I could literally write a book on what became a 1 month surreal event in my life during the period of September 2017 through October 2017.

However, I'm only sticking to the main facts because this event involves a legal court case (closed) involving a judge in which the person(s) accused were found "Guilty Of Adult Abuse" in a Court Of Law.


The identity of the person or persons involved that were found to be "Guilty" shall remain anonymous.


On September 22, 2017 (exactly 7 years after my mother's passing from an inoperable brain tumor) I flew from the East Coast of the country to somewhere on the West Coast of the country - a 3,000 mile excursion with my "companion dog". Promised more opportunities for a better, healthier, and a more hopeful life where I could better grow as an artist. The person or people involved were no strangers and therefore, I had no reason to doubt. I placed all my trust and assets into their hands to live this "dream" which later became what I call the "2017 American Nightmare".

Once, I arrived on the West Coast with my dog that evening, I realized something was terribly wrong with my health. After being picked up at the airport that evening, I begged to be driven to the Emergency Room. I was denied not for my benefit, but later realized for the benefit of the person(s) that met and picked me up at the airport.

About 2 days later, I was finally driven to the Emergency Room feeling extremely ill. Having a degree in Biology, gone Premed, worked in both the Biotech and Medical Fields, having my name published in a professional Scientific Journal, and volunteered over 500 hours and earning awards at The Museum Of Science in Boston, MA the triage results at the Emergency Room pointed to severe dehydration otherwise known as Orthostatic Hypotension. Orthostatic Hypotension is when the blood is too thick for the heart muscle to pump due to severe dehydration, possible electrolyte imbalance, and causing the heart to tire easily. Any physical exercise such as walking can be dangerous. In extreme cases, the heart will stop.

While waiting to be moved from the Emergency Room's Waiting Area to see a doctor in the actual Emergency Room, my extremities began to shake uncontrollably including my head. I began to fall off the bench on which I was sitting. And, then the most bizarre thing happened that I only read about.  Something to this day that I only shared with a very select few; the kind of thing you read about other people experiencing, but "never me". But, it happened. I found myself in a "tunnel of light". I first thought to myself "OK" and the scientist in me then questioned "is this for real?; let me study this some more". The walls of the tunnel were circulating around me. On close inspection (observance) some areas of the tunnel were traveling clock-wise while other areas of the tunnel were traveling counter clock-wise. The wall of the tunnel was greyish-blackish-brownish; all earth tones. So, again I thought "OK". At the end of this swirling tunnel about 25 feet in front of me was a "circular white light". And, when I say "white light" I mean a non-offensive color of white like that of "milk", yet it was "light"; not a liquid, not a gas, but easily to see and sense "light".

Standing in this "tunnel" was extremely peaceful. There were no worries; even for a worry-wart like myself. Then, I just accepted (it passed the scientific test as far as I was concerned) and I then found myself wanting to move closer and into this "white light". But, before I could do so I heard "a voice" speaking to me like "telepathically" or "in my head"; No Vocal Cords. It was a male's voice and it said to me (paraphrasing) that I was not meant for politics (like being a politician). Instead, the voice continued, I was meant for the arts (to do God's work via the arts). And, not to confuse the two and get too distracted by the politics. And, I truly believed that this "voice" was the "voice of God". Why not? At this point, everything else that I was skeptical of and questioned as a scientist, "passed the test". This was no dream and every moment appeared entirely real and therefore, why doubt it? After which, I responded to "this voice", "OK, you're right and I understand". That's all that was "spoken".

