I have been depressed since I was six years old. I lost faith in life at age eleven.
Thank God I was put on medication early in my life.  I grew up poor, which makes a person feel like a second-class citizen. I remember having the only dirt yard, while the rest of the block had beatiful lawns, regularly sprinkled. But we were "The renters".

I usually don't tell a lot about my life, people always react by looking at me like I'm an alien or a terrific liar. It's probably a little of both. Or alot of one and a little of the other. I know that's how people used to react. It's getting better all the time.

Seriously, I  was not supposed to live, since I was a toddler. I've been through so many near death expreriences, I don't consider them a big deal anymore.

Except when I go through one again, it's a regular occurrance and remains creepy, at the best description.

I never went to High School or much of Junior High. Yet, I have a bachelor's degree and 12 credits torward my Masters, which I decided was a waste of my life, because I was so bored, the Master's endeavor, that is.

The project 'Mine Has Been No Ordinary Life  is a memoir in progress. I've been encouraged to present it as fiction, as it seems too unbelievable to be true.

I find this highly ironic yet completely understandable. If I was told my life story, I would shank it off as really bad fiction.

But the problem remains. It's all true.

The extraordinary experiences I been through leaves most mental health professionals shaking their heads. The same refrain has been repeated so many times, I roll my eyes when I hear it coming. "How the hell are you still alive?" 

I don't know how. I don't know why  And I really don't care anymore. (Umm, sorry, that's bullshit, I do care, I care a lot.) I am still here...wherever "here"is. I am as much in the present as the past.

I've never had any formal training on the art of poetry, novels, memoirs and the countless of forms of writing. I write to hopefully keep myself alive and let others know they are not alone.