Rewriting the World
Blood splatter coated all but one wall in spite of having been clearly scrubbed with strong chemicals. A double mattress was crammed in the corner, completely bare save for more stains and a crusty duvet cover. My eyes traveled to the rails on the head of the bed, settling on the restraints that dangled from each corner.
Swaziland has the highest HIV/AIDS rate and lowest life expectancy in the world. Many of these women have lost husbands or loved ones and are left to care for their families themselves.
My drug use escalated into a full-blown addict lifestyle in less than a month. “I’m too far gone,” I would tell myself.
If word got to the wrong people in the shelter, I stood a high chance of getting stabbed for it.
Something seemed off, but I figured older people had more reason to drink anyways.
I saw the knife in his hand before it was wrenched away.
I had it down to the perfect science. My game was to play adorable and get everyone to want to protect me. I was doing well. I called for a smoke break and we all filed out. Cisco pressed his body hard against mine into a corner. What was he doing?!
"Honey, listen. It's not ok. We are homeless. None of us know what is going to happen to us and most of us would rather not know what already has. You won't survive unless you can have something normal.
A story of loss, rape and miracles, the dialogue cuts straight to the heart, walking everyone through Santa Maria in Skye’s shoes.
“I heard Copaiba oil was selling so fast they had to restrict one bottle per person. First I thought it was because it was CBD; then I realized what the oil did.”
In her fearless and often shamelessly dark humor, Skye presents the paradox of the voiceless child in her own ordeal and demonstrates how even the best studied of places can hide terrible practices.
“I don’t experience lower back pain or inflammation anymore, and every oil I share means money in the pockets of these incredible women. Most of them are simply trying to save for school fees for their kids.”
“I’m going to beat his face in!” As I stomped towards the truck to deck the driver, an iron grip closed on my small arm. The cop seized my other arm and wrestled me back to the driver door, opening it with effort for me.
“It’s the way we can still buy eggs from the neighbor. The brothers just go about their window washing and watch the money come in!”
“I’d used patches, Wellbutrin, Chantix, gum, cold turkey, you name it; the struggle was REAL. Imagine my shock when I used doTERRA to quit and went about my day feeling ever better instead of worse!”
“Had you heard her story five years ago, you’d assume she would be dead, in prison or in a drug recovery center.”
Blood splatter coated all but one wall in spite of having been clearly scrubbed with strong chemicals. A double mattress was crammed in the corner, completely bare save for more stains and a crusty duvet cover. My eyes traveled to the rails on the head of the bed, settling on the restraints that dangled from each corner.
I have sponsored the women (bomake) of these carepoints by selling my home and using the money to launch a nonprofit.