At this point, I was determined to move closer and into the light. However, I couldn't feel (sense) my own body. It was as if I was standing at my usual body height and looking through the tunnel and into the light. I reached my hands forward in front of me, looked downward, and could not see my hands. But still, I was determined to reach and "bath" in this "light of serenity; white light". So, even though I couldn't feel or see my legs, I tried as hard as I could with imagination, will power, envisioning moving my left foot forward. It felt so unnatural like gravity was 100 times the normal force. As I tried to "move my foot", I saw the end of the tunnel cave in on itself and beginning to block the "white light". If you've ever tried wheel-throwing (clay on a spinning wheel) and your forming a tube and then you do something wrong where the the tube begins to warp (collapse) - that's what it looked like from inside the tube and reminded me of (hate to say it), but think of the movie "Ghost". The difference is what I experienced was what I believe to be very true and not some Hollywood fantasy. I guess most people would call it a "Near Death Experience" (NDE). According to my research, it happens often all over the world and many people experience similar characteristics.

After the tunnel collapsed, I found myself back in my body for about 5 seconds of consciousness. Then, everything went "black". Because I'm a big guy, a type of crane was needed to lift me onto the gurney. I remember nothing. The doctors then took an MRI of my brain to see if I had had a stroke and the results were negative. Then they pumped fluids into me via an i.v. and that's when I began to regain consciousness again. After that whole ordeal, I was told what had happened and the Emergency Room kept me overnight to watch me. I was discharged the very next morning.

During the next few days, I continued to have these violent seizure-like events and needing an ambulance at one point to the local hospital. However, after every seizure-like event occurred, I did not lose consciousness anymore. I was literally "trapped" in my body and could barely feel my own body. I could hear, but I could not open my eyes, speak, or move my body. I could however, listen clearly to the people around me. I remember the EMT's in the ambulance stating that my blood pressure was continuously dropping (last mentioned: 80/60), my eyes were dilated, and my pulse last measured dropped to 30 beats/minute at which point the EMT's needed to take my pulse via the carotid artery in my neck. Still it was challenging to find a pulse.

In the Emergency Room again, I could hear the doctors speaking. And, to test me they stuck needles into the chin areas of my legs. Still, I could not feel the needle pricks. The doctors then rehydrated me again, which allowed me physically to move my body again. My blood pressure and heart rate returned to normal. And, upon inspecting the chin areas of my legs, I could see the needle marks created on my legs. The doctors were dumb founded and attributed it to the stress of move. So, the doctors told me that when this happens again, to just "wait it out" and eventually I would come to. The doctors simply could not really explain why all these events that were occurring to me. I never shared with the doctors about my NDE experience fearing they might think I was "crazy".


About a week later, my dog jumped out of someone's arms and landed on one leg. The leg was a front leg and it was a "trauma breakage" meaning that the below the point of breakage, the leg was just dangling. It was a Sunday and an Emergency appointment was made with the local veterinarian. Luckily, the bone did not penetrate through the skin. Knowing my anatomy and physiology, I knew how to protect the dog's leg without allowing further damage. My priority was to preserve the artery and nerve along the bones from being damaged by the shivered broken bones.

The veterinarian took x-rays and gave an injectable pain killer along with a prescription of pain killer tablets. The veterinarian also, stabilized the leg with a soft bandage and directed that the dog be brought to an animal hospital where orthopedic surgery involving pins and plates would be needed ASAP. The dog was then taken to the animal hospital's recommended intensive care unit, now late in the day. The dog had the orthopedic surgery the very next day.

Two days later we picked up the dog. The dog was wearing a cast, given a plastic sheathing to protect the cast from getting wet while the dog went outside to do "his duties", and four different kinds of medications to be given round the clock. It was at the point nursing the dog back to health and keeping the dog comfortable.


Unfortunately, the very next day I felt I needed to call the police for my own safety from the person(s) I had trusted. Two police men showed up and listened to all stories separately. As one policeman described to me, "it's like oil and water". The same policeman promised he would come back in a few hours and asked if I could "stay separated" until his return. I said, "yes".

