Most people don’t know the reality of why I pour my heart and soul into my work, my Living Passion.  I have been accustomed to shielding the ugly with the beautiful, just like smiling over my pain, my entire life.  But perhaps in order to fully flourish as the girl I have an innate responsibility to be and progressively travel this journey of craze I have Universally chosen; I need to stop hiding the bittersweet truths of my life.  So here goes nothing..

Who I was has laid to rest:

I grew up as an extraordinarily eccentric, intelligent little girl full of fury.  I joined martial arts at the age of ten, and no one could pull me away from my calling to be a fighter.  I loved the explosiveness, the aggression, the fight; and I was good at it.  I quickly..naturally even..learned to channel every pain, frustration, and fear into the diligent focus of this incredible art form.  Starting with Tae Kwon Do and Okinawan Karate, I began traveling a national competitive circuit on my own at the age of 15.  By 16 years old, I was already in college full time, taking heavy credits, working two jobs, training with a world-rated personal trainer, and doing monthly travels to compete and win in my divisions; and life was a flurry of movement.  It served a double purpose for I only had time to sleep every other day or so, and I was constantly “going,” stuck on “On” and I was functionally running from my inner torment.  An over achiever, I clearly expected to find myself as a successful young lady, unstoppable with the harnessed power I had gained along the way; spiritually independent, one foot outside any friendship loop, and wholeheartedly dancing to the rhythm and beat of my own drum.  I wasn’t afraid, for fear was so far buried unto the trenches of my soul, I no longer was aware of where I’d placed it….Until my eyes closed for the night and the horrors of life awakened into a more painful reality than the race I was sprinting through during the day…

Like many women (and men) out there, I was one who experienced Hell at a very young age.  My body, the miraculous entity I too often forget that it is, did what it could to save me from the most disgusting spiritual and physical imprint a child can suffer; and I blocked My Truth out.  Waking hours allotted just enough awareness and static pain to make suffering a literal constant, but despite being aware of the Truth, it wasn’t until I was back in my bed, the position of proven vulnerability, when the lights were off that death seemed more inviting than sleep…Nightmares became Daymares, and the course of life became a constant battle to remain the Positive Shining Light of Energy I had always been for people.  I was strong enough and I usually won that daily battle.  Hence my introduction to Smiling over Pain.  Concealing the Ugly Truth with Beauty.  My true journey began when I was about 5 years old, maybe 6.

Having been “affected” at a very young age, I learned to hold everything in and conceal my invisible constant flow of tears.  I harbored a hatred I couldn’t understand and an anger translated into mistrust for nearly the entire male race.  I was aware of it, but never fully capable of managing it.  As a child, I beat up all of my boy friends, yet stuck around for their approval..mainly that I was tough enough to contend with life, while secretly searching for my utterly erased Self Esteem.  I never thought I was beautiful, and nothing could ever measure up to make me feel good about myself.  Maybe I was born a perfectionist (which I believe I was), or maybe my struggle forced me into it?  Either way, my attention to detail and ability to scrutinize became quite heightened.  I like to think it serves as a blessing more than a curse.  It certainly fueled every physical and mental endeavor I’ve encountered, and the more I drowned out My Truth, the more I threw myself full force into everything I did: art, poetry, crafts, martial arts, school projects, traveling, my jobs…I made it a transcendental point to be the best I could possibly be at whatever I delved into..Perhaps I was seeking approval from myself unbeknownst, but the approval of others was always yearned for.  So much so, that again I met Hell when I was 16 years old and the male race revealed His worst.  More torment stifled, more anxiety and disgust, more pain, confusion, and shattered pieces to sweep under the cloak of life’s Untelling Rug.  I couldn’t bare to be the “Targeted One,”  the Victim.  Around this time, I found that poetry was the closest form of release without ever having to fully face the Truth.  Words could be twisted and delivered, deliberately manipulated to speak words of Reality while painting the Abstract.  I developed the mindset of “Take Me as I am, but never fully know what You have.”  I also put pencil to paper around this time and learned I truly was an Artist at heart.  Despite always being artistic and making unique things, striving to invent and create, it wasn’t until I was a teenager that I understood the intense passageways of Being an Artist.  A real one that delivered pieces of her soul through mediums other than her direct voice.  Deliberation was what I allowed it to be, morphing pieces of me that I couldn’t bare to face and projecting them to the world as my Secret.  They would never know, unless I chose to reveal the Truth behind the Image.  Secrets..I had SOO many.

