

In the next five months I have my soon-to-be five-year-old’s birthday to plan, my soon-to-be two-year-old’s birthday to plan, her baptism, and oh yeah, my wedding. We will finally complete our final sacrament, the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony. It’ll be on a Thursday, with only the closest people around us to attend. There is just so much to do, and yet, so little time.

If he was standing right here, in front of me, I don’t believe that I would have any questions for Him to answer.

Not about “Death”, not about the truth, not about the future, not about the “Why’s?”

If he was to be right in front of me, at this very second, I think I would stare.

The truths that I’ve buried and the lies that I’ve spoken,

The words that were deliberately whispered to harm…

they would consume me.

Like the words that I’ve prayed for strength when I knew I was causing the pain.

Like the words that I’ve prayed for peace when I knew I was someone’s chaos.

If God was in front of me right now, would I wallow in embarrassment? Would I feel anything?

Would he know that every word I’ve ever said was unmistakably spoken? And that “regret” is not something I am capable of feeling?

Would he scold me at that very instance for lying about love?

About His Love.

About the love that I tell my students that he unconditionally has, yet I feel like I can’t be fully loved by Him?

Or would he make me fall to the ground and physically make me carry all burdens I said I was carrying alone?

Chapter II - "We were fine."

Post #3

While standing at the Walmart self-check-out line, I realize, this is about to get ugly. My mom, Chula, had insisted I go to Walmart with her to get the household-daily-essentials. Today was her only day to go shopping for this stuff so I obliged; shampoo, conditioner, soap, razors. When we entered the store, everything was fine... we were fine. We hadn't fought all day which is always a win because we don't usually get along, but today was going decently well. Sure, we might have started storing and suppressing some tension when we tried to enroll me at my new school earlier today, but I brushed that off like normal jitters. I turned fifteen a couple of months ago and going to a new school at this age should be stressful, right? But the stress wasn't from my soon-to-be new hell-hole for the next 3 years, per se’, it was more because my mom doesn't know how to register new information regarding that kind of stuff, so she made me do all the work. She's primarily a Spanish speaker, therefore, she feels "inferior to interacting in situations like this", at least, that's what my therapist always tries to make me understand. I felt her annoyance at the school's front office as if she had rather been somewhere, anywhere else, but there. She nudges me to move forward as if enrolling at this new school was my punishment for something i had done. I guess it kind of was, if you consider that I am moving to this new school because I was bullied at my last school. My way of expressing myself was not liked or admired by my fellow peers and I guess that that was more than enough reason for them to pull me down from a five-foot-high flower planter and punch me until they were pulled off from the security guards. It was my fault, I should have been more likeable. I struggle with that. I struggle with not saying the right words at the right time, trying to feel courageous at the wrong time, standing up for something at the wrong time, breathing... at the wrong time. Mom got frustrated because I didn’t understand the questions from the receptionist and I guess I might have answered with an attitude. She also didn’t like that I was slouching. My oversized clothing was apparently too oversized and I looked homeless, according to her. “A used, old cloth” she described. When we left the school, though, she seemed fine. We were fine. I don’t think the receptionist noticed my moms’ anger or even my annoyance. I've always thought that being invisible was the goal in life and just now I am realizing why I agree with that.