About 2 hours later, only one policeman returned (the one that promised me he would) and a separate car with 2 crisis social workers. The 2 crisis social workers spoke to all parties involved separately and took lots of notes. It was decided that the best thing for me was to be placed into a local hotel and later fly back to the east coast with my dog once I had full control of my assets again. However, my assets were temporarily unavailable and therefore, I did not have the money for the hotel. Neither was the other party willing to pay for me to stay at a hotel until I could book a flight back to the east coast. So, the second "choice" was to have my own bedroom with my dog; separating my dog and me from the other(s) in the house. Two separate beds existed in this one bedroom and it meant simply moving one bed out. However, this was not acceptable to the other(s) and the other(s) instead asked me to leave. In other wards, I was being evicted at night into a city and state I was largely unfamiliar with. My dog was allowed to remain, but I highly doubted the skills of the other(s) to properly take care of my dog while my dog's leg mended. The choices left were to leave with the Social Workers or be outside on my own. So, I chose to go with the Social workers and back to the hospital for "evaluation". The policeman said to me that he believed I was making "the correct and best decision". Yet, I couldn't help feel that this was my punishment by the other(s) for calling the Police. The policeman then had me read to the other(s) the directions given for proper care for my dog from the Orthopedic Veterinarian. This was done so the policeman could witness that I explained clearly the nursing of my dog just in case anything bad happened to my dog. There were already two dogs kept outside of the house in the cold and rain and not allowed into the house. One of the dogs clearly suffered from arthritis.


Now, begins my story being among the homeless.


By the time the Crisis Social Workers drove me to the Emergency Room it was about 10:30pm. I had nothing but the cloths on my back, my phone, and the charger for the phone. In the waiting area of the Emergency Room, there were 4 of us; all homeless. One was a man about 40yrs, there was another man about 40 yrs who had a bad cold and was under the influence of a drug; not alcohol, and a woman about 45yrs of age who was drunk. We were the only ones there for hours until we each received the attention we needed from staff. It was very much like the movie "The Breakfast Club", but it was not breakfast time. We all got to know each other a little and were strangers no more.

Given pseudo names, "Paul" sat across from me in a bench clenching onto and occasionally drinking his 2 liter bottle of Ginger Ale from a cup. "Mary" was drunk, in a wheel chair, wheeling herself around with one foot back and forth in the area while constantly complaining that she was drunk. "I drank too much" she would cry and felt "like throwing up"; which she did occasionally. However, Paul was also very cordial, considerate, and compassionate. Every time Mary vomited, it was Paul who would clean the mess using paper towels and made sure Mary drank plenty of his Ginger Ale to help settle her stomach. Mary's vomiting occurred repeatedly. Paul also, made sure to ask Bruce and myself if we would like any Ginger Ale. I thought to myself how generous of someone who virtually has nothing. It's not like Paul was wearing a 3 piece suit and offering some of his drink. There was something special about it all.

"Bruce" sat to my left. I could tell he was "high" on something, but also had a bad cold. Bruce was a former pitcher in the National League Of Baseball. I knew this wasn't bull**** because Paul was also a very "roundabout" man who knew much (like Trivial Pursuit) and even bolstered about his international travel to Spain. Paul was a Bohemian of the sorts, yet he was also smart. Paul and Bruce spoke a lot about Bruce's career in the National League. Paul knew his stuff about sports and Bruce never hesitated to answer any questions thrown to him. The most I played was Little League Baseball and am not fully knowledgeable on the subject of sports.

Bruce prided himself that his fastball was clocked consistently at 92 mph. I won't mention what team (city and state) Bruce played for, but it's well known. So, I thought to myself, how does a young professional baseball player like Bruce end up homeless. However, that was not the feel of the group. As far as we were concerned, we were all there as "regular people" waiting for service and be helped. Bruce shared with me that he lost his wife when she was only 34 yrs of age. As he shared that information with me, I could really hear the sorrow tone in his voice. Naturally, I felt terrible for Bruce and wondered if it was the death of his wife that started his downward spiral.

