Kat-Lyn D.

"What is the primary use of men now if it is not to protect women from other men?" -- Akasha, Queen of the Damned

Disappointment. That is all I can think of to say. It is truly disappointing how much of a major let-down this book is. The premise is outstanding: a woman, Rachel, learns her daughter, Kylie, has been snatched at the school bus stop that morning after she dropped her off by strangers who stalked her and inform her the only way she can get Kylie back home safely is by paying a ransom, stalking and kidnapping another child whose family will have to do the same things in order to get their child back safely and so on. No police involvement, only one other person can know or help Rachel complete the tasks, and if she doesn't pay the ransom, kidnap another child, and continue the chain satisfactorily in a matter of days, or if she tells an unauthorized person about the chain, Kylie will be murdered on the spot, Rachel's entire family killed, and the people who kidnapped Kylie will have to start all over again with another child and family or be at risk of the same fate. Breaking th

I decided to throw caution to the wind because this post has been sitting in my drafts unpublished for more than 5 years now, so I decided to be true to myself, say a final "Fuck it," and press 'Publish.' Obviously there are a plethora of trigger warnings I feel compelled to list before going forward: drug/alcohol addiction, suicide, abuse, mental health, thoughts of desperation and hopelessness. I started writing my suicide letters at work two nights ago. I was just sitting there, at my desk taking a mini break, thinking of everything that I've dealt with over the last ten months and how hard I have worked to get absolutely nowhere. I don't know why I'm still alive right now, well, I do a little, but it's not due to some apparent greatness or turn of the moment brilliance that all of a sudden changed my mind. I still want to do it, I just don't want my kids to be the ones to find me.

I gave myself some time to heal. The shitty thing about healing, though, is although there is a recommended--and sometimes ideal minimum-- amount of time you hope it will take, healing isn't linear. There is no predisposed, predetermined amount of time assessed for completion. It's just something that happens--or doesn't happen. I've been healing going on four years now from more than 34 years of bullshit. Bullshit I didn't ask for. Bullshit I didn't deserve. Just straight up unfiltered, unadulterated, unrelenting bullshit. 

Last night I did a thing. I popped an edible, smoked the bong, and grabbed inspiration (or rage?) by the balls. I don't really know for sure which bug bit me first. I had been listening to Laurence Fishburne talk shit about white people as the voice of Malcolm X for the last three days--so much so that I probably have the first three chapters memorized by now because there are gems starting on day one. I mean, I thought I was gonna die. The last two weeks I have had the worst  cramps, and a list of symptoms that had me thinking it could be anything from kidney stones, to my IUD growing into my spleen, perimenopause, endometriosis, or an ectopic pregnancy (very highly unlikely given my current sexual history).  La Rona has done nothing good for my sex drive. I don't want to meet anyone new because trusting these  mofos is like asking for a bullet to your brain. Every time I swipe right on an app I find more people who are going to "socially distanced" slumber parties,

When I write, I write from the heart. There isn't an organization to it or a specific direction I'm going in. I just write what I feel. One day I would like to be able to organize my thoughts, but at the moment I am just grateful to be able to write words and feel brave enough to publish them. If anybody reads this and can appreciate it, that's another cherry on top. If you don't understand it, or it's not for you, that's fine too. Maybe this is just my catharsis. Maybe it's my way of taking back control of my narrative. Either way, I'm glad I'm doing it.