It is our turn to go through the self-check-out and I already feel my palms sweating. Mom is also feeling tensed because I see her face start to wrinkle in frustration. The huge line behind me doesn't help the tension either. All these people have somewhere to go, somewhere to be, somewhere, anywhere, but here. "Drina, you're going to do it, so pay attention because your next”, she scornfully tells me. As if my anxiety wasn't obvious enough, she is now making me do this alone. I pause for a second as I see the next register open. "Here we go...", I think to myself, right before she nudges me aggressively to start walking. I make it to the register and before I could take a deep breath she begins to yell at me that I am scanning everything wrong. "Put the shampoos correctly in the bag, they will spill!" she yells. I feel the irritation in her voice. The hatred in her voice. The disgust by my existence in her voice. The "why did i get myself into this mess by raising children that aren't mine" kind of anger in her voice. By now, we have gotten the attention of the hundreds of people impatiently waiting for us to finish. There are four other registers in use, but I know they aren't focused on those to be open soon, they are watching the show. They are watching my embarrassment turn my face red. My anxiety gets the best of me and I start to move with an attitude. "Mom, help me." I whisper. "No, your gonna do it, so do it right", she quickly responds. "Mom, please, if you don't help me, I'm going to leave, I need to go outside, I need to breathe." I feel myself become the loose thread of my oversized sweater, becoming undone. I have reached my exploding point and as I take a step back, she grabs the bottom of my sweatshirt and rim of my pants and begins to scream at the security guard, "Close the doors! My daughter is in therapy and she runs away! Close the doors!" Everyone around me starts to whisper and point at us like we are some wild animals. The walls somehow move closer to me and my breathing becomes faster. The tile on the floor begins to warp as if I am in a circus fun house. "Mom, please, let me go, I need to go outside, I need to breathe." My body stiffens and I swear I am going to die right here in the center of Walmart's' self-check-out line.

I’ve only ran away once. I didn’t even really run away, considering that my Aunt Ruth found me soon after I left. My aunt always seems to find me when I am literally screaming for help. I don’t dare to run away from her. But I was so mad at my mom. She really pissed me off that day. At that time, I occasionally would smoke out of a vape-pen that I had gotten from a school friend. I am not sure if the juice in the pen gave me courage to leave but I did. Do I regret it? Sometimes I regret being slow. Other times, I regret doing it because, now, even taking a step back and wanting to get outside air is threatening to her.

I am overwhelmed by scenarios in my head of what to do next. Do I pull away from her and run? She’s much stronger than me. If she feels like I am trying to challenge her, she will be forced to slap me or hit me or something. Then what would happen? The store will file a report, contact CPS and take me away? Perhaps take her to jail? I don’t want that. All I want to do is just go outside.

The security guard comes over and starts to tell us that we cannot be doing this in the store and we need to step outside. Finally. My mom has gotten the attention she was seeking and now I seriously feel like I have died. The security guard pulls us towards the door and separates us. He starts to ask my mom what is going on and of course, she is the only one who speaks. What am I to say, anyway? “My anxiety is the worst and my mom is a bitch”? No. I stay quiet. I pull out my phone and call my Aunt Ruth but she is already on her way. Of course, she is. I guess somewhere in between the chaos, my mom called her to the rescue. My Aunt Ruth is Mom Chula’s daughter. She is also Des’s, my real fathers’, half-sister. Mom Chula is actually Papa Ed’s, my grandfathers’, wife. My actual grandmother, Dora, may she rest in peace, was Papa Ed’s first wife. Legally, I’m my aunt’s adopted sister. We have a weird family but whether my Aunt Ruth is my sister or my Aunt, she’s my savior at times like this.

“Drina, call down. Take a deep breath, everything is ok. I am on my way now, I am only seven minutes away. No, don’t tell me anything. Just relax, and take a deep breath. I will see you both soon”, she hangs up and I put my phone back into my pocket. Seven minutes can feel like an eternity. But I know Aunt Ruth, she will be here in five.

After the security finishes with getting my moms’ side of the story, he heads towards me. “What’s your name?” he asks. “Drina…” I respond. “How old are you? You’re very pretty”, he says. My Aunt warned me about nasty men like this. They take advantage of small girls and try to befriend them and take advantage of their vulnerability. I think to myself, “I watch Danelle Hallan, you can’t get me”. “I’m fifteen and in high school. My mom is just upset, we are waiting on my aunt. She will be here in seven minutes”, I respond. As if he understood that he just made me uncomfortable, he shy’s away and waits for Aunt Ruth next to Mom Chula. Aunt Ruth must have passed a few red lights because just as he walks away, I see her bright red truck pull up. The security guard waves her down and signals her that it is o.k. to park in front of the loading zone. I can breathe again.