Soon enough, I heard Bruce's name called out from behind the Triage Station. Apparently, Bruce was waiting for the pharmacy to fill and deliver some medication to the Emergency Room. So, it was time to say goodbye to Bruce because he received what he needed and it was time for him to exit the hospital. It was a bitter-sweet moment because just as I got to know Bruce, I knew I'd probably never see him again and would (and still do) wonder if he's even alive considering the opioid crisis in this country - a harsh reality.

Just before Bruce left, he shook hands with Paul and then me. I've shaken the hands of hard laborers whose hands were calloused as one would expect. But, I've never shaken the hand of a professional league baseball player until then. It was like the hand of a "super-human". He could easily had crushed my hand, not that my hands aren't masculine. Then, what Bruce said about my handshake I'll never repeat. Bruce wasn't trying to be mean, rather just blunt honesty. What Bruce said about my handshake is just plain too embarrassing to share. After Bruce left, that just left Mary, Paul, and me. Mary was still complaining how ill she was feeling and occasionally vomiting. Again, Paul was always there to clean up after Mary and by this time the 2 Liter bottle of Ginger Ale was almost empty. Mary had consumed most of the Ginger Ale. Makes me wonder, how would Mary have felt if Paul wasn't there to help care for her?

About a half hour after Bruce left, Paul and I were called into the actual Emergency Room leaving Mary alone to her own devices in the Emergency Room Waiting Area. Paul and I had beds next to each other separated by a curtain. So, I could hear everything that transpired between the medical staff and Paul. The medical staff knew why I was there because of the social workers' reports. But, for what reason was Paul there? It soon became apparent that Paul was concerned that he had contracted scabies. Something common that homeless people always worry about - serious contagious skin infections. However, upon careful visual analysis the medical staff told him that he did not have scabies. Yet, Paul was convinced he did. Eventually, Paul accepted the professional diagnosis and had to exit the Emergency Room, since there was no reason to treat him.

Paul left without saying "goodbye" to me. He passed by me, but said nothing. I don't believe Paul said nothing because he was intentionally ignoring me, but rather because he was confused. If Paul was experiencing something physically uncomfortable and the medical professionals saw nothing and could do nothing for Paul, then what could Paul do to help himself? I don't know if the medical staff did, but maybe they should have sent him "home" with some small bottles of Keri or Calomine skin cream? Some skin cream would be better than nothing and offer some hope for peace of mind.

Being in the Emergency Room for that night was basically a safe place for me to sleep the night away. Early the next morning, I was moved to the in-house psychiatric unit and into a private, yet what seemed to be a "holding room". I couldn't believe where I landed. What now, I thought to myself. I was told that "some people" were expected to show up and ask me questions. But, when and who? I heard a lot of screaming from other patients and cuss words. Then, a somewhat elderly short doctor with osteoporosis (reminding me of "The Hunchback From Notre Dame" - kid you not) knocked and opened my door. She was a physician and asked me, "Do you feel like hurting yourself?" to which I replied "No". Then she asked me, "Do you feel like hurting someone else?" to which I replied "No". And, she closed the door. By this time I was really beginning to worry!

I remained awake as long as I could waiting to talk to the promised "some people", but fell asleep on the gurney for what seemed hours. Suddenly, I was awoken by a loud knock on the door and 3 strangers entered into the room; gives new meaning to "crowded room". They were either all or mostly Social Workers, had reviewed my paperwork, and bombarded me with questions for about 10-15 minutes. After which, one of them upon exiting the room said to me, "we're going to find justice for you". Remember, I'd already been to this hospital a few times and their hospital computer system was linked to the hospital computer system that I normally go to on the East Coast. Comparing notes, these people knew I was speaking the truth especially regarding my Autism (or specifically Asperger's Syndrome). They also, had the Police reports and the Crisis Social Workers' reports. But, what now?



