Ruth-Ann works in a local bakery/coffee house/cafe. You know the type – cool atmosphere, expensive, but tasty food. The kind of place you are happy to have in your city and want to tell everyone about, but you don’t want everyone to know it’s there.

Ruth-Ann is the kind of person that makes this type of local establishment work. She was friendly with everyone who came through the door and seemed to be a genuinely happy person.

Her curly blond hair was pulled back in a loose pony tail and her eyes were disconcertingly bright blue. Ruth-Ann’s story is beautifully cryptic. Where do you think the dream begins and ends? Let me know in the comments. Enjoy.

It would be dreams. It started about a year ago. I was laying in bed w/ my 1/3 Indian boyfriend at the time in a building that had been used as a venue for bands w/ no place to play. I thought I woke up to a group of boys down stairs and I walked out to see what they were talking about – all the doors were open and the wind rushed through and the morning was bright blue and nobody was outside.

I woke up again in my bed w/ my 1/3 Indian boyfriend. No wind. No blue.

During the Broken Social Scene Jig at the free Summer Concert Series, I whispered in his ear, “I can’t be w/ you” and I walked through the mass of people and watched the rest of the concert w/ a tree. I don’t know why I did it.

Its about dreams tho, really, dreams that aren’t dreams.

It goes like this:

I wake up multiple times and have multiple conversations.

I met a boy at a bike shop. He had red hair longer than mine and everyone elses. We rode down the canyon and I took my hands off the bars in the dark and cracked my head open on a rock. 25 stitches. University Hospital. Watched bats together at 3 am because we were locked out of my apartment. Layed on the parking lot. He touched my hand. Gauze around my skull. Pineapple cake mornings after drunk roommate finally got home at dawn.

Fast forward redhead bomb to blast the **** out of my life. My existence since that crash is loving him and trying to remember who I am and what is a dream.

We talk about coffee, why I don’t have the flavor he wants, and the I wake, it wasn’t a real conversation. Dream. I get confused. Wake up for real. He punches a hole in my wall.

Not a dream. Wind.

My head is loud loud loud in the morning. Vivid as high definition TV. And more real than (real) life.

Ruth-Ann Twitchell

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I saw Stephanie eating alone at Zupas while my family and I were out to dinner. Her back was turned to me and I noticed she was eating alone. Now, while dining in groups tends to be the cultural norm, I must say I enjoy going out to eat by myself or going solo to a movie every once in a while. As odd as it may seem, it’s a bit liberating.

Because Stephanie’s back was turned, I didn’t have much of an initial impression about her looks, behaviors, mannerisms, or any other things I tend to notice about people I ask to write in my journal. This one was all “hunch” and once again I managed to come across someone who is involved in something quite remarkable.

It’s always amazed me how everything is taken for granted until we notice due to emergencies or situations. I work as a lab technician for the American Red Cross almost everyday getting the blood donated read for hospitals or for research companies to find cures. I don’t get paid a lot, but I save hundreds of lives everyday. I come across blood with STDs and diseases and hope not to get them, hope not to mess up, hope the equipment won’t break or burn me! Life is taken for granted. Live to every minute! Live with no regrets! Take a chance! It’s worth it!

- Stephanie Petty

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My wife, son, sister and I went home to Oregon for Thanksgiving. I absolutely love being in the house I grew up in, visiting old haunts and enjoying the general green splendor of my home state.

There are certain traditions that must be followed whenever we go home to Oregon (usually about twice a year). On is going to the Marrakesh for dinner.

The Marrakesh is a Moroccan restaurant downtown Portland. Patrons sit on the floor, eat all five courses with their hands (everyone gets a bath towel for a napkin), and get a rosewater hand rinse afterward to cover up the scent of the food. It’s a great experience, although we were worried about taking my 18 month-old son because…well…he’s 18 months old. He ended up doing quite well and thought it was a lot of fun to peek out between the curtains behind our table and look at the passersby on the street, his little head barely poking above the seat.