I know it’s not the end of this just yet and I know that we now have to explain ourselves to Aunt Ruth, but I am still shaking and I feel like I might have wet myself a bit. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I sometimes get too overwhelmed that my body acts alone. Mom Chula, used to scold me when I would pee on myself as a kid. It has become my trade mark with my family that I can’t hold it in. No person wants to ever be seen as the “peepee” girl but that is I. The “peepee” girl. How stupid and embarrassing. I hate myself for not being able to control it. According to Mom Chula, my real mom, Dahlia, used to pee on the bed all the time. She wouldn’t feel shame about it. According to Aunt Ruth, Dahlia dealt with her own demons and she eventually got to a point where she realized that hating herself for not being able to control her body in stressful situations was a waste of time.

I wish I knew more about her. I wish I knew what advise she would give me in this situation. I can’t even assume of what she could have told me. I have not got an ounce of an idea what she was truly like. Dahlia left my baby sister, my baby brother and me, to Mom Chula and Papa Ed, a long time ago. Thirteen years to be exact. I was only two years old. I didn’t have enough time with her. She must have had a good reason, right? To leave and not turn back? To give into stress and go away and never ask how it would affect us. She must have, right? As the years pass me, I realize that I wonder this more and more. Aunt Ruth says that I have to toughen up a little because as I get older, I will start to realize things that “don’t make sense won’t make sense”, and I need to accept those realities. Like this situation. None of this makes sense. I don’t even know what really happened anymore. Why did it have to get to this point? I was fine. She was fine. We were… fine.

Life is being sucked out of me as the days go by.

Memories of your existence replay over and over.

When the baby cries, I cry.

Starvation eats me from the pit of my intestines.

Your life, as well as three others, copied on my fifteen inch screen.

Portrait and horizontal.

Memories of their lives in 4k resolution.

I cry, when the baby cries.

What if one day it’s her reliving my good times.

Will it penetrate her heart as it does mine?

Four years in this chair, I never realized that I can adjust it.

The pain has become part of me.

The feeling of discomfort is part of me.

My back carries the pain of the ones who grieve.

My posture is no longer poise.

When the baby cries,

I cry.

The scent of her innocence keeps me alive.

A new frame to work on while she closes her sweet eyes.

I remember a time when I knew not of this trait.

Just like everyone else, waiting to see.

But now, I recreate the past.

I have the power to make it look happy or sad.

Music notes have the impact that one only experiences in the cinema.

I’m so drained.

I don’t even write anymore.

What was I doing before this?

I can’t even remember.

Stories left unfinished,

Frame left unedited.

Coworkers wondering how I can keep my headphones on for so long.

“just let her work” my boss says.

I cry.

Like a baby.

In this uncomfortable chair,

I'm heavy, and,

I cry.

A time where money was new and land was not claimed,

where people needed a voice, they needed to be saved.

No man would take part of these hard hillsides,

But a road came about when fear was set aside.

With picks and shovels they climbed their way through,

The lucky survived, but only a few.

The land was not destined to be safely sustained,

But Mexican’s have a way to make magic obtained.

After he helped create this new way of life,

He was voted to be the judge of local petty crime.

He entered the Army and became a General,

The Law was surrounding him so he became Federal.

I remember him saying that the government was corrupt,

So he created a system where the people could trust.

Gabriel was voted as the president of the Republican Party of the City,

He created organizations from his republican committee.

Land preservation teams and even orphanages are just two to name,

For the right reason he grew into fame.

But this is not what he wanted, in the shadows he preferred,

His reputation followed him by his actions and words.

He gave into his reputation and used it for good,

But he always stayed humble as the good man would.

He passed away on an October many years back,

And still his legacy is easy to track.

But you won’t find him in the history books though or even in the papers,

He was in it for the people, and children and labours.

There is still much to say about this great man,

Speaking as his grandchild who is a great fan.

But I recognize and acknowledge he did not do it alone,

His legacy wasn’t only in the streets but also in his home.

A woman who triumphed every lonely night,

As her husband created the means to their life.

Nine children were born from the woman born in May,

But one name Lucy sadly passed away.

