What I want is for you to write “fuck me” on your chest. Write it, do it! And then I want you to walk out that door and I want you to walk down the street. And anybody that wants to fuck you say “sure, sure no problem” And when they do you have to say “thank you very very much” and make sure that you have a smile on your face , and then you stupid fucking coward your going to know what it feels like to be a woman.


  1. I was groomed

I had just turned 18 and moved to London after my A-levels in Stafford. I met a screenwriter at Resistance Gallery in East London who told me he was casting for a female lead in the sequel to his film about a baby doll who turns out to be possessed by an evil spirit.

He took me to The Groucho Club (an exclusive private members club in London. I sipped my mojito, thrilled I was at this place where Brad Pitt was a member of and the bragging rights I had acquired to tell my new friend Marie.) He told me about the script and even took me and my friends from work out to an Aphrodisiacs event in Shoreditch and paid for our table and Grey Goose Vodka. At the time, I had no idea about gaslighting and manipulation and so had no idea I was being groomed. He told me to see where he lived which was this converted boys orphanage further in East London, that he wanted to show me his Aleister Crowley altar and items. His place was huge and covered with esoteric occult items. He had the book of the law in reverse.

I had, in my (very) limited experience in London, went to Torture Gardens once at this point, a fetish club, with my first boyfriend in London named Carl from Bristol. Me and Carl dated for about 2-3 months before he dumped me.. We had met at a Cruxshadows gig and further started talking at Slimelight after the gig. I was enthralled by london and played being a submissive to Carl (who was a virgin and maybe a year or so older than me). He played being a Master to me, mostly just lightly whipping me and using a silken glove at Subversion and Torture Gardens. We were both barely legal, and did not do S&M things in private, it was more of a fun spectacle. Carl was my first heartbreak.

18 year old me told the screenwriter that I had been submissive to my ex. I don’t remember how this even came up. He got noticeably turned on and started to hit me. It hurt. It wasn’t in a safe environment and he wasn’t my boyfriend and it hurt and I started at the light on the ceiling willing it to blind me. Afterwards he raped me. He told me it was sex magic, part of thelema and that by saying certain sentences during the rape it was willing the universe for him to get the funding for the sequel and for me to be the star. I suddenly didn’t give a fuck about anything apart from how old and wrinkled he was (older than my father) and just froze until he came.

After he came he got off me, made us toast and jam and started talking about hiring prostitutes in the past. I didn’t know anything about prostitutes or brothels. He mentioned having a daughter who was older than me.

This all came flooding back today at NYC Pagan Pride. I was attending a Magick in Recovery workshop and the person leading it practiced Thelema. I knew about The Golden Dawn and had looked in Crowley but had stopped, for some reason. It all came flooding back. I couldn’t process it all right then so was manic the rest of the festival, talking to everyone, attended two more workshops. As me and my fiance left Pagan Pride (he was not at the workshop with me, and we met up later that day at the festival) it came out, and as he gently asked me details the floodgates opened. Where I had met him. The name of the movie he wanted me to star in. (Or what I thought it was, I am googling and can’t seem to find it now).  How much it hurt when he hit me and how disgusted I was when he raped me but I never said no because I was groomed but could not, until that moment, realize I was groomed. How disgusting his wrinkled prune hands felt over my body.

I can’t at this moment, remember his name. Maybe my mind it still blocking it. Everyone who has been through extreme trauma knows things come back in pieces. If anyone can tell me more, please do. I know a photo exists somewhere at the night he took me and my work friends to.

I even wrote a prose piece about it on my blog at the time entitled “Beware the False Prophets (of a Lost Generation).” You can read it here:


He was the man behind the stanzas “Is he the aged film executive in Vivienne Westwood, who believes spirits haunt his sleep and lives in a converted boys orphanage?

And sometimes you see through the bullshit, the smokescreens and the lies. Sometimes when it is late and you are sober, somehow, and they push you and grab you and force your mouth to theirs, their ugly hands pushing up your dress, and you are screaming inside. And this is wrong, so wrong, and you don’t want this, yes you want the fame or salvation or whatever they have promised you but not this, anything but this.

But something inside of you freezes, grows cold and hard as a stone, and you cant do it, you are too weak and scared to fight, still tipsy on his promises and you know, you just know that he wont stop.

It is better to submit than be violated.

And  then comes the day when you walk away.”

I sent this piece to the filmographer of my first youtube video and he said it was basically a how-to on how to rape me, but I still hid behind metaphor. Unfortunately unlike in the piece I physically COULD NOT WALK AWAY. Not then, and after that was written brings us to:

  1. His name was Jonathan Weissler.

I was 19 ½.. I have written about this before, but not named him publicly. His name was Jonathan Weissler and this is his IBDM page.


