#memoir excerpt

[agirlnamedbone]

@tinypricksproject on IG

[beyondmillennial]

"At fourteen, I saw a dangerous reputation as a good thing. Now I understand those reputations come with consequences."

The final weeks of the summer of 2003 marked a complete descent into neighborhood conflicts, street logic, and extreme escalation.

It began when neighborhood rumors pushed me past a breaking point. Pete and I tracked down a former friend at his home, where a sudden snap led to me choking him in front of a gathered crowd, establishing a ruthless reputation I was far too young to understand. Days later, that environment escalated even further when an older guy violently ambushed Pete over a family feud. Driven by a quiet paranoia that had already convinced us to carry a machete tucked beneath my pants, I passed Pete the blade in broad daylight. The entire atmosphere shifted instantly.

After dumping the weapon into a nearby sewer, we retreated to my apartment to cool off with beer and Three 6 Mafia. But when the police came pounding on the door, panic took over. We leaped off the balcony, Pete injuring his foot in a jump from the second floor, and fled through backyards as five police cruisers swarmed the street. Though the legal situation was eventually defused when officers recognized Pete was the victim of an adult attacker, my apartment door had been kicked down, and the trajectory of my youth was permanently altered.

Carrying weapons, hiding from police, and relying on calculated violence didn't happen overnight; it happened one decision at a time. Before high school had even started, the environment had completely rewritten who I was.

Read the full journey in Beyond Millennial: A Psychological Memoir, coming soon.

[beyondmillennial]

"At fourteen, I believed I was simply living my life. Today, I wonder how much of that transformation happened without me noticing."

The summer of 2003 was defined by a specific kind of teenage isolation: weightlifting in small rooms, heavy weed use, and an exclusive obsession with the dark, hypnotic sound of Memphis rap group Three 6 Mafia.

But that summer took a turn into the unexplainable.

During a weekend trip to a cottage outside Ottawa, a late-night joint in the pitch-black woods ended with an encounter with a massive, red-eyed entity standing in the trees. The fear didn't end when we returned home. Over the following months, inexplicable occurrences plagued my apartment, culminating in a terrifying afternoon when my friend and I spotted the same figure standing in my bedroom in broad daylight, leaving behind a heavy thud and a strange, hoof-shaped mark on the floor.

An excerpt reflecting on youth, psychological shifts, dark influences, and the mysterious events that bonded two fourteen-year-olds as blood brothers.

Read the full journey in Beyond Millennial: A Psychological Memoir, coming soon.

[beyondmillennial]

"At the time, I thought I looked pretty cool. I probably didn't."

Growing up as a millennial meant being caught in a weird cultural crossfire: one foot in Dragon Ball Z and local community center dances, and the other in a world defined by Sean Paul, 50 Cent, oversized T-shirts, and pre-teen nightlife.

From nine-year-olds imitating adult music videos at local dances to fourteen-year-olds drinking, smoking, and frequenting pre-teen clubs in Ottawa, the progression into adult behavior felt almost invisible because it happened step by step. Looking back, the music and the atmosphere never really changed; only the behaviors became more extreme, quietly validated by the silence of the adults in the room.

An excerpt reflecting on Y2K youth culture, the normalization of early adult environments, and how much our surroundings shaped us before we even knew who we were.

Read the full journey in Beyond Millennial: A Psychological Memoir, coming soon.

[weeorphan]

The Truth ... Crucified

An Excerpt from Chapter 41 Path Perilous: My Search for God and the Miraculous “The Plongeur…a slave of the modern world.” Down and Out, George Orwell I climbed the back stairs to the kitchen in the dark, the smell hitting me before I reached the door—grease, burned meat, sour water left too long in metal trays. Inside, a mountain of pots and pans waited, slick with fat, stacked like wreckage.…

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[backintothisbody]

I Didn’t Grow Up Wanting Peace

I didn’t grow up wanting peace I grew up wanting the noise to stop long enough for me to exist

That’s the part people misunderstand when they talk about healing They assume the goal is calm. For some of us, the goal was permission

Permission to take up space without being corrected Permission to want something without it being mocked Permission to feel without bracing for consequences

