I BELIEVED THAT HE LOVED ME

However, all the while, l clung to the belief that he loved me. He was a brave, modest man, generous with his assistance and advice—there as a rock, always. As a child, I worried obsessively about him when it was near time for him to come home from work—that something would happen to him, and he might not make it home to us. I guess you can say my love for him was as out of proportion as my fear of him.

Grateful to Be Alive: My Road to Recovery from Addiction by [D.K. Sanz]

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Feature image of father and child walking and image of father with baby by StockSnap from Pixabay 

WELCOME TO MY TOTALLY ABSURD DREAMS

It was a recurring dream for many years.

I’m in the bleak underground, waiting for a train. There’s just enough light from the incandescent lamps to cast a dingy yellow glow. Trains pass, but they look ancient. Still, they are un-defaced by familiar graffiti. Near the passenger doors, the stops each train would make are listed on a flipping board. I don’t recognize any of these places.

Rooted to the platform, I ask strangers for directions. None of them have ever heard of this place I want to go to—never heard of Woodside, Queens.  Lost and disoriented, I feel deep distress and despair.

In my mind, I recall Manhattan’s glittering skyscrapers seen at a distance, beyond the river and the bridge. I remember my train rumbling speedily toward the heart of Queens, passing through the tunnel into sunlight. Sometimes, I’d catch the sunsets when my train emerged from the tunnels, and I was in awe of the dark navy sky and its sweeping reign over the houses with their golden-lit windows. Or the trail of light orange and the vibrant, darker orange that faded into a pale gray sky.

The strangers around me finally mention places that sound somewhere near where I want to go—still far, but I have some hope I’ll get closer. I’ll get there eventually. And I’m willing to settle for that.

Oddly, we’re outside now, still on the platform, but it’s more colorful here. I see trees and recognize the stranger beside me, but he’s barely an acquaintance. The train chugs along, but it’s too crowded when it arrives. I can’t get in, but he does. There’s simply no room for me. I don’t fit.

Suddenly, another train barrels toward me, its rapid arrival quite unexpected. I hear the beeps and clangs, and I think, “That’s the one.”

Without hesitation, I scramble on board. I never check where it’s headed. We travel farther and farther away from all that’s familiar. Soon, I am far from the place I call home and everything and everyone I had ever known. We pass an endless green sea with a boat in the distance. We are somewhere remote. I don’t recognize this place.

My dreams are vivid, yes, and colorful, and my recollection of them is thorough.

In another persistent dream I’ve had since my recovery, and until recently, I ride a motorcycle that I’m so proud to be riding. (I’ve only ever ridden on the back of one.) As the dream progresses, the motorcycle becomes a bicycle, which I did ride as a kid, and, in the dream, I’m still thrilled because I’m cruising everywhere, including up and down the dark streets of Woodside, my old stomping ground.

I’m experiencing freedom in this dream, and I’m celebrating it, so I’m happy. Except that the bike gets smaller and smaller until I’m on a tricycle that I’ve obviously outgrown.

There’s also a recurrent nightmare where I have to get home from Roosevelt Avenue—that walk home at night from the park I’d dreaded as a kid, as well as the route home after work from the train station when I lived in Woodside. It’s light at first in the dream but gets darker and darker until it’s completely dark. I’m never a kid in the dream, but, still, the dilemma frustrates me and plays out as an obsession. Whatever way I choose to go, that long, seemingly deserted hill can’t be avoided, which in reality is true unless I take the route from the crowded, brightly lit storefront area on 61st Street. Even then, I’d have to go past the place on Woodside Avenue where it’s eerily quiet at night.

More recently, I dreamt that I was stranded somewhere and ran into my parents. I asked for a ride home, and they refused for some reason that made no sense. At first, I thought, well, it’s beginning to snow now and starting to get dark, but I’ll make it. As I walked, it continued to grow darker. The snowfall became heavier, so I tried running. Creepy people tried to lure me into alleys. Somehow, though, I got past those creatures and arrived home.

My son was asleep in his room. I must’ve gone to sleep, too. In that same dream, I awoke in the dark to find the door locks broken off the door. A sign was on the front door saying, I hate you. I will destroy you. It was written in blood. People with cold, angry eyes and a few angels floated around the room. They did nothing to physically harm me, but they were holding my son captive, so I charged in there like a martial arts movie hero, kicking them all. They had an invisible shield I couldn’t penetrate, so I went to the door, opened it, and began screaming and begging for help. No one answered.

Now, I can easily interpret what that awful nightmare meant, but David said, “You should never go to sleep. Your dreams are horrifying.”

That had me splitting my sides, and he was equally amused.

Transportation is a common theme in these dreams, and I am moving by bike, train, or on foot. I think, symbolically, it has to do with where I’m going—my path or journey, my goal, and whatever happens in getting there. There’s the persistent question of whether I’m heading in the right direction, and, according to a book I’d read a about dreams, train stations represent transformation. I don’t think any of these dreams suggest I am lost, but I am consistently unable to go home, and I don’t fit or belong there.

The destination is always Woodside, although I haven’t lived there in decades and will never have to make that walk again from any street. Woodside, with its good, its bad, its horror, and its beauty, will always be special to me, and I get those bittersweet pangs of nostalgia when anyone so much as mentions my hometown of Queens. However, my fear at the time I lived there was possibly intense enough to carve out a permanent space in my subconscious mind. Or, it merely represents a place of origin because I’ve wondered if, in order to persist with your ultimate goals, you can’t go back.

The “threats” in my dreams are all of the obstacles.

Interestingly, I was about to say I hadn’t had a “train” dream in a while, but one occurred the other night. In this one, all the subway stops had their names changed. Some were crazy names like Anywhere You Want to Go, while others simply said 50th Road or some other ordinary thing. Per the usual, I had no idea where any of those stops would leave me on the way to Woodside. The platform on this station was perilously narrow, so I had to be careful, even sidestepping rocks while navigating what little room I had.

On a lighter note, I once dreamt I was a cookie, and mobs of people chased me, wanting to eat me. Amused, I told David that I’d had that dream.

“Of course, you did,” he replied, and we shared a good laugh.

Excerpt on ‘Dreams’ from Grateful to be Alive – My Road to Recovery from Addiction by D.K. Sanz

Woman sleeping/night moon feature photo by IceRedfield from Pixabay 

Train image by annca from Pixabay 

Monster in window image by 1tamara2 from Pixabay 

Train station image by Igor Ovsyannykov from Pixabay 

Gingerbread man image by artistlike from Pixabay 

SOBER BY THE GRACE OF GOD

One of the most significant concepts of the 12-step program of recovery can be difficult for those whose beliefs don’t align with the typical vision.

I remember being told in meetings that “EGO” was, essentially, “edging God out.” Not mentioning “Him” or crediting “Him” for your success in staying sober would raise many eyebrows.

We were told that “A.A. works for people who believe in God. A.A. works for people who don’t believe in God. A.A. never works for people who think they are God.”

I was also taught, in meetings, that “A.A. isn’t a religion. We can’t open the gates of Heaven and let you in, but we can open the gates of Hell and let you out.”

All of it confused me, as a newcomer, all those years ago.

The program literature clearly states that we surrender to a power greater than ourselves—as we understood that greater power to be. It’s important because we’re told that our journey to wellness begins only when we surrender to that higher power.

Sure, for many people, that is the Abrahamic God. Others rely on the deity or deities of a different faith. And, for some of us, there is our ancestral religion and the polytheistic or pantheistic worship of nature as the divine.

The program was never meant to exclude atheists or agnostics, either. They may see their higher power as their higher consciousness and moral compass. You don’t need a religion to have either of those things.

God can even be a celebration of all that is good, believing all that is good is God. GOD, as many have said, also stands for “good orderly direction.”

When we look at it that way, the program’s God-related slogans apply, regardless of our vision of the divine.

Let Go and Let God.

Trust God.

If God seems far away, who moved?

But for the Grace of God, there go I.

And because we are advised to pray daily, we are reminded, in the program, that trying to pray is praying, and that prayer can be well wishes, good thoughts, positive energy, and just sending love and light.

Spirituality is the ability to get our minds off ourselves and to rely on better judgment, regardless of where that comes from on a day-to-day basis. And just wanting to be a decent human being counts. It counts a lot.

Feature photo at the top by Artem Sapegin on Unsplash

Sober graphic made by D.K. Sanz on Canva

YOU BELIEVE WHAT YOU NEED TO

AVAILABLE ON KINDLE NOW:

Do unsettling truths bring harsh judgment? They do, but the price of denial is steep.

D.K. Sanz’s story begins in the drug-infested New York City streets of Woodside, Queens, during the tumultuous HIV/AIDS pandemic of the Eighties and Nineties. It offers a glimpse into how a now often-overlooked pandemic impacted Sanz’s nuclear family. 

From her earliest days, Sanz was the easily forgotten stranger, always a little out of sync with the rest of the world—a tough but naive kid and aspiring writer.  Her triumph over illness and addiction includes amusing anecdotes and nostalgic, heartwarming memories.

Deep-dive into Sanz’s confessional self-sabotage, self-destruction, and the harrowing downward spiral she almost didn’t survive. Her never-before-told story ranges from recklessness and impudence to empathy, forgiveness, and love.

Sanz has since published several books under the name Kyrian Lyndon, primarily poetry but also a novel, and she continues to work on sequels and an all-new fantasy series. You’ll find some of her poetry at the end of this book.

Whether struggling or not, you will find Grateful to be Alive is a story of hope, defying insurmountable odds, finding joy, and a gradual transition toward authenticity and becoming the person Sanz always wanted to be.

“Addiction, at its worst, is akin to having Stockholm Syndrome. You’re like a hostage who has developed an irrational affection for your captor. They can abuse you, torture you, even threaten to kill you, and you’ll remain inexplicably and disturbingly loyal.”  -Anne Clendening

Addiction is the only prison where the locks are on the inside. — Unknown

Feature image at the top by Khusen Rustamov from Pixabay 

HOW WOULD YOU DEFINE BEAUTY?

Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart. – Khalil Gibran

It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity there is beauty and there is strength. – Maya Angelou

COMING SOON!

Grateful to Be Alive

My Road to Recovery from Addiction

by D.K. Sanz

Do unsettling truths bring harsh judgment? They do, but the price of denial is steep.

D.K. Sanz’s story begins in the drug-infested New York City streets of Woodside, Queens, during the tumultuous HIV/AIDS pandemic of the 80s and 90s. It offers a glimpse into how a now often-overlooked pandemic impacted Sanz’s nuclear family. 

From her earliest days, D.K. was the easily forgotten stranger, always a little out of sync with the rest of the world—a tough but naïve kid and aspiring writer. Her triumph over illness and addiction includes amusing anecdotes and nostalgic, heartwarming memories.

Grateful to be Alive delves deep into Sanz’s confessional self-sabotage, self-destruction, and the harrowing downward spiral she almost didn’t survive. Her never-before-told story ranges from recklessness and impudence to empathy, forgiveness, and love.

D.K. has since published several books, primarily poetry but also a novel, and she continues to work on sequels and an all-new fantasy series. You’ll find some of her poetry at the end of this book.

