Category: Uncategorized

I will not back down from this:

• The female father needs to go – fired.
• Baby Underpants needs to go – fired.
• The cat and dog weight gain tricks need to go – fired.
• The animal tricks of any kind need to go – fired.
• The sweaty tricks needs to go – fired.
• Control needs to go – fired.
• David Wolfe needs to go – fired.
• James Franco and his alter ego(s) needs to go – fired.
• Eyeglasses need to go – fired.
• The controlling, manipulating women need to go – fired.
• Yelling at me either in my head or in the surround NEED TO GO – FIRED.

Fire them all – not me.

Do you really want to lose my business everywhere I go?

 

 

Another day or night for me – gone.  And what happened?  Because I didn’t have any fun.  Another day, every day I am working.  Going to the movies, I am working.  At home, I am working.

No, I did not have any fun.  To much bad food.  I am miserable and unhappy.

 

A favorite saying of my father’s.  This too shall pass.

It used to make me crazy.  I felt dismissed and not heard.  This too shall pass.  Are you kidding me?!  That’s it?!  That’s all I get?!  It usually ended with the result my father really wanted which was me walking away, leaving him alone.

Now, I am writing about my father because of the conversation I had with Denzel Washington last Saturday night.  You know, I simply cannot hide the fact that this is going on anymore.  This talking and seeing celebrities.  It’s…I mean, how many years can I pretend when I truthfully know?  I do not believe it should be hidden either.  I believe it has been a great disservice to pretend.

I told him I did not want to write the bad stuff about my father.  It was not quite words I heard in response.  It was however, the response that started me thinking differently.

I didn’t want to write the bad stuff about my father because he is still alive.  The truth is I was hoping to use it for something else in my writing.  Something not autobiographical.  However, the conversation took place, so I have chosen to write.  I cannot quite explain that either.

I have always been the peace-keeper between my mother and my father.  That has been my role in my family.  Between my mother and my father.

From a very early age I have been aware of the great violence in my father.  I believe before I was ever told the stories from my mother and my brother.  My father used to be – a violent man.

On the night of the wedding between my mother and father, my father took my mother by the hair and dragged her down the hallway.  When I was told this story, I could believe it because I could see it.  I don’t recall the exact age I was told this story.  I was probably double digits young.

My father used to hit my brother.  He used to hit my brother on the ear.

When I was born my father stopped.  My father has never hit me.  My father stopped hurting my mother and brother too after I was born.

I have this picture of my father holding my baby brother on his shoulder, lifting my baby brother’s arms up in the air.  I have this picture out to look at because I do not know this man.  This father that adoringly, happily looks at my brother when he was a baby.

Peacekeeper is not an easy job.  It has been a burden I have been unable to vocalize and share throughout my life.

My father and mother did not share the same bedroom since I was eleven years old.

I used to sleep in my parent’s bed.  Can you imagine a child being able to have knowledge without having knowledge?  Knowing there was a problem.

One night my father picked me up put of the bed, I was kicking and screaming, and crying as he put me in my room.  I did not go back again.

The next day, my mother moved out of their bedroom making another room in the house, hers alone.

My parents should have been divorced.  There marriage was never reconciled.  There marriage bed was never reconciled.  It was my mother’s wish to divorce.

I don’t know how many churches my mother went to looking for advice, council, and help.  She was so angry and hurt as every time she was turned away.  Told to go back to her husband.  Told he could get everything.  Told horror upon horror story about trying to divorce yet keep the children.  Understand divorce in the eighties was a different time.

My mother raised us.

My father was never around.  My father worked the overnight shift most of my life which he enjoyed, so he could be excused from family time, functions, and conversations.

The few occasions he did show up usually after me begging and begging for him to go, he was never present.  I constantly had to pull him.  To make conversation.  To be around.

This picture I have of my family – all four of us – at HCC, Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, I begged and persuaded for days if not weeks for my father to attend.

There comes a point in your life when you’ve had enough.

By the time I was in my mid-thirties this relationship with my father was wearing thin with me.  Do I constantly have to beg my father for attention?  For conversation?  To be a part of our family?

Each of my parents would have been in a better place, would have re-married, and have had love if they had been allowed to divorce.

I think my father resisted because he didn’t want to give my mother something she wanted.  Because he had spent too many years pretending he was married when he was really a room-mate, and nothing more.

The stress of my father, dealing with my father brought the health problems that eventually killed my mother.

