Diana Kurniawan

The dense fog enveloped the front windows of my car this early morning, but I drove through it slowly at 30 miles per hour hoping a fox won't cross the highway 287. Permutations of what could happen to my life spiraled to the fears of an unknown destiny. Those fears chased my peace like a hungry bee for a spoonful of honey, just eating my mind as I kept on driving.

 

Suddenly, there were two blinking lights, blurry but visible, orange and bright. Those fog blinker lights gave me a sign of the right path, as I drove in between them on a stable road although slushy of snow. It gave me a strange sensation inside my mind, as if it was a guide I never asked for that showed during my dark times. I forgot how I kept acknowledging the dark, but didn't appreciate the light that came in the multitudes of forms like those who loved me throughout all these times in my life.

 

My happy co-workers who said hello to me this morning, and my own Mom, my brothers and sisters, my beautiful friends and God, the glittery donut pillow. The dense fog inside my life were those who hurt me in my past, and they appeared like my shadows under the sun that brought fears in the dark. But, when the struggles became so rough and I could hardly cope, those fog blinker lights appeared and although blurry, it took my attention for a moment. Those God winks reminded me to be grateful and to not fear the dark, or the fog, but to slowly approach the road with patience, faith, hope and persistence. 

 

I still won't know what the future holds until I lived it, and although there would be times when I fear further attacks from those who assaulted me sadistically, I promised my Father to never let go. The drive to work was slow, but I was on the right path, because I knew my drive was for good intent to provide for my family. I may have fears that suffocated me because I almost lost my life in the past, but I won't lose hope because those blinker lights were more visible now. I became so good at spotting them, that one day, no fears would beset me.

 

Just write.

Barely standing, I cried over the folded clothes and retail merchandise at work. My world felt broken and my heart felt so destroyed from the sufferings in my life. When someone asked, "how are you?" I remained calm and insouciance about myself, to wait for the moment to pass and back to the tears. PTSD and Depression was never something anyone could speak openly without judgment and I let these blogs speak for me to get rid of the awkward silences.

 

The only thing that kept me alive was God, my North Star, along with my siblings and parents, best friends and church group friends, whom without I would have died long ago. They have been my North Stars with miracles in their back pockets, whipping out wise words and verses of comfort. 

 

The first snow was yesterday, and as I drove to my workplace for my graveyard shift, the tears poured and it took several breaths to not break down.  Thoughts of how I would see someone I love marry someone else and to lose him forever, and thoughts of lost loved and broken relationships couldn't escape my mind.  I didn't even drink coffee, but I had to drink something to help me cope, tea.

 

I believed in journeys and I knew mine would be tough, but I didn't know how much it would take all of me. 

Just write.

Two days of spiralling thoughts from missing exercise and irregular sleep left me withdrawn. But, there was a pinky donut pillow that called my name, begging me to rest my head on it as it glittered in the store aisle. There was a moment of peace from a smile from a little boy and his wave to me, and a baby's wink gave me a giggle. Everything felt surreal, but I knew God was winking at me.

 

I went about my days with a broken heart of still recovering from whatever ailments went inside my head and the daily triggers that came with PTSD, but often there would be a small moment often unnoticeable, unless truly being present with yourself. The small patch of flowers on the sidewalk, the white roses that were still overbloomed although it was noticeably Autumn. The smell of eucalyptus oils that I had on, lingering throughout my days, and a friend who understood me and loved me with all that I was.

 

I had a friend when I was little, whose family was close to mine, and I never knew I would be in contact with her again, but it happened during my pressing time as well, and she sent a message through Twitter. The most inconspicuous moment, turned out to be the most rewarding.

 

God winked at small moments, not large ones. The big moments felt small compared to the long lasting effects of the small moments. God was near me, the whole time when I was down, although I felt so unvaluable and dispensable. He was trying to tell me that He does love me, and I was still the apple of His eyes, even during my struggles.

 

Just write.

Writing is an act of faith for me, so is never giving up. My life has been an adventure often full of turmoil, but I keep writing throughout my days, although not paid at every instance, because I know that if I keep writing, I will stay alive. As if I am to scribe my life to God as a report to Him, so He can read from heaven of how my days and nights are spent. 

 

There are sunshines and rainbows, and flowery moments and not everything is dark in my writing. But, when there is darkness inside me, I still write about it, to blog it, especially to God. My fear is not the perceptions of the reader anymore, but whether or not my writing serves its purpose to heal me. For once, my need to heal superseedes my desire to publish anything in this world. It is more important for me to write and write with good intention for the sake of my soul, than for the sake of commercialism or popularity.

