JOURNAL ENTRY: YESTERDAY MY MORTALITY CAME TO VISIT 2026

 

YESTERDAY MY MORTALITY CAME TO VISIT

            I failed my MRI exam yesterday.  Due to my CPTSD issues I panicked and could not handle the brain scan.  They now attach a head cage to your face and then push you inside an even more enclosed space.  That head gear touched my nose and restricted my movement it felt like I was tied up and being pushed into an oven.  They gave me a panic button and I pushed it.  With my trauma history I often must make my own accommodations for my triggers.  However, I rarely ever fail.  Yesterday I failed and that cascading effect theory that I wrote about in graduate school took effect.  All I could do was try and hold it together and make it to a restaurant where I could feel the effects while tucked away in a booth.  I needed my nectar from Diet Dr. Pepper and the ambrosia of fried green tomatoes and mushrooms.  Also, I wanted to see some of my kiddos and distract myself from my own emotional pain that was quickly turning physical by sharing my ‘love of other’ philosophy with them. 

            Then I made one of them cry because I am a super awesome foster father of great compassion lol.  That child was stressed due to a medical emergency that had occurred earlier in the week and required an ER visit.  All week long we texted and I had been emotionally supportive.  However, I was enduring the foreshocks of an anticipated seismic event and that child was working a double with little sleep.  Neither of us was in tune with the other.  Then she cursed and I asked her not too and then more curse words came out of her mouth and this time I redirected her.  By explaining how if her goal was management she had to learn to handle herself under pressure.  That golden-filled moment of parental advice failed like the Wright brothers attempting flight from the basin of the amazon.  The wings of this attempt never caught wind and thus crashed at the end of the runway.  I was like a witchdoctor from an uncontacted tribe attempting an aerodynamic feat.  While feeling the quaking effects of one of my own fermented potions of a concocted blend based on the ruminations of my own limitations.  (Others would call that awesome sauce.  LOLOLOL)

            That moment to me was sadder than the effects of failing at the MRI.  I was not in a good place, and I did reconcile with my child, and I doubled my usual tip as an apology.  While at this booth I began texting and confessing my failure to my kiddos and I tried something new.  I put this issue out on Facebook.  I have never shared something before that wasn’t cold case related.  Then I even texted my older brother and I did not expect support.  Through trial and error, I have found that confessing my issues helps me to get off the X so to speak.  When you’re being ambushed those from that type of profession explain that you may not be able to fight back but you can get yourself off the X and not be in the center of the target where your adversaries have the bast chance of harming you.  Sounds adversarial since we are chatting about my trauma affecting me, myself, and I.  Over time I have concluded that confessing specifically and broadly allows me to move from that X and lessen the effects that I am enduring. 

            This meant that texting my older brother was conducive to bettering my position in dealing with these aftershocks of my own system wide sismic event of a soul-based proportion.  To me that oven of modern convection was something I could handle but then that mask of chicken wire became too much.  My older brothers comment on my feeling of enduring the infinity of incarceration trapped inside that restrictive space was not comforting.  His text reads as follows: ‘You will get through this as you’ve gotten through everything else.”  This started an exchange and allowed me to share some things that I have never been able to share with him before.  Believe me, my decision is not based on some type of openness that I felt he was exhibiting.  It had more to do with my deeply held conviction that I was dying.  Reminiscent of the movie about Johnny Cash entitled ‘Walk the line’ where he is auditioning for the music producer and the guy explains, that he wanted him to sing a song that he would sing to God himself.’  I took that scene as if his selection would be based in his death.  That this was that song of truth that told Jesus who he was and what his pain on earth meant to him.

            Thus, I was motivated by that feeling of a rapidly unwinding mortal coil ticking away in my traumatized mind and released my kraken upon the gentle ears of a man who lives in a denial so deep that he exists in the last refuge of his own creation.  He could never escape the globe of his reality, so he dug deep like the humans that occupied Zion in the Matrix Trilogy.  His traumas dug that pit and his workaholism maintains its structure.  The oxygen he breathes is filtered through what he will agree to being true and his consciousness siphons out any rationality that threatens the mystic fog of distortion that he has created to blur the lines of his own trauma.  I have known all of this for decades but feared his retaliation and the fact that on a whim he could make me homeless.  He has threatened to so many times and did so with such a level of conviction that my Kiddos and I began downsizing my belongings so that I would have less to move when the time came.  I sacrificed many cherished items just like the ship christened the HMS surprise in the movie Master and Commander the far side of the world. 