Whether struggling or not, you will find Grateful to Be Alive is a story of hope, defying insurmountable odds, finding joy, and a gradual transition toward authenticity and becoming the person D.K. always wanted to be.

“When you begin this book, you will not put it down. You will immediately be drawn into Sanz’s bold narrative of a woman, throughout her life, passing through “every forbidden door,” as she says of herself. It is a book of continual growth through experience, defeat, and triumph. The prose is swift, concise, full of irony, truth, and poise. You will not find a more startling, revealing memoir. Highly, highly recommended.” ~ Jason T. Masters

If you are interested in obtaining an ARC copy, please e-mail me at dksanz@yahoo.com.

Feature image at the top by Ana_J from Pixabay

DON’T TAKE YOURSELF TOO SERIOUSLY!

There was a time when the people I dealt with were merely making appearances in the soap opera that was my life, or so I must have believed on some level. I starred in it, directed it, and expected each actor to play their role as I created it. Under these circumstances, less-than-favorable outcomes are magnified and often unendurable. Even petty slights are infuriating and upsetting.

In twelve-step programs, it’s called “Rule 62”—Don’t Take Yourself So Seriously! Becoming aware of that and then understanding it and accepting it was another thing pivotal to my recovery.

We have to be able to laugh at ourselves! Have you ever noticed that people who take themselves too seriously are the perfect target for internet trolls? I observed one guy on Twitter complaining that trolls wouldn’t leave him alone. It was evident from his feed that he’d been sitting around, answering them for quite some time. That is a waste of energy because trolls are devoid of empathy.

Bullies tend to throw stuff out there to see what will stick. They know it when they hit a nerve, and they’ll use that to provoke you. The more misery they cause, the happier they are. These are not people you can reason with or convince. If they can’t get a rise out of you, it’s not fun for them. So, it’s best never to “feed a troll”—not so much as a crumb.

We don’t have to tolerate bad behavior, but we don’t have to live in agony because of other people’s behavior and perceptions. And we don’t have to be obsessed with damage control. That’s a full-time job, with plenty of unpaid overtime. And it’s exhausting! Allowing people to infuriate us and rob us of our serenity gives others way too much power over us. Humility saves us from ourselves, keeping us aware that we’re human and flawed.

Before I understood Rule 62, I told someone, “It’s not that I want to be better than others. It’s the opposite; I strive to be acceptable because I feel inadequate.”

Inadequate in my view because I aimed for perfection. I didn’t understand that I wore my inferiority complex inside out. I’d taken it to the superiority complex level, never realizing that those were two sides of the same coin. It never occurred to me that I held myself to a higher standard than others.

The first thing I had to do was take myself down off the pedestal. (Yes, we can put ourselves on pedestals, too.) I had to realize that I was not the star of everyone’s show. Things are happening to everyone on the planet—not just me.

Before I grasped “Rule 62,” I expected fairness, always, no matter what. I had to learn that there’s so much about this life that isn’t right, and life’s been far more unfair to others than to me. It’s all relative, and I had to process the fact that while we can fight for justice when appropriate, life ultimately isn’t fair, period. Accepting that removed a tremendous burden from my shoulders.

Humility, in my view, is something we continually strive for, not a trait we crown ourselves with because we’ve risen to sainthood. And none of what I’m saying here means we’re not important, or we shouldn’t have healthy egos. But if we try not to perceive ourselves as overly important (more so than anyone else, anyway), then we’re less biased when it comes to ourselves. We’re able to recognize certain things for what they are and not take so much personally—be it constructive criticism, a bit of teasing, or someone being an ass.

It helps me to acknowledge that I’m not this person the whole world is watching and with staggering expectations, hoping I will fail. Also, if we stop looking for adversaries, perceived enemies, and their agendas, for the most part, they somehow cease to exist.

It comes back to balance for me, but when you’re able to keep an open mind, discernment about what to take personally and what to blow off becomes more effortless.

As an author, I put my words out there in a world divided on many topics. The varying opinions don’t always come from someone with a reasonable frame of reference. Someone may read about a tragic event and say it isn’t an accurate portrayal. You can write about something that actually happened or describe exactly how it was, and someone might view it as a misrepresentation because that’s not what they experienced. People do have personal biases and triggers. Sometimes, they’re turned off by something that has more to do with them than with you. I’ve noticed fellow writers getting two-star book reviews for reasons unrelated to the book. Internet trolls may say negative things merely because they can. Also, the best writers out there have had plenty of critics.

But not every critic is a troll, which is essential to acknowledge. Some people don’t have a vested interest in us and are not biased, and, quite often, they’re right on the money.

A bit of lightheartedness and a good sense of humor are critical.

Years ago, I realized I could change my relationship with criticism by changing my perspective. Criticism isn’t comfortable, and we don’t like feeling uncomfortable, so we tell ourselves we can’t handle it. If we take ourselves out of that fear mode, acknowledging that we’re not comfortable but can handle it, it’s easier to decide how we’ll do that. Stressing makes things worse.

In those moments, it also helps to remember we’re not alone—others are going through it or have been through it. I tell myself I’m no less capable of handling it than they are, and it only seems so much worse because it’s happening to me.

Sadly, though, some people fear criticism and rejection so much that they don’t pursue their dreams or find true happiness.

As far as I can tell, we must keep listening to learn. On a personal and professional level, there’s always room for improvement. I am obsessed with learning more and more about things that knocked me for a loop when I had to deal with them in others or myself. I can’t help being grateful for these opportunities and challenges to overcome the obstacles that derailed me.

Falling in love with the process of learning, growing, evolving, and recovering helps us to succeed more and suffer less. It’s about wanting to be the best we can be. It’s okay to be vulnerable, but only as long as we know we are and how! Then, instead of worrying about how others perceive us, we do what we do from the heart. I tell myself this: I’m another person trying to learn and figure things out here. We are transmundane beings in an astounding old universe. We are vulnerable—not merely to the force of nature and random happenings, but to each other. Life gets better when we accept ourselves as a part of everything rather than the center of everything.

I maintain that until we fully heal from whatever we need to recover from, we remain in bondage to something or another and are prone to obsessions. Disentangling ourselves from that is a painful process, but as I witness people becoming who they were before the pain and unwarranted shame, I have no doubt what awareness can do. It tells me there’s hope for everyone.

*Excerpted from my forthcoming memoir, Grateful to Be AliveMy Road to Recovery from Addiction*

Feature image at the top by Stefan Keller from Pixabay 

HE SHOT MY SWEET, LOVELY FRIEND

COMING SOON!

EXCERPT:

“Kristina went dancing at a club in the Bronx with a friend. Upon their return, they talked in the car for a while. Of course, it was pitch-dark by then and eerily quiet when, quite suddenly, a man crept out of the shadows, aiming a .44 revolver at point-blank range. He didn’t know them, but they were his target.
One of several shots he fired hit Kristina in the head. In an instant, she slumped over and collapsed onto the pavement. She had no time to scream, and I doubt she ever noticed him. But, just like that, she was dead.
 A friend called me at work to break the news. Before I could put the phone down, all eyes were on me—the eyes of shocked and curious coworkers gauging my reaction. Speculation ensued within earshot.
‘Maybe it was a mob hit. Her family’s Italian.’
‘What was she doing out at two o’clock in the morning?’
It infuriated me that Kristina’s integrity was in question because she was the victim. I was stunned into silence. I had chills. But despite the crushing pain, I didn’t cry until later, when the distress made me wonder again about the divine protection we so naïvely expected. Why Kristina? I had to ask. Why anyone? But why Kristina?”

Grateful to Be Alive

My Road to Recovery from Addiction

by D.K. Sanz

Do unsettling truths bring harsh judgment? They do, but the price of denial is steep.

D.K. Sanz’s story begins in the drug-infested New York City streets of Woodside, Queens, during the tumultuous HIV/AIDS pandemic of the 80s and 90s. It offers a glimpse into how a now often-overlooked pandemic impacted Sanz’s nuclear family. 

From her earliest days, D.K. was the easily forgotten stranger, always a little out of sync with the rest of the world—a tough but naïve kid and aspiring writer. Her triumph over illness and addiction includes amusing anecdotes and nostalgic, heartwarming memories.

Grateful to be Alive delves deep into Sanz’s confessional self-sabotage, self-destruction, and the harrowing downward spiral she almost didn’t survive. Her never-before-told story ranges from recklessness and impudence to empathy, forgiveness, and love.

D.K. has since published several books, primarily poetry but also a novel, and she continues to work on sequels and an all-new fantasy series. You’ll find some of her poetry at the end of this book.

Whether struggling or not, you will find Grateful to Be Alive is a story of hope, defying insurmountable odds, finding joy, and a gradual transition toward authenticity and becoming the person D.K. always wanted to be.

“When you begin this book, you will not put it down. You will immediately be drawn into Sanz’s bold narrative of a woman, throughout her life, passing through “every forbidden door,” as she says of herself. It is a book of continual growth through experience, defeat, and triumph. The prose is swift, concise, full of irony, truth, and poise. You will not find a more startling, revealing memoir. Highly, highly recommended.” ~ Jason T. Masters

If you are interested in obtaining an ARC copy, please e-mail me at dksanz@yahoo.com.

Feature image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay 

THE WOUNDS LOVE WON’T HEAL

I once had a habit of making excuses for people.

How many times can we try and try again, hoping things will be different? Sometimes, the people we think are ports in a storm turn out to be the rips in our sail.

The truth is, most of us have precarious relationships with others where we find ourselves setting or accepting boundaries to maintain that connection. Maybe it’s an intolerable behavior issue or substantial differences of opinion. There are situations, too, where people grow up with devastating trauma. Family members have different outlooks about what happened, maybe even different experiences. One may still feel the agony of the hurt they or someone else caused in doing what they felt was right. Things said may remind you of the pain they caused you or the pain you caused them.

These situations are loaded for the simple reason that you care about these people. If you didn’t, you could easily blow them off and never have anything further to do with them.

And sure, it’s painful. You wish things were different. It saddens us that there was so much good, and we cherish the memories to the point of tears. We may wonder, Can we ever get it back? If we did, would it ever be the same?

What I’ve found is, when considering forgiveness in any situation, a critical thing to decipher is, What really happened? Sorting out what’s true and what’s not is more important than appeasing others who need to deal with their own wounds. Their place in the healing process is different from ours. Denial has consequences for both parties, so did we play a part in the conflict? If so, what was it? We can take responsibility only for what we contributed to the falling out.

Maybe the falling out stemmed from an argument, someone else’s meddling, or someone’s denial. Perhaps it was because of lies and fragile egos, smear campaigns, and the rush to judgment.

Whatever it was, for any kind of resolution, both parties have to come to the table with an open mind. There must be a willingness to walk hand in hand through that minefield together. It’s hard because, quite often, the trust isn’t there any longer. And you have to be willing to trust someone to do that.

There’s a difference, too, between reaching out and setting a trap. We can’t be condescending or aim to “win.” We have to be genuine and sincere, let go of any bitterness or resentment, and respond only from a place of caring and love. You can have so much love for someone and still have to handle your interaction with them like you’re holding a piece of glass.