 

I know a lot of writers want to have the literary agents and the contracts and publicity, and so do I, but I don't mind the wait and the process. I am allowing myself the journey to write, rather than ust becoming a writer with an overnight sensational story. It happens sometimes, a rags to riches story of a broken writer who suddenly becomes famous. I somehow know that I will not be as lucky, and I don't mind the work and education. Maybe, just maybe, that's what the literary bodies want to see, persistence and drive, instead of a miracle from God. They want to see the dose of reality, of a woman who is a living survivor, working through her daily struggles throughout her life with writing as her medicine. Perhaps, that's the proof the world needs, a survivor with her guts, blood, sweat and tears, pouring out with God at His mercy to give her the justice she deserves.

 

As long as I have these empty pages of my blogs, and the pen in my hand, I still feel alive. There is no money to compensate me, but the healing powers I feel inside is worth my time. This is why I will never give up, because everytime I write, there is a life force out of a mustard seed that grows inside of me, giving me the energy to keep on going. I don't mind the wait. I don't mind the journey. Just keep writing.

 

Just write.

Further than the past, all the way to the inception of my birth, I realized I wanted to become a writer. It was a calling since I was the cells of my Mother's womb. Then life came and it came hungry and greedy, fueled with jealousies because of my opportunities, especially in the United States. Every instant of my life felt watched with a camera by the CIA, with their men lurking to screen and critique my every move, that for every detail and every chance I had, I was to surrender it to them, and for their chosen families only to pursue. The opportunities I was bestowed from God felt stolen. Through bullying, through sabotage, from so called friends, and so called boyfriends, they felt the same, hateful and vengeful. 

 

These days, I felt like a folktale, of story of how I was once a hopeful girl who wanted to pursue a destiny I was called to do, but the path were ripped apart by those men and women who felt they deserved more than me. I felt the stories I wrote down were useless, and often times scanned through and thrown into the trash bin, because I had no more luck in me, since they were stolen and robbed out of me. The blessings inside my soul that were set apart by God were stabbed through my ribs, and even true love will no longer be in my destiny. 

 

I await the days when people snickered to themselves during their tea times at bookstores, telling stories of how I was once a frequent patron of the same spot, before I ended my own life because of the abuses I felt from others who stole too much from my life. I would be a ghost, flying in the midst of them, the enemies and the compassionate who would help but it was too late. My life would be a folktale of who I once was, and who I became but the world was to brutal to love me just as I was.

 

Just write.

Karina cried to herself and I sat next to her on the sofa, trying to console her. Her mind kept flashing back to the assaults and she couldn't take herself out of the vortex of the trauma.

 

"I'm so happy the Regime didn't hurt me when I was pregnant," Karina said.

 

It dawned on me that The New Order Regime never knew about Boris and Betina.

 

"Did anyone find you under the bridge? Besides Rambo?" I asked.

 

"I found her sleeping with the newborns at the end of the block near the tunnels," Rambo said.

 

"That means you're the only Royal alive, Karina," my Father said. "Boris and Betina are your heirs. They can easily take the new governing power over The New Order Regime."

 

"That's not my goal, Mr. O'Connor," said Karina. "I just wanted to live happily ever after."

 

"But, if you had a choice to take the government or say something about it, you'd be the first person who should," said Rambo.

 

"I want to wait until Betina grows up. She's my first born and Boris is next by 4 minutes," said Karina. "I will nurture them to be leaders. I think families are sovereign, and Royals are allowed to live and be as they are, especially if they help others. We are just families, like the families of Giuseppe Baptiste and Pearsons Rockfield. The Ting Dynasty never harmed anyone."

 

"That's fair, but how will we tell everyone what happened? The world accepted the Regime," said Rambo.

 

"If we expose Pearsons and Baptiste, we will show how corrupt they are and show the world that they are not fit to be the world's leaders," my Father said.

 

"What should we do about the energy shortage, and the macaroni and cheese shortage," I asked.

 

"Why must we all have to eat macaroni and cheese? The whole world is eating the same thing, and now there is a shortage in their production. What are we supposed to eat now?" Rambo said.

 

"It's the staple foods, we all eat macaroni and cheese. That's just what we eat," I said. 

 

"How come only certain items are available to Tier 1 only?" asked Karina.

 

"I eat popcorn, that's what I eat besides mac and cheese," said Rambo.

 

"Popcorn is available at all Tiers," my Father said.

 

"Why not bacon?" asked Karina.

