Me or Me TWO?

The Amnesiac’s Autobiography

Rebuilding Life After Losing Everything

Foreword

What you’re about to read is the product of a mind reset — a brain wiped clean by trauma, attempting to piece together seven decades of life through fragments, feelings, and the occasional spark of recognition.

In May 2023, a car accident changed everything. The blunt force trauma didn’t just damage my skull; it erased nearly everything I’d ever known about myself. I am told I was a yacht racing champion, a successful businesswoman, a mother. I have no memory of any of it.

This book is my attempt to reconstruct not just my past, but my identity. Some memories returned as jagged pieces — mostly traumatic ones. Others remain lost forever. What emerged was something unexpected: the opportunity to reinvent myself at seventy-four.

Writing with amnesia means every day I must rediscover who I am. Sometimes I write about events I cannot remember living through, yet the emotions remain vivid. If this seems impossible to you, imagine trying to write your life story using only the feelings left behind after the facts have vanished.

This is my truth. Fragmented, imperfect, but ultimately resilient.

Oddly, memory once gone can only conjure up traumas from my life-some had been forgotten until this writing. I thought I’d had a normal life, but as you will learn, it was anything but normal.

— Pamala

Prologue: The Collision

May 3, 2023

I don’t remember driving that day. I don’t remember the destination or even getting into the car. What I know comes from police reports, witnesses, and a spider web of cracked glass where my head met the windshield.

The prescription bottle found in my purse told the story: serotonin pills for my Complex PTSD. I’d accidentally taken two instead of one that morning. The allergic reaction hit while I was behind the wheel.

Unconsciousness came without warning. No brake lights. No swerving. Just a woman slumping over the steering wheel as her car drifted into a parked bus with a baby inside.

When I opened my eyes, strangers surrounded me. Police. Paramedics. Voices overlapping, talking at me rather than to me. Someone mentioned the baby — unharmed, thank God. Someone else accused me of drinking. “I don’t drink,” I said, though I couldn’t remember why I knew that.

To prove I was fine, I did twenty push-ups right there on the roadside. Looking back, this seems absurd, but trauma makes us do strange things. Twenty push-ups while blood trickled from my head and my life, as I’d known it, ended.

The last clear thing I remember is a taxi driver named Randy holding me in his arms, tears streaming down his face as he whispered, “I thought you were gone. I thought I’d lost you.”

I had no idea who he was.

Part I: Fragments

The First 30 Years

Chapter 1: The Girl with White-Blonde Hair

The earliest memories feel like looking through fogged glass — shapes and colors without context. I was three, riding my little pink tricycle when I met Suzie Smith. She was four, pedaling toward me on a collision course that would begin a friendship lasting seven decades.

“We bonded over the crash,” Suzie told me recently, though I had to ask her to remind me of her name.

Suzie’s father was a retired Naval officer. Her mother, Ownie, was what my fragmented memory recalls as “a cold fish but a good cook.” The Smiths spent summers at a lake in Maine, and after a few visits, my father decided to buy a cabin nearby.

Our cabin was built entirely from one tree — each plank marked with the initials HM for Howard Mayo, the toothless farmer who owned the land. It stood just twelve feet from Lake Echo, with a potbelly stove for heat and running lake water that tasted of minerals and algae. The red outhouse terrified me with its imaginary spiders, but Maine mornings were magical.

I would wake to mist rising from the chilly water, listening for the trilling call of loons while wrapped in a mattress that enveloped me like a cloud. These sensory memories remain vivid — the sound, the smell, the feeling of safety — while faces and names fade into nothing.

By twelve, I noticed boys, as did Suzie. We attended weekly square dances at the Grange Hall, where I felt invisible while Suzie commanded attention. I envied her ease with people, though I couldn’t have articulated why.

Before Maine, our family vacations took us to Ocean City, New Jersey — specifically Linwood, a suburb for frugal families. I remember skipping down a path lined with blue hydrangeas and honeysuckle toward the bay. I would catch crabs in a cage, standing on a rickety dock, dropping and lifting the trap from muddy waters.

The scent memory is powerful: bay water mixed with flower nectar. To this day, blue flowers trigger a visceral reaction I can’t explain. The visual memory of that cottage has vanished, but there’s a black-and-white photo of my sisters and me in matching plaid dresses, posed on front steps I cannot recall climbing.

Summer nights, I’d listen to Bobby Darin’s “Mack the Knife” on my portable radio, hidden under my pillow. Bobby was my first crush, though I remember the feeling more than his face.

My routine in those early years involved waking before sunrise to sit on the floor heater with a flashlight, reading in private. At sunrise, I’d wait by my parents’ bedroom door, ready to join them in bed the moment they woke. This ritual lasted into my twenties — the need for that connection, that assurance of belonging.

My father always had his legs swathed in clothes due to undiagnosed leg pain and a chronic cough. These ailments annoyed my mother endlessly, though I felt protective of him then. That protection would later prove misplaced.