Living to conceal and hide away is no way to live.  It forces you to prohibit emotions, lock away tears.  It mutates pain into anger, confusion into full-fledged committal of censorship, only living half of a life.  As a result, I have lost many of my childhood memories.  I struggle on a constant basis to remind myself and relish in the Good I enjoyed as a child, replacing the constant replay of the Bad.  Sadly, though, my utter Soulful Survival depended on the blockages throughout every day and night, that it has erased many of my mind’s surrounding counterparts.  Essentially the mental closet doors have been stuffed to the brim and locked away to be forgotten.  Their presence has never disappeared however.

Growing up a Minnesota Girl, I met a boy from Orlando I had become instantly infatuated with who practiced a new Martial Art I was mesmerized by.  Capoeira is a beautiful Brazilian Martial Art that is disguised as a dance and it pulled at the heartstrings of my entire Being.  Having only met the boy once, and taking only one Capoeira class, I followed my heart’s screaming and convinced my mom to move with me down to Florida to begin this new exciting life.  I was 18.  Soon, I lost my virginity to my infatuation and entered my first relationship, lasting on and off for 3 years.  Despite the many good times, I again became imprinted with irreparable negative experiences.  I literally got my ass kicked and was thrown into the adult’s world of the effects of infidelity.  Would I ever find proof that I was good enough?  To be wanted, to be “claimed”, to be loyal to?  During this period I stopped drawing and wrote poetry only as an escape from a situation that was clearly over my head.  I felt stuck at times and spiritually fell in love with a Ray of Light that I secretly ran away with.  Despite my confusion, I allowed my heart be partially healed and my Esteem to be nurtured by this Ray of Light and I was conflicted by the powers of two very incredible, different types of Love.  During my first relationship I lost my Ray of Light along with a close friend in a tragic car accident, one I was supposed to be riding in.  Because of my situation, I wasn’t allowed to mourn this death, my first experience of truly loving and losing.  The resurrection of so many survival mechanisms arose to turn my emotions into oblivion and I learned the definition of self sabotage.  Torment is a definition that could never do justice to the pain that stayed alive, yet completely confined in its burial deep inside of me.  Life shifted, domestic abuse arrived and I lost every ounce of Trust I had been able to scrape up throughout the years of my relationship.  Broken bones, broken spirit, broken heart….I was a Broken Girl.

I finally found freedom. I left my relationship, the tumultuous ups and downs.  I felt a spiritual resonance finally, slowly, coming back to begin healing the gaping wounds of the recent, unfortunate experiences I never should have known.  The ones that no one deserves to know.  And despite the pain and healing that desperately needed to take place, Life was Beautiful.  I was on my own, I was practicing Capoeira numerous hours a day, I was drawing again.  Life was Hope, recollected in bright white light and a weightlessness I had never even glimpsed before.  I landed a great job and was strongest in sales month after month without fail.  I loved my job, my job loved me.  I relished in my new high rise studio apartment in Downtown St. Petersburg, FL, and enjoyed the ability to interior decorate to my exact liking.  Since I despised cooking, I even decorated my stove…Finally, I was back on track, freely hopping the stones of my journey.  Fighting, drawing, feeling beautiful (as best I could) and being the best I could possibly be in all elements of Life, I felt strong..for a couple of short months.