 

"That's a Tier 1 item," said Rambo. "Tier 2 and 3 eat everything in pre-packaged containers, like macaroni and cheese. Meats and vegetables and fruits are mostly for Tier 1."

 

"Why not bacon?" I asked. "Meats and certain vegetables and fruits are for Tier 1 only. I don't see why we can't eat that instead of macaroni and cheese, or just pasta. Why can't we live as people, not as animals in the mills of Giuseppe Baptiste and Pearsons Rockfield?"

 

"That's not what we are used to eating," said my Father. "It's just what we know."

 

"Princess Diana would let Karina have bacon," I said. "She was a Royal. She was a lovely Royal. I read about her in history."

 

"The Princess with the Heart of Gold," said Rambo.

 

"I grew up wanting to marry Princess Diana," my Father said.

 

"It's a matter of greed, isn't?" asked Karina. "Only certain Tiers can eat certain foods, and the fine items belong to the Regime. With Giuseppe Baptiste and whoever this Pearsons Rockfield is, distributions of foods and incomes are not equal. Even when they say they are. They claim they give equality for all, but that's not true. The vulnerable and the homeless are still vulnerable and homeless, and worse yet, we can only eat certain foods conditioned for our social class. With this fascists and communist New Order Regime, we now bow to Giuseppe Baptiste and his counselieri, Pearsons Rockfield."

 

"What do you eat Karina?" I asked. "And you're right about The New Order Regime. They don't believe in equality."

 

"I go to the vending machine and eat whatever is there," said Karina. "The Regime only want everything that benefits the Regime."

 

"Will you eat apples?" I asked. 

 

"Why apples? Because I'm a vulnerable?" said Karina. "They offer that at the vending machines and the shelters, but nothing else. At some point, it becomes an insult."

 

"I'd eat apples if I was offered it," I said. "It's healthy."

 

"Bacon!" said Karina. "What else is left now? Macaroni and cheese are gone, and I wish I can eat that, but the Regime is taking that away from us."

 

"Father,...," I asked my Father for help, because although I was yearning for macaroni and cheese too, I knew we had to eat other foods. 

 

"When the old world existed, there were programs for the people, of all income levels. We can purchase any levels of products at our convenience. Nothing was a staple, although some people do love certain types of foods, but we were not all conditioned to eat macaroni and cheese the way The Regime did to us. We had opportunity and individualism, and our accomplishments and excellence were ours to enjoy and savor. Now, it all has to be part of the benefit of The New Order Regime," my Father said. "I think it's strange how Giuseppe Baptiste could just tell everyone what he wants and people do it. To think, he acquiered the world through murders."

 

"Why not purchase whatever Tier 1 is left," said Rambo. "There might still be foods left behind. Tier 2 and 3 must all have emptied the isles and rows at Knox."

 

"Karina, will you eat some apples if we have to?" my Father asked. "We will have to buy whatever fruits and vegetables are left behind, and especially apples."

 

Karina looked to me and my Father, and told us, "I suppose so. But, what else would be left now?"

 

"We will have to go to Knox and see," said Rambo. "I still have popcorn."

 

"We can't live on popcorn alone," my Father said. 

 

"I could," I said, as Rambo and I high-fived.

 

"Bacon, please," said Karina.

 

"We will get bacon for Karina," said Father. "Princess Diana would be proud of us."

 

Just write.

"Dana, we're on, tell us what you found out," Father spoke to his wrist hologram.

 

"I got November 3rd, for Giuseppe Baptiste's performance at Capitol Hill lawn," I told Dana through my Father's wrist phone.  

"He's going to have guards, and militias and dogs," Rambo said.

 

Karina sat on the couch in our living room, just sitting with the babies after a full day of observations with my Father at Banner.

 

"Karina, you can listen in, to tell Dana what you know," Father said.

 

"Yes, Mr. O'Connor," said Karina. Her fingers wrapped inside Betina's hands as she held Betina in her arms. Boris was laying asleep, very much in bliss.

 

"I remember the tattoo. It's on the arm of a man who counsels Baptiste, since he was young. Pearsons Rockfield," said Dana. "I know because I was once his men, and took orders from him to annihilate the Laos Royals."

 

"From the world reknowned Rockfield family? The robber barron?" Rambo asked. "I remembered them. They were also murdered by someone and their riches were transferred to The New Order Regime."

 

"Pearsons killed them, because Pearsons wanted something that Rockfields had. Money, power and control." said Dana. "Pearsons was adopted by them, and he learned so much from the Godfather Rockfield, but he turned on them because he told Rockfields that he wanted a Black Europe."

 

"What do you mean Black Europe?" Rambo asked. "I've never been to Europe."