When the captain played by Russell Crowe commanded his crew to begin dumping weight to lighten their load and increase their chances at out pacing a faster ship with more guns.  Later they even had to cut away the mast of the ship as it was dragging the ship down and would have resulted in an all-hands lost scenario.  That’s how it felt to me as my Kiddos and I raced the clock to get as much out before my foretold departure.  I was being thrown overboard like so many valuable items to fill an ego of perpetual profiteering.  My physical disability made me a ‘fall risk’ in my chosen career and thus I could no longer earn and had no place in the mind of a workaholic captain on the ship called the family farm.

            My older brother followed up with his rendition of the holy sacrament that he follows.  I needed to be baptized and pray so that all my worried thoughts can be taken over by Jesus Christ.  I have been baptized so many times that I lost count and once with such intensity that my tiny body aspirated and had there not been a doctor in that congregation I would have died.  As an orphan in the care of yet another stranger the holy where once again trying to kill me.  I spent days in the hospital with that old woman next to me.  Enduring her pinches and pokes so that I would cry out and the nurse would come to the room and that woman could receive her Munchausen by proxy moment.  I had become her baptismal baby of her Samaritanismic (yes, I created another new word) greed.  Where my suffering equated to the recognition of her Christian plight in the role of the ‘poor widow’.  She gave all when she had nothing to share and was recognized by Jesus for her sacrificial generosity.  She represented her selfless devotion to God by giving out of necessity and not abundance. 

            The truth of the matter was somehow she acquired me (my flashbacks have not illuminated that aspect of this memory yet) then utilized this opportunity for her own gain.  Just like my mother did when she was conducting a church confidence game.  She played the stricken single mother with a special needs child abandoned by a no-good man.  I became their symbolic martyr of moral chastity that brought them attention and profit as a totem of their personal voodoo.  I was their ‘human mop’ in their vaudevillian act just like Buster Keaton was for his father in the ‘Three Keaton’s.’  Instead of being thrown into the audience for laughter I had my existence manipulated like a marionette to falsely personify me as a recipient in need.  True I was in need, but these women gave me no nurturance, and I never benefitted from the proceeds that they received through the ill-gotten gains they acquired. 

In the beginning I was their scapegoat, later a black sheep and consequently became filled with their most costly endeavors of their trade and my brain adapted through CPTSD with dissociative amnesia.  That face mask of medical design coupled with a confined entry into a humming oven that required even more restriction brought me back to feeling impacted by those two women.  But there is another scene that has eluded my grasp and just now registered in the forefront of my conscious mind.  I believe that I entitled that episode of flashbacks as the ‘Master of Masters’.  His slaves had to place their palms on the heated door of the oven and allow them to burn to show him that he was still in control of them.  My subconscious mind was looping me into that fear I held as a child when that man opened the oven door.  He had that oven at its highest temperature, and I was standing at face level when he pulled the door down. 

That heat raced out and contacted my face.  Reminiscent of when you’re camping and spend time around an open fire and the wind blows that heat into your sunburned face.  At that moment when I was in his house as the dissociative part of my mind took the wheel my last thought was that they were going to stick me into that oven, and I was going to burn like those ants did when Robert poured gasoline on their piles and lit them a blaze at the house in Pineville Louisiana.  I remember that most vividly when I thought he would do the same to me and set me aflame as I had witnessed him do to dead bodies when he was disposing of them.  His moods could shift so quickly, and I had learned that whatever he had in his hands could be used as a weapon on the often-unsuspecting victim.  I remember how at the moment I connected the fact that he could burn me too.  My mind froze my real self and began this marionette-like function where my body smiled the biggest grin it could and then worked feverishly to make eye contact with him and put all my effort into watching his face.  If I ran, I knew from experience he liked to pursue and conquer, and I had to try and get him to see me as someone he didn’t want to destroy. 

(Wow what a release I feel the enigmatic moment residing and my own sense of self and virtue arising and becoming re-born.  Meaning that, at that moment when the oven opened and the heat assaulted me with its intent, a tear in the fabric of my subconscious resulted in an absconding patch of fabric and was detached from where it belonged and just had been reunited with its whole.  Like in the movie Master and Commander when the ships surgeon is shot and they use his shirt to match the found piece of the fabric.  My mind is more complete now than before and my healing has advanced due to the resulting panic attack caused by a benign medical procedure meant for my wellbeing, but the wiring of my traumatic mind assimilated these restrictive procedures with the impending catastrophic effects of a humming oven that I feared would be the death of me.)