A few hours later, I was moved to a very compassionate Crisis Center a few blocks away from the hospital. However, I was allowed only 1 week to stay there from the moment I first stepped through the front door. Here is where I finally was finding some peace of mind and hope. Here there were only about 5 other people with a total of 10-15 beds. Remember, I only had the cloths on my back plus my cell phone which later turned out to be a life saver. Here it was almost quiet as a library. There were small snacks to nibble on 24/7 and 3 meals /day. There were shared bathrooms and the bathrooms were very clean. There was a part-time Psychiatrist to discuss my case. I was given a "case manager" that checked in with me everyday. I could give my cloths to be washed and dried while wearing a hospital robe in the meantime. There was an "art therapy" room. Works from previous homeless people were displayed on the walls within the Crisis Center. Some pieces had written messages of Hope within their art pieces. Others were just "color inside the lines" designs, but still very comforting to see. There was one person (I think a previous staff member) who had captured the faces of about 25 people with pencil drawings of the revolving "victims". The facial expressions were captured so well. And, if the eyes are truly the windows to the soul, in a all the drawings "hopelessness and pain" was captured in every facial drawing. As an artist, I would stare and study each face carefully. After studying the faces and eyes, I then dubbed the place as "the house of lost souls" because every facial drawing depicted a face seemingly asking "why?" and "how?" and "where to next if any?". It was sad to see, but yet comforting to know that "I was not alone" and that I had "fighters (representatives)" working to help me wherever that may lead which brought a glimpse of "hope".

On a bulletin board were helpful pamphlets including phone numbers of professionals for almost every case that could lead you to "the house of lost souls". These were names and phone numbers of advocates fighting for basic human rights. I was surprised to see that in this particular state there were advocates (lawyers) at no cost to help "Victims Of Adult Abuse". I've always heard of advocates of "Victims of CHILD Abuse", but never "ADULT Abuse". So, I took the number and name of the organization helping "Victims Of Adult Abuse"- just in case. I was not allowed to use my phone in the Crisis Center because most phones now come with cameras and to protect the identities of others, phones were not allowable.

By mid-week I was beginning to worry because when my time ran out at this Crisis CENTER and where was I going to go next? Next door was a much larger facility that held up to about 40 beds called a Crisis SHELTER. It was an entirely different kind of world. It was tough. It was literally one step above complete homelessness on the street.  And, the maximum time allotted was 2 weeks and it was very difficult to get into. My "case manager" from the Crisis Center had to present "my case" to the Crisis Shelter. So, in essence I had to apply knowing I might get denied and end up on the streets. After days of praying and constantly asking my "case manager" if I had been approved yet, finally about one day before my time was up at the Crisis Center she said "yes, they'll take you".

Another important thing to mention is that the hospital only supplied me with my "absolute bare essential medications" for 1 week because they did not know what was to happen to me after I got discharged from the Crisis CENTER. Since, my money was "tied up" and I had no wallet, the cost of the medications for the next 2 weeks was $10 and some change. I didn't have it. It was through the generosity of a nurse within the Crisis CENTER that paid for my meds. To this day I don't know his/her name. Hopefully, if they're reading this - Thank you.



I once had a friend who happens to run or ran a Drug Rehab Center who said to me on several different occasions, "Most people are homeless because they want to be.". The subject came up because I volunteered for one year at a Food Shelter. It occurred every Friday in Boston at this one particular famous Unitarian Church. To this day, I still vehemently disagree with him. Every Friday we served approximately 200 "clients". It was hard work. Soup and coffee were available from 5:00pm to 5:45pm. Dinner was served at 6:00pm and all "clients" needed to be out by 7:30pm so we (the volunteers) could then dismantle the tables, chairs, wash the bathrooms, mop the floor, collect the trash, and clean the kitchen. I was the Salad Guy giving out the salad because the "clients" liked the way I gave the salad. Rules were if "the clients" asked for "special orders" such as "a little more corn, please", "no onions, please" or "no, tomatoes, please" I broke the rules. I gave the people what they wanted & how much they wanted. In my mind, maybe people get indigestion from the onions or maybe corn is one of their favorite foods. And, I could go on and on about those experiences.