He is also apparently on twitter, though seemingly not very active:


I met him through the “posh” Soho/Knightsbridge/33 Portland Place scene. He was a producer and I was raped at Elstree Film Studios at his office overlooking Sherlock Holmes 2: A Cast of Shadows. He started talking to me about a role but it all seemed so legit as I wasn’t at someone’s residence, I was in an office at the studios. Seemed until he asked if I wanted a drink. I barely touched the champagne as I wanted to be sober for my audition. I sipped about a third of it but felt instantly like I could not stand. Later in trauma therapy I remembered knowing I was spiked. This time I said no. This time I said I had a boyfriend. It didn’t matter. He was violent. My face was slammed into a black leather couch. My body was forced down but my mind was, as before, floating. I watched myself being violated somewhere from the ceiling. At some point later that night I met my then-boyfriend B. He asked why my bra strap was undone. I remember stammering “I-I don’t know. I don’t remember.” I did not want to remember. Thankfully at the time he did not press although he told me later on he suspected.

After the rape, Jonathan Weissler repeatably messaged me on Facebook. He offered to pay me 1,000 to have sex with him. I was so deep in denial and shame I THOUGHT ABOUT IT. I thought about allowing myself to be raped again because if I was paid for it, it would be like the prostitutes the screen writer mentioned. I had already been violated so why not profit from it? He went on to say he had another young woman over at his residence. He mentioned her being 16. That combined with how deeply disgusted I was by him (he was huge, Harvey Weinstein esq in both size and power compared to me, still in my teens and with a fledgling modelling career) made me realize I could never actually go through with it. I blocked him on Facebook.

I did not report because after he raped me I still allowed him to contact me for a short time on Facebook before blocking him.

If anyone knows any London news outlets or anything who you think would take this story, let me know. Not reporting this when I know he raped a 16 year old, probably MANY other teenagers, is something that has continuously haunted me for YEARS.

I told the only other person I knew in London named Adam that he had raped me, because he had apparently been talking about it like it was consensual. Adam was the first person I told, a couple of years after it happened. He urged me to report, but by then I was still too scared. I did not report because I thought no one would believe me or my name would be smeared and dragged through the mud. Adam showed me screenshots of Jonathan Weissler’s Wikipedia page which apparently kept being vandalized by other woman he preyed on:





I started going out clubbing more after that. Drinking and substance abuse would continue off and on from then until just about last year. At time of typing I have not  touched a drug in over 10 months, or a drink or cigarette for 6.

After the trauma I started working in the adult industry, doing dominatrix work as my mind’s way of reclaiming my power (I was never able to be submissive again after the screenwriter).

I did not report because the first time, I could not even comprehend I had been raped, after the second time I was terrified my later drinking and substance abuse, hell even my modelling (I modelled up nude levels) would somehow all be used against me. Who would believe me? I was a NOTHING. I was NOBODY. I was WORTHLESS. I became very close with another brilliant, beautiful writer/model named Cassie She had also been sexually assaulted and she died of an overdose at 25, when I was 23.

The next 3 years were a cycle of harming myself, praying for death or an overdose because those 2 times I thought would be my “big break” I was both physically and sexually assaulted.

I prayed for the mercy of death. I wanted to make myself so incredibly small so I would not exist. Thumbelina fighting my monsters with the needle. I lashed out and still struggle with chronic dissociative anxiety, complex PTSD and cyclothymia as a result of both childhood trauma and rape. (The childhood trauma was not sexual in nature).

I did not report because of the people (mostly older white cisgendered men and the mother of a partner) told me I just needed to “get over it.”

The thing with trauma is, you can’t face it unless you get to the root of it. Complex PTSD sucks too because I cannot “get over” my triggers. They can happen at anytime, anywhere. The worst is when it happens during sex. I don’t know if I can ever have a normal sex life even being engaged because at times during the act my rape will play out in my mind and I start shaking uncontrollably. For hours.

Fuck anyone who tells you to “get over” your rape. Seriously. FUCK. YOU.

On the way home today, after realizing I was raped (at least) twice, I stopped by a grocery store. My fiance walked off for literally less than a minute and some guy started harassing me about my “interesting” look. Still processing what had happened with the screenwriter all I could do was murmur “thank you” and walk back to him, and he asked why I did not follow him. Because, you know, we live in a society where you need a male escort in order to feel safe. I was away from his side from less than a minute. This is rape culture.

Yesterday, I started reading other incredibly brave inspiring women’s #WhyIDidNotReport. Hannah, I love you so much. You are so incredibly courageous. I had NO IDEA. If it was not for reading your story yesterday, and thinking about it, I would not feel strong enough to write this. It was in my head all of today and its woman like you and my other friends all sharing their stories maybe the damn would never have burst.


