I’ve spent years building this website and trying to figure out where I fit in the world of the online content creation world. When I first started writing this site, I started researching what the topics should be, or what I should be writing about and I kept hearing the words “be yourself,” okay but what does that mean when you’ve been beaten and bruised into believing you don’t deserve to be yourself?
This website was initially designed like a torch, something to say “hey I’m still alive and you can’t stop me,” now there are followers and readers who are convinced that I should be doing things differently than I am doing, and I’m still sitting here telling people that I needed them years ago, I don’t need them now to decide who I am going to be.
This website was always meant to document the mental health journey of 1 Devon J Hall, and now there are readers demanding that I give them more, but Uncomfortable hasn’t sold that well, so in this post, we’re going to talk about the conditioning of Content Creators.
What is a Content Creator?
Anyone who creates content that an audience can consume is a content creator. Any form of “art” that feeds our soul that makes it into the public eye allows us to call ourselves content creators, and each individual artist is going to do their own thing, regardless of how the audience feels about it.
Here’s The Rub
The evolution of the way that the content is created, has caused hurt feelings because lots of people think that if you got famous on the internet it somehow doesn’t count. (Fuck Jake Paul’s entire bloodline!) I used to make fun of Justin Bieber, not because he was famous, or even because of how he got famous, but because of the way he behaved. I still think he has a lot that he struggles with, but I’ve deliberately chosen not to make my platform about making fun of others.
Instead, I use this platform to help others understand why “I” behave the way that I do, by writing about the things that trigger and cause me harm.
Why Is This Website So Successful?
To the outside world, the stats aren’t very high and there aren’t many comments, but none of that has ever mattered to me. It was always about the experience of sitting down and writing the stories that make me who I am so that when someone says “what are you?” I can point to this website and say “I’m that bitch.”
When I was arrested because I couldn’t breathe, I decided that I was tired of being a victim. I was tired of being abused and tortured by grown-ass men who are too afraid (Still) to get a job, who use children to sell their dope so that these grown-ass men can sit on their asses and do not a fucking thing in their own reality to change their lives.
I chose this name because I was called a “Loud Mouth Brown Bitch,” by a white, racist cop, who thought he’d get away with leaving bruises all over my body, he thought they’d never make it into evidence.
I made this site so the Ohana would make sure that they fucking did.
I deliberately and consciously chose to open a can of worms because I knew that if it was happening to me, it was happening to others.
Over the last few weeks, while trying to relax, while taking a break from this website, because I was so tired of talking about trauma it happened.
My abuser appeared in my house again, and this time as I lay there listening to him give me orders, as I listened to him tell me to spit on my pillow and tell me to pull my hair, I wanted to throw up, I wanted to cry. I stopped eating, I stopped showering altogether, I stopped taking care of myself or my cats, and no one believed me.
And then suddenly there it was. A sign. A camera at the very end of the hall where I’d been asking it to be put for years, in the 1 place in the building that you can’t spraypaint over because if you try there will be other cameras that catch you first.
Finally, someone heard me, and you know what? It’s too fucking late.
Once The Stalker Gets Access To His Prey, It Doesn’t Matter What You Do To Fix It, The Trauma Will Always Be There.
The 1 person I thought would protect me, put the lives of my abusers ahead of what could have been, and now he too can’t understand why I am yet again back at square one. I did 6 and a half years of trauma work on myself because the people in my circle – from the doctors and police who were supposed to help me to former friends who still to this day call me a rat – thought I was crazy.
So if I’m crazy why is there a cut on my foot? A cut that wasn’t there yesterday? Why are there scratches on my knees that I picked the scabs off of yesterday? because they weren’t there last week, it’s because he got close enough to cut me, and no one cared.
So here I am bringing myself back out of the cycle of trauma because I think he might be gone for a while if I just keep writing. He stayed away for almost six years, either because he was in prison, or because he was hurting someone else, but the one thing that I know is that he wasn’t bugging me while I was writing. Sometimes things would go missing, but always on days when I hadn’t posted anything for a few days.
So here’s the thing about stalkers: They don’t always need to touch you to feel satisfied. Sometimes they just need to know you’re there, whether it’s because they read your social media accounts, or because they follow you when you go somewhere like a cannabis shop, now I KNOW I am safe, but that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t feel safe.
I changed my routine about the time the pandemic hit. I decided to JUST focus on writing, because if I couldn’t go anywhere without being watched then I wasn’t going anywhere.
I take cabs everywhere I go so that even if it’s not a personal bodyguard there is always someone between where I am, and where I need to be.
I order my food – ALL My food in unless I’m going out with mom or my aunt or brother – so that I never have to leave my house and still, he found me. Knows where I live, when I am asleep, when I am awake, he’s the fucking evil Santa and Christ almighty I can’t take it anymore.
And yet, I’m too fucking stubborn to kill myself, because I SWORE to my online friends that would never be a road I would take.
Like many victims of domestic abuse and stalking, I feel like the 1 place I had to myself now belongs to the entire world because everyone’s reading my stuff going “okay but how are you safe if you aren’t going to the police?” I already did that, and they helped him get away with what he was doing.
I went to talk to a Tattoo shop employee who I trusted because I had nowhere else to go, and he didn’t tell me that it wasn’t my fault, he asked me if it wasn’t my fault, he ASKED Me if I was a victim, that’s how I knew that he’d already talked to them, and recently it was confirmed that not only had he talked to them, he was seen spraying a mural under a bridge not too far away from here with one of my rapists.
Time and time again the same man has been emotionally, physically, and spiritually attacking me from all different angles and no one was listening, and when he got 125 years in prison I thought it would be over.
But that’s what I thought when my one and only ex-boyfriend went to jail for robbing cab drivers. I had 3 years of peace and quiet, and then he came back with a fucking vengeance telling everyone who would listen that I killed MY unborn child, neglecting to tell the same people that I could barely move because I was on 600 milligrams of lithium, and he was pouring whiskey and morphine down my throat, hitting me, threatening me with more abuse, and throwing me downstairs at every opportunity.
I have been surrounded by abuse my entire life – to the point that I am pretty sure that a cop friend had an induced heart attack, because certain people saw me talking to him. I’m not kidding.
The attackers that I am dealing with are powerfully stupid, because if you think that a couple of needle caps around my house is going to make me think I’m going to kill myself – or convince anyone else that’s a choice that Devon J Hall or other girls like me might make you fucked with the wrong girl.
I’m not going to be a fucking Maple Tree. I am never going to be Maple Batalia, because I’m not in the mood to be someone’s little bitch, just so you can prove how psychotic you are.
You said the other day/night that I’m spineless, you whispered that into my ear while I was sleeping, if I’m so spineless why the fuck did you leave my house in handcuffs you fucking goof?
You know who I am and where I am, come at me when I’m outside you little bitch.
This is a warning to everyone who reads this: I AM NOT GOING TO KILL MYSELF, but he’s sure as fuck going to try hard to make it look like I might.
Devon J Hall