Never as I handed out food, did I ever imagine that I would be on the other side of the table asking such things as "are there anymore cookies left?", "how many food choices (amount) am I allowed for this meal?", "could I please, have one more bag of microwaveable popcorn?". But, I was and the clock was quickly ticking away.

The Crisis SHELTER was not the best of worlds. Food was rationed; cameras were all over the place (except bathrooms) because of theft (so, no one could go into your bed area and steal); therefore, no privacy; they tried their best to keep the bathrooms cleaned; some drugs were smuggled in; if drugs were to be used it was in the bathrooms; some people would tease to try and anger you (mean-spirited); if you misbehaved (argued) with anyone, you'd be asked to leave immediately; had to wash your own cloths, but difficult when all you have are the cloths on your back (no more hospital gown); disinfect with a special solution every time you change the sheets to prevent skin infections (parasites); etc.

The best part of the Crisis SHELTER was the fact that you could step into "the locker area" and use and charge your cell phone. Everyone in the Crisis SHELTER was given a personal locker with a personal lock. The keys to the locks were kept in the office room. It was then and there that I took advantage of the opportunity to call the advocate (attorney) for "Victims Of Adult Abuse" whose phone number I discovered in the Crisis CENTER. I was so happy that I wrote the phone number down and was able to discuss with someone my predicament. Time was running short and I was getting closer and closer (not further) from the outside curb. I often wondered about my dog, as well and knew in my heart of hearts that he was not being treated properly.

The attorney was able to subpoena all the records and contact the person(s) responsible for my nightmare. A certain Medical Doctor, a certain Social Worker, the Police, and the Attorney all believed me and not the person(s) responsible because of their actions and inconsistencies in their recount of the events prior. The Attorney was working on the case and all I wanted was my dog and to go back home to Rhode Island ASAP. But, it was going to take some time to do it properly.

Most homeless people in the Crisis SHELTER were good people. Their stories were difficult to hear. One man (about 60 yrs old) cried as he shared his stories with me. He blamed himself because it seemed that every person he loved committed suicide; including his own mother in the very next room of their house. There's a lot of gore that I won't share, but for some they spoke to me and shared their stories. One even called me "like a priest", but maybe because I was just willing to listen without really talking back and passed no judgement or fault. Maybe, they don't come across enough people like that while living on the streets or subsidized housing.

Another case was this young woman (about 30 yrs old) who always hummed to herself and only wore shorts although it was cold outside. She loved to hum. She would even go into "the locker area", listen to her phone or iPod with earbuds and hum for hours. At night, she would talk to herself out loud. This bothered the people around her who were trying to sleep. She would never stop using her voice. Eventually, people caught on that she was "faking mental illness" because many were familiar with schizophrenia and her wording and/or actions did not match to their experiences with schizophrenia. After a few days she was asked to leave, but then returned a few days later only to continue the same behavior and asked to leave one more time. What she did outside of the Crisis SHELTER was obvious. Because she wore only shorts, one could see the thick callouses on her knees. It was so sad to see this young woman living like this. I never saw here again after her second return.

One more case involved a man (about early thirties) and a good man who actually protected me from some "harassers" that I wasn't aware of and mocking me because of my sexuality. I certainly didn't flaunt, but I guess I wasn't "butch enough" or have enough hatred in my heart to match theirs. What they were doing I won't mention. But, it was this one man who made me aware of these others' scrupulous actions. He finally, managed to get all his cloths back from somewhere. All the cloths were clean and he folded the cloths into a large suitcase in "the locker area". His 2 weeks were up the day after I was finally able to leave myself. All he needed was $60 to catch the GreyHound Bus to Los Angelas. Knowing that I was possibly receiving my "companion dog" and my belongings (including my wallet) soon (before he had to leave), I offered to pay for his bus ticket. I still had 3 days before I was scheduled to leave the Crisis SHELTER and "companion dogs" were allowed to stay inside the Crisis SHELTER. I figured my assets would be unfrozen by then and that I could find an ATM to pay his way back. He told me that I was the 3rd person to offer him the money and that the first person to offer had the cash spread in front of him, but he declined. He was just showing his pride and independence, but later regretted it because he was running out of time and still didn't have the bus ticket in hand.