I don’t care if you have a history of alcohol or substance abuse, what industry you work in. I don’t care if you are a movie star, stripper, data analyst, sex worker, accountant. No one deserves to be violated.

I am still TERRIFIED typing this, shaking but it needed to come out. Oh how much this needed to come out.

#WhyIDidntReport #MeToo


Untold Stories


There is a lot I don’t write about. A lot of moments I fail to capture. Some of these are because I am not agile enough. Others are due to reasons that make me sad. Some are because I am asked to keep the story a secret and therefore, it cannot evolve into a story.

Yes, I could fictionalize certain stories (to an extent.) I do base characters off of people in one way or another for example. But you cannot do this with “every” true story.

The real tragedy is that those stories left untold are always the ones I find most valuable.



    I came across this article in the New York Times tonight:




     It brought me back to my own very awkward high school years….I don’t think I personally “flourished” in my environment until University. And I do believe a massive part of that was in LSBU, I could major in my strength-Creative Writing in different mediums, without having to divide that with my weaknesses or things I hated like Physical Education and Math. Honestly, I love physical things as an adult, just dance or yoga or running with my dog in a park, not dodgeball or soccer.

   But it wasn’t just about the adedemia. There was something so liberating about being in London, so glamorous. I feel we as humans tend to romanticize parts of our lives, looking back in sepia hued glances of nostalgia. In the digital age, and having always written fairly actively, its good for me to help see the larger picture or at least try and have perspective. But high school was very awkward for me compared to college. The best parts were meeting a few of my fellow creative misfit types who weren’t the standard jocks and cheerleaders. Those who also took drama and we would share manga and anime DVDs. I still miss that.

   I believe my first anxiety attack occurred around age 13 ½. I did not know it was an anxiety attack until years and many episodes later and being diagnosed with GAD. I just remember being screamed at by one of the teachers, who would ride around the school grounds in these Go-karts, because someone’s shirt was untucked or they had the wrong belt color. The dress code was very strict as it was a “good private school”. Everything looked hideous and as I was recently in recovery from anorexia as the trousers had to be tailored it made me feel insecure going up and down in weight.

   I remember being in between classes one day. I had on this ugly red top and it was scratchy and horrible, the harshness of the fabric  making my skin crawl. My weight was up which would mean having to ask my parents to pay money for a new pair of trousers and I was ugly ugly ugly but this was ugly and I was in a bathroom stall. I felt like I was simultaneously being suffocated whilst having a heart attack. In an abandoned memoir, I think I described this sensation as being “boxed into a cubicle of conformity.” I felt utterly trapped.

    As an adult, I prefer wearing leggings which stretch and are pretty and comfortable, or tights and a skirt (also stretchy.) I do like some jeans but most jeans at least have some kind of elasticity. Honestly, right now, I enjoy dressing up to fancy events but unless its for some occasion I don’t even like wearing makeup, because I often just don’t want it on my face.  

    However, sometimes I LOVE makeup because I want to dress up and feel beautiful and glamorous. Reading this story made me sad, (and also wondering if the Dean was a Perv….how awkward and embarrassed this student must have felt.) It also brought back with startling clarity this trandescent individual who I wish I saw more of but remain friends with to this day, Minnaleah. Our dress school’s dress code (also located in South Florida) would only allow a certain brand of tops and trousers from this approved uniform shop, hot pants or shorts were basically past knee length, etc etc….however they still discriminated against students they felt were not “conservative” enough.

   Of course, the creative soul in me rebelled. I wanted to dye my hair white and argue that was “natural.” BTW plenty of high schoolers dyed their hair, but it had to be a “natural” looking color. The blonde cheerleaders who used peroxide and bleach were fine, but one day my friend turned up looking radiant. She was wearing fairy wings and had done her makeup in this really transcendent manner. I was very shy then and still learning what my interests were, but I gravitated towards her. She was captivating. She gave me a makeover once, and it’s amazing how something like a friend doing your makeup can make you look into the mirror and suddenly, you are transformed.

    It’s miraculous what an act of kindness can do. I don’t know if she even remembers this but I was going through a really hard time and had this soul-crushing insecurity. You helped me see a beauty I often struggle to see in myself. If you are reading this, thank you so much for being my friend.

    One day, Minnaleah stormed into the bathrooms angrily. The administration had told her to take off her fairy wings and she needed to wash off her beautiful makeup (despite neither being against official dress code policy). I saw her tears.

    In University studying Creative Writing and doing some promotional work and modelling on the side, I could show up in literally whatever I wanted to for  lectures for my Undergrad. For me, as I was experimenting with Romantic Gothic fashion, some days that included a steel boned silver underbust corset and a mini veiled top hat. My hair went from Marilyn blonde to long and red. My lecturers did not care. What they cared about were my ideas and execution, the quality of my work and the areas I professionally needed improvement in.