Trini suffered many horrific days,

But she knew God was real and in her heart he stayed.

A true woman is what I sought her to be,

She has her own truly fierce legacy.

Strong, fearless and loyal to her family,

She came up with ways to sustain them financially.

Although Gabriel was known through his acts and his words,

People aren’t paid for the chatter they earned.

She came from a family who knew how to survive,

Selling sheets and blankets is where money derived.

She taught her kids to be strong and smart,

To listen to their minds instead of their hearts.

She passed on to Heaven early on a March day,

Because of that day my March’s remain gray.

My house lingers with her scent of flowers,

Sometimes I mourn her for hours and hours.

But before this poem becomes dark and depressing,

I’ll end it with saying that meeting them was a blessing.

If I have learned something about myself, it’s that my adaptation to life events have been quicker and less depressing. Since I was diagnosed with mixed anxiety-depressive disorder, I have had a cushion to blame my outbursts of crying and being shut-out to the world. It wasn’t until I gave birth to my first daughter that I realized I needed a change. A change that had to originate from the pit of my soul. A change that would seep through my veins and settle in my heart and brain. This change, although not predicted with the “how”, began to take over my being. I had a sudden urge of tasting God. If your not familiar with this statement, it’s completely understandable. In The Bible, John 6 : 54-56, it is said “54 Whoever eats - my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him on the last day. 55 For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. 56 Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him.” I wanted to know what God tasted like. I wanted to feel peace, the hope for eternal life. I wasn’t prepared for this journey but I was not completely unfamiliar with it. My parents tried to raise me as Catholic but because of the negative events that happened while attending church with mom, the attempt was over shadowed. Church and God were still a mystery and was not appreciated. When my baby girl was born, my urge to knowing what was supposed to be taught over powered me.

Anyway, thanks to this random desire to follow my faith journey, it has opened me up with more ways to “dealing.” I don’t think that there is such thing as being a waste of space anymore. I no longer believe that I am not wanted or needed. I no longer feel like I could ever be alone, partly because the husband and children don’t know or haven’t practice MOMMY’S PERSONAL SPACE. I do go through moments of sadness, and I still have anxiety attacks but the recover time is way quicker than I ever knew it to be. I am able to recognize when I am being unreasonable, and I’m able to switch perspectives more as needed. I haven’t gotten the praying-everyday-thing down, but I do pray. I just don’t do it as often as I wish I could. I’m working on that.

Currently, I am trying to be gentle. Gentle to myself, gentle with my family. I am trying this because this life is taking a turning point with our children. Schools are infested with sick children who do not know how to channel their anger. Children are fighting in schools and recording it for likes and shares. It’s crazy. I guess that I am not necessarily preparing myself, only, but also my children and the children who surround me.

I have a nephew that is just… hard to get. My moms and pops are raising him because his mother, my cousin, abandoned him. There’s two of them, they are brothers. But this one specific kid… man oh man. They have diagnosed him with ODD or Oppositional defiant disorder. Children with ODD are defiant and always are on the opposite scale of a conversation.

“Kiddo, wash your hands for dinner.”

“No, I like them dirty.”

“Ok, then sit down and eat with dirty hands.”

“How dare you make me eat with dirty hands?!”

“Ok, let’s go wash your hand together.”

“I’m not a baby, I can do it myself!”

“Ok, come eat.”

“I am so hungry I’m going to die!”

“No, you’re not, come on.”

*Starts rolling on the floor*

“It hurts! It hurts! I’m so hungry!”

*grabs stomach while rolling*

“Kid, come on, eat.”

*eats half of his meal*

“Oh my God, I’m so full. OK bye!”

This is an example from last night. I want to be gentle, I’m sure my mom wants to be gentle, I’m sure everyone wants to be gentle. But it is clear that everyday we have a new worry. All we want and pray for is for these kids to be… sane and sound. Not to get killed for how they respond or dress or act. We as a family, we know what we need to work with, but others? How will the world be o.k. with a defiant child who will grow to be a defiant grown-up? Or how will my low-spoken niece be able to conquer the cruel reality of the world? How will my daughter not be blinded by vanity if her beauty follow’s her to her adult-hood? How will my other nephews and nieces have a healthy relationship with others if the examples of their own parents abandoning them has caused so much trauma already? How can we be better for them?