I truthfully believe since my mother could not get away from my father, or divorce him, she waited for the strokes to kill her.  It is a burden I have kept to myself.  My mother.  My father.

I do not believe my story is so unique.  I believe it is not a popular story.  It does not make for a good sound bite, so it is often not reported on.

How many marriages are still true after the ceremony?

What my father failed within his own family, he has helped with others.

My father is a teacher.  My mother was a teacher.  My brother is a teacher.  Wow, everyone is a teacher in my family, but me.

My whole life I have never known anything but a house full of people.  All nationalities, cultures, colors, shapes.  As long as you were a good person they were at our house.

When we lived in Oregon, my mother used to work with refugees helping them get established once in the states, helping them with services and so on.  A sad fact about that job was how disheartened my mother became having to take away the delusion that every American did not live like the actors on Dynasty.

My father when in Oregon used to work for the county maintaining main-frame computers.  I have no idea what he used to do other than receive a pay check.

When we moved to Florida, he started working teaching ESOL, and GED classes.

You know, I believe my father would have been happier his whole life if he could have stayed in the country of his birth, South Africa.

There is a story of my father escaping his homework by climbing out the window to go play soccer.  Probably, he didn’t really have to study.  I wondered if the school-work was too easy for him.

He left South Africa when he was sixteen to go to school in Chicago.  Going to UCLA earning a master’s in history and getting a letter in cricket.

Whatever the reason his parents sent him from South Africa, for not every child was sent abroad most of his brother’s and sister stayed in South Africa, if it was for education, to separate him from someone, or something else.  What I see in my father, what I know of South Africans is I do not believe it is possible to truly separate the people from the land.  It is unique.  It is unique to that place.  The land, the people are each a part of one another.

I almost hate to say black and white.  For it is not the same thing there.

I grew up listening to Miriam Makeba albums.

It is hard to describe.  I am not sure I do a good job at painting the mind picture for you to see.

I have been forced to see and react differently.  To turn away from, to choose to not step on the stop sign that has been black outlined.  When the truth is I would never before paid attention to it.  For it simply does not live in my heart.  This choosing between black and white, or something else.  It will never.

That being said, I have a right to choose who shares my bed.

My father works at a half-way house for men – usually drug charges – who have not yet received their GED.  The first time I went with him, I dropped him off for some reason.  To see the way the men, look at him and treat him – like he was a god.  Carrying his supplies, asking him questions, doing for him without even asking.  It was astonishing.

He has helped many men achieve something beyond their conviction.

How interesting can this be to read?

Who actually reads anything I write?

Anymore, I do not know the truth about me.

There is too much pretend.

No wonder I want it all to end.

Too much of my life already has been pretend.

Which is one thing I hoped would change when I moved here instead of the exact same thing and neighborhood I left.

This is a true story.

When I was just a teen-ager, or perhaps not quite a teen-ager, I was plagued by a reoccurring nightmare: I am woken up by a noise in the middle of the night.  I wander out of my room to witness a strange and terrible man murder each one of my family members with a knife.  One by one.  From room to room.  Killing each family member until I am the last one alive.  Retreating to my room, he breaks through my door.  I run and hid in my bathroom.  He breaks through the door.  He is bigger, taller, stronger, cleverer than me, and set on his course.  He is going to kill me.

Every time I have this dream I try to out maneuver, or find a new escape plan, yet every night he kills me, or I wake up in a panic, sit straight- up in my bed awake.  Sweating.  Panicked.  Terrorized.

Until I discovered the word, No.

I am not making this up.  It is unbelievable.  It is the truth.

I stopped my bad dreams and nightmares, by purposefully telling the killer, No.

No, you have no power over me.

No, you will diminish from me.

No, you are not real.

No, you will not hurt me.

No.

No, I can tell you, No.

No, I have the ability – even in dream – to tell you, no.

No, I have the ability to control my own dreams, or nightmares.

No.

Loud, or soft.  It is still the same.  No.

I stopped having this nightmare.

I have never had it since.

A short while after this I told my mother of the nightmare.  Shock took hold of her face that she tried to hide when she discovered when, the nights I was having these dreams.  She told me she had discovered the front door of our home had been left unlocked.  Something that never happened.  Something that she believed my father had done.  Purposeful or not.  It was discovered.

