Web Design and Operations
By KatNBoots138

As I’m getting on the school bus for D.C., my history teacher pulls me aside, holding a newspaper. My dad’s face is on the front page.

And my husband? He’s passing out mid-conversation. He’s leaving the front door open on a busy street. He’s sneaking out in the middle of the night.

I don’t feel safe. Not for me. Not for my babies.

He finally goes to rehab. While he’s in treatment, I find out something that breaks the rest of me

Together, we started to do what I’d only dreamed of before: Healing the timelines. Not just the past, but the present.

We explored oversoul theory. We cleaned up dimensions. Pocket realms. Spiritual garbage piles in between the worlds. Things that didn’t even have names yet.

I remembered this cute guy who had booked a session with me about a month earlier. At the end of the session, he said: “That was nice… we should do that again sometime.” Which is totally date language.

Anyone who commented something like "I'm new here" or "what are we doing?" I would respond "start at the fear cord series and move up". I had created a Jacob's ladder of healing and exploration. 

He’s red-faced, fuming. He points at the swim bag. “How the hell are you doing your homework if your backpack’s right HERE?!”

I start to explain — “That’s not my—” 

Behind my home, two white vans with no windows are parked 24/7. One of them leaves sometimes. The other? Always stays.

Right after I send the email, the entire prison confiscates all inmate devices and replaces them with new tablets. A massive, expensive rollout— new hardware for everyone.

I’m blocked by everyone I called family. No one even tries to contact me to see if it’s true. I’m kicked out of the private room.

I have a massive group of friends disowning me, hating me, dragging my name— no matter how good or helpful I was to them.

I’m horribly confused. Hurt. And suffering a severe loss of identity.