All I truly want and all I think we have control over is to create a safe space for them. When they experience cruelty, I hope they know, what took me years of therapy to understand, that “Home” is where these efforts are taken.

Home is where love is.

My goal for the week was to publish a chapter a day on The Prose; an autobiography of two people. But with my blood boiling and grieving, I cannot simply sit here at work and try to be creative. I am fucking HOT. I am fuckin boiling.

My morning started off with this auto bio in mind and i was ready to conquer. I get a text that an aunt passed away. That is very much suckish. It sucks because i know people loved her, and still having grandchildren and a young daughter, her absence will affect them. It's sad but because i am faithful, i am sure, she will be ok.

That threw me off for a bit but right after lunch i was ready to get this page going.

BUT NO!

Fuck my LIFE. NO!

My niece, 15 years old, was jumped at school while she was sitting on a 5 ft tall planter.

She was thrown to the floor where she was socked multiple times in the back of the head by a fucking little fucker who is clearly sick in the fucking head.

THE GIRL WAS LAUGHING!

the last bit of the video was of my niece screaming "WHAT IS WRNG WITH YOU!"

I am so upset and i don't know towards who.

Myself? for not teaching her how to fight?

At my mom for not teaching her how to stand up for herself creating a defenseless-90 pound-depressed-anxious-bipolar child?

At the school for not protecting her enough?

The fucking security guard walked up to them like it was just another fight.

This is fucking insane.

This girl has been through so much.

Ironically, she is the inspiration for the everyday posts i want to commit too.

What is wrong with these fucking kids’ man?

How could we have failed so drastically where school fights are a must?

What if anything can schools do?

Why is it that we cannot protect our children?

Why is hate so heavy with these kids?

Who hurt them?

Why did they hurt these kids so bad that it has resulted into such rage towards others.?

Why is the devil seen more than God?

What happens now?

I need a fucking black n mild and a large sangria from Septembers Taproom.

But no.

I have a huge meeting with the president of one of the largest coating manufacturers in the united states.

Smiles on.

Chapter I - "Hussongs"

Post #2

- READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED-

She wasn’t the most poise girl on the block, but she was definitely a sight to see. Grey eyes that sparked when the sun hit them just right. Her hair sat below her shoulder blades and swayed effortlessly as the wind blew its’ soft breath upon her. She loved the feeling of her back being tickled, it kept her innocence alive. Dahlia grew up as most girls living in a tourist town like Guerrero Negro. She had a big family and surrounded by many outsiders. Unfortunately, her father died at a young age and her mother was an addict to the worlds’ natural abused remedies. Her grandmother, Emma-Lisa, raised her but fell short in the parenting portion of the guardianship. Emma-Lisa was a known prostitute and she occasionally harbored fugitives who were involved in local drug dealings. Dahlia didn’t have a choice but to witness and experience an upbringing that was unfair to her.

At the age of ten, Dahlia began puberty and her natural assets began to unravel. She began to speak and move as her older influences had influenced her. Her body was fit and her mind was tainted by her upbringing. At eleven years old, she had her first boyfriend. He was fifteen. They met at school and instead of being a place where a young girl goes to fill her mind with important information that would guide her to a future profession, she was trapped in a systematically damaging environment.

Her fifteen-year-old boyfriend, Christian, was part of a trafficking ring. He was coerced to gather young girls and convince them to participate in sexual acts involving some of the teachers at their school. Although disgusting, it was rumored and spoken about around town, yet, no one did anything to stop this corruption. Christian had invited Dahlia to a local party house and unfortunately, she obliged. Dahlia and Christian were raped by two third grade teachers that night. Christian committed suicide the next morning, or so the reports would say the following week.

