I am still low functioning.
I am losing my focus and sanity and will to live
i want to continue the last post but I am in too much pain. My mental and emotional pain is starting because the physical pain is too sharp and has been since April



I wanted to continue the post I started yesterday but I am in too much pain. (see 5/11/16) The pain is back. I have been in excruciating pain. Yesterday and the day before it was lower body pain from falling down stairs in June, today it’s my upper body injuries. i will be back when My arms and fingers are functional

Social Darwinism is not new in the USA it is just becoming unveiled. Also I have had a tumultuous time

Social Darwinism has been going on for a long time in the United States.  I am now living in a group house that started as a collective and is in the process of going through changes.  The rent is cheap, and it is a few hours by public transportation to the city I was born in.  At this house some people are outraged and upset that Donald Trump won the elections.  As a person of color that was born to undocumented immigrants in 1970, I tried to communicate to them that this has been going on for a long time.  Racism, classism, misogyny and oppression.  The white people said that these evils will be allowed now.  If I tell them that it had been allowed, they will argue back, pretend not to hear, or say that it will get worse.  The  privileged do not listen to the underprivileged because they want to believe that they deserve what they have, accomplished what they did through hard work and not privilege.  I experienced classism and racism since I was born.  I experienced racism and classism during the Jimmy Carter years.

I posted a lot in the winter of 2014 and 2015 and fell off.  I have saved drafts and notebooks with posts that I started.  I am still in the process of sleeping off the crystal meth poisoning sleep deprivation;  the facts about my life are painful to regurgitate and write about.  I wrote a lot when I was breathing second hand crystal meth (thinking it was marijuana and K-2 as I do not use drugs, I was not able to know what I was smelling) because I was high.  I got a lot done, wrote a lot without becoming emotional, had an off the books job, slept 1 hour or none per night, and had a tiny waist and danced for dance  companies while living in that corrupt supportive housing program.  Please refer to my posts from the winter of 2014-2015.

In this post, I would like to write a few samples of how I was directly affected by  racism and fascism.

I was sexually abused since I was a small child.  I acted out sexually as a small child.  I made boys cry when I touched their groins and  penises, and followed them into the toilets to look at their penises.  I upset them when pointed to their penises and asked them “What is that?” and laugh.  I was just doing what home life was except for with boy penises instead of my father’s penis.  I would touch my genital parts over my clothes in playgrounds, while doing tricks on the monkey bars, swings, or the slides.  My mother told me not to play with my vagina in the park, only at home.  In 1st grade I did a plough pose and touched my private area (I distinctly remember wearing a greasy feeling and warm indoors but cold wind pass through and creaky feeling 1970’s thick synthetic tights with a short skirt) while sitting in a circle in music class on the carpet (1970’s open classroom experiments).  I was trying to please the teacher, and this behavior was encouraged at home.  The music teacher told me that was wrong and dirty and for me not to do that again, and gave me an icy blue eyed stare.

I got in trouble for my behavior towards boys as well.

This is one example of the racist, classist injustice I experienced in my nursery and early elementary school days.  Nobody ever asked me if I was touched by my parents.  Nobody ever asked who taught me how to touch boy’s penises, or demand to see their genitals.  I was just the poor immigrants’ daughter with cheap, dirty clothes.  I wore the same things all the time because I had none.  I had maybe 1 t shirt, some tank tops, one pants, one or two skirts, and one pair of shoes.  I was poor and a child of color and protection from sexual abuse was not a concern.  I was not worth protecting, or asking what is going on.  I was also punished for something that I was told to do.  I was an inner city child of color.  I was too dirty and poor and different, not of my own doing to be deserving of being in a safe home.

I have a draft of 2 more examples of my life in a racist classist USA but I am actually tired from typing this.

I will post the rest soon.  Thank you for your readership and your follows.


