A Note from the Founder

Devaluation, a term I knew nothing about two-and-a-half years ago as I had barely survived my first brush with it just 3 years prior. If I’m being honest, I had probably experienced devaluation a time or two during my life. Now, it defines my life. This time! This one singular time has completely rewritten mine and my children’s lives: suddenly, instantly, and without reservation. This time, I was forced to truly experience it. Devaluation. I could not deny its reality. It’s new reality. I’ve had to accept this reality. But, the waters of devaluation move like the ocean. Calm one moment and torrential the next, or worse, forever more; casting one out of the waters and forgotten in the true depths of devaluation. No matter the ties. No matter the connections. Devaluation torches all that it touches; be it the devalued, the devaluer, or the children caught in the cross-fire. No one escapes.

This time I couldn’t avoid it. I was forced to learn what had just happened to my boys and I. Practically overnight, but definitely out of the blue, it struck like a kick to my groin, devaluation. I didn't know what it was. But, I had to learn. I had to understand why the very fabric of my family, my children’s family, had suddenly unraveled. My partner, my love, and the mother of my very young children, suddenly claimed ours was a family she never wanted; her new reality forged in devaluation. This devaluation continues to impact my boys and I to this very day.

Through the chaos of the waves, I fight through exhaustion to stay afloat; to hold on for my boys. As my own father coached me in my youth, survival is sometimes about keeping one nostril just above the water line. This event two-and-a-half years ago, the latest devaluation, has reshaped our life overnight and with devastating consequences. This is from my journal of devaluation. This is what I have lived. This is what my children have lived. This is what my family continues to live.

Why does this keep happening to me? First my own mother, then the mother of my child, then the mother of my child again. Everything keeps getting taken away from me; stolen from. I am POWERLESS to do anything about it. It’s a nightmare I never could have imagined that I now inhale every breath within. The nightmare of devaluation.

I now understand that the first time she did it to me, it was devaluation. I didn’t even know the word existed at the time. So much I have had to learn in the time since. All that I knew was that on Sunday she was in love with me and on Tuesday she hated me. On Sunday she was begging me not to leave her; but I abandoned her from her experience all the same. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to abandon her. I didn’t know! I didn’t understand this monstrosity of an illness like I do now. But, the minute I drove away, she had been abandoned by me. If I’d understood that at the time, I would have never left her. I never would have encouraged her to stay behind. Maybe we’d still be a family to this day and I would have been there when my first child came into this world.

But, then again, poor Torin, no! I would suffer all the hurt in the world to make sure he came into being. Every minute of pain I suffered while Atlas grew inside of her, far, far from me, I would endure all over again. I would embrace it for all it’s hurt; for all its torment. If that would be the only way to bring Torin into the world, I would endure it ALL again. I would not hesitate. I just don’t want them to hurt, my children, my boys, and my Torin. But, I am POWERLESS to stop that now too. I know he hurts so much. My gawd I feel his pain EVERY TIME I drop him off to that place! But! Nobody will listen to me for I am the MONSTER; again. I’ve been devalued. I don’t matter. My opinions are unworthy; options not worth considering; undesirable.

That’s what happens with devaluation. It’s worse than being enemies with someone. Oh gosh, I would rather battle to the death than wage the silent war of devaluation. In this cold, cold bitter world there is no way to be seen. To be heard. To be cared about. The depths of the cold within oneself consume as the person you once were withers from the chill. You no longer exist to she or to anyone who knows you both. Who you were is swallowed by devaluation. It’s worse than death as you exist for an eternity in this state; lest she that devalued grants you grace; forgiveness for loving them when even they could not.

The person with this illness, this disease of mind, this clustered complication, creates the worst kind of new back story for you - for me! That’s who I have become! I’ve become Vader when I strove to be Kenobi. It’s the worst kind of trashy TV drama that would score big week after week. And it’s believed! Even those I once thought of as friends believe! They now shun me and for what exactly, I don’t know. But I can only imagine based on what was said in court testimonials, friends’ ears, Facebook pages, Discord chat groups, and to lusty 19-year-old boys.

Overnight I am no longer a dad to be cherished. Or, even just a dad period! I am completely shunned despite the fact that my children still just want their dada. I just want to be their dada despite the lies of devaluation! Is that so wrong? Little, little Torin just wanted to stay with his dada and not be left alone in daycare all day, everyday. I can feel his pain coursing though me even 10 months later. He hurt so bad and he just wanted his father, me, to hold him longer. But we were both denied; always denied. Denied by devaluation. Denied by a system that doesn’t truly see the emotional needs of children. A system that doesn’t prioritize them amongst their shuffling of papers. Always shuffling. Why can’t I hold my son longer when he just wants it? Again, is that so wrong?