    I loved University and-despite my rape trauma my final year-I graduated. I am proud of myself for that. Reading that article brought back so much-the cocoon of high school anxiety mixed with the butterfly that emerged studying abroad in London.

    I think school uniforms are ridiculous, personally. Yes, full on nudity would obviously make people uncomfortable. But fashion and makeup is also an outlet for many, a fun way of expressing yourself for that moment to the world. I performed to a much higher degree in Uni wearing my 18 inch corsets than I ever did in those itchy colored polo shirts. Worse yet, if you did have the wrong belt color or even if your trousers were not from the school-approved uniform manufacturer, you would get points off your GPA. In life, I am a firm believer one should never be judged for any non-fashion/promotion related job (literally any job you don’t NEED to be “in character for”)  based on not fitting into an exterior “mold”.

    The rich girls could have bleached hair and ostentatious designer bags but Minnaleah couldn’t shine in wings and glitter like the fairy I know she is inside. This apparently remains a sorry state of affairs in schools to this day.

     I also believe it’s quite sexist to demand that girls MUST wear a bra, the top shown is loose and they made her wear band-aids on her nipples even WITH an undershirt when she was suffering with severe sunburn. That is ridiculous.

    One could even say this is an example of the rape culture we live in, that we as woman must appear a certain way so as not to “distract” the boys, whose education obviously matters so much more than our personal comfort.  

    No, Lizzy Martinez, you are not a distraction. What you are is an incredibly brave courageous woman  for going through a humiliating ordeal at such a young age and having the courage to speak out about it on a national level. I applaud you and am so glad this story is trending.

    Anyone feeling discriminated against for their attire is ridiculous to me as an adult. As a model, I took fun assignments that allowed me to express myself in different characters and roles. I only model occasionally now as I dedicate a lot of time to my ultimate dream-my fantasy novel. 

    At the moment I am writing in bed-Insomnia, or perhaps simply my quiet time, in celestial print PJ’s sipping chamomile tea.

    But the part I care about?

    I am writing.



Immortalized Thought

In this moment, I am thinking about :

When someone creates, they are immortalizing that moment. Every line in a doodle. Every word. Every journal entry. Every item of clothing. Really thinking about that is definitely intruiging. Thinking about social media in this fashion is equal parts fascinating and terrifying.

It is interesting because I find myself, and other humans, posting things on Facebook they would not in anything that might be shown to a larger audience. Whether it’s a status or a tweet or even a PM. I think I am thinking about this a lot because of how I angry I am I did not save my best friends Facebook messages properly, and the site  deleted them a few years after she died.

As I moved overseas for about a year after we became close, our messages were long and intimate in nature. If they were physical letters I would still have them. Anger is a natural part of a grieving process followed by sadness, bargaining, depression and eventually acceptance Even in acceptance, I would still keep her letters because they would be precious to me. Our online concordance was the same. But by deleting her words without my permission it was like suddenly Facebook jumped into my grieving process, something that continues to make me angry.

I know a lot of this was repressed during years of active addiction and relapse. Also disconnecting and feeling too afraid to feel, basically. Happiness could be taken away so isolation and fear became familiar allies in my brain.

Waking up from that is hard. Not obsessing about my weight is too (another unhealthy yet familiar ally). But here I am, in this sense of new awareness. What also interests me is how celebrities or political figures use social media in the same way Pepsi or Soda was said to have no class system. You basically have more access to what people you find notable are saying, or thinking, in that exact or precise enough moment in time.

I am on the fence over whether this is a “good” thing or not. I believe like most things, it is dependent on how humanity utilizes technology.  I feel like it can be very easy to get sucked into others lives as a distraction especially if you have addiction or ADD like tendencies. On the other hand, it’s groundbreaking knowing that historically significant people are expressing their thoughts in this raw, unfiltered way. Not counting public figures who have PR teams running their social media, but those who say they post it themselves, and who I am inclined to believe, anyone from Rose McGowan to Donald Trump.

That part is compelling to me because you are getting this immortalized moment from the mind of someone you know is going down in history, whether in glory or infamy.

It’s gripping when my friends post personal things because I can empathize with what they are going through and it helps to support them and identify my own emotions . I am very non-judgmental in nature so unless a boundary is crossed I am not easily offended.

At the same time, I personally recently stopped any really personal public posts. I continue using PM’s (private Facebook messages) or call friends when I want to communicate with them because I find in this digital age we are becoming increasingly socially isolated on a one-to-one basis with a fellow human.