Now, several years later we moved from that home in Oregon to Florida.  I was with my mother at some doctor’s appointment.  I was waiting for her in doctor’s reception area.  I do not recall what kind of doctor it was, it could have been an acupuncturist, or a chiropractor, or something along those lines.  I am not sure it was a general doctor or family practitioner.  When, I overhear a conversation between the two-other people in the waiting room.  This is a detail I would most honestly not have noted in my brain before if it had not been for all these police years.  They were both African-American women.

One woman was explaining her bad dream to the other woman.  I believe she said something about stones.  Stones being placed.

I had to interrupt her.  I had to say something.

You don’t have to dream that dream, I said.

You can fight back in your own dream.  You can take the rocks and throw them away, or stop it, or say no.  It is possible.  I’ve done it.

She didn’t believe me.

I didn’t stop though.

I must have looked ridiculous, I was still a teen-ager.  I was telling an adult what to do.

It bothered me so much, this woman was worried, sick and troubled, yet there is power within ourselves.

It bothered me that I don’t think she took or heeded my advice in fighting back within her own mind.

Who says you have to live through a bad dream?

Irony.

The Matrix.

I cannot possibly be the only person to have discovered the power within ourselves.

Walking off the floor of the WORSHIP television studio, I am told they need to speak to me.  I am neither worried nor concerned.  A few of the leaders and close personnel are waiting for me in the hallway.

Your brother has been in a car accident.  They helicoptered him to the Trauma Unit at Tampa General Hospital.

Less than a blink.

Ok.

You should go to the hospital now, they tell me.

Ok.

I see them each look at each other as if I am not comprehending the information.  They start to talk about joining me at the hospital.  I see them suspiciously eyeing me.

But, they do not understand.

This very delicate line that exists.

Moments of grace.  Moments of peace that passes all understanding.  Moments where God lets me know – he is going to be ok.  My brother is going to be ok.

Less than a moment of worry or doubt.  Not even a breath of anxiety entered my body as the news of my brother’s accident was spoken.  I was not in shock.  I was not detached.  I was not emotionally unavailable.  I was there present in the moment, yet I knew beyond any rational thinking, evidence, or understanding that my brother was going to be ok.

God gave me a gift that day.

They all went with me to the hospital.  Perhaps because they knew my brother too.  Perhaps they were worried I couldn’t deal with the information.  One of the men asked to ride with me to the hospital.  I rolled my eyes a little at this.  I remember him looking at me while I was driving as if he was trying to figure out if I was truly ok, or un-feeling, he couldn’t seem to guess the truth.

My brother was in surgery when we arrived at the hospital.  A head wound from the car accident.

Head wounds bleed a lot.

We waited and prayed together for several hours before the surgeon told us the news of the surgery.  My brother was going to be ok.  They had to stitch the fine skin of his forehead back together, still he was going to be ok.

Relief did not wash over me with the news.  For I already knew.  In less than a moment, in less than a blink.

My brother’s Geo was totaled.  The photos from the accident were horrifying.  The police report of the accident was frightening.

It is a strange sensation, almost of existing in more than one place at the same time.  For I understood the information, I understood the photographs, yet God – for some reason I don’t understand – did not want or allow me a moment of despair.

I knew my brother was going to be ok.

What God did not prepare me for, what God did not give me grace, peace, or understanding for was the demon of a drug, Dilantin.

That is the only way I can explain or describe that drug, a demon.

Looking at my brother’s eyes after his accident, I saw the depth and light extinguished, and this drug take up residence.  It was unbearable to watch.

That demon drug, I could not be in the same room with.

It was a most difficult time for my brother.  He spent a lot of time alone.  He was grieving.  He was angry.  And, then he had to deal with the demon, Dilantin.

It was reported that he had a seizure at the accident which is why he was on Dilantin.  He had never had seizures before or after.

It was several months after that demon drug before my brother started to return.

Everything in his life changed, the direction he was going, and the work he had been doing.  He went back to school.  He completed his Masters, then his PhD.

My brother has always been book-smarter than me.

I knew he was going through a great deal.  I did not quite know how to contribute to his everyday life.  What I did do for him as often I as could without him asking in advance, I offered him small things like food or drink.  A glass of something to drink.  Coffee or tea.  A plate of food while he was working on his computer, grading or working on his dissertation.  Paying for a movie here or there.  Sometimes taking him to dinner.

It was the most I could do.  Something small.  A reminder that I saw him.  I saw him working.

This is the most difficult thing to explain and express to people.  Moments of grace.  Moments of peace that passes all understanding.  It is not as if I could stop and explain to everyone, don’t worry, I just had a phone call from God and he’s told me its going to be ok.  It simply doesn’t work that way.