Sure enough, people walking past started noticing him and smiling. One person even stopped to take a picture. I stood up and ran outside. The photographer, “Pie” (she asked that I not use her real name), thought I was going to get mad at her for taking pictures of my son. Instead, I asked her to write in my journal.

Pie was young and kind of short – she only came up to my shoulders -  with big, expressive eyes. She was easy to talk to and I came to find he was taking photography classes and was using an old-school film camera that night. She was there with her family to celebrate her 18th birthday. After she sat down at her table I gave her my journal.

Pie didn’t want her picture taken, or, rather, it made her family nervous. Clearly I, having a wife and kid and being at dinner with my parents, seemed very threatening. :) She said she’d mail me copies of the pictures she took of my son, and I was waiting to post this until they arrived, but she must have forgotten.

“My name is Pie and it’s my eighteenth birthday and for the first time I am eating Moroccan food. It’s crazy and extremely exciting, I hope the belly dancer shows up at my table and shows me how to shake my thing. Even though I am 18 now, it doesn’t mean I am quite an adult. I am a kid forever because then I will never die. Live forever! I hope that taking these pictures, how I met this random man, allow me to go far. I really enjoy artistic stuff and truly want to make a difference in people’s lives. Also, someday marijuana should be legal because then everyone will be happy.”

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If I wasn’t a klutz, Amy Lynn and I wouldn’t have met.

We sat facing opposite directions on those rows of chairs so common in airport boarding areas. I set my wife’s water bottle on the seat next to me, but it fell between the seats. The lid popped open and the bottle rolled toward her duffel bag, water pouring out of it. I stood up and sprinted around the row of seats, kicked her bag out of the way and grabbed her boarding pass which was sitting nearby.

I’m sure she probably thought I was nuts – some guy with a social disorder, running around airports kicking people’s carry-on luggage.

I explained what had happened and apologized. She was very kind about it and wasn’t upset in the slightest. After returning to my seat I asked her if she’d like to write in my journal. Her teammate/friend piped up: “She’d be perfect for that!”

Sure enough, Amy is an avid journaler and pulled out her own journal to show off. She ended up getting on the plane before me (with my journal). When she was done, she sent my journal back to me via a flight attendant. I didn’t get a picture of her until we landed in Oregon and I tracked her down at the baggage claim.

“Nice” sounds so cliche, but Amy (in addition to being a woman of many talents), is the epitome of the word. I could tell very shortly after meeting her that she is a good person.

P.S. Amy Lynn, if you happen to see this, would you be willing to send in some pictures of your paintings?

My name is Amy Lynn.

I am 6 feet two inches tall. Yeah, that’s pretty tall! But I promise I am not scary.

I love to compete – I play volleyball at a collegiate level and I am in my junior year. There isn’t much better than the adrenaline rush that comes with a hard driven spike to the floor and hearing the crowd roar. I love my team – they are truly my sisters.

I have an enormous family!

I am the middle of seven children and have loved every second of having lots of siblings.

Besides volleyball, I love to express myself through music and art. I took piano lesson for thirteen years of my life and I play with two of my best friends in a band. It’s crazy how so much emotion can be sent through my fingers. And when I do find time aside from school, work, and practice…

I paint.

I love spending so much time on a piece – just making it perfect. Yes, I am a perfectionist! I hold myself to a very high standard in everything I do, but I find happiness in success!

I am only twenty years old and I still have so much of life to experience, but if I could give anyone reading this just one piece of advice: don’t hold back. Do your best in everything you do, and don’t be afraid to let your true self shine! I have much to work on in this exact same aspect, but hopefully one day I find who I really am, and become who I want to be…oh and find a guy like my dad along the way!

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It was just after 7:00 am and Crystal was standing behind my sister and me in line at a university bookstore. They were having a sale on Apple products (educational discount plus no sales tax!) and we were both picking up new laptops. She asked me about the preinstalled software on the machines she was buying. Being a bit of a geek, I’m always happy to talk tech, and so our conversation began.

Crystal is getting her undergrad in exercise and sports science and will pursue her master’s in the same. She teaches yoga and is an avid outdoorswoman. When I mentioned that I’d never skied in Utah (something nearly blasphemous when living in this state) she asked, slightly baffled, “What do you do if you don’t spend time outdoors?”

