What makes each one of us different is our life experiences. Despite 7.9 Billion humans living on this planet, each of us is unique. Suppose you took externally identical twins and raised one of them in Siberia, Russia, and the other in Hollywood, California. In that case, wouldn’t you think… they’d most likely be as different as ‘Dry Ice’ and ‘Molten Lava.’ For the most part, are we the Sum of our experiences?
Speaking for the only person I can, Me… I discovered because of self-preservation and by accident that I needed to write, to break away from my realities. I was imprisoned by the IRS for over seven years in Terminal Island Federal Prison on Marijuana charges. During my incarceration at the Sacramento County Jail, I was overmedicated with thousands of pharmaceuticals… ‘Civil Case.’ These mixtures caused malignant melanoma ‘Cancer.’ A large tumor started growing out of my right foot. It looked like a three-inch gory mushroom that protruded from the heel. ‘I have pictures… ☹. I had a nervous breakdown because of the combination of pharmaceuticals and mental and physical health issues. The Federal Prosecutors brought in a Forensic Psychologist to evaluate me… to ensure that I was sane enough to be held accountable for the marijuana charges.
Months passed without medical attention; the tumor continued to bleed and excrete pus and other fluids. After finally getting approval from the BOP ‘Bureau of Prisons, ’ I ended up in a hospital, chained and shackled to a gurney for 26 days and nights. I refused to eat or drink fluids and was forced intravenously to live. Psychiatrists, Priests, and counselors all visited me. All I wanted was to die. Please leave me alone! A surgeon removed, uhm, amputated part of my right heel. Next, I was shipped to Terminal Island in a wheelchair. All I wanted to do was Die.
Time passed by as I rolled in my wheelchair. I couldn’t avoid the excruciating pain that resulted in having a gaping hole in my right foot. I was alone, spoke to know one, and never had a single visit in all the years in prison. I was lost in a fugue, despondent and inconsolable, praying that Cancer finished me off quickly. I couldn’t count how many psychiatrists tried to have me communicate with them. I would count the words that I was forced to speak in a week’s time. My best week was two words… ‘Thank you.’ Said, too, a prisoner who held the Chow Hall door open for me.
My escape was reading book after novel. One after another, I would lose myself in the plots and storylines. One evening I sat in my wheelchair after re-reading a chapter… frowned. I would analyze meticulously how the plot would unfold. The story was filled with contradictions and mistakes. I couldn’t understand how this book could have been published. How could the editors miss these blatant blunders… it made zero sense. I ordered a tablet and a few pens from the commissary, marked up the error-filled book, then re-wrote what the author I thought was trying to convey to her audience. It was fun for me. 😊
I couldn’t sleep something was gnawing at me, and it wasn’t only Cancer… yeah, I felt energized after writing how I thought the mistake-riddled book should have been finished. I was instantly engaged; out of the blue, I called my sister Wendy who was shocked to hear from me… I told her I was going to write a book. But didn’t want to write a non-fiction book or memoir, for it would be too caustic and depressing for me. She is an animal lover of all species… In my first book Feral Eyes, the protagonist, Wendi Feral, could communicate with animals.
I started writing and never stopped. I became each character and found myself in diverse storylines. I was the sinister female vixen and the macho man. I wrote Millions of words, a total of 17 books. Writing healed my deep wounds, mentally and physically I’d escaped prison metaphorically… living and nurtured by the characters in my books. 😊