I am watching a series on Netflix because a contact posted about it in Facebook.  It just hit me.  People will say don’t get emotional get

“Don’t get emotional I just asked how you got the injuries”

“Don’t get emotional I just said that you are middle class, it doesn’t mean you have middle class money, but my daughter didn’t get into the school you went to”

“Don’t get emotional it happened a long time ago”

Research is saying that PTSD is a physical neurological response.  I am already starting to see on my own that I was able to dance professionally though I started training late because my brain is more animal than human.

I am seeing that I was able to fake emotions and sympathy but that it is different from my mother’s narcissistic fakeness, I am not insatiable like her; she was never content, and always trying to “win” by making others miserable and by covering it up.  I have at least been able to be content and okay with tastes of joy and know that it is impermanent.

I would like to be cared for.  I don’t know if anyone ever did I get judged a lot, people have said they care when they want something for me, and they tell me what to do without listnening and then they say that they are only trying to help after they did a lot of damage by retraumatizing me with their judgement



These are not emotions as they identify.  A combination of the reptilian fight or flight and my not being allowed to have feelings was my reaction.


I haven’t written in a while.  I am in my home city.  I am blessed to have a great friend rent me a room in her apartment.  I am still in pain.  I fell down stairs and have severe strains and sprains in my ankle.  I am still having pain in my upper body though I try to treatent of some kind of other every week; i have a part time job that is 12-30 hours a week, that keeps me still receiving SSDI.  I was assaulted by a high school ‘friend’ in May.  I called the cops, he twisted the phone out of my hand and he called the cops from his phone saying that I was tresspassing.  When the cops came, they believed him; he is a white male.  He said that he never hit, shoved and knocked me down, and he never took my phone; he put it somewhere and said that I forgot where I placed it.  The cops believed the white male.

So this post is because people ask why?

Q. Why is your back still messed up? Chiropractic (or acupuncture/Physical Therapy/pain pills) will get rid of it.

I have fascial adhesions.  I was thrown, body slammed, punched, beaten, hit with pieces of building wood most days since 1996 or7, until 1986 when I was hospitalized in a psychiatric ward at the beginning of my 2nd year of high school.  No I wasn’t thrown and body slammed at age 15, that was from about 1979-1983 from about age 8 to 12.  I have 4 bulging discs, 2 in my cervical, 2 in my lumbar.  Strangely I have no lower back pain, but on hot, humid, rainy, or strange days my right hip socket hurts.  I tried, Physical therapy, chiropractic, tui na, acupuncture, taking someone else’s methadone/percoset/hydrocodone, and none of them made my chronic upper body problems go away.  If you look at my posts from spring, this issue became really bad in April.

I had,  as severely as you see people being beaten by police being viral all over the internet, adults, but i was a child.  This happened most days maybe a few days a month I did not get beaten.  Conservatively, I was assaulted, as severe as the brutal beatings that you see on the internet, more than 3000 times.  I have chronic injury, mostly in the form of fascial adhesions.  I can not get a referral to myofascial release.  If anyone knows a doctor who takes medicaid and medicare who can refer me to myofasical release, please comment.  I am willing to relocate.

Time does not make it go away.  Wishing does not make it go away.


Q. You do not look injured.  Are you sure?

I was not allowed to cry, talk about pain, talk to teachers, nor talk about the abuse.  I do not remember being without pain.  Perhaps in my first few years of my life when my father seemed to love me I was not in pain.  Though I am told learning to give hand jobs to my father and to finger my mother, and being fingered by my parents beginning at age 2 is abuse, these events did not hurt.  I have danced and done yoga to manage the pain.  I love/d to dance so much because being in the flow of dancing during rehearsals and performances are the only times my pain completely goes away.


Q. Why did you get abused? Is it part of your culture?

My parents have the same mental illness as Charles Manson.  They were not as smart.  Instead of targeting adults, they targeted me.

Q. Isn’t it part of your culture to sell your daughter for sex?

People all over the world do this out of desperation or greed/laziness.  It doesn’t make the victim go unscathed

Q. Where did this happen?

In the USA there were child protection laws, but as many of you know these laws only protect the privileged, and the privileged parents can use their money and influence to cover up their abuse, so really, US children are not protected.  Being POC and poor, dirty, always wearing the same clothes, and always dissociating/net being there as a child did not make me popular with the public school teachers.  I was born in the USA but I cannot say that I was raised.