Less than a moment.  I knew he was going to be ok.

God let me know, he was going to be ok.

ENOUGH!

You have no idea what you have done.  You did not think it through.  By calling me at my places of employment, by posting storylines on Facebook, by posting YouTube videos, you have implicated every organization, company, place of employment, and personnel involved.

I had changed jobs from when we went to college together.  But, it was you, David Wolfe who called me repeatedly at least once a month for years while I worked at Disney.  For years.  Filling my head with memories of our conversations together that I only remembered years after the fact when I was in the process of moving on with my life.  Getting back to who I was before.  Going to a place I thought I should be which was no longer in the every day care of my mother.

Were you jealous of my mother?  Did you believe my mother kept us apart?  That if I was not caring for my mother we would be friends again?

Why did else did you call me, drive by my house for so many years?

You have haunted and taunted me for too long now.  I have had enough.  It is too late anymore.

I can only look at these last years and believe that instead of caring for me, or believing in me, understanding me, or simply wishing good things to happen to me, what you have truly wanted was my heart broken, to be publicly shamed, humiliated in front of the whole world, abused for profit, and treated as nothing more than a sex slave.

You left me no choice other than to publicly acknowledge the shame of ever having been an acquaintance, a class mate, or someone I once knew.  However, once again I was not able to publicly speak my peace at the movie theater, sending a man to stand behind me silently demanding me to stop speaking.

The mere idea of you used to send me to a place I’ve never known before.  The shame and disgust I feel for you now have long since replaced the brightness you once held in my heart.

I would have called you friend until my dying day wished for nothing but your great happiness, however the damage of these years has been done.  There is no band-aid for the sorrow, the lies, the years you have kept me imprisoned here, and the absolute resolution of my mind and heart toward you.

You have turned my life into nothing more than a game show.  A tallying of points, a check-list.

I realize the purpose of all those YouTube videos – for which I was the inspiration and intended audience – was to hurt me and seek revenge on a woman who once called you a friend.

You must admit I have been the inspiration for nearly every one of your ideas.

I am impressed that you choose Denzel Washington as your alter ego, however did that not also correspond with me as well?  I used to have several email addresses.  I kept business, personal, and ad-emails separate.  Back when I believed I was still going to pursue an acting career I had a Charli Grayson account at Hotmail.com.  I was going to legally change my name, yet it would have kept my initials the same, CG.  David Wolfe – DW, Denzel Washington.  I am sorry David involved you in this Denzel Washington.

I still remember talking to you at Disney about voting for President Obama.

However, the path that you have chosen – has altered everything, every detail, every feeling, every memory, every purposeful thought.

All you had to do was stop.  And, talk to me.

You choose otherwise.

Facebook:

I remember your Facebook profile picture of you dressed as a French fry.

I remember you dressing up as Gumby at The Container Store.

I remember you posting on the 4^th of July 2011 going to the X-games with your Facebook friend Chris.

I remember it was Chris – I believe that was his name – who was also in the Facebook picture in front of the mirror also.

I remember it was Alicia Johnson who fb’ed a question of interesting television shows to watch.  To which I replied Whisker Wars because I had never seen anything like it on television it was hard to believe it was real.  I never watched a whole episode because it was not that interesting.  I have no idea how a show like that got money to be produced.

I remember it was Alicia Johnson who fb’d about needing a good dentist.  To which I replied my dentist, Dr. Gordillo.

I remember you David Wolfe at The Container Store talking with a customer that looked like a Sims avatar.

I remember while on my headset at Disney – clocked in and working – I was still singing the song that had been playing on the radio in my car which was Katy Perry’s, I Just Kissed A Girl.  I could feel I was being listened to while not on a phone call.  I could feel and hear thinking on the other end, so I changed the lyrics because I may have been singing along, but I NEVER HAVE WANTED TO KISS A GIRL.

Was it Patrick Stump of Fall Out Boy that helped me at Lowe’s?  I have been too far removed from the world for me to know with certainty.

I am at my end with you.

What do you expect to happen?  For all I see is that this can only end in my death.  For I will never have a positive response from any of this.  Do you actually expect this to go on indefinitely?!  Every year I hear the same thing – another year, one more year, another day, but there is never an end.

I will not live like this indefinitely.

I could sue you for false imprisonment.

I have reported.  I have written.  I have given my brother permission to sue.  For years I have reported and written I do not want this life that surrounds me, or for it to continue another day.