There are no-fly zones in these situations. Believe me, there was a time I’d have flown my plane right into that restricted zone and not for a moment realize the potential damage I’d cause to the relationship. I’d gotten used to a cycle of being hurt and fighting back. Sometimes, we are blinded by rage, and we keep hurling it at someone, but we don’t realize they’re bleeding, too.

These days, I think of what I might say in these circumstances and recognize how it could go wrong. Often, I decide I can say nothing. Or I wonder how to rectify a situation or resolve a conflict, and every way I might think to approach it, I see a flashing red light, and it’s just no. Don’t. You can’t. There’s a need to tread gently, take care.

Plenty of people out there can discern these situations, I’m sure, but many of us had to learn.

No doubt, it’s wonderful when the resolution of a conflict results in mutual forgiveness and a starting point for healing the relationship. At the same time, we can’t allow people to deny the reality of what we experienced, and we can’t accept their spin on it if it has no basis in truth. We don’t want to hear the justification for what cannot be justified, or for the other party to minimize the damage. We can’t let them guilt or shame us into keeping quiet or making concessions.

Sometimes, however, their message is clear. Maybe it’s always been clear, but it takes a while for us to accept. Their words and actions have repeatedly shown us they are not in our corner. They may not be against us, exactly, but they’re not for us either. They don’t respect us or our boundaries. They’re not concerned about our feelings. Nothing’s ever truly resolved in a relationship like that, and nothing changes.

We lost this person long ago, and it has already broken our hearts a thousand times. Is this someone we ever really had or truly knew? We lost the chance to dysfunction, and not even obligatory love and commitment could save it. It’s reached a point where suiting up and showing up simply hurt too much.

It hurts to admit when we’ve chosen someone or something that isn’t right for us, and when we’re trying to fit where we don’t belong.

And, for various reasons, not everyone is in a position where they can simply walk away.  There may not even be a lot they can do to protect themselves or limit interaction. They may not be able to avoid participating in the drama.

Those of us who do walk away will often mourn what we couldn’t have. Some holes remain unfilled for us. Some stories will never be heard or told, and some scars won’t ever heal. We say goodbye with so much weight and with a burden too hard to hold. It’s more than sorrow. It’s grief. And you miss what you wanted that to be.

We can feel this profound grief even in walking away from people who weren’t that close to us because we feel like they should have been. Those ties were supposed to bind but didn’t. Instead, they turned out to be so weak that they broke a little more at every difference of opinion, each instance where we stood up for ourselves, or any time people looked at us and didn’t see themselves.

We certainly do a lot of grieving in life, and grieving does have its beauty. We can experience joy, happiness, sadness, and hurt; none are permanent states. These are moments that awaken us.

I’ve learned that the pain that follows in walking away is worth getting that toxicity out of your life. Even if they create a false narrative about you and make you out to be the devil incarnate, it’s still worth it. It will hurt less over time, or maybe it will always hurt a little, but you’ll be okay. You were brave enough to show up to this shitshow again and again. You tried to fit in. You tried to make it work. If it didn’t, well, love and acceptance await you elsewhere. In AA, I heard the slogan: You can’t heal in the same environment that made you sick. I believe that.

It’s important to realize we deserve to be happy. A few cherished loved ones are far better than dozens of people hanging on simply to make life difficult. We can’t fix or save everyone. We can’t always make things right.

To this day, there are people I’d love to drop a line to and ask how they’re doing or just to say, “I miss you.” One might ask themselves: What are safe topics we can discuss? Should we stick to a public forum in responding to one another rather than talking on the phone or by text? Can we support one another in ways that don’t involve us in their lives? I find these things helpful in dealing with others where caution may apply. It’s often the difference between reacting and responding. Realize you’re communicating with another vulnerable human being who likely has had their own trauma. They are not bulletproof.

As I’m sure everyone knows, you can love people to the moon and back even when your relationship with them is broken. You may forgive them and want the best for them while moving on without them. I’ve learned the best thing to do is keep sending them love and light, along with your inner hope for peace and the willingness for them to heal. I visualize it going to them in waves: I send you love. I wish you well. I wish you peace.

Sometimes, that’s all we can do. Even if you don’t buy into the “waves” thing, the exercise is intended to let go of any negative feelings.

Most importantly, though: We must forgive ourselves, as well. All we wanted was love.

*Excerpted from my forthcoming memoir, Grateful to Be Alive: My Road to Recovery from Addiction*

Heart/sand image by 愚木混株 Cdd20 from Pixabay 

GRATEFUL TO BE ALIVE: MY WELCOME

For those interested, I thought I’d share the “introduction” to my forthcoming memoir. All thoughts are welcome!

INTRODUCTION

I never wanted to tell this story—at least not this way. Sure, I was forthcoming in sharing bits and pieces of it with certain groups and individuals, but, for the most part, I aimed to spare my loved ones. Now that I have been given the green light by those who mean the most to me, and after what I’ve witnessed over the past few years, I’m going ahead with my uncensored confessions. Down the rabbit hole we go to unearth the dark tales about lies that save and destroy you, paying the piper when the master is ego, and the challenges accepted at the end of the forbidden road.

It amazes me, still, the shocking things we can survive, especially when we never lose hope or give up on laughter and love. The weight, venom, mire, and bondage of our obsessions create roadblocks and wreak havoc until we take that yellow brick road back to sanity. If you’ve seen the movie, Wizard of Oz, you know what I’m talking about. The wizard at the end of the road is a fraud, but you always had the shoes, right?

Anyway, what matters is what’s real.

My story is about addiction and recovery (from many things). I am one of the fortunate ones who lived to tell how it went for me during my fight for sanity and peace from the late 80s to the mid-2000s. However, even after twenty-seven years of sobriety, when people tell me they have no regrets about their life decisions, I’m sure I misunderstand what they mean by that. Perhaps I’m taking it too literally, but I can’t imagine not having at least some regrets. Most of us have caused pain for others (and ourselves), even if we never meant to, and the one thing I regret more than anything is the people I’ve hurt in my oblivion and ignorance.

In retrospect, it’s hard for me to believe some of the things that happened—that I wasn’t dreaming. A serial killer murdered one of my dear friends. One day, the FBI came to my house looking for a bank robber I knew rather intimately. Except I wasn’t aware that he’d robbed banks; I was only a teenager.

My experiences seem absurd to the kind of people I’ve befriended well after that. They’ve led far more sheltered lives, where their parents took them to museums and ballet performances, and it surprised them that I hung out on street corners with friends and in parks. To quote my now-grown son, “I guess it was a sign of the times. Kids just go wandering around meeting people.”

I couldn’t help laughing when he said it, and I laughed whenever I remembered it throughout the day. Yeah, we weren’t Opie living in Mayberry or Beaver living in Mayfield, but, sadly, there’s danger in doing the most natural thing.

Nevertheless, in telling this story, I will include the humor and joy along with all of the tragic madness.

Yeah, some people will say, “Certain things must be kept private.” Perhaps, but we live in an age of transparency and accessibility. As an introvert, I never liked that, but I get over it when writing. Understanding is critical in the world we live in today.

Some people actually think there’s too much empathy in the world and that we as a species may have to be a little more vicious and cruel to survive, like in the olden days. Maybe even with a bit of medieval torture thrown in for good measure. Those people are wrong, and I’m pleased as punch that both time and history have taught us more about humanity. It’s part of our evolution as a species.

My theory is that malignant narcissism is at the heart of the world’s dysfunction. I’m convinced that we’re dealing with the chaos of the world’s trauma, shame, and pain. It’s the gift that keeps on giving—with the worst possible repercussions, and it spreads through the universe like a poison. I believe this suffering, which leads to more suffering, is a cycle we can break with recognition, empathy, and a genuine desire to change.

While I’m certainly not a professional, I’ve dealt with my share of narcissism throughout my life. Unfortunately, many people have endured far worse than what I’ve experienced, and some have been damaged beyond repair. Whatever we can do to help others toward the light in the darkness can mean the difference between their giving up and holding on.

Most of us already have an underlying fear that people won’t love us for who we are, which, through suffering from narcissistic abuse, gets distorted into the notion that no one will ever love us—period. Underneath it is a chronic sadness that never really subsides, and shame overwhelms us.

Not being loved for who we are is one of the things people fear most in life, a fate worse even than death, and many young people out there are killing themselves for that. They fight to cope with one trauma after another until they reach a breaking point and can’t cope anymore, and then they shut down. The message is I’ve had enough; I can’t do this anymore. I’m out.

Often, when people feel that desperation, getting beyond thoughts of suicide is only the first hurdle. From there, it’s a long haul to reclaim themselves and their capacity to love.

The aim of sharing my story is not to gain sympathy but to shed some light on how certain things develop and how we overcome those challenges even when the odds are against us.

One thing I’ve heard and can relate to as a poet and writer is, “Don’t waste your pain.” Life is beautiful and tragic, happy, sad, and everything in between, and, as a poet, I’m here for all of it. The pain is often long gone by the time we relay things in poetry and books, but we can still empathize with people struggling to navigate whatever we’ve already sorted out.

Speaking of that, I learn from everyone. As I’ve said in another book of mine, a heart that has ached mercilessly can spin a lifetime of agony into a garden of wisdom and solace, offering others comfort and peace. It’s the same heart that knows the ecstasy of being alive and cherishing every moment.

Recovery, for me, has been an ongoing journey toward authenticity, removing the veils layer by layer and discarding the masks. I was told in recovery that we are only as sick as our secrets. Of course, we are allowed to have secrets. But suppose our hidden truth has us living a double life or creating a barrier between us and the world? We tend to compartmentalize aspects of our lives as part of the deception. In that case, it either limits or restricts our healing and impedes our goal of authenticity.

We evolve as we become aware of our patterns and vulnerabilities—and we seek answers. Raw honesty combined with accountability helps everyone, especially those of us who’ve gotten caught in a cycle of self-loathing and self-sabotage. We need truth, spiritual courage, and to remain teachable.

These days, a sacred innocence in me has returned. The ever-present inner child in me is at peace and full of joy. I can see the world’s beauty with the eyes of that child. Even when things get crazy, I sit with this peace. If this peace slips away from me even for a moment, I’ll grasp it again and keep it clutched in my fist.

That’s because our job is to keep resolving things internally so we continue evolving as humans, deepening our understanding, empathy, and compassion. Suffering can be beautiful when we constantly grow, but not if we’re emotionally stuck in the same place without learning from what we’ve endured.

Think of this for a moment: When depicted as fire-breathing monsters, mythical dragons are harmful and dangerous—perhaps diabolical. And, like dragons, some people constantly and painfully attempt to incinerate others with their scathing flames. Even those of us who aren’t so malevolent can wear a dragon’s facade to guard and protect ourselves in the darkest of times, but must relinquish it before it destroys us.

The continuous goal is healing—not simply individual healing but collective healing. We each have our gifts and tools for contributing to the greater good, and it turns out that it’s one massive, collaborative effort, during which time we remain connected as part of a larger entity.

So, I write this book from the heart.

And, by the way, I lived happily ever after. I kicked the ass I had to kick to do it—especially my own.

Well, here we go with the story now. Sit tight. Grab some coffee, tea, or what have you, and all that I ask is, when things get a little too dark and ugly, please try to hang in there with me.

Thanks for reading!