The attorney working on my case told the person(s) [offender(s)] exactly where I was located and to bring all my belongings and my dog. After about a half hour of discussion with the offender(s) and close inspection of my dog because of his broken leg, the Social Workers of the Crisis SHELTER took me into a private room and told me that my dog could not be admitted. When asked "why not?", the Social Worker said, "because he can't.". I then asked again, "why not?; answer the question.". Again, the Social Worker responded with, "because he can't". I blew up right then and there because I knew something was desperately wrong with my dog! The Social Worker reacted and said, "OK, that's it. You're out of here." To which I said, "Fine". The person(s) who lured me 3,000 miles away from my home told me previously that my dog could not stay at their 2nd home (West Coast) because he cries too much in the crate. That meant that they neighbors would complain and call the Police or Animal Control. And, the Social Worker had previously told me that the person(s) were going to stay overnight in the 2nd home, but leaving the dog alone the majority of the night. Therefore, I knew that if I didn't grab my dog now and leave, I may very well loose my dog forever. The other person(s) also, told the Social Worker that if the person(s) take the dog now and give me back my belongings to fly back to the East Coast without my dog, the person(s) would sign a "promisary note" to return my dog to me at a later time to the East Coast. After all that was done to me already, I'm sorry BULL****!

So, I grabbed what little I had at the Crisis SHELTER, quickly said "goodbye" to my closest friends at the Crisis SHELTER, asked for a ride to the airport (because the Crisis SHELTER is known to do so), but in my case they denied. What they did give me was a $2.50 pass for the Local Bus which did not reach the airport. I then went immediately to inspect my dog. My dog is not use to being locked in a crate almost 24/7. That's why when I inspected him, I could immediately see that his nails were bleeding from scratching at the crates door to get out! There was blood on the crate's door. His cast was damp and filthy because it was the wet season and the person(s) did not use the plastic sheathing as directed by the surgeon, as told to the person(s), and as witnessed by the Policeman!

The person(s) were long gone by the time I saw my dog. So, in one hand I had to carry the crate with the dog in it. In the other hand, I had to carry a boarding suitcase filled with some dirty jacket that wasn't even mine. And, on my shoulder I had to carry a school shoulder bag filled with more cloths and my meds. The temperature outside was in the mid 50's and it was cold rain.

I then walked to a nearby bus transit stop and was soaking wet. I waited about 10 minutes and caught the first bus I saw. I presented my $2.50 bus pass to the bus driver and asked him how to get to the airport. He said, the best way was to catch a train and that he would tell me which bus stop to get off at. When we reached the bus stop with the connecting train to the airport, the bus driver said I needed to cross the street and catch the train below. So, I crossed the street and had to purchase a ticket for the train. The cost of the ticket was about 5$. Knowing that assets should be unfrozen by now, I tried every card in my wallet minus one that was missing that was never frozen. How inconvenient! Of the cards returned to me, none worked at the kiosk to purchase the 5$ train ticket needed.

By now, I was drenching wet. My dog was cold, crying, and still trying to claw his way out of the crate while bleeding. Finally, a kind soul standing behind me decided to just buy the ticket for me. He could see what I was up against. Finally, my dog and I (along with my personal belongings) found shelter waiting for the transit train. It was rush hour by now, and we boarded a crowded train. I think some people actually felt sorry for us because they gave up their seats immediately. And, finally the train reached the airport. But, I still had no money to catch a flight. I did however, have a card with more than enough frequent flyer miles. So, I went to that airline's desk, explained my situation, but there were no direct flights to Boston (Logan Airport) and all flights were being routed to San Francisco and then to Boston in the morning because of weather conditions. Also, despite having a signed document regarding my "companion dog" there was some sort of problem. The dog crate was too tall and would not fit under the seat.