Come to find out, Destiny had an entirely different plan for me.  In 2002-2003 I was bitten four times by one of the deadliest spiders known to man, the Brown Recluse.  The first bite was on my lower abdomen and ate through my muscle.   It wasn’t until the second day at the hospital that one of the nurses discovered that the spider had actually laid eggs inside of my stomach.  It was the beginning of my horror movie.  The consecutive three bites were on my legs, eating deep into my flesh and bones.  Brown Recluse spiders contain a flesh eating venom that ultimately often leads to amputation or even death.  The bites can be completely debilitating and result in disastrous Immunological, Neurological, and Central Nervous System malfunctions after “recovering” from the initial bite, while there is definitely not enough known about what to expect and how to treat it longterm.  At the time, I was told that I was the only medical record of four Brown Recluse spider bites, and I lived.  Consequentially, with each bite, I became very ill with resistant MRSA Staphylococcus Infection (“Staph.”).  This, too, is often deadly.  I frequented the hospital and was admitted numerous times during the first two years of this grueling experience.  I was on a steady morphine drip and throughout this hallucinatory nightmare, I still recall the doctors telling my mom of the growing chances that I wasn’t going to make it.  My poor, poor mom.  Because of the failing state that I was in, I needed to be treated with a heavy duty intravenous drug called Vancomycin, also referred to as a “drug of last resort.”   A drug, in fact, that I am allergic to; afflicted by Severe Redman Syndrome.  Even while knocked out on morphine, I would claw at my swelling, crimson red face, neck, and head, until I bled; and my mom recalls my head swelling up like the “shape of a football.”  It constricted my breathing and affected me violently and painfully with every infusion.   The typical drip time for a drug of this potency is at least an hour; however, I had to get mine over four hours or longer just to endure the pain and harsh reactions.  On one of my admittances, the attending nurse misread the doctor’s instructions and gave me a half an hour dosage, and ultimately could have killed me.  Thank the Universe for Purpose in life, right? Because I am still here. Essentially, Western medicine was saving my life with a drug that was slowly killing me.  Infiltrating a poison into a body that could not methylate, could not detoxify; into a hypersensitive entity with the fragility of a totally destroyed immune system and a body that was shutting down.  At one point the inner linings of my veins became infected (Phlebitis) and my veins hardened like metal rods, restricting movement due to the sheer pain of bending my vessels.  It was utter agony, even with the 6 minute Morphine drip I was connected to.  Soon, my veins were so taxed that all of them were literally collapsed and my IVs became as painful as the utterly excruciating spider bites themselves.  My arms, hands and even fingers were getting pricked, prodded and battered black and blue, expanding the Phlebitis, intensifying the pain.  Eventually I had a PICC Line put in; a three foot tube inserted into my arm that traveled directly into my heart to continue the treatments. There were so many of these melting memories…I still experience the echos of their existence.. In time, after numerous surgeries/I&Ds (Incision and Drains of the necrotic tissue and gaping wounds), an amazing Plastic Surgeon, plus a team of Infectious Disease Specialists, amongst a plethora of drugs and steroids; my spider bites finally healed.  Even still, I was never to be the same, nor to carry on the life I had grown to know.  I tried diving back into my job when I was out of the hospital and in between each stay.  This only proved the weakness of my immune system, for I was stricken with Pneumonia several times, unresolvable viruses, more Staph infection, and the constant shutdown of my body was relentless… I was quite literally always sick.   Strange anomalies showed up without warning and then would spontaneously leave: the skin burned off my feet one day for no reason, leaving me swollen, bloody, and unable to walk.  I had cases of migrating (not spreading) swelling that travelled from my middle finger to my head and left me without sight for days.. The pain, the exhaustion, the viruses all attacked my body with a force so penetrating, I was left in a vortex of staying and “being” sick with hardly a hope for a cure. I have never been able to work full-time since the first fateful bite.  During this entire time I looked and physiologically operated as though I were dying.  I would pass out from attempting to walk a single block.  I struggled to breathe and had severe debilitating pain that crippled my legs and arms.  After a few more hospital stays, I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis and further affirmed Fibromyalgia with 18 out of 18 positive points.  To the medical industry, though inexplainable in their own nature, my symptoms became justified, and every complaint was surmised, by my incredible unique story.  It made sense…but it didn’t.