Also, I struggle with mental health issues. All my posts are locked and I sit on them for a bit before unlocking. This was due to posting something when having a panic attack over Christmas, not in a rational mindset. You know Facebook becomes a problem when the girl involved in the real-time drama of that moment is actually fine with you yet someone who was not personally involved in the situation sends you an email saying they were obsessing over your status for 3 days and no longer want to associate with you. While I believe obsessing over anything arbitrary such as a social media status for 3 days is unhealthy (I did post a follow-up explaining the situation more thoroughly), the last thing I want to do is cause others harm by any public post. So now, I exercise caution in that regard.

I made my Facebook account at 16 and led a pretty eccentric life. Most of the people I know on a social and work level are in Europe. Because I started my recovery from addiction in NY it’s a whole new scene and set of people (most who I see regularly more, and talk to more on the phone) I don’t have many of them on social media.

To be fair, I have always been shy and socially awkward. Are you reading this from Europe, especially London? Do you find this hard to believe? Did you ever spend time with me clean and sober? A small amount of you have. Probably more are people I met at Slimelight or an after party somewhere, and I used to model and people would find me aesthetically pleasing.

It’s much harder feeling secure for me not wearing makeup in an unfamiliar country, in early recovery, and yet I am doing just that. Deliberately. Because when you spend your life obsessed with masks, rip it off and it reveals another. You forget what your face really looks like, what you feel like, your sense of self.

We walk around, so detached with our iphones and kindles. I don’t wear makeup unless it is for an event I deem aesthetically significant (like a band or event) this could be because I may attach a photo in a review later, and on some level maybe part of me will always view my insecurity as cooler dressed up in pink lipstick and a form-fitting leather jacket. I also find how others dress up interesting. Dress up and expressionism is different from a mask; but again, that could differ depending on each individuals viewpoint. I don’t have an iphone. I like walking past random shops with my dog and seeing what music I happen to hear is playing.

Once, I heard something from “Dr. Horrible’s Sing Along Blog” in South Florida and I was astounded a neighbor would have such good taste, but he said it was on Pandora. Another time, I was browsing theology books and a truck outside the library was blasting “Defying Gravity” from Wicked. I almost taped that on my phone, as it seemed so cliche as it was happening.

That random burst of happiness when the grocery store plays Chelsea Dagger as they are bagging your golden pears, or “Dancing with Myself” comes on in a shared UberPool. These are spontaneous moments I find joy in. I listen to music at home, with my laptop and speakers (I want a record player) but don’t have headphones that go with my smartphone, so I can’t listen to music on the go. Originally I wanted them, and part of me still does, for planes or in waiting rooms. But I am content enough with my books, and listening to the free music the world will burst out in around me. It somehow makes me feel more connected.

Often, in personal instant messages or PM’s on facebook, we tend to speak in this casual intimate manner. Again this is why the deletion of Cassie’s messages infuriates me so. Sometimes, every half year or so, whenever I missed her or how she would think and the things she would say, maybe more so in the beginning, I would read over our long correspondence. In her online journal and tumblr, she mentioned her many diaries but not having anyone to bequeath them too, apart from her kitty Bella, whom she did not believe would outlive her. I know her mother sold or got rid of most of her possessions when she died, which was her choice to make honestly. But it still makes me sad knowing this keen mind who had so many interesting things to say, is mostly deleted from history as her messages were deleted, as her journals were thrown away, as my own memories of her dim.

I think about the journals of Anais Nin and Anne Frank and wonder if they could have met the same fate. When Cassie died, so many knew her primarily as a model, when really that was a side thing for her. She loved literature and astrophysics and had this brilliant manner and way of thought, at times melancholic but always the intelligent psychonaut. She continues to inspire and awe me to this day not for mere atheistic’s, but the intricate workings of her mind.

This is why I haven’t modeled for a while myself, though I can certainly use the income. Shallowness bores me to tears, unless it’s drag, show-queen esq perfection everyday vanity I find irksome. This is why I write and sometimes post in such a candid, almost journal like fashion at times. Some of these started as journal entries. You could be reading, right now, a diary entry of a young woman at a crossroads staring up at the sky, wondering over her fate. Her mind is filled with tales of possession, intoxication, redemption. She could be working a scene in her head involving shape-shifting deities for her post apocalyptic novel, healing through her characters, healing through this. She could be laughing until tears gush out of her eye’s over a preacher boldly exclaiming the true face of The Devil Himself is, in fact, the pokemon Jigglypuff.

I love reading blogs or social media of people I admire, enjoy quality youtube content, get lost in books and become besties with Weetzie Bat or waltz with Morpheus. It’s all great fun for me. And so I wanted to say thank you to anyone who may be reading this, even if they forget it in a moment or so. I appreciate you for letting this moment of immortalized thought enter your consciousness. And you are great company to keep 🙂

“Let the moment go

Don’t forget it for a moment, though

Just remembering you’ve had an “and”

When you’re back to “or”

Makes the “or” mean more

Than it did before

Now I understand

And it’s time to leave the woods”


I believe I was born having bipolar disorder, but as a child through most of adulthood, the more I comprehended the harder the world became to handle.