 

"Pearsons was the descendants of a slave, and Baptiste was his protege, but Baptiste was Italian and French, so after the Rockfield family was annihilated, Pearsons wanted the control and power, but knowing he was guilty, he used Baptiste as his pawn," said Dana. "Pearsons know another member of The New Order Regime, The Black Mollys and The Choi Militia. They all wanted a Black Europe, where Black meant death to the Royal families if they don't have control of their kingdom. Basically, for all peoples of Europe to become The New Order Regime or Black Europe."

 

"So they can't call Europe as a union anymore, and they changed it to Black Europe because they want only The New Order members to live in Europe. Who are they?" I asked, wondering why it was so important to have a Black Europe.

 

"It is their take on soul privilege. They felt if they annihilate big and well known families, royals, and first families, The New Order Regime members will receive favor from God, and also their souls become invincible and their lives will become rich, and thus, they have privilege in this universe," said Dana. "It's an old myth that if they rape, pillage, and murder, they become stronger. But, it actually brings blood shed and it hurts the world and Mother Nature becomes angry. I truly believe that's how The White Plague came about. The fascists communists want equality and they were hurt that certain people were born into a powerful lineage. So they hurt everyone, so The New Order can gain control. Actually, for Pearsons and Giuseppe and their friends to gain control."

 

"I thought The White Plague was a virus that attacks the cornea that started in France? Then became infectious," said my Father. "We did studies on it, and it truly was an infectious disease, well known now, and there is no vaccine for it. We all should be wearing face shields."

 

"The point is, Pearsons and Baptiste are two creatures with alike motives. They want control, and they succeeded, but the sad part is, now they're hungry for more. That's why they raped Karina," said Dana. "They want to make sure Karina won't be able to survive, and they won't let her succeed. Were they looking for her to hunt her down?"

 

"Yeah, some of the government men were looking for her," said Rambo.

 

"That's the Black Mollys and the Choi Militias," said Dana. "The Black Mollys used guerilla warfare to destroy businesses and turned them into fish stores, only to sell Black Molly Tetras. They bred them in house and released them in the fresh water to destroy the wild life and killed the algea population and the salmon breeding season. People called that group, The Black Mollys because there are a lot of them, and their leader is a female fascist communist, named Molly."

 

"Was she a member of The New Order?" asked Rambo. "Why does she have to destroy people's lives like that?"

 

"This woman, Molly, is a close friend of Pearsons, and her close confidant is Choi, a fascists communist terrorist. They both work for Pearsons and The Rockfields before the White Plague hit. They hurt people to gain control over businesses and to spy on Royal Families and First Families, to ultimately gain control over other countries and annihilate the people in those countries. I bet they will all come to the performance on November 3rd," said Dana.

 

"The Choi militias, who are they?" my Father asked. 

 

"They're the freedom fighters of the late Kim Jong Un," Dana said. "The whole world was a mess when they hurt everyone. There was chaos, and 1 in every 2 women were sexually assaulted. Children were abused, men were brutally murdered. All of the goodness of the world were gone, because the people chosen to do the good work for humanity were all killed.The Royal Families in Laos were murdered by the Choi Militia."

 

Karina turned around and told them, "I didn't want to do anything special. I wanted to write and become a journalist, then get married and have children."

 

"They found out who you are, Karina. You have to give up the journalist and writing career," said Dana, as the hologram became fuzzy.

 

"Dana, are you there?" said my Father, losing connection.

 

"I will have to go. I think The Black Mollys and The Choi Militias kept a tab on my phone," said Dana. "I'm retired, but they might still be on my systems." He shut off his hologram, and the living room was still.

 

"How will we expose them? The New Order Regime?" asked Karina. Boris started whimpering as he wanted his mother's cuddle. Karina put down Betina on one side of the couch, and took Boris into her arms.

 

"Well, we have the solar cells, but there is an energy shortage and no one has mac and cheese so the whole world is grumpy," said Rambo. "I think everyone wants an explanation."

 

"We can hack into the government channels at the Post building and tell the whole world, on November 3rd," said my Father. "But, we have to wear masks."

 

"Didn't a man do this once upon a time and got jailed for it?" I asked. 

 

"Breaking into the security walls of every television channel and exposed the government? Well, he would be 600 years old by now," said Rambo.

 

"It was Julian Assange," said my Father. "He was found guilty."

 

"I wished The New Order Regime would just build a website and create their manifesto, instead of raping women," said Karina.

 

"They're not that smart. Besides, they probably have poor writing skills compared to you, Karina," I said.