For once in my life, I thought someone loved me. I thought this poor broken woman that clung to me desperately for safety - for security - was like me; broken from the worst of traumatized childhoods. Both equally crippled by mothers who saw us as tools for their advancement, rather than seedlings to be fostered. So, when this very young woman said she loved me, for once in my life, I believed her. I finally felt special. I thought I was finally loved and I fell right in, deeply.

I went in with arms very wide open thinking I was going to be a dad - a dada - twice over. I finally had a family of my own. A family that couldn’t be stolen because I’d helped to create it. Devaluation took that family away from me in an instant - twice now. The first, I became the rapist; a sperm donor to be disregarded and exiled. Even if the child was mine, it wasn’t. I’d been outcast by devaluation.

Before I was even allowed to hold my first-born child - given permission to - two other men got to hold my Atlas! Before me! Without me! Like I didn’t matter! Because of the lies of devaluation, I HAD to wait. I was a danger. I wasn’t a dad desperate to meet his child; his first. I was instead a threat that needed to be guarded against.

I had no way to defend myself against the lies blocking and stopping me from holding my first. I didn’t know how. I didn’t understand. Lies that first struck like a sucker punch. Lies I didn’t know existed until they were served upon me in official capacity. How do I stand up to that - all of that? Yet I still didn’t know why! I didn’t know how I’d fallen so far but needed to defend myself none the less. I struggled to stay afloat. Devaluation was a new language flung upon me in an exhale.

The man who was once the one person she didn’t want to leave her that Sunday evening early in July, was now a vicious sex offender. Officially now! It was in print! It was undeniable! It was real! It had to be for it carried official seal with a lawyer signature for all to see; including me, and for the first time, confirming crimes I’d not known I’d committed.

How do you come back from that? I don’t know! A year after that, a year after our first face off before a judge, and I’m taking care of them both; my Atlas and she. She was beyond inebriated. She’d partied the night away for her 22nd like she hadn’t been able to for her 21st. That was ok. Atlas was safe and so was she; more so now that I was back upon the path to value. Value meant she could trust me. The manufactured danger was gone. She could feel safe with me once again. Safe as I cleaned the vomit from the pillowcase, the side of the sheets, and gently, the side of her face as she mumbled tender thank yous to me. It was with all the love I’d lost that night in July - only 18 months prior.

Two years to that and Torin is getting big in her belly and we are making plans - BIG PLANS - for Atlas’ second birthday; and with all of our new friends! For Atlas’ first, we had to beg random people with children to attend. The strain of parenting across two states that first year depicted in our party challenges. This time, we’d gained a whole group of friends. A community that accepted our special family without question and without reservation; no questions, no answers, just love and acceptance despite the differences. Two years from chaos and I have a family and friends. I have a community that regards me, as a father and for myself, this older man, who loved dearly this family he never thought he’d have.

A year from that and I’m screaming at a man who repeatedly threatened to use his money to take my children from me. The uncle - not the father - THE UNCLE! The PREDATOR - never captured despite the frequent accusations - stories never believed – despite the number of hurt children and the convicted sibling. The monster - who helped his father hide the nightmares of his sisters. The uncle, the coward, the predator. Four times he said it to me. Four times he threatened to take my children from me. FOUR TIMES!

He didn’t care what it was doing to Atlas and Torin. What it would do to them long-term! Nobody cared. I was begging him to please look at some papers regarding our second time in this mess; this same exact mess. Evidence that I wasn’t a liar! I had brought proof! Please! Just look! I didn’t want my boys to be impacted further. Please! I was begging this monster who had already stolen my family once for gawd knows what reasons to please hear me; to please stop; for my children! Please! I was pleading for consideration; for grace. I was groveling like an indigent as he’d already done this once before. I just didn’t know how else to protect my children. So, I begged. PLEASE!

He wouldn’t hear. No one would hear. I was suddenly the lunatic as I desperately tried to impede this man’s attempts to steal my children through the courts. Again! A tactic he mastered a generation before as he’d helped my abuser’s mother keep her from her father. I threatened to call the cops because I was getting concerned about his interactions with my son. He did not care. I was on the path to becoming a new type of monster - an uglier monster. A newer and uglier devaluation. He did not care. He didn’t have to. He knew he’d get away with it all, just like he had before. He had no reason to care.