I never would have guessed that Crystal had the difficult background she wrote about based on interacting with her. She has been proactive overcoming her trials and is now trying to help others do the same.

If I had to come up with a single word to describe Crystal it would probably be genuine. She’s one of those people who makes whoever she’s around feel important. Crystal would be a good friend: fun, sincere, and outgoing. It was a pleasure to have met her.

Person in line @ Apple sale:

My father died in a hang gliding accident the day before I was born. Before age 10 I attended a retreat in which I burned a decorated branch that symbolized my fear of my mother’s death. In my teens I exposed myself to as much sensory stimulation in search of something that would draw me into the present moment – this extended into my early 20s in the form of substances. I spent 2 months in an isolated population which allowed me to begin a longer process of feeling OK w/ being alone.

I’ve continued to take particular actions that lead towards assisting others with fear of loneliness but sometimes I forget and feel lost. What’s beautiful is that there are always reminders bringing me back to self and what I feel comfortable dedicating my life to. When ego or the external edges of life sneak in my confidence is blurred. Being humble in my lack of understanding of information and life keeps me young – curious – playful and loving. It is through suffering that I have arrived and continue to arrive repeatedly. I am not religious specifically but I learn most when my connection with spirit is strong.

I often feel people should have an autobiography to hand others upon initial meeting so that there is less time spent on potentially superficial interactions – then realize the process of love and compassion comes in all forms. I don’t enjoy talking about myself but I end up there anyways.

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I got an e-mail from Vicky the other day. I received enough comments and e-mails of concern about her that I thought it would be appropriate to pass along the happy news:

Good afternoon David,

It’s Vicky Johnson. I haven’t written you in quite some time. I’ve been really busy trying to get my life together.

So basically, what’s been going on these past few months is:

-I started school at East High about 3 weeks ago. A little late, but I did it. The reason I didn’t start on time was because my dad didn’t want to register me. He assumed that because I didn’t do so well in school the years before, the same would happen this year. So I talked to the VOA drop-in center for homeless youth, and they taught me that because I am homeless, I could register myself for school and due to a law they have (i don’t at this moment remember the name of this law), they cannot refuse me. So I registered myself for school, without anyones help. And I’m doing pretty well. I just get really anxious because this is my first time back in school in a year and a half.

-I moved into a VOA transition/group home for girls. And I will be there for the next 18 months. I can leave anyday I wish, but I think that I ought to stay for as long as I can. Get me off the streets and help me straighten out my life. And it’s getting cold outside and winters coming fast. Sleeping in parks is no fun in the snow. -I’ve done it before.

I just wanted to let you know that I am doing well. I struggle sometimes, but I’m keeping it together. And I’ve got alot of people supporting me in what I am doing.
Also, I don’t drink or smoke weed anymore. Actually, I am getting drug tested for it. But even without the drugs tests, I think I am finally done with all that nonsence. My party days are over. And to be honest,I think it’s kind of lame to get “****** up” everyday of your life and do nothing else.

Thanks for your time.

Peace, Love, and Happiness <3
Vicky Johnson.

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I watched S.D. (she asked that I not use her real name) hoist her 10-speed onto the train. I’ve always been a bit envious of people who have the discipline to ride their bikes as part of their commute so I decided to ask her about it. After chatting for a bit I asked her if she’d write in my journal. She hesitated, then said yes.

As we continued to talk after she finished writing, I noticed S.D. had a thoughtful, reflective countenance. A student at the University of Utah, she is studying both chemistry and English and wants to become a doctor of some kind. She asked me a lot about my journal and the project and we discussed some of the previous entries. Her story proved insightful and meaningful, especially for a spur-of-the-moment request. And I couldn’t agree more with her sentiment, “I think it is very necessary for people to write.” :)

“I guess I would be riding my bike mostly for the environment and partly for me. I think that it is very necessary for people to write. Sometimes through writing you begin to understand what you believe. You can’t decide what you believe, if you had to decide what you believe in you truly do not believe it. The greatest advice I have ever gotten was from my best friend, Jenet, she said that what you hate most in other people is always something that you contain in yourself as well. S.D.”