Maybe it was my dad’s first heart attack as my earliest memory, seeing him carted away by nurses in white shoes. The whole situation was unnatural to me. I must have been a toddler, still. Daddies were not supposed to seize on floors and be lowered onto tables with white sheets. White nurses shoes did not belong on the wooden flooring. I wondered if I would ever see my father again. He wondered this himself, I found out later.

In my earliest memory my world as I knew it was ending.

What effect did this have on my mind?

For years, I hated the color white. I had a phobia of buttons because I could see my fathers heart beating and I worried it would burst. I naturally gravitated towards darkness as more and more unfortunate events happened, both world and self inflicted. Darkness was familiar, and light was something bad, or something that could be taken away.

The first poem I memorized was Robert Frost’s Fire and Ice… age 7. I would accompany my father who was a docent at a few museums and go around imagining I was flying away on the embroidered turkish maroon carpets, armed with a  silver dagger at my waist, the emeralds, rubies and sapphires glinting from glass cases like fallen meteorites sizzling. I would run around the exhibits chanting about the end of the world.

The first poem I wrote was for a school assignment. It was about how hope is the key to the world. Age 10.

I have been told I am a light soul, but I can be overcome with melencolia, darkness, depression…..destruction. My best friend Cassie would write of how she was herself, Sophia, this sane rational girl but their were her “gremlins” as she called them who were evil and often in control.

When Cassie died I wanted to,  too. I would have happily tossed myself into a pyre to bring her soul back. Being temporarily blacklisted from the EU, I could not attend her funeral. I never said goodbye. Igor. Cassie. Zak. Greywinkle. From my first friend in High School to my most recent close loss of my family cat.

What effect did this have on my mind?


Being a naturally peaceful person, not cut out for the brutality of life, I was often picked on. I had long frizzy thick hair and would sit in backs of classrooms reading or drawing. I paid attention in English and History. Math bored me. So did Biology and Science, although as an adult I find both fascinating. I believe, if one studies anything, a subject, a religion, anything at all, they need a teacher or a guide with a passion for what they do. Apathetic teachers and I had a mutual feeling of casual loathing, some teachers I loved and inspired me, and I did better in their classes, they usually ended up getting fired/suing the school board or leaving for a better job.

I studied humankind around me. Sometimes I wish I was born male because, just maybe, I would have made a better choice. I noticed that the pretty girls were popular and picked on less to my untrained eye. It was basically exercise/learn how to fight or change your outward appearance to survive in the human jungle, and at 16 I made the easier choice. I tinted my hair with blonde highlights. I made a friend who was higher in popularity than me in the high school hierarchy, and she was fun: she lived for the moment, which was a better place than being in my head most of the time.

I started wearing makeup and dating boys. I did not even like the boys. It just felt like that was the thing to do to be considered human, to be liked, to be treated nicely.

I kissed the first boy at 15, because I wanted to get it over with. It was sloppy and gross, and during some movie starring Ashton Kutcher trying not to drown. I didn’t see that boy again, Billy.

I had my first enjoyable kiss at 16 with someone I was actually attracted to, Lamont Kish. He was a skater, and this was during my first “transformation” period. Streaked hair and bikinis and spandex. When we kissed it felt like one of those rides where you are stuck to a wall as the speed increases. You are spinning and stuck in one place at the same time. We were the only ones who existed, frozen in place as the world spun like a dreidel.

We broke up because of silly high school stuff. We actually got on quite well when alone together; he introduced me to Stephen King, and gave me a copy of The Regulators when King was writing as Richard Bachman. I think I threw it in my families garage after our breakup. I was too shy to even really understand how to text guys (how was I supposed to flirt???) so I would often give my phone to my more popular friend and she would tell me what to write. He didn’t text me back enough. As an adult, I understand the world does not revolve around me and people are busy. If they have any respect, love, or care for you they will get back to you when they have time. If not, it doesn’t really matter. Because you will still be you and the world won’t end. As a 16 year old, I had no concept of this notion and became angry with him, and it ended.

The world didn’t end, though.

My mind always went to extremes. I never felt like I fit in anywhere….even at theater camp, I would hate the forced sports activities, mosquito and fire ants would devour my skin. I burned.

I always loved reading and writing, but I need to get better at fighting. Naturally, I am a peaceful person in an restless world. Maybe as I grew up, I lost some of my faith. I lost some of my belief. But I took it to an extreme. Just because a man abused me, they were just a angry red blot and humankind is so vast. Still, it’s incredible what a violent act can do to an already troubled mind.

