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It’s time for me to start telling my story.

By The Artful Woman
 It’s time for me to start telling my story. For a long time, I stayed quiet outside of a very small circle of close friends. I shared only enough to stay connected, but not enough to be fully seen. That wasn’t avoidance—it was protection. After my accident, my nervous system and my energy field simply could not take in more input from the outside world. As an empath, I had to retreat in order to survive and heal. But as my strength slowly returns, I feel that silence shifting. I was in a tragic accident on Ortega Highway that changed the entire course of my life. In an instant, everything I knew about my body, my independence, and my future was disrupted. Since then, I’ve been forced into a long and ongoing process of rebuilding—not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. And I’m still in it. Even the simplest things that most people take for granted have become daily challenges. Basic mobility. Using the restroom safely and in time. Navigating transfers ...
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Miracle at the Punk Rock Show

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By The Artful Woman

 


Back in the early eighties, when I was just a young teenager, my world revolved around skating rinks and music. I was just starting to explore concerts, gravitating towards the new wave scene, but I had friends who were deep into punk rock. One night, they invited me to a show in Long Beach, featuring bands like Agent Orange, Suicidal Tendencies, and Social Distortion. I don’t remember exactly who was playing, but the concert was held in a packed hall or theater, and chaos erupted.

A full-blown riot broke out. People were throwing furniture, the doors were barricaded to keep the cops out, and helicopters swarmed above. I was just a skinny kid, completely out of place in the middle of the mayhem. Then, in the midst of the chaos, something incredible happened.

One of the band members—maybe a singer, maybe a guitarist—jumped off the stage, grabbed me, and carried me through the crowd. He pushed through the fighting, got me to the front, opened the doors, and shouted for me to run. As soon as the doors swung open, I was met with the sight of a SWAT team lined up, guns aimed. He yelled at them to let me go, told me to put my hands up, and I walked right past them, escaping the nightmare inside.

To this day, I owe that man my life. I don’t know his name, what band he was from, or why he chose me in that crowd—but he saved me. If he hadn’t pulled me out, I don’t know what would have happened. Looking back, it feels like a miracle.

Sometimes, miracles don’t come with bright lights and angelic music. Sometimes, they wear ripped jeans and scream into a microphone. That night, in the middle of what felt like a war zone, a punk rocker became my guardian angel.

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It’s time for me to start telling my story.

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