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I met Lauren on the train. She had a few gadgets out which caught my attention because 1. I’m a gadget guy myself and 2. the sun kept reflecting off her various screens and shining in my eyes. :)

As I looked closer, I noticed she was using a Zune. She was only the second person I’d ever seen using a Zune (as opposed to the millions of iPods out there) so I decided to ask her about it. Very friendly and outgoing, Lauren told me all about how she used to have an iPod and it kept breaking and losing her music and was a royal pain. Eventually, after going nuts from lack of music to listen to, she picked up her Zune and has loved it. She showed me the back on which she had “iPod sucks” engraved.

When I asked her to write in my journal I expected to read about the music she likes or more details about her distaste for the iPod. I should have learned by now that assumptions about people are rarely accurate. :)

“Last night we walked down to the river and sat in the dark with only the glow from our cigarettes. I told him I was lost and I didn’t know what to do. He explained to me what I felt I already knew, looked deep in my mind barely out of reach. He held out his hand and I held on. He helped me recover the part of me I let go. He reminded me that I needed to face my pain, to allow myself to kick and scream and cry and yell. He told me to allow my pain to be a part of me and be proud of it. Carry it like a radio high above my head, to allow my pain to be real so finally I can be FREE!”

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UPDATE: Vicky wrote me a follow-up e-mail. I was having some technical trouble when I published it as a separate post, so I stuck it at the end of this one. Take a look at the bottom.

It was the socks.

I saw Vicky at my train stop, took one look at those socks and knew she’d be a good candidate for my journal. She was waiting for a ride so she agreed to write in it and based on my snap-judgment of her appearance I was guessing I was going to read a somewhat light-hearted, perhaps funny entry. It turned out to be quite the opposite.

After I got the picture of Vicky she asked if she could use my phone to call her ride. I handed her my phone and, noticing that she forgot to put the bookmark back in place, opened the journal to mark her entry. Now, normally I don’t read people’s entries until I’m home, but the first word of her entry caught my eye: alcohol.

When she was done with the phone I asked how long her ride was going to be and if she’d be OK. She said she’d be fine so I walked to my car. My curiosity/concern got the better of me and I read her entry while sitting in the parking lot.

It broke my heart.

I drove my car around the parking lot a bit so I could keep an eye on her. I just wanted to make sure her ride really showed up. Not that I know what I would have done if it hadn’t, but I wanted to try to do something for this girl who was obviously struggling. I lost sight of her occasionally and finally after about 10 minutes I made a loop around the parking lot and didn’t see her. I suppose her ride showed up after all.

(In case you were wondering, the black mark you see on her chest was a big “x” drawn with what looked like a marker.)

“Alcohol.

I’ve been down this road many a time. And I’ve always loved it and known my way around it before. But now on this road again. And I am lost. Confused. And finally…hopeless.

My name is Vicky and I’m an alcoholic. For the past year and a half of my life I’ve been in and out of institutions. Lost many friends. And ended up on the streets – HOMELESS. No place to go. All due to this disease. What next? I don’t know.

Do I continue down this road, or choose a different path?

Alcoholism is deadly.

Vicky Johnson”

The day after I had Vicky write in my journal I got the following e-mail from her. I wrote her back but haven’t heard a response yet.

hello there. this is vicky from trax the other day [thursday]. you asked me if i would mind writing in your journal for your website. i was just wondering, if it is okay that is, if i might be able to post something else. i have a lot to say. and i wanted to share my life experience, well for the past year and a half that is. so here is my entry, and if you wouldn’t mind, i’d like it if you’d put it up on your website.