19 ½. Rape.

What effect did this have on my mind?

My moods still rapidly cycle. I can’t control this. I don’t want to control this.


I am okay with who I am am today because I know even if the world does end, as David Bowie said, “I don’t know where I will go from here, but I promise it won’t be boring.” And if I am going to believe anyone, it will definitely be The Goblin King who Fell to Earth.

It is one thing to make a subconscious decision at 16, it is quite another to still try to cling to an outdated image at 26.

I’m questioning everything right now because for 5 years I thought I would die.

At 26 I did not die and now I know I can’t cling to that anymore. I know that if I was meant to die I will die and that will be it. I know I will have days of depression and melancholia and days of mania and joy. I accept this. I understand I am still growing, still evolving, but I accept this too. I think of my moods like clouds, sometimes dark and stormy and heavy with rain and sometimes light and white and fluffy. The sun still exists, even if you can’t see it. So does happiness and love and warmth and spirit and soul.

The important thing here is: Say the world does end. Your personal world as you know it may end, but that doesn’t mean you will cease existing.

It took me 5 years to accept that

1) Cassie would always be alive through me, because I knew her and I love her. I will always love her.

2) She moved on to another plane and I must carry her torch. I must become stronger, and put myself first. This does not come naturally. I still put my dog before me, but that is still a relationship, and one of my favorites: My dog cannot judge me. I care for her and she unconditionally loves and supports me. Even the wording here is wrong: I naturally will shower in the evenings and wake up later in the day unless I can’t sleep like tonight or set an alarm, but walking her as my first thing after coffee is simply taking care of her need and I am ok with showering later on in the day. So I am not “putting her before me” in anyway: I just still struggle with the triangle of self obsession and need to be cautious in how I speak, and act.

I do prefer animals over most people. I believe their souls are far more evolved.

I am writing a fantasy novel involving an apocalyptic scenario. But my novel is about what happens next. After the world ends. Because I want to know what happens, and if I don’t, I want to create a world out of the forest in my mind.

Hope springs eternal; it cannot be abused.

Neither can faith, or belief.

I had all the answers I needed from when I could read and write.

Destruction and darkness cannot consume me when I have the only key I will ever need: hope.

Hope is all humankind will ever need. It is very easy to get caught up in the complexities of words, feelings, emotion….society. It is very easy to question, and even hurting myself  made sense for a time, because I wanted to be the best at everything: the world hurt me, and so I hurt myself more than the world ever could.

But I am still alive. I would be lying if I said I did not want death. I crave it the way I do drugs, the way I would listen to Jill Tracy’s “The Fine art of Poisoning” or Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black”. I miss the souls I have loved who passed on.

“Dirk thought of his parents on the precipice, wanting to sink into the cavern of night and wild coyote hills, away from the hammering headlines and screaming TV’s and the death of fathers” -Baby Be-Bop.

Sometimes I wonder if it is only natural and human to crave death, or simply an escape…..to feel so overwhelmed.

But there is a small nagging voice, or maybe a light green cricket named conscience that is chirping away like my fiance when a television episode ends “Yes, but what happens next?”

For me, next is one day at a time, one word at a time, one piece of writing or video or chapter at a time.

Next is acknowledging my personal flaws and establishing boundaries to protect my soul from the chaos of the world and my own mind.

Next is appreciating what I have-my fluffy white dog with Cassie’s sweet hershey’s kisses eyes, my fiance.

He made me a cup of tea and served it to me in this today:


Meeting him was unlike anything else I ever experienced. He is the air to my fire, when we fight it is loud and angry and raised voices and shattering glass but when he hugs me I can feel his love radiating from his heart through his arms like rods of steel as he holds me against his chest.

Somehow, even in my unbalanced mental state when we met, my soul reached out and recognized his. His eyes are the emeralds of daggers forged in the endless fire of passion, he brings my imagination to life and I love the sound of his laugh, like the crinkling when you tear into a freshly wrapped birthday present. I feel so safe when I am in his arms. I nestle against his heartbeat as his eyes sing like a thousand songs and sonnets. Infinity.

And somehow I know even if we fight or succumb to life’s poison, even if we flee thousands of miles away, we will always find our way back to each other. That we are so much more amazing together than apart, that we complete each other.

My twin flame lived long enough to know I had found my soulmate.

I may get mad at you, and you at me, but I know we will always love each other.

But I still have to get stronger. Being beautiful only leads to more harm, in the end. I need strength. I want to love you more fully, to work longer, to sleep more and put my racing mind to rest without death. At the moment you are asleep and your breathing is even. Sophia my dog with Cassie’s eyes is snuggled on my lap. And I am ceasing to type to wonder in the knowledge that my small family loves me and me them no matter what this world brings.