BOOK DESCRIPTION

Grateful to Be Alive

My Road to Recovery from Addiction

Do unsettling truths bring harsh judgment? They do, but the price of denial is steep.

D.K. Sanz’s story begins in the drug-infested New York City streets of Woodside, Queens, during the tumultuous HIV/AIDS pandemic of the 80s and 90s. It offers a glimpse into how a now often-overlooked pandemic impacted Sanz’s nuclear family. 

From her earliest days, D.K. was the easily forgotten stranger, always a little out of sync with the rest of the world—a tough but naive kid and aspiring writer.  Her triumph over illness and addiction includes amusing anecdotes and nostalgic, heartwarming memories.

Grateful to be Alive delves deep into Sanz’s confessional self-sabotage, self-destruction, and the harrowing downward spiral she almost didn’t survive. Her never-before-told story ranges from recklessness and impudence to empathy, forgiveness, and love.

D.K. has since published several books, primarily poetry but also a novel, and she continues to work on sequels and an all-new fantasy series. You’ll find some of her poetry at the end of this book.

Whether struggling or not, you will find Grateful to Be Alive is a story of hope, of defying insurmountable odds, finding joy, and a gradual transition toward authenticity and becoming the person D.K. always wanted to be.

ARC Copies

To apply for an ARC, please e-mail me at dksanz@yahoo.com and answer the following questions:

1) Are you familiar with the author’s work? (Just curious, it’s okay if you’re not.)

2) Have you ever reviewed a book by this author?

3) Please briefly explain why this particular book would interest you.

4) Have you reviewed books or products before this request?

5) Do you have an Amazon account?

6) Do you have a Goodreads account?

For those unfamiliar, an ARC is an advanced reader copy provided before publication. Each recipient of an ARC intends to read and review the book. Reviews can be anywhere from one sentence to three or four paragraphs. Ideally, they should appear on Amazon and Goodreads the day the book comes out, likely in February. (I will notify you of the release date.) If it’s posted after that date, the sooner, the better, of course, but days or months later is still good. In other words, there is no rush.

Once given an ARC, you are under no obligation to read or review the book, but, at the same time, you wouldn’t want to request an ARC copy if that’s not your initial intention. In other words, if reading the book causes you to change your mind for any reason, there are no consequences, legal or otherwise.

ARCs are free. Currently, I have them available in Word or PDF formats. Eventually, they will be available on Kindle.

Reviews by ARC readers are posted on Amazon and, hopefully, Goodreads if the recipient has a Goodreads account.

ARC readers, unlike beta readers, are not expected to provide feedback to the author besides the public review, but feedback is certainly welcome.

Unfortunately, I may not be able to accommodate every request, but I thank you in advance for your interest.

Red shoes image by Victoria_Watercolor from Pixabay 

SHE JUST WANTED TO FEEL SAFE

Another excerpt from my upcoming memoir:

Eventually, I let out a deep sigh and said, “I just want to stay home.”
He grinned. “Not home, Diane, in a cage—maybe one with wires and bars where only you control who enters and who speaks to you or touches you. You want to be protected. Even at home, you want that, and this is not a criticism. It is an observation.”
In retrospect, I’m not sure he understood why I’d developed such an intense obsession with feeling safe. But he did seem to grasp how powerful that need was, while I remained oblivious. I had yet to acknowledge that I consistently rejected reality—preferring fantasy, delusion, and a false sense of calm or any manufactured euphoria which, ironically, wasn’t safe. I also hid from others, not because I didn’t care. I just cared too much, and it hurt.

D.K. Sanz

BOOK DETAILS

Grateful to Be Alive:

My Road to Recovery from Addiction

By D.K. Sanz

Do unsettling truths bring harsh judgment? They do, but the price of denial is steep.

D.K. Sanz’s story begins in the drug-infested New York City streets of Woodside, Queens, during the tumultuous HIV/AIDS pandemic of the 80s and 90s. It offers a glimpse into how a now often-overlooked pandemic impacted Sanz’s nuclear family. 

From her earliest days, Sanz was the easily forgotten stranger, always a little out of sync with the rest of the world—a tough but naive kid and aspiring writer.  Her triumph over illness and addiction includes amusing anecdotes and nostalgic, heartwarming memories.

Grateful to be Alive delves deep into Sanz’s confessional self-sabotage, self-destruction, and the harrowing downward spiral she almost didn’t survive. Her never-before-told story ranges from recklessness and impudence to empathy, forgiveness, and love.

D.K. Sanz has since published several books, primarily poetry but also a novel, and she continues to work on sequels and an all-new fantasy series. You’ll find some of her poetry at the end of this book.

Whether struggling or not, you will find Grateful to Be Alive is a story of hope, of defying insurmountable odds, finding joy, and a gradual transition toward authenticity and becoming the person Sanz always wanted to be.

First ARC copy review:

“When you begin this book, you will not put it down. You will immediately be drawn into Sanz’s bold narrative of a woman, throughout her life, passing through “every forbidden door,” as she says of herself. It is a book of continual growth through experience, defeat, and triumph. The prose is swift, concise, full of irony, truth, and poise. You will not find a more startling, revealing memoir. Highly, highly recommended.” ~ J.T. Masters

ARC COPY INFORMATION

This memoir about recovery from addiction and illness is complete and in the final editing stage.

Before its release in February, I will provide readers with a certain number of ARCs.

For those unfamiliar, an ARC is an advanced reader copy provided before publication. Each recipient of an ARC intends to read and review the book. Once given an ARC, you are under no obligation to do either, but, at the same time, you wouldn’t want to request an ARC copy if that’s not your initial intention. In other words, if reading the book causes you to change your mind for any reason, there are no consequences, legal or otherwise.

ARCs are free. Currently, I have them available in Word or PDF formats. Eventually, they will be available on Kindle.

Reviews by ARC readers are posted on Amazon and, hopefully, Goodreads if the recipient has a Goodreads account.

Reviews can be anywhere from one sentence to three or four paragraphs. Sure, in-depth reviews are preferable, but I will greatly appreciate any effort made. Ideally, they should appear on Amazon and Goodreads the day the book comes out, likely in February. (I will notify you of the release date.) If it’s posted after that date, the sooner, the better, of course, but days or months later is still good. In other words, there is no rush.

ARC readers, unlike beta readers, are not expected to provide feedback to the author besides the public review, but feedback is certainly welcome.

To apply, please e-mail me at dksanz@yahoo.com and answer the following questions:

1) Are you familiar with the author’s work? (Just curious, it’s okay if you’re not.)

2) Have you ever reviewed a book by this author?

3) Please briefly explain why this particular book would interest you

4) Have you reviewed books or products before this request?

5) Do you have an Amazon account?

6) Do you have a Goodreads account?

Unfortunately, I may not be able to accommodate every request, but I thank you in advance for your interest.

Feature image at the top by kalhh from Pixabay 

Second image by Mohamed Hassan from Pixabay 

ONE TOPIC WE CAN ALL RELATE TO

While I’m certainly not a professional, I’ve dealt with my share of narcissism throughout my life. Unfortunately, many people have endured far worse than what I’ve experienced, and some have been damaged beyond repair. Whatever we can do to help others toward the light in the darkness can mean the difference between their giving up and holding on.

My primary theory is that malignant narcissism is at the heart of the world’s dysfunction. I’m convinced that we’re dealing with the chaos of the world’s trauma, shame, and pain. It’s the gift that keeps on giving—with the worst possible repercussions, and it spreads through the universe like a poison. I believe this suffering, which leads to more suffering, is a cycle we can break with recognition, empathy, and a genuine desire to change.

So, I write this from the heart.

THE NARCISSISTS AMONG US

As you likely already know, narcissistic abusers can be parents, lovers, siblings, friends, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, co-workers, employers, teachers, etc. Many of us are unwittingly drawn to them because of their familiarity. Awareness of malignant narcissism is critical since we have long-term contact with some of these people, which can amount to significant damage.

Reading and participating in narcissistic abuse recovery groups has taught me that there’s a difference between people with full-blown NPD and those who get “fleas” from narcissistic abuse—the latter having acquired the narcissistic abuser’s strategies and behaviors to cope and survive. There’s a spectrum, I believe, with varying degrees of impact. Some narcissistic abuse survivors don’t seem to exhibit any of the behavior they were subjected to, while others appear to have inherited every trace of it.

In short, while experiencing narcissistic abuse, we’re often dealing with a person’s trauma response to the abuse that they themselves experienced. Victims of narcissistic abuse can become so defensive that they, too, can become hurtful.

There was a time in my own life when despite the general empathy I had for others, my privileges made someone else’s struggle unrelatable to me. I took for granted that I had a good job and a career and that in my recovery from substance abuse, I wasn’t struggling. Relapse was not a temptation, let alone a threat. Many would say, well, you worked for those things. Yeah, I did, but the fact that I was able to shouldn’t have blinded me to the reality that it was hard and damn near impossible for those who didn’t have the advantages I had while growing up. My expectations of others at the time were unrealistically high, and I didn’t understand it when people fell short of meeting them.

I mentioned empathy a couple of times now because that’s an essential factor here. Empathy is what sets the recovering victim apart from a hopelessly disordered narcissist because it is empathy that makes us want to do better and play fair. We’re eventually willing to relinquish the narcissistic “payoffs” because we care about others. In my experience, I’ve found that as long as we have empathy for ourselves and others, we can rise above many of the character defects that burden us and make us a burden to others.

And to be fair, I’m not sure I’ve ever dealt with anyone who had a total lack of empathy, but they’re out there, and they’re dangerous.

NARCISSIST MOTIVATION

In my view, most narcissistic abusers do what they do out of insecurity, fear, and habit, and they can be oblivious to what’s causing them to act as they do.

These narcissists are ashamed of who they are, so they manufacture an image of who they want to be. That’s where the obsession with one’s self-image develops—and whatever the narcissist stands for becomes part of that façade. It becomes necessary for them to buy into and sell their superiority because, in the narcissist’s conscious or subconscious mind, there is no in-between when it comes to superiority and inferiority. Equal isn’t an option, and they don’t want anyone to see them as inferior. Damage control becomes a survival strategy and an automatic response to any threat to the ideology that comforts and, quite frankly, saves them.

In terms of fear, I think one thing narcissistic abusers often derive from their experiences is that there’s not enough of what’s good to go around, which may even be the case in their family environment. They then take that fear out into the world, believing, again—perhaps only subconsciously—that there’s a limited amount of love, attention, money, success, fame, and so on, no matter where they go. More for you means less for them; therefore, everything becomes a competition. With this mindset, it is difficult for them to genuinely support others and easy to fear that those “others” might succeed at their expense. You want them to root for you, but they’re more likely to sabotage you with discouragement and disinterest.

Perceived threats to a narcissistic abuser can be enviable traits, such as someone else’s popularity and influence, or even unenviable traits, such as an illness or disorder that another person may have to endure. People begin to pay more attention to the afflicted or popular ones, which can trigger an alarm for the narcissist. It compels them to redirect the attention they’re not getting so that the focus is back on them.