——————————
—————————-
July 6, 2008

“My name is Vicky, and I am an alcoholic/addict”
“Welcome Vicky” (hands clap)

January 11, 2007 I got an unexpected visit from my father and step mother while at school. I went down to the principals office to find them sitting there with concerned looks on their faces. I sat in that office for probably a good five minutes before anything was said. Finally the principal looked at me and said, “Vicky, your parents here are concerned about you and your habits, they only want what’s best for you.” I don’t remember much of what she said after that. But the next thing I knew I was sitting in the car heading up to the University Neuropsyciatric Institute [UNI]. I was there from January 11, 2007 until February 22, 2007, when they decided I needed more help than they could give me, and sent me to “rehab” also known as Wasatch Canyons.

I was admitted into Wasatch Canyons on February 22, 2007 for drug and alcohol abuse, suicidal thoughts, cutting, and early signs of an eating disorder. I did well. Stayed sober the whole time. And only broke a few rules. I got out on July 11, 2007. The next day was my birthday. And the day after that, I relapsed. On alcohol.

About a week after I turned sixteen, I was kicked out of my fathers house. I couched surfed for about a week before moving to Tooele with my sister and my boyfriend Peter. In Tooele, things got worse. I started drinking alot more and smoking marijuana basically everyday.

In September, we got an eviction notice, saying we had to be out in a week. So my boyfriend Peter and I moved in with his family in Sandy at the end of September. There we drank everyday. I had become really suicidal, but I swore to myself that I would never attempt suicide, because I never wanted to hurt Peter in such a way.

On October 4, 2007, I suppose my thoughts got the best of me. I overdosed on celexia and seraquil. Peter called the ambulance, and I ran. It wasn’t long before they caught me and took me to the hospital.

On October 5, 2007 at 3:26 am, I was admitted into Wasatch Canyons impatient. After spending a week there I was put back into residential at Wasatch Canyons once more. I did pretty well for the first month. Stayed sober and stayed out of trouble.

November 11, 2007 my boyfriend Peter took his life. He hung himself from a tree in his back yard. Hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through.

Shortly after that, I lost it. I stopped caring. I went on day treatment in February, living at my friend Austins house until a bed opened up at the VOA transition home. Immediately I started braking the rules, smoking cigarettes, and relapsing on a weekly basis.

In March, I had basically decided there was no more Wasatch Canyons could do for me. I left. The Monday after, I relasped again. That same day, I moved into the VOA. I was there for five days before leaving. Friday I came home drunk, so drunk I couldn’t walk right. They told me I wasn’t allowed to leave for the weekend and if I did, I was not allowed back. But that interferred with my drinking habits. Saturday morning came, and I left. I left the VOA for alcohol.

A week later, I dropped out of highschool, for alcohol. I didn’t plan on getting a job, because it’d make it so I couldn’t drink as often, if at all.

I’ve been 100% homeless since March. Living on the streets. Sleeping in parks, and under bridges, and behind old abandoned buildings. Going days at a time with no food, and when I did eat, it was usually out of the dumpster behind Pizza Hut. I spent alot of my time spanging [*asking people for spare change*] for food so I could get something to eat, but all that money ever went to was alcohol.

Alcohol used to be my best friend, I used to love the stuff, I used to have fun with the stuff. But I think that’s the keyword here, is “used to”. Because basically, I don’t. I don’t love the stuff anymore. And I don’t have fun with it anymore. It seems I only drink now just to feel the slightest bit “normal”. Because now, all I seem to do is drink, and drink, and drink. And I drink to the point that I can’t stand up right. I drink to the point that if I’m not leaning on someone, I fall right down to the ground. And it’s gotten the where when I am already at that point that I cannot even hold myself up right, I still want more, and I keep wanting more. And it never stops.

Why? Because I am an alcoholic. Because I am powerless to alcohol. Isn’t that sad, when you think about it? That me, a 16 year old girl cannot control her alcohol, that her alcohol controls her. Because it’s true. I don’t tell myself when to stop drinking, the alcohol tells me. And the alcohol only tells me that I’ve had enough when all the liquor is gone and I’m passed out on the floor.

I’m tired of this. I really, really am. And it’s about time that I get sober.”My name is Vicky, and I am an alcoholic/addict”

“Welcome Vicky” (hands clap)

This is my story.

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