            I am recalling now how at that time when I was alone with Max my grandfather in that four door sedan while vacationing with him in Colorado or New Mexico not only did, he give me tips on running but then began to tell me about his days as a girls track coach.  My body was halfway in the front seat, and the back of that seat was resting upon my hip bones and holding me aloft.  This was an awkward position for me since being close to Max often led to pain and I found my refuge deep into the backseat of that car and chose to sit behind him since I knew he couldn’t reach me as easily there.  Somehow that advice about how to run and drive my arms appealed to some part of me that hadn’t been nurtured and just like with my mother I was lured into a trap.  With a movement I didn’t see he had my head in his lap, and I was face up with his hand around my neck.  He would grip my throat tight and then release I was petrified. 

            He was telling me a story about a girl who had gotten him fired from his coaching job because she didn’t like the way that he touched her.  That phrasing linked whoever that girl he was referencing and my current situation.  To me I had become that conduit that was connecting that girl to this action.  Max began to stroke my hair and tell me how soft it was and that he had only wanted to touch her curls.  Then he gritted his teeth and bore his hand down deep into my throat and my oxygen was gone.  He had my head pined in his lap as the other hand stroked my hair.  I was caught in this moment of life and death.  If he continued to bear down and choke me, I would die and I began to feel that pressure in my neck and the lack of oxygen in my eyes.  He was referring to me as someone else and one second his teeth had been clenched, and he was punishing this mirage of a girl and the next he was talking soothingly and stroking my hair with his other hand. 

            Then that strangulation stopped and he began to cry just as Robert often did, about his victims.  He was lamenting his desire to have had her love him.  If only she would have loved him then none of this would have happened.  He went on with how much he wanted to share his love for her but that she became a Bitch and caused trouble.  Then just as Robert would do he began to explain to his surrogate in a requesting manner how he had been so gentle with her body and that he kept it for longer than any other in that well down by the pond.  My circulation had returned and he continued to stroke my hair.  My conscious mind knew that I was frozen as it peeked over the space that my subconscious mind now occupied.  Max was relaying to his imaginary illumination about how he had brought herbs from town to fill her mouth so they could continue to kiss.  How he filled her belly with mistletoe and other herbs and greens so that they could continue to enjoy one another.  His tears ran down his face, and I could taste his salt. 

            The hand that he had around my throat was now upon my stomach and touching my skin.  My conscious mind was electrified with terror, but my subconscious mind made my body appear stable and still as if no threat was occurring.  My subconscious mind gave way to the dissociative representation of tranquility while my amnesic self, engulfed it all for distant storage.  He kept calling me Molly his “Little Molly Doll”.  Then his left hand moved to his face as he tried to stifle his expression from showing an emotion.  Then his right hand pushed its fingers into my stomach to one side of my navel.  It was deep and punitive as if he had a grudge against the wholeness of my body.  Then with a huge expulsion of air, he released a sob and said, “then you tore”.  Those fingers of his were more than an inch into my body and I could feel his rage.  To him her bodily tear from decomposition was just another betrayal to his sadistically based erotomania.  He wanted her and thus she existed to belong to him and her desire to be free of him was at first a moment of playing hard to get and then became the betrayal of a private moment and was eventually followed by the ultimate rejection, that of a melting corpse. 

            Then he released the pressure from my stomach, and both of his hands covered his face and between sobs he was emoting about how beautiful she had looked in her cheerleading outfit and how he had found it in her bag and saved it all these years and dressed other bodies up but that it was never her.  The clothes didn’t bring her back, he said then he was banging on the steering wheel and both his hands had made fists and my body was slipping from his lap and momentum was beginning to take me downward toward the floorboard.  Then he gripped the steering wheel and had his right hand across my neck halting my descension.  He was raging again but this time through his slobbery exhalations of air.  The term ‘spitting mad’ could have sufficed for the behavior he was expressing at this moment.  Then his muscles tightened up and it was akin to a seated man attempting to stand but, in this car, there was nowhere else to go.  His body was in conflict as emotions surged and his torso wanted to erect and exercise these emotions out through movement, yet he was betrayed again by something he couldn’t control.

            Once or twice, he reached for the doorknob, and I could hear him maneuvering it and then the door opened and slammed shut just as fast.  For a moment it felt like his body was seizing next to mine and the interior of the car became intensely hot.  Yes, this was a summer day, but the car was running, and the air conditioning was on.  Then he had both his hands on the steering wheel as I could feel the car jolt back and forth as he attempted to dissipate his rage into the physical manifestation of the car.  Now that excessive heat had turned into humidity so thick that it felt like a hot stone sauna.  He was crying again and jumping up and down on his butt in his seat as his breathing sounded like he was gagging on a scream.  Then he continued to hold the wheel as his head sunk low between his arms.  He was sobbing again but with his head tilted so invertedly he seemed more like he was trying to end this saga by oppressing his emotional pain once again.