Two years after that, my first born’s birthday is being celebrated without me, for the first time. I think I have now missed all of Torin’s birthdays. By Atlas’5th birthday, I hadn’t seen either of my children for 3 months. Why? All because I got scared! She was trying to take my children out of state; again. I was scared of something happening; again. While they were alone in Arizona; again. Alone, with her; again. I didn’t want Torin to come back scarred like his big brother. I didn’t want my children hurt; again. But, there was now no way to be heard. Fathers are not heard unless a lawyer holds their hand; accompaniment across the busy intersection for a bewildered child. A tragic lesson learned through my desperation in that, my narrow window of opportunity, fumbled because no one was there to take my hand.

No one would listen. By that point, I was a drug-peddling-wine-buying-old man-pervert who preyed upon young girls. For my trial, I couldn’t even have evidence let alone witnesses to testify to my actual character; to the real type of human being I am - to me! A guy who saved a single mom $1100 dollars on a car repair. Not because I expected anything. It was just the right thing to do; a lesson I hoped to teach my boys more than once as we walked through life together. I had only known her for a week. But, her sons needed things. I had an hour of my time, under her car, and she a 100 bucks for parts. Santa now had an extra $1000 that year.

That’s just one story that could have been told if I would have been allowed just one witness in my defense; for my defense. At the end, that’s exactly what I was, a defendant pleading for his life. Not a father. Not someone who mattered to two little boys. Not a consistent care giver needed in their lives. Not a parent who had stayed - who had not run off on them. No. I was a convicted man before word even escaped my lips nor breath my lungs. Judgement passed without a word because my adjudicator had once befallen another man’s cruelty. I had no one to tell who I really am - to speak up for me - to tell the type of father I was - before this. The father I am. Before devaluation. No person. No paper. No photo. No video.

Just me. One lone man and his word. A word that used to matter. Before this. A word that others had confidence in. Before this. Now, my word was not enough. The lies of devaluation had befallen my word. Devaluation befell my honor. Lies told by her were stronger than the honest and complicated truth I did my best to present. It didn’t matter. Her lies ARE her reality. Believed without question as devaluation had rewritten reality for everyone starting with her; “her truth” was reality. I’d stepped into the “Zone” and “Wednesday” was now the word for “dinosaur” while Rod silently smirked from the gallery. I was arguing against a new reality only I knew was different.

Once in the clutches of that diminished reality, devaluation, the harder you fight, the further one is thrown - out of sight - out of mind - out of EXISTENCE. To her, I was cast out and she screamed demon! To my adjudicator, to my arbiters, I had already sinned prior to appearance; my sin, falling captive to one younger than I. For preying upon one younger than I. My word didn’t matter. My truth didn’t matter. The man I AM didn’t matter. Devaluation didn’t matter. Well being didn’t matter. This was just a formality.

The show had started - the theater. More torment for a man already gasping for air. Obsessed! Her lawyer cried!! She viciously painted this picture of an obsessed man. I was obsessed with this young gal; this child I must have preyed upon, the dirty old man that I am. I the villain while she an innocent, fortunate to have escaped my wicked clutches. To break free. To gain agency from evil that had only sought to control her. To own her. Not only her but her two precious children as well. Children who could have only been born from a predator and not a father. There had never been a family; never a mama and dada who read bedtime stories together while cuddled up with their boys in their little beds. That was fiction. That was a fantasy I had virtually walked through for 17 months. It was a creation in my mind; a delusion. I was no longer a father. I never was a father. I had become, and devaluation had made me, a victimizer. There was no good left, nor had there ever been any to begin with.

LIES! How does an abused man scream to the court “LIES?!” “All LIES!!” He can’t! He won’t be heard! This is just theater. This is just punishment. Salt poured into the wound as inflicted upon father and children in unison. She held the flesh taught to stay open as her arbiter sliced and the adjudicator gleefully poured. Together they partook, the children all but invisible to the court, to these purveyors of “best interest;” the boys anguished cries hidden, but still tortured all the same. They were out of sight from the very “judicial” blindness believed to protect.