Sometimes, narcissistic abusers reject others simply for being different. There are circumstances where a child has mental or physical health issues, and a narcissistic individual will perceive that as shameful because they think it reflects negatively on them, or they see it as a weakness from which they must distance themselves. Sometimes, parents or relatives deny the problem or blame the child rather than support them. To a narcissist, that behavior is an affront to them. The main concern is, What will people think?

That was typical behavior hundreds of years ago—the result of clinical ignorance and/or superstition of the times, but it hasn’t entirely vanished all these years later, despite our society having a better understanding of these issues today.

For a dysfunctional narcissist, everyone in their family and circle of friends must be normal by their standards. Every member of their family or circle must also validate and reinforce whatever they think, say, and do in order to nurture the notion that their perception is always accurate. That’s crucial to them because their deepest fear is, if they are wrong about that, what else are they wrong about? And can they possibly be wrong about everything they believed to be true? They may not be ready to examine any of those possibilities.

Narcissistic abusers withhold support, validation, admiration, attention, and approval from those they perceive as threats or competition or anyone who challenges the reality they’ve constructed. They reject, bully, intimidate, humiliate, and kick perceived enemies when they’re down. These heartbreaking actions can crush a person’s spirit and leave them with paralyzing trauma and fear. Malignant narcissists often demonize someone because they don’t have the same power over that person that they so expertly wield over others.

Character assassination is most definitely in the narcissistic abuser’s wheelhouse, and they excel at it. They rewrite history, spin false narratives, mischaracterize, mock, and blame their chosen targets. There will be people within the narcissist’s social group playing both sides, as well, which becomes a never-ending drama. Too often, people want to be on the side they figure is winning, more popular, or simply more rewarding. They may even fear the narcissist and remain loyal rather than become another target. As victims of narcissistic abuse, we may also feel a sense of loyalty to the abusers, and we may wish to protect them. Denial becomes a method of survival for us, too. It doesn’t help that narcissistic abusers can be charming. We may find them so lovable and irresistible that we’re desperate to be wrong about them.

Nor does it help that none of us are perfect people, unwittingly allowing abusers to bring out the worst in us. When dealing with manipulative behavior, we sometimes make a bad situation worse with our reactions or simply by tripping over our own flaws and insecurities, thus taking the bait. (If I had a dollar for every ridiculous thing I’ve said in those circumstances—well, you get the idea.)

Sadly, too, we often genuinely love a narcissistic abuser and hope we can help them. It’s wise to remember that people who want to recover will do the work required to repair themselves. People who are not aspiring to change may not be willing or ready to examine themselves, acknowledge their mistakes, take responsibility, and begin the process of learning, growing, and healing. If they are not there yet, and you confront their behavior, they’ll likely act as if your question or statement is shocking, offensive, or absurd, and they’ll think you’re the one with the problem. The moment you put them on the defensive, it becomes even more critical to discredit you to themselves and their circle of family and friends.

It won’t matter what you say to them or how kind you are; your words will not move a narcissist who isn’t ready to change. You think you can meet them halfway, but if believing you, understanding you, and finding a way to co-exist peacefully with you doesn’t work with their agenda, they don’t compromise. Even if they care about and respect you, the extent to which they care has to be greater than their need to be perceived in the most flattering light.

The payoff they’ve gotten from selling their narrative is a lot to give up because they’d have to be willing to risk losing the false alter ego they created to survive. It’s easier for them to dehumanize a perceived enemy and rationalize that this person deserves their retaliation, no matter how vicious it is. They can’t afford to put themselves in your place and understand your emotional pain or see how they may be the ones who caused it.

Narcissistic abusers may call you selfish if you end the relationship or leave their group because they don’t realize what they’re asking you to do is tolerate their constant disrespect and abuse. But that’s okay. Those in their corner will agree with them that you’re selfish, and that’s okay, too. Maybe someday, they will be able to see things objectively, but don’t confuse someone you can save with someone you need to save yourself from.

IMPACT, SURVIVAL, AND CHANGE

I mentioned bullying above because bullying is a form of narcissistic abuse and can be debilitating for targets who are deeply connected to their emotions. These people may be strong in most situations, but bullying distorts their self-perception and leads to kindhearted people becoming more sensitive and insecure—often hating themselves. People don’t necessarily realize it when they contribute to the erosion of a child’s self-worth, but kids pay attention to how people treat them, and they get the message loud and clear. Abusers intentionally or unintentionally break our wings so that when we don’t fly, they can say they knew we never would or that we might have succeeded if only we’d listened to them.

Sadly, most of us already have an underlying fear that people won’t love us for who we are, which, through suffering from narcissistic abuse, gets distorted into the notion that no one will ever love us—period. That’s often one of the things people fear most in life, a fate worse even than death, and many young people out there are killing themselves for that. They fight to cope with one trauma after another until they reach a breaking point and can’t cope anymore, and then they shut down. The message is I’ve had enough; I can’t do this anymore. I’m out.

Often, when people feel that desperation, getting beyond thoughts of suicide is only the first hurdle. From there, it’s a long haul to reclaim themselves and their capacity to love.

That’s right. Our ability to love genuinely is also affected. We ask ourselves, What’s wrong with me? We can’t fix it or explain it, and we can’t stop it. We sometimes imagine we’re crazy or going crazy. We get completely lost and unsure about many things. Underneath it is a chronic sadness that never really subsides, and shame overwhelms us.

Awareness and acceptance are the first steps to most self-help, and that’s very much the case here. It takes time and requires ongoing self-maintenance, but we are generally more powerful than the obstacles that derail us. In this instance, I’m not talking about chemical imbalances or illnesses beyond anyone’s control; I’m talking about things that are beyond our control simply because we didn’t understand them at the time.

I advocate awareness because it’s easy for people to use our idiosyncrasies against us. Longtime endurance of narcissistic abuse leads us to question our judgment and sometimes acts to prove that the negative assessment of ourselves is correct. We may be attractive, intelligent, talented, or whatever, yet we fear we are inferior and unworthy of love and success because the people we want to love us—the narcissistic abusers—are incapable of genuine love. And if we are the reminder of their shame, they fear us as much as they fear the true selves they’ve buried deep.

We become more understanding as we become more aware. We learn to examine our actions and motives and not fear what we find. Again, we don’t have to be perfect, and none of us are. More important is the desire to recognize and correct hurtful behavior as we move forward.

When we choose to break the cycle, we learn to spot trouble from the get-go and avoid it. Even better, narcissistic abusers will tend to keep their distance because they’ll realize they’re not able to manipulate and control us.

The good news is we are always healing, as individuals, as friends, as a family, as a nation, and as a planet.  As part of that process, we continue to expand our consciousness, and we wake up every day one step closer to who we are meant to be—the best person we can be under our everyday circumstances.

Note:

This blog contains numerous excerpts from my forthcoming memoir, Grateful to Be Alive.

BOOK DETAILS:

Grateful to Be Alive:

My Road to Recovery from Addiction
By D.K. Sanz

Do unsettling truths bring harsh judgment? They do, but the price of denial is steep.

D.K. Sanz’s storybegins in the drug-infested New York City streets of Woodside, Queens, during the tumultuous HIV/AIDS pandemic of the 80s and 90s. It offers a glimpse into how a now often-overlooked pandemic impacted Sanz’s nuclear family. 

From her earliest days, Sanz was the easily forgotten stranger, always a little out of sync with the rest of the world—a tough but naive kid and aspiring writer.  Her triumph over illness and addiction includes amusing anecdotes and nostalgic, heartwarming memories.

Grateful to be Alive delves deep into Sanz’s confessional self-sabotage, self-destruction, and the harrowing downward spiral she almost didn’t survive. Her never-before-told story ranges from recklessness and impudence to empathy, forgiveness, and love.

D.K. Sanz has since published several books, primarily poetry but also a novel, and she continues to work on sequels and an all-new fantasy series. You’ll find some of her poetry at the end of this book.

Whether struggling or not, you will find Grateful to Be Alive is a story of hope, of defying insurmountable odds, finding joy, and a gradual transition toward authenticity and becoming the person Sanz always wanted to be.

First ARC copy review:

“When you begin this book, you will not put it down. You will immediately be drawn into Sanz’s bold narrative of a woman, throughout her life, passing through “every forbidden door,” as she says of herself. It is a book of continual growth through experience, defeat, and triumph. The prose is swift, concise, full of irony, truth, and poise. You will not find a more startling, revealing memoir. Highly, highly recommended.” ~ J.T. Masters

If you are interested in obtaining an ARC copy, please e-mail me at dksanz@yahoo.com.

Photo credits:

Feature photo of narcissist shadow image by Thanks for your Likes from Pixabay 

Spirit nightmare dream image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Blindfolded woman in mirror image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay 

Man in mysterious whisper image by Sam Williams from Pixabay

Dove/hands/peace/freedom image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

EXCERPT FROM MY NEW BOOK! 🥰

My memoir about recovery from addiction and illness is complete and in the final editing stage. Here’s an unedited excerpt to give you an idea of what’s coming:

The Atlantic Ocean seemed as vast and deep as the aching within me and represented the same somber foreboding. It was the sea of the titan after all—more than 41 million square miles. In those moments, it looked as foreign to me as everything else that was once familiar. One might see it as a green leviathan monster or the depths of God’s love. I saw the monster, noting it could simply devour you, but so could the earth, and life itself.
I was on the sandy shores of Rockaway Beach, somewhere about 108th street, sitting cross-legged, on my beach blanket, playing with a stick in the sand. Aggressive seagulls descended effortlessly from the clear blue sky—ravenous, and predatory, like some humans I knew. The calls of piping plovers and other shorebirds were ominous, too.
The warmth of the sun felt good though as I took in the ocean’s briny aroma mingled with the fragrances of cocoa butter, coconut oil, and glorious traces of jasmine. The ocean breeze provided a hypnotic tranquility, so much so that as the salty waves thrashed against the shore, I’d managed to believe that somehow, someday, it would all be okay. The music on my radio soothed me then, pretty much the way it always did, and I listened to the laughter of yesterday.
I was sixteen now, and when men approached my blanket, I immediately told them, “I’m leaving in two minutes.”
By this time, I didn’t want to meet any more people.

D.K. Sanz ~ from my upcoming memoir

Please Note: Before its anticipated release in February of 2023, I will provide readers with a certain number of ARCs. (February is a tentative release goal.)

For those unfamiliar, an ARC is an advanced reader copy provided before publication. Each recipient of an ARC intends to read and review the book. Once given an ARC, you are under no obligation to do either, but, at the same time, you wouldn’t want to request an ARC copy if that’s not your initial intention. In other words, if reading the book causes you to change your mind for any reason, there are no consequences, legal or otherwise.

ARCs are free. Currently, I have them available in Word or PDF formats. Eventually, they will be available on Kindle.

Reviews by ARC readers are posted on Amazon and, hopefully, Goodreads if the recipient has a Goodreads account.

ARC readers, unlike beta readers, are not expected to provide feedback to the author besides the public review, but feedback is certainly welcome.

To apply, please e-mail me at dksanz@yahoo.com and answer the following questions:

1) Are you familiar with the author’s work? (Just curious, it’s okay if you’re not.)

2) Have you ever reviewed a book by this author?

3) Please briefly explain why this particular book would interest you.

4) Have you reviewed books or products before this request?