            I had seen both my father and mother affiliate themselves with this same behavior.  It wasn’t for my benefit, but they attempted these séances to summon some cosmic strength to allow their predatory selves to relinquish the grasp it had on that moment of reality where their darkness could be exposed.  He was almost there and the gurgling in his throat had decreased significantly.  My dissociative-self had now risen to an out-of-body experience.  My point of vision was from the ceiling inside the car.  I could see all the sweat beading up and pouring off Max’s head.  The air conditioning must have been on recycle, since it was spewing out the same humid air that had been developed inside the car. 

Then my view changed to Edith, my grandmother who had come back to the car with my younger brother in tow, I believe she took him inside since he needed to go to the bathroom.  She knocked on the passenger side, and I could see that the steam had filled the window and streaks were occurring as the humidity ran down.  Then my dissociative-self felt it before my ocular abilities perceived it.  Max had crossed the distance of the front seat and punched the glass of the passenger side.  My body lay somewhere under his weight and his fist hit so hard that I cannot rationalize today in this moment how either the glass or his fist had not been broken.  Edith didn’t miss a beat, she turned and quickly walked my younger brother down the sidewalk and as they moved, my depersonalization adjusted and now my vision peered down the promenade of concrete and toward my younger brother riding a mechanical horse. 

That vision of him busying himself riding that toy was comforting.  I could see he was exaggerating his bumping up and down and true to his alpha persona he was going to get his quarters worth out of that hobble horse.  Both my brothers are driven alphas who will get what they believe they deserve.  Then my translucent eye peered back into the car as Max sat atop my torso and was ripping a Kleenex box apart and slamming his right fist down into my stomach area.  I could hear the car creak as the commotion in the interior caused it to rock in an awkward manner.  My vision turned to a bifocual (yes, I made up another word) membrane where I could watch my brother and witness the events in the car.  (Since my flashbacks began in 1997, I have never experienced such an ocular manifestation.  There was no need prior to this moment for me to create my own vocabulary.)  Then with the observation of the interior of the car, I could see Max exiting the driver’s side door. 

My distance viewing altered and now it was focused completely upon him.  He was bent over and dry heaving most likely due to the heat his rage created in the car.  Then out came the vomit and the first heaves were food particles, and the next few heaves had a great deal of bloodiness with them.  For a moment as I gandered upon this ever-continuing bash of cortisol and adrenaline and its effects upon a geriatric rage-acholic.  It seemed like Max was withering in my altered presence as if he was golem from the Lord of the Rings but in reverse.  Instead of becoming an altered form of maladaptive, Max had developed a personification of normalness that now was fading away as his body wretched out the chemical concocted created by the after math of his tantrum of perversion.  Then he fell to his knees, and my persona was calm and not at all concerned. 

It feels right now in this present moment that this adventure into a scene of homicidal rage is ending and my heart is calmer and I am not having to practice Lamaze breathing to manage my own physical pain.  Also, when he fell to his knees my cyclopic eye retracted and I could see that all this commotion had brought a crowd and then in the distance sirens were blaring.  There he lay on the hot concrete in a different city in a medical state of acute hyperthermic fatigue.  The ambulance arrived and from my heightened stance of visual acuity I could see him being placed inside.  They did not use a stretcher, they grabbed his arms and he staggered into the back of a small van.  Then he burst out and threatened everyone around him while making fists in the air as he stood erect and then succumbed to the manifestation of his allotted illness.  Up and down his body went as he cursed those trying to help him. 

I could feel my body being pulled and this altered my sense of voyeurism and caused me to return to my physical being.  Other women were helping Edith as they pulled me to a seated position and poured water over my head and face.  A firetruck had arrived and I could see its red flashing sequences of warning lights as a blur through my crusted eyes.  Many people kept saying heat stroke or something else about the temperature.  As I regained consciousness, I could feel that the air flowing out of the car was like the feeling of a hair dryer.  The summer weather in that parking lot while in whatever state we happened to be in was cooler than the air escaping through the passenger door at that moment. 