Fool I was to the court! No lawyer to stand by a convicted man for his trial. I mistakenly begged the court for more time; time to return, not the fool. The need was understood. I understood; and not just for the formalities well beyond my grasp. Daily abuse left the cogs in my skull spinning all wrong. The grease was brittle, crumbling as the teeth chiseled into one another; and so my thoughts, endlessly crushing one another. How could I? How could I explain THIS?! THIS DEVALUATION! I barely understood it myself. I hadn’t even survived it. All I knew was my appearance was the only chance for my children. With or without counsel, for my boys, I had to show. I had to appear for a chance, a glimmer of hope, maybe I’d be heard and not forced to suffer the pre-approved ruling.

I showed up prepared for the rack and what that meant for me. Despite my grand debut, my attempt at judicial theater, I was an instant flop. I knew not how to act. I couldn’t act like a “father.” I couldn’t pretend. I couldn’t perform like all the other participants. The slow turning gears did their best just to talk; just to remember everything. Remember everything to tell. Don’t forget! Remember what to tell! Tell just the important stuff. You have to remember! Don’t forget to tell! You have to tell all the bad stuff. ALL of it! It’ll hurt the boys. I hated it. It’ll hurt their mom. Gawd, I hated that too. But, you have to tell the truth. Just tell them everything so they know it all and can believe. I’m not a liar. Please protect my boys! Please believe me!

For my boys, I endured. Her solicitor pulled out the pliers. Unable to speak; I was prevented when I tried. I was forced to be obedient with mother’s steady hand just above. I was forced to endure her counselor’s lashings behind clenched lips. All the while, the truth screamed inside me; a child trying to fight back! But, before the court, I was silent. I could only endure. Devaluation had taken my strength and in turn, my voice. If only I’d had the voice from before the abuse. A voice to release as the flesh separated from each nail. I would have screamed my confession. Yes! I AM obsessed! I am obsessed with being myself! I am obsessed with being the father I know I am. I am obsessed with continuing to be the only thing I know how to be, anymore, a father. Atlas and Torin’s father! I am obsessed with who I was, who I had become, and who I really am! My true obsession was never seen though. The ongoing and unseen war of trying to find my way back to being; to being me, to being believed, and to just being a dad! And, not for me; for my boys. Just for my boys.

When one falls into the depths of devaluation, we long to be the person we once were. So we can be heard. So we can be seen. Not to she that took it all! Not to everyone that was taken along with. Stolen because it was far easier to believe that man hurt woman - never woman hurt man. We, the devalued, long to simply be ourselves for those to whom we really matter. I desperately wanted to be who I had become before the exile of devaluation. But, once cast out, I was forgotten; a common struggle amongst the hovel of discarded in the pits of devaluation. I’m obsessed with the father I was - with the father I know I still am. From these pits, one can’t be seen though; I can’t be seen. I can’t even be heard. My abuser holds the keys.

I pray my children can hang onto their memories of the father I am; the father that I couldn’t properly present on stage. I pray their tiny grasps are strong enough to hang on to the truth; not the lies. Please not the lies! She had her memories of her father stripped, erased, and stolen. Facilitated with equal cruelty a generation before, the uncle, the nemesis, practiced his wares to keep fathers away; far, far away; never present to radiate the truth to children robbed of their presence. My fight to prevent a similar fate for my boys erased before I even made it to the stage, let alone the theater. All because I never had the means to really fight back - in court - against this man; and like her father before me. So, I pray, as if clutching to the side of a cliff, I pray my boys can remember. I pray they can hang on as tight to preserve their memories of the man I am, of their father; of the truth. Please don’t let that be taken from them too.

Despite the uncle’s efforts, I know Atlas remembers. I hope he can just hang on. For my lil’ dude, I only hope that someway, somehow, Torin remembers. No! Scratch that! More than remembers! Please let him still somehow know it in his heart like his brother. Please let him somehow still feel it! Let him feel my love; a gentle tug toward love taken instead of the anguish that comes when abandoned. Abandonment, the only way for one so young to experience the sudden removal of a parent, his father, from his life. Please don’t let him feel the abandonment; not that horror! A horror I felt in my own heart as it broke alongside his every time I left him in that place; when, all that he wanted was to just stay with his father - to be held by me. Is that so wrong? But, that isn’t allowed. Please let him; let little, little Torin feel the tug of all the love I have for him. Please let them both always feel my love. Please never let the hurt casually imposed by devaluation take the place of my love.