5) Do you have an Amazon account?

6) Do you have a Goodreads account?

Unfortunately, I may not be able to accommodate every request, but I thank you in advance for your interest.

Feature photo at the top by Alisa Anton on Unsplash

Woman Reading Book photo by Yuri Efremov on Unsplash

Happy Holidays image by Biljana Jovanovic from Pixabay 

Happy New Year image by Alexandra_Koch from Pixabay Yellow Rose image by Ri Butov from Pixabay 

NEED AN ESCAPE? I HAVE FREE BOOKS AVAILABLE! 🥰

Some people have been searching for new books to read during the pandemic. I, myself, have taken the opportunity to download many books offered for free or discounted. (I LOVE to read and often purchase books at full price as well.) Now, I am getting in on the giveaways.

Effective May 18, 2020, and up until May 22, 2020, the Kindle versions of all three of my books will be available to download on Amazon for free. You can go right to those links (I posted them all) or read the descriptions and excerpts before you do.

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Some truths can be deadly. Danielle isn’t mopey or filled with teenage angst. Danielle and her cousin were abducted, drugged,and raped. But her cousin doesn’t remember, and her best friend won’t believe her. Now, her predators have returned, stalking her, harassing her at every turn. Nightmares plague her sleep, pushing her to the brink of exhaustion.Isolated, terrified, and grief-stricken, Danielle is paralyzed, unable to face the unmerciful world around her. Can she awaken her spirit and blossom into a woman of defiance and courage before the darkness eclipses her sanity?

Shattering Truths, the first volume in the Deadly Veils series, is a haunting and heartbreaking coming of age story. In the tradition of Judy Blume, and following in the footsteps of Thirteen Reasons Why, author Kyrian Lyndon doesn’t shy away from exploring the darker side of life that every teenage girl fears. Filled with suspense, a heart wrenching emotional journey, and twists that will leave you breathless, Shattering Truths will take hold of you on page one and never let go.

** Trigger warning for Shattering Truths: It’s not for the faint of heart.**

Download for Free on Amazon.com

Read an excerpt here.

Read another excerpt here.

Remnants of Severed Chains is a collection of over forty new poems by Kyrian Lyndon, author of A Dark Rose Blooms. This book continues with the same intensity as A Dark Rose, running the gamut of complex emotions that resonate with many. The author explains in the book’s preface that Remnants is about the process of healing and recovery, the willingness to learn and evolve. Thus, she embraces life’s astounding and most personal revelations—afflictions, addictions and relationships, the good and the bad, capturing life’s most devastating moments along with its celebratory moments of beauty and joy.

Sample poem

She stood alone on the edge,
In darkness,
A faint silhouette
Gazing at the night sky.
Rain fell,
A sprinkler to the trees
Thrashing in the wind.
She would flee,
Abandoning places,
Suddenly unrecognizable faces.
The glowing sun of Helios
Was a beacon
For eternal bliss,
Yet deceiving.
The caves beckoned.
Every corner,
Every crevice,
Held its own mystery,
Its truth.
 
Still the perilous journey
Was madness—
Pretty colors and then
Darkness.
It seemed to have no end.
She heard a child crying,
A child from long ago,
A prisoner of her soul.
Stone walls around her,
Hissing sounds,
Deep, treacherous waters—
Her mind was a fractured maze.
No one could see.
No one could hear.
No safe place to run,
She had to find the way
Out…
Home…
Every stone that healed
Brought her closer to
The truth,
The light.
The climb was steep,
But she held on,
Clawing her way
In blindness,
Accepting,
Facing,
Grieving.
 
Raindrops glistened on the rocks.
Flower petals littered
The wet grass.
She saw vibrant orchids
In the fading light of the moon,
And, alas,
Tranquil waters glistened
Aqua blue.
Like the ancient alchemical goddess,
She was crowned—
A newborn only beginning
To awaken,
Beginning to see,
Her soul bursting
With bliss.
The beauty within
Became the beauty
Eyes could see,
Not perfection—
Courage, perhaps…
Determination,
Defiance,
And love.
She was free.
No jewel would sparkle with
More radiance,
And the years would not tarnish its shine.

Download for Free on Amazon.com

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This collection of thirty poems by novelist Kyrian Lyndon spans decades throughout the author’s personal journey. From the soothingly peaceful to the bizarre, Kyrian runs the gamut of complex emotions that will resonate for many. The poems are poignant—honest, open, and straight from the heart, heartbreaking and with humor, embracing light and dark, hope and despair, triumph over adversity.

Sample poem

Oh, for the beauty of the melody,
The harmony sprinkled about.
He is but a glowing midge
Longing to play an Aeolian harp,
While holding you still and entranced
With the celestial beauty of a god.
Ah, but for the pain!
The seraphic master sets about casting shadows
So that I cannot see the sun,
Leaving but a vista of tomorrow’s joys and treasures.
The current focus becomes a precursor
Along the predestined path,
A traverse on the bridge.
That’s my all-too-rigid honeybee,
Leaving me with a concave and sunken universe,
A hollow path in my heart and my soul.

Download for Free on Amazon.com

If you download any of the books (or all of them), please consider letting me know what you think! I’ve developed some pretty thick skin. But then, again, I have not heard anything too harsh thus far. 🙂

HOW ARE YOU FEELING THESE DAYS?

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The sun rises with
Foreboding crow caws,
While the day brings
Sirens of uncertainty.

Allergies persist.
Well, for the lilac pansies,
The snapdragons,
And the daffodils…
Oh, and the tulips in all colors,
Beautiful and bold.

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We see the sun
From behind the glass.
We hear the rain.
Upstairs, there is music.
He’s singing—
Playing guitar.
 
Below we talk like survivors
Of dystopian madness
Taking shelter in a cave.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Yes.”

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The days are longer.
Open windows let in the breeze.
Outside, the trees are tall and proud.
With all their flowers,
Cherries,
And leaves.
Yet we—
We are powerless,
Our illusion of safety
Violated once more.
 
Oh, but the birds chirp in a frenzy!
Come play.
The earth is alive!
We need to laugh and
To cry.
Everything is tragic
 And beautiful.
 
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But some have no one to talk to,
Little, if anything, to eat,
No way to get well,
And nowhere to hide.
Others rise to an occasion
They never could have fathomed,
Working toward their lifelong dream
With infinite empathy.
Does it wreak desolation?

We don’t even know the extent
Of how harsh life can be.
People die for greed.
 
Dreaded knock on the door now.
No one should come here—
Maybe not for a while.
Uneasy eyes
Behind masked faces.
Down the stairwells then,
One flight at a time,
I go beyond the door,
Where the world is.
Experience it once more,
For a short time.
The sun is bright
Across a vivid blue sky.
There’s the scent of fresh-cut grass
And the sweet caress of the wind.
It’s like a summer day
With pillowy clouds
And butterflies.
The world’s magnificent beauty.

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 Then it’s back to the safe place.
Do you have one of those?
A safe place to be?
I hope you do.
 
Because the stars are still there at night,
Like the glorious moon.
I watch them as I hope
Things get better.
Like they always did before,
At least, for a little while.


“How Are You Feeling These Days” poem by Kyrian Lyndon

Photo credits (from top to bottom):

Crow – Alexas Pansies – Shirley Snapdragons – Metsikgarden Tulips – Annca Cave – Stocksnap Cherry blossom trees – Dewdrop157 Dogwood Trees – Brinnington Bird in Tree – bardia Hashemirad on Unsplash Landscape – Larisa-k Clouds – Johnsongoh Fantasy Stargazing – Larissa-k

LAST WORD

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You made me laugh,
And I forgot all the tears.
You helped me up,
And I forgot the times
You let me down.
You were hatred,
Just as surely as
You were love.
You were everything right
And everything wrong—
Humility and
Defiance,
Cruelty
And kindness,
Approval and
Contempt.
You were everything
And nothing.
I had to let you go,
And it freed me.
Still, I’m sad,
For I know
Who you might have been.
I know you so well…
But you do not know me. – Kyrian Lyndon
from Remnants of Severed Chains

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Book cover design by Jah Kaine via jerboa Design Studios.com

Feature header photo by ara ghafoory @araghafoory

Poem copyright © Kyrian Lyndon 2015

BEFORE YOU FORGET AGAIN: YOU ARE AN AMAZING TRIUMPH!

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The robin in your tender heart
Hungers for the red berry
That titillates your tongue.
She carols as the snow falls—
And not with the chorus of the dawn
In radiant spring.
What might have been?
Your voice silenced,
The spirit of you
Destroyed,
I see glimpses of your fire
From the light that has vanished
From your eyes.

Your wings soar,
Only not to follow
Your heart.
And your heart is that of
A child,
Deeply vulnerable,
Precious,
So sensitive,
And sweet.
You inspire me
To change my perspective
With your unique vision
Of the world.
You shine with your brilliance,
And you don’t know.
Your bursts of laughter
Make me smile.
As always, you are the light
In my darkness;
Your spirit is the fire I feel
In the sun’s warmth.
You were the dawn of my awakening,
And the splendor of my dreams.

And I have cried
For your heart
More than I have ever cried
For my own.
I am torn apart by
The intensity of your pain.
It is profound sadness
I feel,
When I think I’ve reached you
And then hit another wall…
Hard.

I fear losing you forever
To your grief,
As I grieve, too,
For the subtleties
And cues
You don’t understand.
Avoiding the eyes of others …
Your intense frustration
In trying to get it right,
And thinking you have it all wrong.

You have it right,
So right—
Always did,
Always will.
I only wish you could know
The joy
Of being free.

The tentative smiles,
The looks of uncertainty,
Prompt me to tell you,
You got this.
You’ll be fine.
Whatever the passion,
Let it burn.
It will save you.

Retrieve every shattered fragment
Of your soul.

Accept it,
Embrace it,
Bless it with your peace.
Give it mighty and glorious wings,
And let it fly where it leads
Without fear,
Into the twilight of an infinite sky.

Be happy,
Shine,
Glow.
Love,
Dance,
Sing.
Celebrate yourself
And don’t stop singing
Your life’s song.
The song is your vision,
Your passion;
It belongs to you.
Without it,
You wither and die.

Don’t you, for one moment,
Let anyone crush your beautiful spirit.

Know, too, those who have crushed you
Have been crushed.
Those who pain you have been pained.
Still, you can rise again,
Become completely alive again
And shine on,
Just as you did before all the hurt began.

You are not defective,
My dear one,
Not a burden,
Nor do you struggle alone.
I’m here with you.
I will always be with you.
You are
In every way
Beautiful.
Though you don’t see that,
And you never have.
I just love you.

© Copyright October 9, 2016 by Kyrian Lyndon at kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved. No reproduction permitted without permission.

THE TRUTH CAN BE DEVASTATING, FRIGHTENING, AND DEADLY!

Some truths can be deadly.

Danielle isn’t mopey or filled with teenage angst. Danielle and her cousin were abducted, drugged, and raped. But her cousin doesn’t remember, and her best friend won’t believe her. Now, her predators have returned, stalking her, harassing her at every turn. Nightmares plague her sleep, pushing her to the brink of exhaustion. Isolated, terrified, and grief-stricken, Danielle is paralyzed, unable to face the unmerciful world around her. Can she awaken her spirit and blossom into a woman of defiance and courage before the darkness eclipses her sanity?