I am so ashamed and disgusted at ever having known you or your family.

How could I possibly feel otherwise?

Years of my life I could have been happy with a real man in my life you have taken and stolen from me.  For everyone involved since 2014 knew, I did not want this life to continue, that I was never going to date again after the Edison, that I never wanted that Edison person in my life again, knowing that everything was faked I was NEVER GOING TO ALLOW THAT TO HAPPEN TO ME AGAIN!!!!!!!!

James Franco means nothing to me.  Another disgusting man using me for sex.

I am not a woman to be shared.

I am not a woman to be treated as a bit on the side.

I am a woman you make a home with.

I am NOT A WOMAN YOU LEAVE ALONE FOR YEARS!

I will never be able to fully describe my feelings of utmost disgust for you anymore.

Five years and seven months living in this prison of a house.  Four years of living this faked life where I am not allowed to live.  I have had enough.

There is nothing you could ever say to me again.

ENOUGH!

As I am about to go see Tomb Raider, I am going in part as a protest.

It is a movie I would have normally wanted to watch.  Normally before 2011-2012.  I enjoy action movies.  Before 2011-2012 I would never have given a second thought to a movie with a female lead.  Having said that, I am going in protest.  As I do not always get to have my say, I want to share as much as possible before I go.

Lavender eyes – No Means No.  No, you are not my friend, “Erin” as I am certain now that is not your name.

My protest is what the doctors and dentists failed to notify and inform their patient which was me, Cherith, of devices, surgery, and implants that were performed without my consent, permission, and was never made aware of.  Then, use such devices as a means of control of my human body and mind.

How does this get to happen to a person?  How does this get to happen where a citizen of the United States has their human rights taken away?

Would you want this to happen to another person?  Your mother, father, brother, sister, friend, neighbor, family member, or simply a stranger you didn’t know?  Would you want a person to have surgeries, implants placed upon them without their permission or consent?!

It is an outrage which should be stopped immediately, and steps taken to prevent such actions to EVER happen again!

These devices should be removed from me immediately!

It is a deception that created a permanent and lasting effect upon all persons, parties, and companies involved.

David Wolfe, you do not get off easy.

James Franco, you do not get off easy either.

The horrifying shame that I have to live with everyday is your burden as well.

I feel this great pressure to write at the moment.  There is a conflict. a barrier, a great big problem which is causing my writing to diminish with fewer and fewer posts being written.  It is more than one problem.

I am given time off to write which is great if it was set-up correctly.  One problem with this is who is going to pay for my refrigerator to be repaired?  Or my dryer to be repaired?  Or this noise in my garage?  What about all my jeans?  Who is going to pay to replace all my pants that have been destroyed?  Not to mention the lack of funds to buy something as simple as new underwear.  What about the basic necessities of soap, lotion, make-up, and so on?

There are too many directors.  This is a huge problem.  There is the driving director.  There is the walking path director.  There is the items placed on the line director.  There is the – well, I am tired of listing them all.  The point is there are too many directors, and none of them speak to one another, there is no coordination between any of them.

David Wolfe is a problem.  He has been allowed to become a problem.  This is not merely hurt.  It is a problem.  Enough.  The Not My Friend post was not about you or your alter ego just to make that understood.  I will explain more in another post.

There is also the problem of stimulating me to such an unhappy, angry upset that all I want to do is un-plug from it all.  It is far from being in a creative state of mind.  How can a person create or write when they are not physically allowed to be there true natural self?

Series is a problem.  So, I will be renaming or removing series from all posts from now on.

Time is a problem.  Time and funds are a problem.  I am lacking in both.

I do not feel well at the moment, so I will stop.

Why did they take my cats from me?

Why did they take my mother from me?

Why am I here when I want to live somewhere else?

Why can’t I get another job?

Who doesn’t wear green on St. Patrick’s Day?  Because of YOU I am no longer able to celebrate a holiday or participate in its traditions?  Because of YOU I get punished for ACTUALLY enjoying something that does not involve YOU?!

What chose do I have at the toilet?  If I choose a seat protector, I am punished with wall control.  If I choose the bearded comm, I am punished by the doctor.  If I choose Pacific blue, I am punished with padded bottom.  Do you honestly think you can force me to stand over a toilet and pee like a man everyday?!

You earn a prize for the worst leadership of all time, in all of history.  You should be punished and imprisoned for the rest of your life.