When your first home teaches you that love arrives with volatility, your nervous system learns to live ahead of the moment anticipating, scanning, shrinking

So no, I didn’t write this book after everything was resolved I wrote it while learning how to stay in my body after years of leaving it just to survive

This isn’t a story about becoming strong It’s a record of what it cost to become real

I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body wasn’t written to inspire It was written to tell the truth from places most people are still afraid to look

Amazon.com: I Wrote Myself Back Into This Body eBook : Hamid, Aya: Kindle Store

[weeorphan]

Breakthrough

An Excerpt from Chapter Twenty-Two Path Perilous: My Search for God and the Miraculous A true story of my spiritual breakthrough recounting that moment of discernment during psychiatric hospitalization, where human presence became an instrument through which healing was quietly set in motion. 1965 — Age 23 At Mass Mental Health, I moved from one hospital activity to another, trying to quiet…

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[ham1lton]

I JUST FINISHED READING EVERYTHING ABOUT LUCKY GIRL! WHO DID SHE HOOK UP WITH??

author’s note: i promised i’d tell you so … story under the cut.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

DELETED CHAPTER FROM LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

mark and i don’t talk anymore. not now, not for years. not after what happened. and honestly, i don’t blame him. some things are too messy, too raw, to ever really come back from.

it was during one of the worst weekends of my career. i’d been humiliated in the press, my abilities questioned yet again, my wins chalked up to the car, to luck, to everything but me. the paddock had felt particularly cruel that weekend, and every glance, every murmured comment, every smug smirk felt like a dagger to the chest. i was raw, exposed in a way i hated, and i didn’t know how to cope. so i did what most people do when they’re trying to run from their feelings: i drank.

mark was already at the bar when i got there. we were never close. cordial, yes. polite, sure. but close? no. he always seemed distant, even when we were stuck in the same endless cycle of press conferences, podiums, and post-race dinners. i didn’t dislike him—I actually respected him a lot as a driver—but there was always this… air about him. like he had a thousand thoughts running through his head that he’d never say out loud. so i was confused but not shocked, when he slid on to the stool next to mine.

i didn’t plan for it to happen. i don’t think he did either. but as the night wore on, the conversation turned deeper, more personal. we weren’t just venting about the paddock anymore—we were exposing all the little cracks inside ourselves. he talked about how trapped he felt, how exhausting it was to constantly pretend like he was fine when everything felt like it was falling apart. i talked about how lonely it was, how much it hurt to be dismissed over and over, no matter how much i proved myself.

we were both raw, stripped of the façades we usually wore. and in that vulnerability, something shifted. it wasn’t romantic, and it wasn’t planned. it was two people desperately reaching out for something—anything—to make the pain feel a little less sharp, even if just for a moment.

the room was quiet when we stumbled into it, the kind of quiet that buzzes in your ears. i remember his hands on me, tentative, as if he was waiting for me to tell him to stop. how they shook in the beginning, like he was just as unsure as i was.

but i didn’t. i didn’t want him to. it wasn’t gentle or soft or any of the things they tell you intimacy is supposed to be. it was messy, almost frantic, like we were trying to exorcise all the pain and frustration through each other. his lips were rough against mine, his grip firm as if he needed something solid to hold onto. so did i.

it didn’t last long. neither of us wanted it to. when it was over, we didn’t say a word. he left first, and i stayed in that room, staring at the ceiling, feeling emptier than i ever had before. i thought it would help, thought it would fill the void inside me. but it didn’t. it just made it worse.

we didn’t talk about it. not the next day, not ever. if anything, we avoided each other more than we already had. when i’d see him in the paddock, we’d exchange polite nods, but that was it. no words, no eye contact, just silence. and honestly, that was for the best. because what could we have said? ‘sorry we used each other as a band-aid for wounds that would never really heal’?

so to this day, we don’t talk. we don’t need to. some things are better left buried in the past, where they belong.

but sometimes, i wonder if he thinks about it. i wonder if it haunts him the way it does me—not because of what we did, but because of what it represented. two people, broken by the same machine, looking for solace in all the wrong places.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

did you guess mark was the one she hooked up with?

yes

no

Voting ended onDec 15, 2024