Q. How did you survive?

I was hell bent on not becoming like my parents.  I worked hard.  I stopped doing drugs young.  I decided not to be addicted to any substances.  You can see in my earlier posts, that I did any job, even dangerous ones that furthur damaged my health to survive.  My parents had parental help well into their 40’s.  I did not.  I was on my own at age 16.  I was mostly not living at home since age 15 because i was always getting kicked out.  Yes, when it was convinient for them they would call my school with a sob story that I have not been home.  They are really good at melodramatics and histrionics.  I know how to be in pain.  I have had unsafe jobs, lived on the streets, seen things about the underworld that people with more sheltered lives cannot believe, and I am still alive.

Q.  What are you planning to do at the end of the summer when the sublet is up?

I do not know.  I have been in too much pain to address this


So my friend doesn’t want to do a kickstarter for medical treatment but he wants to make a youtube and get a million clicks so I can get enough money for myofascial release and to get a doctor who can deal with CPTSD torture victims whose abuse started in early childhood.  Please pray for me.

The end?

Yesterday, I heard from the wind that Its time to stop fighting, its the end.  I thought I was going to die.  Then I was told that people want to help and that a friend who I stayed with from last November to January will help me and start a collection for me to get my physical body and mental health cured.  Now he forgot or changed his mind.

He has been diagnosed with schizotypal personality disorder and PDDNOS but denies that he has either, so either his inconsistencies is due to mental illness, or flakiness.  I am again disappointed and hurt.  I had hope.  Yesterday, I went into nature in hope to be healed.  I heard a voice “Its the end, stop fighting”  I thought that it is a message that I am going to die.  I am ready to die.  Then my friend told me that he is sad for me that my brain did not grow lie others’  (see post from 6/9/16) and that my body is in pain and he said that his Buddhist group has compassion and that he can start a collection. But tonight he said no.

My prefrontal cortex did not develop.  My brain did not develop.  I don’t know why I have a 150+ IQ.

Of course I am ready to die.  I realized that I am privileged in ways some are not.  I have wrote about privilege before.  I have the privilege of being able to be uncomfortable, and to not expect instant gratification.  That is how I made it as an artist.  I never wanted to become famous but I worked hard and had no social life.  I was not allowed to speak with kids or adults as a child so not having a social life is not hard for me.  I learned to act like I know how to talk to people by observation. As I have stated in my posts in December 2014, I am keeping this blog anonymous, and most of the things that would identify me are vague.  I am going to say that I am a dance artist.  I was able to rehearse harder, work harder, make work like nobody else, and get paid (not much, but professional rates) .  I have been in companies with members that grew up attending conservatories and majored in dance in college.  I have choreographed and have been in press.  So my being able to withstand pain and focusing without self consciousness and my conviction not to be like my father (see my posts from December 2014) gave me an edge.  Not caring if I am liked or not because I was hated by my parents is another privilege.  Not having habits like when to eat, or what to spend money on, or needing to called loved ones, because I have no loved ones, is another privilege.  I had the privilege of making edgy work and being nude in any of the works I made or danced in without objection from family because I have no family is another privilege.  I also had the privilege of hypervigilance; people who are competitive have tried to injure me in rehearsal or on stage and I was able to avert that with my stealth and animal senses.   It was revealed  me over the winter when I was staying with a friend (the one who saved me in late January 2016) who worked in academia.  We went to an MFA dance concert and at a reception, a professor said that she knows who I am.  Another instance in the same city, an artist who was there for an artistic residency told me that she knows me.  1,100 miles away I was recognized by artists in the same discipline; one of these ladies, I have never heard from.  I was confused at that interaction, but realize now that I now have the responsibility for being conscious about my body of work.

Now I am ready to die, or get the correct doctors and therapists and thrive.  I am happy with both.