So, I called my sister on the East Coast and told her that I was stuck at the airport 3,000 miles away. She understood the situation and wanted to speak to the person at the counter that I had previously spoken to. My sister managed to buy me a ticket on a different airline, but I had to hurry because it was the red-eye flight and I still needed to go through the baggage area. I couldn't bring the crate onboard so I left the crate next to a garbage canister as directed.

I figured if my dog walked outside in the rain to do his duties, then he should be able to walk to the gate and that he did (hobbling along). By this time, I was sweating profusely through my cloths and my lungs were filling with fluid. I do use prescribed inhalers (steroids) because I had double pneumonia as a young child.

My dog flew quietly on my lap and we finally reached Boston (Logan Airport) in the morning. But, now I had another hurdle. How do I get to Rhode Island? So, again I went through all my cards in my wallet and found one that would take me home via Uber. The weather in New England was so much better and my dog and I finally reached "home".



After reaching home, I let the attorney on the West Coast know. She was happy that my dog and I were reunited and comfortably back in RI. I let my sister know and she was happy, as well. After not sleeping well for about a month, I stayed in bed for about 2-3 weeks to heal. My doctor didn't like the way I sounded and wanted me to come in and be checked. Luckily, one of my inhalers is a strong steroid only to be used when I feel like I'm getting congested. I finally had that inhaler in my hand and it's almost as good as antibiotics. So, needless, to say my lung congestion dissipated.

Strangely enough, during those few weeks of bed rest with no tv, computer, anything to distract, I just stayed in bed with my dog and couldn't help but relive my entire life; almost like a movie. Considering what happened to me health-wise after shortly reaching the West Coast and this movie-like reliving shortly after I reached the East Coast, I have a entirely different view on life, what it means, and how I fit into "this puzzle" or "scheme in life".

I'll never forget especially now more than ever because I've been ignoring what was told to me 2 yrs ago. Over the last 2 yrs I've come to realize that my duties, obligations, and happiness lies not in politics, but rather in the arts. I promised God that when I was a child that if God helped me get a guitar, I would play it to please him. After praying and receiving the guitar, I was the local church guitarist for about 6 yrs. So, I thought I was done and completed my promise. But, looking back over these past 2 yrs, I've worked harder at pleasing myself and others than I have God, as requested of me. Perhaps, that's why I'm not as happy as I could possibly be?

I've learned that I can be a part of the visual arts, make music-videos with computers, play the piano some without ever taking a piano lesson, and now have several guitars. Also, why needing 6 major hand surgeries in the past few years? My palms are all scared. Without any one of the hand surgeries, I wouldn't be able to do any form of art. Such the saying : The Lord Works In Mysterious Ways.  ( I don't have the Jesus Christ Syndrome; I'm just saying )



He's doing fine now. Actually, the cast was supposed to be removed 3 DAYS after the surgery as I later found out. And, the stitches 2 WEEKS after the surgery. The dog chewed the cast off and I removed the sutures. Speaking with one of the Orthopedic Surgeons on the West Coast, she mentioned that I "have a little miracle here" because when casts are not removed after such a long period of time, the dog will feel so uncomfortable that they often "chew their own leg off". And, the fact that the cast was all wet with fresh sutures and no infection "is a little miracle".



There are many different kinds of Abuse. There's Spousal Abuse, Elder Abuse, Child Abuse, Sex Abuse, Adult Abuse, Drug Abuse, Sibling Abuse, Animal Abuse, etc.

As a person with Autism, I've often been abused by many others in many different ways. I've learned to choose my real friends very carefully, never just blindly give my trust away to anyone, and always right the wrong. That's how I survive with Autism because I have my own personal challenges to deal with on an autistic level, as well. 

February 01, 2019