A year after all that, in our sixth year, the devaluation is so much worse. Before it was ALL in Arizona, another place. It didn’t matter. Not much. Not really. It existed in the community that was raising my child without me and not where I lived, not where it could be known; not where it could hurt me. It thrived amongst a community who had no way to gauge the man I really was. So, it didn’t matter; not really. It’s cruelty couldn’t touch me here, when it was there. But now it’s here. It’s in my community. It thrives amongst those I thought were my friends. No resistance to the roots digging in - in the first place - no consideration. She cried foul and everyone simply believed. It was sufficient evidence to convict, for the court to hang, and so, in my community, in their minds, it’s now true. It is fact. She is believed unconditionally. The devaluation, the lies, permeate my world, my neighborhood, and my street.

That’s ok. For my boys, I will continue. I will push on. I may never be valued again; even amongst the community that I helped build. That’s ok. This is for my children; for my boys. I will see my boys again; my family. I know my boys want to see me and I will continue to fight to see them; to be with them. I will continue and not for some measly pauper’s “you’re lucky you get any time with my children” sort of time. I will have equal time again. I will be with my children again. I will be there for my children again. I will make decisions for my children again. I will hold my children again. I will be there when they need their father again! Despite the lies. Despite the devaluation. I survive for them. I endure for them. Despite the problems known to be at play. Problems all but ignored - neglected - by those that are supposed to care - the courts, the lawyers and even the family therapist that are not remotely qualified to treat families let alone cluster b type problems. I fight through the systematic failures for them, for my boys.

The family therapist, you stand on the bow of the boat with life preserve and outreached hand, pretending to be a savior – with no real world experience to save a drowning victim. You push past the actual qualified rescuers for your own glory, all the while you don't actually possess the knowledge to protect the victim, let alone yourself from the abusers lies. You jump in the choppy waters for the glory, but drown the victim as you stand upon their shoulders to capture the spotlight. How arrogant does one have to be with a degree in art to question the doctor who’s done the work for a PhD in the very field where you now feign expertise? He didn’t skip ahead. He didn’t have a mid-life crisis and abruptly change careers. He put in the work, the time, and the dedication to earn a PhD in psychology. He earned the skills to properly help others - to not hurt children. He earned the right to put official opinion to print. It's not even inexperience that's the problem. It’s the narcissistic need for attention no matter the cost to the children involved. It’s the arrogance. Who are you to dismiss a PhD evaluation? Orally! Publicly! And, so damn casually, despite the theater! Your arrogance to show off to the court damned two young boys you never really saw to begin with. You hurt children to grab at that light! You should be ashamed of yourself! So should anyone who refers you to others; who collaborates with you. You have hurt my children. That is unforgivable! How many other children have been hurt because of your arrogance, your laziness, and your weakness? How many more will be hurt?

And, that’s exactly what it is. It is weakness. Absolute weakness. One’s incapacity to not see a child’s actual needs, unfiltered by your own, is weakness. Weakness by the therapist. Weakness by the courts. Weakness pushed by cowardly lawyers. Which all inevitably transcribes to a weakness built into the system that hurts children instead of protecting them. It fails to help them when they need it most of all and at a time when they are SEEN the least. Do any of you actually see them; the children you neglect with your legalese. I see them! I see my boys! I see their pain! I will overcome your weakness.

To my boys, I matter. To others, I am not a victim. I am not abused. I am the abuser - somehow. What I see no longer matters; my boys’ hurt. The life I've lived and the efforts I've made to help others don't matter. When fiction takes precedence to preserve fragile egos and facts no longer matter, real consequences happen to real children and real people. Those simply desperate to share kindness and love, take the brunt. I’ve experienced that consequence. I live that consequence. The full unflinching impact of devaluation. The truth of who I was lost to the singularity at the center of the darkest of holes. An event horizon to which the devalued is unseen forever, more. All information they existed lost and erased in the absolute blackness.

The truth is, the truth that can’t be taken away, I have spent a lifetime unseen and cut off from others because of the things that my mother did to me. I had my birth family stolen from me by the woman who was supposed to protect me, my mother. I’m used to lies. I’m used to false narratives told to preserve a mother over father and, as a result, mother over child. I have lived these lies. I have walked in them day in and day out for a lifetime. I just never expected similar lies - “her truth” - to be used to cut me off from my own. I never thought lies would take that which I helped to create, my children, from me. Not when I fought so hard to be a dad - a better dad. Not when I waited to get it right. It’s worse than being unseen by one’s own mother. It’s worse than her lies. It was a promise of all I could be as a father, as a man, taken away cruelly and without hesitation; for reasons I still don’t know. It’s another impact of devaluation I was unprepared for.