Shattering Truths, the first volume in the Deadly Veils series, is a haunting and heartbreaking coming of age story. In the tradition of Judy Blume, and following in the footsteps of Thirteen Reasons Why, author Kyrian Lyndon doesn’t shy away from exploring the darker side of life that every teenage girl fears. Filled with suspense, a heart wrenching emotional journey, and twists that will leave you breathless, Shattering Truths will take hold of you on page one and never let go.

YOU CAN DOWNLOAD THIS KINDLE BOOK FOR FREE ON AMAZON.COM BETWEEN MARCH 15 AND MARCH 19!! SEE LINK BELOW. READ SAMPLE CHAPTER, REVIEWS, AND MORE!!!

Chapter One:

Glastonbury, Connecticut, 1987

There was no blood. I was dead inside, but not bleeding. Zipping my shorts in a daze, I focused on the brown and gold hues of the wall tiles. I washed my hands over the sink, avoiding my reflection. The hexagon-shaped mirror was antique and gilded. I now felt debased in its presence as well as in these familiar surroundings. After turning off the faucet, I stood there for a moment, and then hastened to my room.

The brass bed, dressed in white eyelet sheets and frilly pink bedding, was an update of my choosing. The nativity scene plaque on the wall above it had been there throughout my childhood—Mother Mary in a protective stance over Baby Jesus. I suppose the intention was to comfort and protect me. Still, I lined the bed with stuffed teddy bears and kept a sixteen-inch porcelain doll with golden hair and dark blue eyes on my white dresser. She wore a pink Victorian dress with lace trim and glimmering beads and a hat to match. I picked her up now and held her tightly to my chest. A tear fell as I snuggled her to me for as long as I could. After setting her down, I approached the window.

I could see far from these foothills. A woodlot of mixed forest surrounded our home. In one direction, I saw the Hartford skyline—in another, steep, rolling hills in their divine and blissful glory. My room faced the direction of Old Buckingham, not half a mile away. The ancient cemetery was set back from the road, just beyond a fortress of trees. We heard stories of weeping spirits, distant cries of agony, and diaphanous circles of white light floating above and between the tombstones. I never knew whether people convinced themselves of these things or merely embellished the truth. One thing I knew did happen: Fierce hurricane winds had nearly destroyed the little church on its grounds.

Much as I loved this house, it was an eerie place to grow up. That had little to do with ghost stories. I would lie awake in my bed at night, listening to the sounds of darkness—imagining that the hoarse caw of the crows warned of impending doom. I got this sense of urgency from yapping dogs, yelping coyotes, and the ear-piercing whistles of the woodchucks. Some nights, even the benign chirping of crickets grew louder and more intense with each moment.

I prayed, always.

Watching from the window now, I felt like some reclusive old person who got all the neighbors whispering. I watched for a dusty black Cutlass Supreme, needing to make certain it was nowhere in sight.

The phone rang, and I panicked. My father had mounted it to the wall between my room and the master bedroom, so I had to leave the room to answer it.

“Hello, Danielle,” the voice cooed.

Sickened to my core, I hung up.

It rang again, the innocuous ivory phone that seemed suddenly possessed. I wanted to rip it off the wall.

I lifted the receiver.

“Don’t hang up.” It was the other guy.

“Stop calling here!” I ended the call with a slam.

They had the gall to utter my name! They sounded so casual, so elated—as if the atrocity I had endured earlier that day had been mutually rewarding. Granted, it could have been worse, and yet a part of me had died. More unsettling still, they knew where to find me.

Available now on:

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk

Barnes & Noble.com

iTunes

REVIEWS

“I find it difficult to express the depth to which she pierces emotional barriers in order to share the struggles the characters in the book were required to face. I was literally brought to tears on a couple of occasions. Her profound understanding of human emotion and spirituality are evident in her poetry as well. Basically, a brilliantly written novel by a brilliant writer. I can’t wait to read more from her.” – Reservoirguy

“Deeply nostalgic and full of the dark, seething pressures of youth, combined with the colorful background of the late 1980s, Kyrian Lyndon’s first book in her Dead Veils series will transport you to another place where secrets can kill…or set a lost soul free. An amazing literary journey!” –K. H. Koehler

“A gripping and emotional story about trauma and abuse…” – Elizabeth Greschner

“A dark, alluring and fascinating book about a girl trying to crawl out of the darkness and despair and grow in strength and spirit.” –Books Are Love

“While this is a young adult, I know both teens and adults will enjoy this book. Fans of 13 Reasons Why will devour this book!” –N.N. Light

“An emotional roller coaster…” –Love Books

“A startlingly intense look into the lives of the young teens in present-day America!” –Deepak Menon

“It was truly a novel I will always cherish and always remember.” –Chelsea Girard

*Shattering Truths was originally published in January of 2016 under the title Provenance of Bondage. The re-release has a lot of new material but is a bit shorter than the original.

Author’s Note: Deadly Veils Book Two is well underway! It tells the story of Valentin, a character that  intrigued many readers in the first book. Danielle will appear again, but readers will see her only through Valentin’s eyes.

I can tell you, too; this second installment will include plenty of romance and excitement.

Related links:

My review of Thirteen Reasons Why and thoughts about the issue.

Listen to the Shattering Truths’ story playlist on YouTube.

Connect with Kyrian Lyndon:

Facebook

Twitter

Instagram

LinkedIn

Amazon.com

© Copyright January 30, 2017 by Kyrian Lyndon at kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved. No reproduction permitted without permission.

Cover Design (feature photo) by KH Koehler Design

THE TRUTH CAN BE DEVASTATING, FRIGHTENING, AND DEADLY!

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Young/New Adult-Dark Suspense-Literary Fiction

She was left fighting her demons alone . . .

For sixteen-year-old Danielle DeCorso, the old house in Glastonbury was an eerie place to grow up. Coping with mental health challenges exacerbated by a traumatic family dynamic, Danielle watches from the window for two men in a dusty black sedan who keep circling the house and harassing her with phone calls. The two predators drugged her and her cousin, Angie, and then lured them from Pleasure Beach in Bridgeport to a secluded cottage on Long Beach West. She remembers feeling dizzy, the room spinning. She recalls screaming, crying, fighting, and then slipping in and out of consciousness. Angie, however, has no recollection of the incident.

When Danielle attempts to jog Angie’s memory and convince their best friend, Farran, that the two strangers had victimized them, no one seems to believe her. Alone in her pain, Danielle remains guarded, obsessed, and withdrawn. Soon she is sinking deeper into a tumultuous world of adolescent isolation and change. Grief, guilt, and anger send her spiraling into an even darker place.

Tormented by terrifying nightmares, she fears she will lose her sanity, or possibly her soul. Is she having post-traumatic stress hallucinations, as one of her friends suggest, or are her recurring nightmares as real as they seem? Trapped in an unyielding emotional bondage, Danielle continues the fight to reclaim her power. Startling revelations awaken her newfound spirit, inspiring a once naïve girl to grow into a woman of defiance and courage.

“A dark, alluring and fascinating book about a girl trying to crawl out of the darkness and despair and grow in strength and spirit.” –Books Are Love

“A gripping and emotional story about trauma and abuse…” – Elizabeth Greschner

“…an emotional roller coaster…” –Love Books

“…a startingly intense look into the lives of the young teens in present day America!” –Deepak Menon

“This book will catch you right in from the start.” –Peggy

“…a powerful story right from the start.” –Joanne Dore

“I can’t wait for her next book because now I’m hooked!” –Lori Stanley

“I’m looking forward to reading more from this author.” –Denise Buttino Terrell

Available on:

Amazon
(If you buy the paperback on Amazon, you can get the $2.99 Kindle edition for $.99.)

Barnes & Noble
(for paperback & Nook versions)

iTunes
(for iBooks on your Mac or iOS device)

Free review copies are also available. If you’d like to review this book, please contact me for your complimentary copy.

Here is a preview of the first chapter:

CHAPTER ONE
Connecticut, Summer of 1987

There was no blood. I was dead inside, but not bleeding. Zipping my shorts in a daze, I focused on the brown and gold hues of the wall tiles. I washed my hands over the sink, avoiding my reflection. The hexagon-shaped mirror was antique and gilded. I now felt debased in its presence as well as in these familiar surroundings. After turning off the faucet, I stood there for a moment, and then hastened to my room.
The brass bed, dressed in white eyelet sheets and frilly pink bedding, was an update of my choosing. The nativity scene plaque on the wall above it had been there throughout my childhood—Mother Mary in a protective stance over Baby Jesus. I suppose the intention was to comfort and protect me. Still, I lined the bed with stuffed teddy bears and kept a sixteen-inch porcelain doll with golden hair and dark blue eyes on my white dresser. She wore a pink Victorian dress with lace trim and glimmering beads and a hat to match. I picked her up now and held her tightly to my chest. A tear fell as I snuggled her to me for as long as I could. After setting her down, I approached the window.
I could see far from these foothills. A woodlot of mixed forest surrounded our home. In one direction, I saw the Hartford skyline—in another, steep, rolling hills in their divine and blissful glory. My room faced the direction of Old Buckingham, not half a mile away. The ancient cemetery was set back from the road, just beyond a fortress of trees. We heard stories of weeping spirits, distant cries of agony, and diaphanous circles of white light floating above and between the tombstones. I never knew whether people convinced themselves of these things or merely embellished the truth. One thing I knew did happen: Fierce hurricane winds had nearly destroyed the little church on its grounds.
Much as I loved this house, it was an eerie place to grow up. That had little to do with ghost stories. I would lie awake in my bed at night, listening to the sounds of darkness—imagining that the hoarse caw of the crows warned of impending doom. I got this sense of urgency from yapping dogs, yelping coyotes, and the ear-piercing whistles of the woodchucks. Some nights, even the benign chirping of crickets grew louder and more intense with each moment.
I prayed, always.
Watching from the window now, I felt like some reclusive old person who got all the neighbors whispering. I watched for a dusty black Cutlass Supreme, needing to make certain it was nowhere in sight.
The phone rang, and I panicked. My father had mounted it to the wall between my room and the master bedroom, so I had to leave the room to answer it.
“Hello, Danielle,” the voice cooed.
Sickened to my core, I hung up.
It rang again, the innocuous ivory phone that seemed suddenly possessed. I wanted to rip it off the wall.
I lifted the receiver.
“Don’t hang up.” It was the other guy.
“Stop calling here!” I ended the call with a slam.
They had the gall to utter my name! They sounded so casual, so elated—as if the atrocity I had endured earlier that day had been mutually rewarding. Granted, it could have been worse, and yet a part of me had died. More unsettling still, they knew where to find me.

***

Shattering Truths, was originally published in January of 2016 under the title Provenance of Bondage. The re-release has a lot of new material but is a bit shorter than the original, since I decided to cut some of it as well. I’m very happy with the new version, and I think readers will be, too!

***

© Copyright January 30, 2017 by Kyrian Lyndon at kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved. No reproduction permitted without permission.