During the first couple of years, which were an intense medical struggle to regain my life; my mom, stricken with worry of losing her baby girl, flew me to Sonoma, CA (where she’d relocated) to seek the help of a Chinese Medicine Doctor named Bowen Lee.  I was set to stay for two weeks because we couldn’t afford any more than that, even at a blessing of a rate.  The first day we met, Bowen gave me 6.5 hours of her precious time.  We instantly connected on a deeply spiritual level that ensured if it were possible, She was the one to be able to help me get better.  She took me under her wing and taught me to chant through my pain (Nam Myoho Renge Kyo) while she practiced Tui Na Therapy and Acupressure over my pained body, especially near the toxic sites, until her fingertips literally turned purple.  She sponged away many poisons through her own body.  She replenished my decrepitness with as many herbs and energy of wellness as she could.  She had me drinking fresh herb concoctions cooked daily, three times a day; a muddy sludge type drink heated and infused with Earth Worms and Cicada Beetles amongst the slew of botanicals.   I did the “gross dance” while I pinched my nose as tight as I could and my eyes watered profusely.  But it began to work.  As I was being seen by Bowen, my mom was working overtime to cover the expenses so she never saw me while I was there until one day she passed me in the hallway of her house and stopped, completely awestruck.  I will never forget the resonation of the words she exclaimed when she said “Oh my God…You look like my daughter again!” while the tears that streamed down her face flooded my heart.  My squared jaw and yellow skin (from all the steroids and other drugs, plus the ongoing illness I was unable to escape) had thinned out and lost the alien-like coloration.  There was no going back to Florida at this stage in the game, considering for the first time since the bites, I had shown positive transformation.  We extended my flight and I ended up staying for two months.  The concoctions were increased, adding such ingredients as poisonous snake, gecko, tortoise shell, scorpion, silk worms, and a few other beetles (all expressed from China), plus a plethora of other herbs and Eastern methods such as Cupping, Moxibustion, Qigong, and herb-infused sticking.  Strangely, I was so filled with poison that the glass cups filled with a toxic odored yellow-tinted liquid, something Bowen had never seen or even hard of in her entire life.  It was one anomaly after the other.  All in all, despite these, Bowen successfully weened me off Morphine, Steroids, and the pharmacy of other drugs I was on when I had arrived, and I felt a little piece of Me again.  Upon returning home I increased my work hours to 15 per week and was able to do a few small exercises, all the while dreaming of being the physically indomitable spirit I had been before the bites.   I knew a love for Bowen that stemmed from everything I had–My Life.