The damage of devaluation to self is undeniable. To one’s ego. To all sense of personal value. I thought I was a good dad and believed I was a good dad before this. But, the isolation that results from devaluation also imposes self doubt, the cruelest kind. The most vicious but with filed teeth; prolonging the shredding of spirit. Tearing it all down. My thoughts frequently return to:

“I am a good dad?”

“I was a good dad?”

“Am I a good dad?”

“Will I be a good dad?”

“Can I be a good dad?”

“Was she right?”

“I’m no good?

“I’m a loser.”

“I’m a bum.”

“Is it all my fault?”

“It is all my fault.”

I just don’t know. This is the lasting devastating consequence of devaluation as it peels away our sense of self, our confidence and ultimately, our personal worth. Loss of belief leads to personal death. A death of self. In the absolute isolation of devaluation, the bearer of sudden loss befalls the death of a thousand cuts. A horrific death experienced alone and in the dark. Where, even if you cried out, the coldness of the place freezes the sound as it leaves your mouth. Even your own ears can not feel the chill of the cry no matter how desperate they are for just even the slightest of sensations - of changes - to the blackness. Alone, in the cold, unheard and unseen, I struggle to crawl out. To find myself. To know. To believe. Again.

Despite it all; the fractures in the system meant to protect children, the lies, the abuse, and the ultimate loss of self, I will continue to fight for the best INTEREST of my children. This life has taught me one crucial thing; one fundamental truth. It’s how to survive by the bare minimum. It is an instinct that endures despite the loss of self. I may not have the capacity to battle wealth, but I know how to survive. I can endure long-term by the most basic of means in the cruelest of conditions. By my bootstraps. I know how to survive to fight another day. That’s more valuable than pieces of paper that when you’re starving are just fuel for the fire rather than warmth for the belly. Devaluation may crush my spirit but it will not crush me. The lies will not win.

Believe it, or not, I don’t care. Anymore! I don’t care about her lies. I don’t care about the new world view. I don’t care about her devaluation of me anymore. I can live in an abyss. I can be fine. But, my boys shouldn’t have to. I fight so they don’t. Devaluation touches and kills the spirit of all within its orbit. I don’t want the same for my children. All I care about now are my Atlas and Torin - Torin and Atlas - equal both in my heart. My boys! All I care about anymore is ensuring the two of them have a chance. A chance to not be burdened by childhood. A chance to know love - actual real love in this world. A chance to really live!

I want my boys to know. I need my boys to know! My boys come from a place of love! My boys did not come from a place of hate. My boys are not a product of cruelty! My boys are not unwanted surprises. My boys are planned and wanted! 100%! I wanted my boys in this world. I don't know if my abuser - their donor - really did. Can I believe she really wanted them with me - to share parenthood with me? I honestly don’t know. When she told me that she did, my heart surged with belief! Now, I can’t help but doubt it all. Every moment, every word, and every lie. Despite all the lies, I want my boys to know that I brought them into this world with all the love that I had and that I still have for you both. It’s important for them to know that truth; they are meant to be here. They are and were wanted!

My boys have to know. My boys need to know! I want my boys to know love in this world unlike I have ever known. I want them to know love throughout a lifetime - not simply in moments that always taunt and never really give. This is to you both; to my boys. This is for you both; for my boys. I put these words to paper with all the love I carry for you both; in my heart always. Should the same family that kept your mother from her father succeed in their wicked endeavors to keep children from father - again - I write this so you can learn the truth of your father and yourselves, The Deus Boys. I write this to you both, for you both, and with all my love. I love you both now and forever. I will never stop fighting for you.

*

This is dedicated to my sixth grade teacher, Miss Ruff. I wish I knew how to spell the name you took when you fell in love later in life. You instilled in me the strength of word - a way to finally be understood with my own language. So far I have come from those two-page papers we wrote by hand; the ones where I intentionally put only three words a line because I didn’t know how to truly share - not yet. Halfway through a year, my time with a phenomenal teacher was cut too early, and I was running out of space for all the words finally able to get free. Thank you for that. Thank you for being a beacon of light when I needed it most. Thank you for showing me belief in myself and my words. Thank you Miss Ruff. Mrs. Ez-me-all. :-)

Charles Deus

Free 🍉

#himtoo

#mentoo