 

"I wished people weren't violent to me," said Karina. "I wished people were smarter than this."

 

Just write.

There is prescience in preserving our lives, although trauma and violence struck at a young age. The walk may never be admirable and full of thorns, but the honesty and truth it shows are valor to justice. When the rest of the unjust rebute their innocence, we, victims of violence, remain to be the trustworthy, the honorable, and the sacred. Simply, because we are the hurting, and the infliction is from the sadists's crime. 

 

The walk turns into running on gravel, because it can be tiresome alone and what we deserve is fuel to keep going. I think of myself as the wonder woman, no pun intended with my name, Diana, but let the truth reveals itself. The illness from the traumas and violence manifests in so many different ways, but my channel of creativity supports the innocence who can't speak for themselves, those ashamed of the past, and those who wants to hide. I take pride in my walk, because I am sacred, as all victims of violence are.

 

Which leaves us to wonder what to do with the criminal minds and those who never saw punishment? They are not sacred. They are foul play. They are all sadists criminals. Their actions are the same of the corrupt minds, who destroys and abuse, worthy of judgement, especially by God. I never make any rules, just an intelligent and sacred human being, worthy of trust and honor. 

 

It is easier to trust me and we, the victims of violence, than to trust the latter. Why? Less crimes, obviously, and less sin, and your lives leads to heaven. God makes these rules, not me, and I profess with all honesty, that I remain as loving and compassionate as I am. I love victims of violence, because we are the majority now, and the world will keep going, and we choose to love one another, and the myth of us being the wretched is superstition. We work hard on healing, and will keep going. 

 

Our love endureth, as mine always will. Just write.

Pre-sexual assaults , I caffeinated thrice a day, nursing my same cup of coffee while pouring fresh dozes of it every four hours. Fast forward twenty years, as I adapted to my post-traumatic-stress and depression, I nurtured my mind with the same flavor but oh so different chemical compounds. It wasn't my choice, it somehow found me. Thanks to the deceit of my favorite baristas.  

 

I thought it was coffee, but it was decaf. The same effect of the jolt, with lesser emotional roller coaster. Cowardice for the caffeine enthusiasts, but I was not ashamed of it. I purposely told every Starbucks barista for it, and even with the occasional cold brew, I felt less guilty. I didn't hurt anyone, just kicking a knotch up my day. Why mess with a good thing? A little treat for a traumatic woman meant a blissful satisfaction that cured today's emotional problems.

 

If I forgot it, I felt it, and I'd ask for another cup. Somehow, letting them deceive me felt good. I wondered why I loved it so much, because I only like it with 2 percent milk and no sugar. There was so sweet details about it, instead it's just plain. But, it helped me cope. It didn't change my situation, but it changed my thought process, and that changed my attitude in life. 

 

For this my fifteen minutes of free write, I've rambled about nonsense to some, but it truly did made my day to be honest and have the same taste with less crazyness. It might not be a big deal, but it was, to me. Maybe this blog helped no one, because it gave a close and personal look of my life through my eyes, but when I created it, I hoped it helped at least one person, even a little. 

 

Next time, no coffee, but decaf only.

 

Just write.

Flashbaacks told me every day of my mistakes, labelling me with the world's hatred. The soul ties felt recent and their curses felt like skin. It pulled me below the Earth and I needed to escape. What fault did this survivor do that called those sadists into action, because the wounds felt so deep marking me for the grave.

 

The psalms told me to wait patiently on the Lord, and to delight in Him. What else could I do besides so? I fear God, because He allowed the suffering. I question the greater purpose and I question His love, yet I longed for His words as if an unquenchable thirst that sought wisdom all throughout my life.

 

I wished wrong choices was never my mistake, but cast the first stone O thy righteous ones. Let not thy mouth utter judgement against me. 

 

Trusting, I shall lead a peaceful life, expecting nothing, surrendering everything. Must I ask for the world's permission? To choose sovereignty for my own freedom and justice? I shall write forever, even till death because His trust on my writing has always been worth more than their crimes. 

 

Perhaps one day, the world trusts survivors and their stories, and let justice be upheld. The intrinsic choice has to be made real, to trust the victim, and not the perpetrator.

 

The cliff hanger called my life felt scary at times, because I went through the worst of times, yet still expecting the best of times. Writing was my saving grace then, and it still is now. I felt it was the only way out, because the devil lurked at every corner, kicking my heels as he watched me stumbled down like a wobbly child.

 

Sometimes, I wished I had a different life. Sometimes, I wished my life was easier to live. But, still, I am grateful I am alive.

 

Just write.