Shattering Truths Cover by KH Koehler Design

SHE STOOD ALONE ON THE EDGE OF DARKNESS

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Through forests of emerald-green bliss,
She pranced,
Embracing the colors of endless play—
The rainbows of summer.
She was a child of the earth.

Her tiny voice sang,
And she danced!
No danger lurked in her twinkling eyes.
Everything in her fearless laughter
Was colored with mirth.

She built castles on the shore
By a peaceful and provident sea
That was never foreboding.
She skipped beneath the golden clouds
Like the world belonged to her,
As if there were no cares
And all who loved her
Would keep her safe.

“Do not lose her,” I said.
“Do not lose that child.
She needs you so desperately.”

And then she had this grave fear of the sea,
This somber foreboding.
It seemed so vast and so deep
From the shore,
A leviathan-green, hellish monstrosity
Full of strange creatures that devoured things.
It was all that lay between her
And some faraway place
On the other side of the globe.

Somehow, it was not so frightening now.
Neither was the past,
The present,
Or all the future obscurities—
Not even those people she once had cherished.

The peace of the waters subdued her now,
As she listened to the thrash of the waves.
She was just playing with a stick in the sand.

There was a noted ambiguity
Whenever she spoke of this place.
Certain moments when she embraced the glorious light
And gazed intently into the darkness.
There were moments, too,
When she felt it creep and crawl around her,
When she ached and trembled,
Longing to free herself from its grip.

While seething within,
She wore the mask of kindness,
Harmless and alluring,
With resentment like hemlock,
Beautiful yet wilting,
Glowing yet tarnished,
Beckoning,
Flourishing,
Standing tall,
And unyielding…
Toxic to all
In her flowering beauty.

The sun was setting,
Salmon clouds under a sky of dodger blue,
Flocks of geese
On a sprawling lawn.
A waxing gibbous moon
Beckoned
Like she needed a guide,
A divine light.

“Come forth,” it said.
“Come home.”
And some of the fear waned
As she went forth,
But nothing really changed.

She stood alone on the edge,
In darkness,
A faint silhouette
Gazing at the night sky.
Rain fell,
A sprinkler to the trees
Thrashing in the wind.

She would flee,
Abandoning places,
Suddenly unrecognizable faces.
The glowing sun of Helios
Was a beacon
For eternal bliss,
Yet deceiving.

The caves beckoned.
Every corner,
Every crevice,
Held its own mystery,
Its truth.

Still the perilous journey
Was madness—
Pretty colors and then
Darkness.
It seemed to have no end.

She heard a child crying,
A child from long ago,
A prisoner of her soul.

Stone walls around her,
Hissing sounds,
Deep, treacherous waters—
Her mind was a fractured maze.
No one could see.
No one could hear.
No safe place to run,
She had to find the way
Out…
Home…

Every stone that healed
Brought her closer to
The truth,
The light.

The climb was steep,
But she held on,
Clawing her way
In blindness,
Accepting,
Facing,
Grieving.

Raindrops glistened on the rocks.
Flower petals littered
The wet grass.
She saw vibrant orchids
In the fading light of the moon,
And, alas,
Tranquil waters glistened
Aqua blue.

Like the ancient alchemical goddess,
She was crowned—
A newborn only beginning
To awaken,
Beginning to see,
Her soul bursting
With bliss.

The beauty within
Became the beauty
Eyes could see,
Not perfection—
Courage, perhaps…
Determination,
Defiance,
And love.

She was free.
No jewel could sparkle with
More radiance,
And the years could not tarnish its shine.

From Remnants of Severed Chains © Copyright October 17, 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon at kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved. No reproduction permitted without permission.

ON SALE NOW! DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE PROVENANCE OF BONDAGE

 

EXCERPTS

An impulsive glance at the sky halted me in my tracks, or had I sensed it? The omnipotent gold of the sun rose against a backdrop an artist might have painted—ominous charcoal gray, flames of orange, nuances of blue, and an invigorating, most passionate purple. In that exquisite hour when hope reigned with the promise of a new day, I saw her— as if a divine force had illuminated her. She was on the roof in that virginal white gown, her dark hair blowing behind her, like a child lost. My heart pounded. I made a dash for the stairs with Robbie close behind me.

We raced up three flights to the gloomy old attic door with its dark rustic stain and antiquated handle. It was slightly ajar, and I could feel the draft now. The first streak of sunlight in that murky chamber came from the small window and the open roof hatch. We hurried along the creaking floors, beneath the angled ceiling, through the room dusty with cobwebs. A scissor stairway led to the horizontally placed roof hatch.

She had her back to us, but she heard us and turned. I thought she could hear the beating of my heart that thumped so violently.   

***

I knew something was wrong. Her skin was pale. When I reached for her hand, it was trembling. I could tell she was reluctant to walk away.My father took her arm.

“Please, Mommy, Daddy, no!” I screamed, tears clouding my vision. “Don’t leave me here. Please don’t leave me!”

My mother turned, and I saw she also had tears.  My father steered her onward. I cannot imagine the agony they endured, as they continued to disappear from my view. They turned back only one time to wave goodbye to me. 

***

What had those vile creatures unleashed in me? What beast had they awakened? I think I vowed to kill the beast and bury it so deep in the abyss it would never again rear its ugly head. Part of me did make this promise. The other part embraced an unfolding of life’s inextinguishable flames and the mind’s unspoken bondage.

As far as reinforcing the strength of my mind’s resolve, I supposed my body was a useless entity. Rather, it was this fancy thing I lived in—a mausoleum that beckoned the living, promising gratification, refuge, solace, peace, even immortality. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t mine. I realized then, it had never belonged to me. I could control what happened to it only if people were merciful. Watching Valentin was not merciful. It was a torturous joy.

***

He pulled into the parking lot of Manchester Memorial, took the key from the ignition, and spoke with his eyes on the wheel. “I am the one who is sorry, okay? You have nothing to be sorry about.” I never heard him speak in such a shaky, fractured voice.

“I love you, Daddy,” I assured him.

An awkward silence ensued.

“I feel like you don’t love me anymore.”      

“Danielle, it has nothing to do with whether I love you or don’t love you. You’re my daughter, okay? What happened should never have happened. You didn’t deserve that.”

***  

It was an unsettling time of strange and constant shifting between the uncorrupted purity of youth and the reckless foray into a demoralizing coming of age. A choice seemed to continually surface, bittersweet reality or sweet imagination, child or grownup, right or wrong. I kept searching for the in-between, but I couldn’t find it. I felt a rebellious joy as well as a distant sadness.

***

The crushing of one’s will didn’t cease with the conquest. Poison oozed from the wound like some fairy tale curse that corrupted your spirit, making it so vile that you couldn’t know or understand your desires.

BOOK DESCRIPTION

Sixteen-year-old Danielle DeCorso watches in fear for two men in a dusty black sedan who keep circling the house and harassing her with phone calls.

The old house in Glastonbury was an eerie place to grow up. Danielle would lie in her bed at night, listening to the sounds of darkness. But those predators in the black sedan—they had drugged her, along with her cousin, Angie, and held them captive in their home for hours.

Angie will not share her truth of that horrendous day, and Danielle’s credibility is in question. Danielle remains guarded, obsessed, and withdrawn in her now tumultuous world. She finds herself in a position of needing to sort out her confusion while dealing with her troubled family. She craves normalcy in an ongoing fight for her sanity. Grief and guilt spiral her to an even darker place until startling revelations awaken her newfound spirit, inspiring a once naive girl to grow into a woman of defiance and courage.

READ THE BOOK’S PREFACE

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Cover design by Jah Kaine via jerboa design studio.com

© Copyright January 1, 2016 by Kyrian Lyndon at kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved. No reproduction permitted without permission.

SHADOWS OF MY SOUL

This poem appears in my first book, “A Dark Rose Blooms.”

 

SHADOWS OF MY SOUL

Reality to me is the dusk,
Prevalence in the shadows.
It is cloaking,
Grasping,
Discerning
In a world of darkness.
It is torment.
It is restraint.
The beauty of the peaceful lull amid the
Trees just before sunrise
Lies in contrast with the hazy tumult of my
Self-inflicted tomb.
I am in awe of every vision.
I bask in the passion of every caress.
Every bit of air I breathe is a godsend.
I could listen with the stillness of the ocean
Before daybreak
To the waves amid a blue-violet sky.
I could dance with flair and gaiety to the music
With a glow that illuminates me.
There is no one else I’d rather be—
Unless it were to love you.
You are all that I crave.

© Copyright March 1, 2005 by Kyrian Lyndon at kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved. No reproduction permitted without permission from the author.

Feature photo by Sebastian Unrau @sebastian_unrau

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IT’S HALLOWEEN!

halloween-party40

Like many of you, I love Halloween! I have fond memories of past Halloweens and get excited about it in every new season.

We did a Halloween show on ‘Heart-to-Heart with Kyrian’ tonight and here is the podcast if you’d like to hear it. It was silly fun, and we enjoyed it.

During the show, I read from Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven’. However, another of my favorite poems to set the mood for Halloween is ‘Darkness’ by Lord Byron.

Finally, here is a poem from me. I wrote it many years ago while visiting a friend in Richmond, Virginia. It was the 30th of October, and Halloween was certainly in the air.

The Eve

Tree after tree, in mere flashes,
Pulled onward so quickly on wheels.
An endless cavity,
A hollow place on a hillside.
Very dark, very black night,
The eve of All Saints Day in Richmond.
Secluded place of abode
Amid a forest of woody-trunked perennials—
I am the diminutive Hansel in the infinite forest!
I come upon a candle-lit haunt of mere shadows.
My eyes wander toward a mysterious and welcoming stairway
Leading to grand doors,
Silent and slightly ajar.
Peering through the open space,
All I see is blackness.
And seated there, on the floor,
In a corner where the candle seems to grow more in tensely,
The gourd-like fruit painted orange
Has a cocky, twisted grin.
Come morning,
Peering out the window,
All is calm
As sun shines
Upon the autumn leaves,
The abandoned rake,
And the green toolshed with chips in the painting.

Kyrian Lyndon

Halloween-21

Stay safe!

‘The Eve’* © August 14, 2014 kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved. No reproduction permitted without permission.

*’The Eve’ is included in ‘A Dark Rose Blooms’. For a limited time, you can get ‘A Dark Rose Blooms’ in paperback for $5.28 and the Kindle version for only $.99. They are both available here: A Dark Rose Blooms on Amazon.com

MANGLED WINGS

Adversity is the first path to truth.” Lord Byron

broken_wings_by_wingweaver666-d3a1j0c

Mangled Wings

Weary of all the conjecture, the slants,
Belly full of trite and typical rants.
It’s enough for the troubled, the broken,
Who have to amend it with so little spoken.
Die trying while you wait for the bomb;
Pray for the respite of happy and calm.
Fly out in euphoric bliss, dance of death,
On days it is torture to merely draw breath.
Eyes nearly close, tresses whirl in the breeze;
Touch my face, then graze my lips and appease.
We must embrace these things we abhor.
Rise up, rise up—
Mangled wings need to soar.

From ‘A Dark Rose Blooms’
A poetry book by Kyrian Lyndon

*****


Mangled Wings © Copyright 2006 kyrianlyndon.com. All rights reserved.