Becoming aware of the heinous crime, Emma-Lisa decided to gather Dahlia and her belongings and move to the upcoming city of Ensenada. Dahlia thrived in this new city. She was the new girl in the area and her beauty remained intact. Although the rape had chipped a bit of her soul, and she was now cautious of men, she remained gracious. Emma-Lisa somehow convinced Dahlia to believe that the rape was not her fault and that demons had gotten a hold of her. She explained that only demons can sniff the innocence and purity of a child, and that’s how she knew Dahlia was a good girl. Dahlia felt comfort in these statements. She never once believed that the vile actions taken upon her body were a result of her stupidity or her bad judgement; which although twisted, and very true… this was not her fault.

At twelve years old, Dahlia became more aware of Emma-Lisa’s “nightly encounters” at their house. Things that she witnessed back home were finally beginning to make sense to her. She began to become frustrated with her grandmothers’ conduct and started to go out. Since her body was matured and her mind was rushed into adulthood, she figured that there wouldn’t be a problem in entering a dance club. Dahlia loved to dance. The sound of music made her feel alive. The bass entering from her soles made its way to her heart and kept her in love with the feeling of freedom.

Up until this very moment, where she stood in line waiting to enter Hussongs Cantina and Dance, she never once believed that she lived in a world with no meaning or hope. But being impacted by the realization that her father was dead, her mother was an addict and her grandma was a prostitute, her soul began to darken. She was next to enter the club but not before she heard a loud crash on the main street. It seemed that a red Jeep had cut off a pedestrian causing another car to swerve onto the sidewalk. She paid no mind to it and began to enter the building that would collect her innocence once more.

She was fifteen when she met the love of her life. He was knocking on thirties door but yet, they found each other in the same place that night; in a club in a Ensenada. He saw her outside of the VIP section and invited her to come over. Not knowing she was fifteen, they began to speak. In truth, he wouldn't have cared if she had disclosed her age, anyway. He was not interested in such semantics. What needed to be a single night of fun and a little cocaine, lasted and created a lifetime of never-ending heartbreak. She was fifteen and he was knocking on thirties door.

Fear not of the man who lives down the hall,

for he was once great, before his grand fall.

Fear not of the man who yells through the walls,

everything is fine, those are his calls.

He calls for the woman who has left him alone,

she stood by his side, then he turned her to stone.

Stoning was his punishment for what he had said,

he damned her once, and then again and again.

Fear not of the man who cannot speak,

yelling is his native tongue now, you see.

He was also a blonde, though he might not recall,

it first turned to black but now he's left bald.

He was also damned to a life with no pair,

for damning his love out of useless despair.

He goes on with life with only one of each

perhaps has two locks but only one key.

He damned his love, then he damned himself,

a man with true hate and spread it around.

But now he lives alone 'cause of his unexpected spell,

this is why he's ruined, this is why he fell.

He once was a banker in downtown L.A.,

then he met the love of his life, Ela Le'Laine,

They fell in love and waited no time,

they married in the summer under the grape vines.

Although their love was as strong as could be,

he wanted a son but she couldn't conceive.

His anger turned to rage and fear entered their home,

she remained in love but he turned ice cold.

She was ready to tell him of their soon to be son,

but before she could speak he took out his gun.

"If you can't conceive, then it's not meant to be,

to hell with us both, now we'll be free."

He damned her once, and then again and again,

his face turned purple and his eyes bright red.

One wouldn't believe for what his eyes would see,

His words manifested into something obscene.

She fell to the floor and took out a box,

but she turned into stone and left nothing but rocks.

The remains of the box fell to the floor,

And shattered in pieces, his heart fully tore,

Stunned of this curse, he closed his eyes tight,

this couldn't be happening, this couldn't be right.

One blue sock laid in front of his feet,

With a pregnancy stick and the words “Daddy to BE”

But he said the words, and the words would be,

to live a life in hell, and soon he would see.

Fear not of the man who lives with no pair.

His pain took over, and this is not rare.

Live a life that is patience, live a life that is good.

Live a life that any happy man would.