A recollection that works for me involves how the air was heated with tremendous humidity in the boy’s locker room during two a day practices.  We all came in from the Texas August sun and then so many of them packed into the showers and waves of hot water carried the scent of sweaty athletes toward the lockers and no one could escape an atmospheric drenching.  That smell and that deluge of moisture was the same to me as that moment sitting on the edge of the passenger side door.  These memories are like tempests in turmoil as they wreak havoc amongst the calmness of your mind and break way for the emerging forgotten memory.  That turbulence not only moves the insignificant from obscuring your past, but it opens your mind to an archeological dig into a neural process of time allotted connect ability.  My more recent past of high school football practice gave my more distant past concerning this assault a contextualized schema.  Which allowed steppingstones for retrieval and offered an acceptable course of sequences that aided in the fireman’s bucket brigade necessary for carrying essential recalled manifestations forward and into the conscious mind.  If I had a limited exposure to past circumstances, then my recall would suffer due to limited experiences that allowed me to develop tools of insight over the years, I had more props in my theater from which to tell the story.

I have been experiencing flashbacks since 1997 and am continuing to have them well into 2026.  Then added to this is my long history of education and academics.  From kindergarten through clinical training, I have had to write research papers and expand my mind through my learning and using all the newest features within my discipline.  Then I must keep up with dozens of children as they age through life and either make remarkably sound decisions or really immature ones that require advice and include a step-by-step tutorial on problem solving that specific unique circumstance.  Then moreover I have had continuous flashback sequences into the crimes of my biologicals.  That requires a human toll of resilience that I have never personally found or experienced through another person. 

Those flashbacks unlock my repressed memories and allow my amnesic mind to worm hole traumas back into the circulatory features of my consciousness.  Then as my internal ethics dictate to me as being a part of the solution in society and not the problem.  Upon me rests the oath of service I agreed to as a social worker.  I pledge to challenge social injustice, pursue social change, and promote equity.  The resolution of my forefather’s crimes will be carried out by solving cold cases that they committed and consequently ‘sending the dead home.’  The injustice is that the corruption found in law enforcement at the time allowed for the stalking, abduction, trafficking and murder of innocent females.  The social change involves the returning of remains to their loved ones for proper religious burial within a family plot.  That promotion of equity that must be regarded in these elements involves equality of race, nationality, poverty, and gender.  All of these played a factor in who could be disappeared and who became untouchable.  That neuroplastic connectivity loop of interconnective ability just gave evidence to its continuous existence.

I had no idea that I was born into an organized intergenerational crime family until my memories came back and even then, it took decades for me to piece the evidence together.  From an early age my lawful goodness was prevalent I wanted to be a Sheriff.  When I was still in diapers, I watched law men with badges come to my grandfather’s house or the house of hate in Irving and receive their envelopes of cash.  Their holsters fascinated me and I followed their arrival and departure with great interest.  My child’s mind believed that they had caught the bad guy just like in all the westerns and my family was paying them their reward.  Later I studied criminal justice and had plans to become a detective that protected children and put the people that harmed them into jail.  Then foster care found me all by accident and I fell in love with a whole new way of life and found out that Social Workers ran that profession and I was sold and off to graduate school I went.  Now I find that all that training was a precursor to this world of CPTSD with dissociative amnesia and look at what I am doing now.  I am solving crimes against children in a cold case fashion where strangers are not the perpetrator’s but my own biologicals are.  They became the contributors and the conclusion to the quandary of the ‘who done it.’

Would you like to know what I did after arriving home from that MRI mishap.  I got proactive and figured if law enforcement would not help me then I must solve that rubrics cube by thinking outside that box of those tiny boxes lol.  I began to write and text every psychic I could find for help and told them that if I cannot send the bodies home then maybe one of you could send the spirit’s home.  After that I thought if the FBI will not lend a hand maybe the CIA will and I sent them an email with the reference number of 6CNFEEJM.  Then I was on a role and decided that I would send the catholic orphans mass grave sites directly to a catholic church.  So, I chose one in Greenville Tx and invited them to the weekly lunch I have with my children.  Just in case they had questions or wanted to size me up and determine that I am a rational human being.  Maybe that was enough to help me overcome my panic attack by choosing the ‘love of other’ style of rehabilitation.  Thus, I signed up through email and Facebook to every true crime book club I could find.  I even asked libraries for their recommendations.

I want to ‘send the dead home’ before I die and whatever I have been trying was not working even my complaint to Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton had no effect it seems.  Thus, once again I have had a panic attack followed by a very illuminating flashback.  I journaled about that experience and in the deep dive I found the information for yet another victim.  Where will this lead oh most likely to another victim sheet that I will be sending to the Grayson County Sherrif’s office that covered Sherman Texas way back when.  Then, if necessary, I will add this victim to a cold case file and see who I can get to follow the clues and find the full name of that missing person.  It’s now 12:22 am on Thursday and I will have lunch with my kiddos later today and my life will for a time have a semblance of normality until the medical community attempts to wrap me in chicken wire and push me into a humming oven.  That was a joke Goodnight!!!