During this transitional period I continued to try to harness my inner strength and translate my chaos into the projection of the images from behind my eyes.  When I could muster the energy, I turned to drawing as a relief.  A life vest to keep me afloat, or perhaps just sane.  In fact, “Rudiment”, (black & white/Graphite) was the first drawing that came out of this ordeal.  I had a waking dream of a Warrior, a rudimentary being that most likely resembled my intention to keep fighting.  Fighting for my survival while I conjured this image into life from my hospital bed, clad in my usual Looney Tunes hospital gown (the nurses were so kind to me, always bringing me the fun gowns).  Then in January of 2003 I was hospitalized, yet again, for the migrating swelling that was initially diagnosed as Tenosynovitis.  It was my left hand, my drawing hand.  After the inexplicable symptoms that resulted in profound pain in my head and the loss of my eyesight for several days, I was told I may not be able to draw again, at least for a very long time.  I left the hospital with no more answers than I’d had when I went in, an arm brace, and more drugs.  I was stripped of the last thing I was able to cling to after losing my extreme physical capacities.  I couldn’t grasp a pencil, my hand was too swollen, weak, shaky, and no longer controlled.  I wanted to give up.  Give up fighting for my health, give up fighting to be happy and forget ever parading through life again with a smile on my face.  I no longer placed precedence on making others happy, and lost all faith in the medical industry after hearing far too many doctors blatantly admit they had no idea how to help me, let alone where to begin with what was “wrong with me.”  I felt angry. Sad. Defeated amidst this whirlwind of deterioration.  I was grumpy because I was so exhausted and couldn’t deal with the pain on such a constant basis, and it was becoming ugly.  As a saving grace, my mom and sister wanted to take me on a trip to Northern California for my birthday (I had just gotten out of the hospital again.)  Reluctantly I participated but no one could understand how terrible I felt, and how terribly difficult it was to hide it.  My mom and sister encouraged me to talk to other, already successful, artists, attempting to push the passion back into my heart.  They held my hand and tried to be understanding, though not even I had a grasp of what was truly happening to me.  We visited a place called Healdsburg, a quaint little vineyard town near Napa Valley that incubated the arts and “small-town” modesty.  I remember seeing Ravens as a town decal, images and the word laced throughout shops, restaurants, and even the little local theatre.  The Raven became an inspirational image in my mind, and I felt the urge to create again, coming from the empty pit of my struggling soul.  After flying home to Tampa, I was determined to overcome this handicap of my left hand.  I tried desperately, past frustration, to grasp and control my pencil, to no avail.  Up until this moment, I had only drawn with pencil; creating detailed works of black and white art, meticulous in my attention.  This was no longer an option, and it was then that I finally introduced Color into my life.  My dad had given me a small box of Pastels once that I had never had intentions to utilize.  I had stored them away amongst my other art materials that I hardly accessed.  But in the middle of my failing quest to create again, the image of the pastels visually popped into my head.  I figured the girth of the chalk might be easier, but I still could not squeeze my hand tight enough to gain a sturdy grip.  Just then my intuition guided me to the bathroom to grab a Q-Tip, and I managed to place the Q-Tip in between my thumb and forefinger, and I began to paint..  Mindlessly, I let my heart draw.  Slowly.  Arduously.  Past the pain and frustration of this newfound difficulty..and soon there was my version of a Raven staring up at me from my paper.  “First Raven” is the first colored drawing I have ever produced, and its representation of personal Triumph for me is priceless.  Many ravens followed the first drawing, and I was on my way of becoming whole again.  This process eventually rehabilitated my hand to a working functionality, and I later continued with my detailed works in black and white; but I now joyously play with color and maintain the whimsical essence of a Free Spirit with my Pastels as well.  So began my Life With Color..

In the years that followed, color took on an entirely new form, while I relished in the glory of crystals and stones.  I made my first piece of jewelry using Sterling Silver and stones in the beginning of 2007.  It was a gift for my sister, and it was a success.  She loved it, and so did others.  It was a foreshadowing glimpse into a world I had no idea I was about to enter.  After my sister’s birthday present, I made a couple more little pendants to wear to work, and the compliments were surprising.  People even asked where I “bought” my necklace, and soon were asking me to make them one for themselves and also to gift to loved ones.  I spent all my extra money on stones and played like a kid in a brightly colored candy store.  The possibility of creations was endless; with an array of color combinations, stone combinations, shapes and sizes.  I fell in love and experienced Excitement for the first time in years.  Still, it was not until my boyfriend at the time had sold 12 of my necklaces in an hour while he was on location in Santa Fe, NM., and then another in the airport during his flight home, that I gained confidence in attempting to sell my work.  Shortly after, patrons at Starbucks who observed me in my craft began to purchase the pendants I was creating.  This was the beginning of a blessing unending.

As time went on, health and life plateaued while I had sunk into another relationship along the same lines as the first one.  And though wonderful at high times, it was perhaps much worse in its own way.  And in a way, that leads me to the life I have now..