For this moment, I am stepping out of my mind and fully embracing my present.

Insomniac B.S.

I swear to god if this actually get published anywhere I am ashamed of my entire profession. 

I get the “why don’t you model anymore” thing a lot. I stopped doing this actively a few years ago probably. I only worked with photographers who compensated me fairly and I built great working relationships with over the years. Basically, I lost interest in most things I used to do. I was very spiritually and emotionally empty. I sometimes miss dominatrix work because I am lazy and having someone clean my apartment for free while I worked on my dissertation was awesome. But I sort of always got paid to promote projects or look or behave a certain way (I also worked in promo.) I was paid well but I hated it. I was living out someone else’s fantasy and not my own reality. I would get paid work I enjoyed at times. Not often enough. But I wasn’t really fulfilled, or satisfied because I took the easy way out, or confused money/materialism with actual soul. I am not doing this anymore. It is really fucking hard sometimes. But when I feel more productive, it’s worth it.

It’s interesting how “stream of consciousness” is considered an actual “thing”.  People are such manipulative bastards. When I talk without thinking it more accurately represents word vomit or verbal diarrhea. But I mean, go you deceiving hipster wordsmiths and try to pawn this off as being deep XD To be fair, this is kind of what I love about modern art, or why I did a Poppy parody as a first video youtube video. Anything that is popular interests me. Especially things I may not find personally interesting because its like, what is the attraction here? There is an appeal in mindless consumerism. Its pure escapism whether its poppy buckling her shoes or discussing how to load a gun or simply eating cotton candy in a slightly ominous fashion.

I like Titanic Sinclair/Mars Argo/Poppy as a project as the notoriety it is gaining  kind of feels like the Andy Warhol of this generation. I think Andy Warhol was a douchebag personally (poor Edie) but that doesn’t mean I can’t respect his contributions to the art world, or the fact he created a “Modern Art Movement”.  I personally hate most modern art when looking for depth, but sometimes you just crave that comfort of a can of soup or a pretty generic blonde going on about junk food. And I personally believe it is possible to separate the promoter from the product if that makes sense. 

I saw an ALB video tonight about cognitive dissonance about how your brain can be at war with two notions. You can find it here:


The way I see it is: I get depressed a lot. Anything that I enjoy I am going to take at face value because you know what I am also prone to? Obsessive compulsive behavior. Before the addiction it was anorexia. It was always something. I had to be vegan, totally pure. After I was abused I rebelled and no one really understood. Least of all me.

Now I am trying to get my life back on track and there is one awesome thing creating this alter ego for youtube taught me: You literally have to give 0 shits. The internet can be more savage than life, I mean I didn’t actually think Donald’s trump tweet could possibly be any more horrifyingly atrocious as portrayed until I read it. (My red button is bigger and more powerful than your red button! And it actually works! I mean World Leaders are literally having a Captain Subtext conversation about their penis performance anxiety, but I would  just really much prefer if these buffoons did not lead to a Nuclear War via Twitter.)


….and people think I am mental.

“How do you document real life when real life’s getting more like fiction each day? Headlines, deadlines blow my mind and now this deadline eviction or pay” -RENT

So what do you do when reality is basically an episode of South Park, and you decide yes let’s skip the Obama administration completely because you were off in Europe getting trashed/abusive ex relationship toxicity cycle and now you come to your senses but have to deal with rape headlines and Donald Trump everywhere. Everything is triggering when you come back from a relapse, or from a long period of blocking out feelings and emotion. But  people need to face their shit in order to not stunt their growth, no matter how painful it can feel in a present moment. Healing is painful. And some people see when your hope has returned and they have no control or power over you, and they become nasty or maybe this is who they have always been, but for once you are different and made a conscious choice to not tolerate what you feel uncomfortable with. Setting boundaries can be very hard, especially is you are naturally shy and would rather avoid confrontation. But this is honestly the most important and valuable lesson I feel everyone needs to learn in order to truly lead a healthier and emotionally rich life. Learning how to communicate and being honest are key: you really are only as sick as your secrets. 

Its strange. People talk behind my back about my recovery when I say it to their face. I think it’s that trying-to-meet healthier people too thing, which I have not quite mastered the art of yet. But I don’t know many people in Jersey. My friends in London  did actually see, they really cared….they just felt as powerless as me at the time.

I guess some people in life are frightened when others drop the bullshit and are just like “yeah, I fucked up, but I am being honest about it and doing this to improve the situation.”

This is literally just word vomit, but I mean I guess that our gentrified society has deemed that a “stream of consciousness” has a nicer ring to it. Narcissistic controlling bugger/genius’s, humankind can be. Especially writers 😛