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I was seven years old…

When I came up with Krisya Ohana. I didn’t know what the word meant, or would come to mean to me as time went on, but it was the first thing I ever created, without the help of anyone else.

On the day that this word came to me, the skies parted, the Gods started talking and the world seemed a little less insurmountable all of a sudden.

I was thirteen when “Siddha Lee Saint James” first came to me, not as a character but as a spirit guide. I know how silly that sounds, but she was as real as any human, and she was my best friend. They say sexual abuse causes trauma that teaches your brain to deal in different ways. Siddha was my way of dealing. Of learning how to create stories that helped me to ignore what was happening, so I could survive.

The stories that you find on this website, are parts of who I am as a whole, dreams that I have that if I should ever have the money I’ll make a reality. Like this page, where I wrote a fictional press release for a non-existent charity that works with people coming out of jail.

Right now I am struggling with the idea of “Enough”. I don’t have enough, I don’t have enough time, motivation or inspiration to keep going and yet every day I get up and I try to write something, even if it’s just a rambling post about how I am feeling.

I can’t bring myself to write fiction because the story I want to tell is so deeply personal. For so many years Krisya Ohana has been mine, I never shared it with anyone, and selfishly I am having trouble conveying the importance of it to me, to you, the reader. If that makes sense.

I am struggling because it’s mine and I am not ready to share it with the world. Because what if what I write isn’t enough, what if it’s not good enough? what if what I write doesn’t really tell the story I want to tell but instead is shifted by the readers own ideas of what it should become?

It’s been mine so long I don’t know how to release it into the world in a way that I can be proud of. And that’s the most selfish thing I can say about myself, which in of itself isn’t all that selfish because at the end of the day it’s just a story.

But it’s the story that helped me survive.

Siddha Lee Saint James is the strongest most powerful part of myself. She can play the piano and slay dragons with her bare hands. I am not that person, that person who can defeat any enemy with the power of her mind. I used to be, but once the memories of what those men did to me started to come back, my confidence was shaken so badly that I lost that powerful strong beast part of myself.

So here I am, complaining because I still can’t write fiction in a way that I can be proud of.

Because men destroyed everything I was, in order to prove that they could. Because that’s what rape does.

In case you wondered.

Sending all my love,

Devon J Hall

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