In May of 2009 my plateau came to a crashing halt.  My winding path I affectionately call my Journey threw a curveball I never saw coming.  The day was normal, moving along as usual, and I was what I typically referred to as “fine” (despite the pain and fatigue I’ve carried continuously since the spiders). Within hours, the night brought a sickness like a fierce wind.  My own personal plague.  The following day I showed up at work only to bump into walls, fall to the floor, and feel like I was close to dying.  It was the last day I was ever able to work.  I left early to drive myself to the Emergency Room and was immediately connected to Morphine and fluids.  My body pains attacked like a scorned woman, and again I was left crying silently.  Only basic panels were done and I was presumed to have a severe viral infection, which meant there was nothing the hospital could do.  I was expected to return to work after a ten day written medical excuse, yet the skyrocketing fevers, vomiting, dizziness and body pains remained without falter.  I became the victim of Severe Vertigo and Nystagmus, plus Labyrinthitis.  I fell constantly, not just from the inability to balance, but from weakness as well.  My fevers lasted for a month and a half and I would cry myself to sleep at night through shivers and sweating, trembling from body pains that sheered throughout my entire body like a spreading wild fire.  I frequented temperatures as high as 103 degrees, while I am naturally a high 96.  I was told that an intense bout of antibiotics and Vestibular Rehabilitation Therapy would get me back on track and I patiently underwent the medication and therapy, silently begging for a resolve.  The vomiting continued, the falling continued, and I soon began a tremor/twitch that involuntarily jolted my entire body.  I was told it was called Choreiform Movement and Tremulousness, and I couldn’t help but to feel embarrassed while everyone stared.  I wanted to hide away and ceased my sociability.  Within a year and a half I had seen 27 doctors.  It became clear that whatever I was stricken with was not receding, only getting more regular and drowning me in an angry tide of misery.  I had been referred to a very ambitious Neurologist in September 2009 and she immediately diagnosed me with Severe Neurotoxicity, discovered I had the MTHFR Genetic Defect (prevents methylation and processing of nutrients like vitamins and amino acids, neurotransmitters, etc.) on both alleles, and she started me on Infusion Therapy right away, which was explained to me as sort of like a Chemotherapy, but in hopes to detoxify my brain.  I visited my nurse often weekly, racking up credit card debt from the $200 copays each visit, and endured instantaneous discomfort, to the point I would throw up during the infusion process.  I did this for seven arduous months, sick in bed like a half dead corpse that literally had to crawl to the bathroom.  In conjunction to the infusions, I was sent to the Pain Department at USC under the care of the Director of Pain Management/Head Anesthesiologist for patients with terminal pain inflicting diseases.  I underwent injections into the back of my skull, in hopes of lessening the debilitating pain I was constantly stuck in.  This lasted for 8 months, and it never got any easier.  Again, I was at a point in my life where I was slowly dying, at least in spirit.  The infusions and injections ended up doing more hurt than good.  I finally decided to stop them in the summer of 2010.  Still, I have episodes of uncontrolled vomiting that have lasted as long as five and a half hours until I throw up blood and go into convulsions so strong the entire hospital bed shakes.  I throw up daily, sometimes numerous times a day, and I have continuous Severe Migraines and Occipital Neuralgia pain that literally interrupts my thoughts.  I’ve lost much of my memory, suffer from swelling and joint pain, experience scary visual disturbances, get weak and pass out, fall, and anything at all can trigger my “sickness”.  I suffer from Severe PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) from numerous roots, and it is an every day struggle to choose to live life better than how I feel..I was recently diagnosed with Cyclic Vomiting, Post Trauma Migraines, a partially paralyzed stomach, protruding spinal discs with nerve damage in my neck and back, and now Lupus (yes, on top of the severe Fibro. and Rheumatoid Arthritis….and yes, Post Trauma Migraines are different than Vestibular and Vertiginous Migraines I suffer from)….I am back to head injection (Bilateral Occipital Nerve Blocks, Trigger Point Trap injections, and C-spine epidurals, soon to add L-spine epidurals.  And I have begun infusions for Rheumatoid Arthritis and Lupus again…That’s the half of it..

As of 2014, I’ve received news I am stage III Kidney Disease, and now I have Leukemia.

