Punctured Once, Punctured Twice


Chase your dreams. Chase them until you are out of breath, and then keep running.

Arrows may puncture your body, mind and soul, but a person without vision will perish! Chase your dreams.


I ran out of excuses to pursue with my whole self, any one dream I have. I ran out while reflecting on my life since the age of thirteen. Raised in a home with a bar in the basement, the largest fire-pit I’ve seen in the backyard and an abundance of toys such as dirt-bikes, jet-skis, snowmobiles, four-wheelers, go-carts and Monster trucks. We had so much and it was stolen by actions so little; so demanding of any oxygen my dad breathed on my family.


The arrow punctured my eyes after my dad molested me at thirteen  years of age.

The arrow punctured my stomach to anorexia while I felt all men were no longer trustworthy of being capable of sporting Prince Charming’s chivalrous crown.

The arrow punctured my sides and throat, silencing my voice and creating me to curl into myself while it seemed men noticed that I’d already been damaged, and that this wounded one could be recycled by lusting older men grotesquely day-dreaming of undressing someone “tight.”

The arrow punctured my lips as I offered help and was given fear of a person traveling to kill me.

The arrow punctured my feet and legs when even men in the church wished to smell my neck, play with my hair and hide out with me. I refused, and they grew angry.

The arrow punctured my heart and mind when I was rebuked by my first love’s family after he and I had sex.

The arrow punctured my entire self after realizing the hell I’ve experienced.


Though I ran away many times, to a bottle of rum and many glasses of wine; pro-Mary Jane friends with penis’ to numb any idea of sex being a gift, and Pro-Ana (Anorexia) blogs to hide-yet-spotlight my pain and ideas of death…I have always ran toward my dreams.

I wrote and painted my thoughts, dressed in my drag emotions, danced until my heart felt it might rupture, and sang until I cried. I once smoked a cigarette hoping it might kill me right then. The feeling of death felt better than drowning in valleys of echos. Peace came then after my years of pain. Now, I sing to you that I still run. Chasing my dreams.


 I take what I learn, what I have experienced, and related it to what others have been through. Compared to many stories, mine is pitiful. It is old and minuscule. Still real, however my heart chases my dream to help women sold in the sex slave trade. I am a fanatic, chasing my dreams until other are helped as I needed to be. As I was.


“If to be feelingly alive to the sufferings of my fellow creatures is to be a fanatic, I am one of the most incurable fanatics ever permitted to be at large.” -William Wilberforce



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