I am not writing my story to pull a pity card or gain sympathy; it’s rather the contrary.  I am, for the first time in my life, completely revealing Me to the Universe.  Who I was, who I am, and where I’ve been.  I’ve learned that the things I’ve wanted so desperately to conceal and pretend never happened were not at all my fault.  I realize I am beautiful no matter how taxed my body is, no matter how sick I look, no matter the level of energy I have.  I’ve learned that everything is relative.  I’ve learned that the grass is always greener on the other side to the popular perspective, and also that things can always be worse.  I don’t feel bad for the hardships I’ve endured, in fact I am thankful.  I should have died, while every odd was against me.  I’ve literally been in the middle of a 37 car/semi truck pile up in the middle of a smoke-opaque highway, surviving unscathed.  I missed dying along with my Ray of Light by a fluke, and I survived the deadly venom of not one, but four bites that systemically attacked my entire body.  I am alive.  And now that I accept my destiny, my journey, I am well–despite my current physical condition.  My mom blessed me with a saying of strength I use on an almost daily basis. We say: “This, too, shall pass.” And it is so true, it can alleviate the edge of any type of pain, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual.  When I am throwing up and want to feel defeated, I remind myself that it is going to pass; it is temporary.  When I cant get out of bed because it hurts so terribly to move, I know it is a fleeting moment in this miracle called life, even if it is soon to rebound a return.  When my heart is broken, I find soulful sanctuary, that life goes on, and even this one, too, shall pass.  We are all beings of love and light, no matter what religious or spiritual belief we are equipped with.  We possess an equality that allows us all the capacity to love, be loved, and truly see the Beauty in all things.  That is where I stand.  I take pride in being able to smile at the doctor’s office and gift the nurses with positivity instead of the endless griping and complaining we all have a tendency to do when we don’t feel well.. I love that I am remembered and cherished at every medical facility I visit, and that I can share my fight with others and walk along side of them on their uphill journeys as well.  I have been through moments in life that are despicable, but it gives me the gift of relativity.  I can relate to the abused, to the sick, to the pained.  I can understand the woes of loss, broken love, and living nightmares.  And more importantly, I have been given a gift to completely disguise and further transform these misfortunes into a channeled work of art.  I am an Artist.  An Alchemist.  And I believe my story ends with turning the Ugly into the Beautiful.  I wake up every single day and choose to put a smile on my face no matter how hard it is or how bad I feel.  I choose to continue fighting for my health.  My profound happiness.  I choose to create in order to reach others that may be able to relate, and even if they can’t may be able to gain just one more smile because of what I do.  Because of what I so wholeheartedly give. I want to give to the world.  I want to reach individuals on a personal level and remind them that this is a beautiful world.  I want display the organic allure of the Universe and grace as many people’s lives as I can with an infectious smile.  I want to make a difference..

My name is Delphine French.  This is my story.  My journey.  And I am ready to share a piece of Me with You.

Truth shall inadvertently set you free..no matter the course..

Sterolized Isolation

Confined to the limits
of starch white linens
Where railings are the assailants
of my innocent restraint.
Drawing lines of metal confines
While tracing the wires and tubes
of my physical sanctity
And my immobility is propped on only one pillow..
I am in the position to watch a runway
of underpaid zombies
Fulfilling their duties by
Filling my belly
With miniscule gems glazed in all the colors of the rainbow..
And I know
That this bedroom I’m forced to share
Stare in
while I imagine what’s going on behind the snow
Of our outdated television
spitting dialogue in a foreign language
Channel seven is the Spanish station
While I imagine what goes on
in the minds of the orderlies
Performing duties on my roommate
while she screams In pain
with unintelligible obscenities..
And the days go by in solitude
a prisoner left defenseless
My visiting hours are cut short
because I have another analyzation
Just another bodily examination
perhaps an unspoken mental isolation–
Like me in this room, and these tubes, and that fact,
that they tell me;
‘I’m sick’ ..

WARRIOR AM I..

I might have a small voice,
a small frame
At first glance I’d be the last
selected to play in your game..
But there is a wall of steel between your eyes and mine.
a journey unfathomable, the test of all time..
I can self label as “Warrior”, i know how to fight
It’s a life I was born to, the darkness of night.
Lacings of tortures sewn into my arms,
Neurons reformatted, twisted
into prison bars..
Ready to impale the nail biting,
stomach tightening
lacerating hatred of pain..
Concreting the secret and letting torment reign.
I know how to fight..
Warrior am I.
Climbing an uphill battle, till the day I choose to die.
Trapped in the wrath of a lifetime of
challenge, battling the blackness phantom..
a shadow of who I used to be,
mocking, stalking, slowly trying to suffocate me.
It takes a Warrior to live life past..
Past the glance of soulful blasphemy,
past the last abusive disaster..
Past the blast of sickness, secrets, holocaust-like aftermath
..I fight, I survive…I am therefore…
A  Warrior..of Life.

Warrior am I.