Between ten and fourteen, I aspired to be an astronomer, copying books word-for-word. When that passion faded, I turned to art — a love that endures even as everything else slips away.

Christmas was magical in ways I can’t reconstruct. The excitement, secrecy, and anticipation remain vivid, along with sensory memories: homemade chocolate chip cookies, turkey, show tunes, and Christmas carols filling the house.

My parents entertained often with dinner parties that generated raucous laughter from downstairs while I stayed sequestered in my bedroom. I never heard them argue — until the night everything changed.

Chapter 2: The First Betrayal

The phone call came on a school night. Extensions were common then, and I eavesdropped when Uncle Herb called my mother. What I heard shattered my understanding of our family.

My mother was having an affair with Ken, our neighbor.

That night was the only time I heard arguing and the sharp sound of a slap from my parents’ bedroom. Within weeks, we’d relocated ten miles away to the countryside. Ken would drive by our new home slowly, every few days — creepy, like a stalker.

Then he died, supposedly from a broken heart.

This sounds harsh but true: I hated my mother from that day forward and felt protective toward my father — only to learn years later that he frequented prostitutes. The betrayal cut deep. My love for Dad became forever tainted, leaving me feeling bitterly crushed and unable to trust either parent.

Our new house was large, surrounded by seasons that came and went with little joy. During winter, I’d stand on tiptoes watching snowflakes fall in the streetlight’s glow, hoping for school closures. School bored me. The bus smelled like vomit and ham.

My mother traveled often with my father, fancying herself glamorous with her need for attention, bright red lipstick, and dramatic jewelry. Everything about her reminded me of a washed-up film star with repulsive affectation. She thrived on gossip and insincere empathy, often making me feel bad about myself.

“A therapist once suggested she was envious of my relationship with Daddy,” I wrote in my notes, though I can’t remember which therapist or when this insight came.

I spent countless weekends with my Aunt Dot or my grandparents. Mom Mom spanked me with the back of a brush when I felt ill — once when I had the mumps. Aunt Dot sent me to school with the same lunch daily: cheese with mayo, which I traded whenever possible.

My grandfather Pop Pop was an elder in his church. My other grandfather, NAB (Norman Abijah Baldwin), was a radical Baptist missionary based in Jerusalem. The real Lawrence of Arabia was NAB’s close friend. Between both sides of the family, I was forced to attend church, choir, Bible study, or Sunday school at least five times a week. It was nearly intolerable.

At fourteen, I rebelled.

Chapter 3: Breaking Points

I lied to my parents about a Memorial Day weekend trip, claiming to visit a girlfriend when I actually went to Ocean City by bus. On the crowded beach, I watched a terrible accident — a teenage girl being tossed in the air by friends, landing wrong when someone lost their grip. The ambulances, the sudden soberness, the realization that she might be paralyzed or worse, created my first real awareness of how quickly life could change.

When my father read my diary entry about that weekend — misinterpreting “we didn’t make it” to mean something sexual rather than simply missing a planned meetup — he slapped me and arranged for me to attend a church camp in Estes Park, Colorado.

The camp was part of the “Up With People” movement, semi-religious and cultish. Within a week, I was date-raped by Charlie, whose father was a known newspaper baron. I was fourteen. The experience was chilling, and I never told a soul for twenty-five years.

After the incident, all I wanted was to escape. I called my Aunt Peggy in San Diego and took a bus there, watching Pikes Peak pass by my window. The months in San Diego are largely blank except for Aunt Peggy being a hopeless alcoholic who resorted to drinking vanilla extract. She bought me art supplies, and I spent every day drawing alone on her front stoop.

My return journey became another nightmare. At LAX, waiting eighteen hours on standby, a seemingly nice man named Gordon approached me. I was wearing a pretty black dress with white polka dots and a fake pearl necklace. He invited me to dinner during my layover, claiming he’d left his wallet at his motel.

In his room, he locked the door and brutally raped me, tearing my clothes. I genuinely feared for my life. When he finally slept, I gathered my torn clothes and tiptoed out, borrowing a blanket from the front desk. I can’t remember what happened after that.

Again, I didn’t reveal this trauma for twenty-five years — not from shame, but perhaps for shock value when I finally did tell my parents.

High school represents a black hole in my memory. I played clarinet in the band and by senior year had six periods of art daily, along with physical education and English. I wasn’t particularly popular except among a few art students. I didn’t attend graduation, having been accepted to the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts a year early based on my portfolio.

One of my most shattering emotional hurts came when my father said he wanted me to go to college not for education, but to meet a man who could provide for me. The statement was offensive and disrespectful, revealing how little he valued my intelligence or potential.

Part II: Patterns

Ages 18–44

Chapter 4: Learning to Settle

I blew college spectacularly, skipping classes for movies or the Philadelphia Museum of Art. After graduation, Dad gave me three thousand dollars “to do something with my life.” My girlfriend Gale and I opened a surf shop on Long Beach Island, New Jersey, which I also managed to blow by operating it only when we were short on money, otherwise spending my time partying.

That’s where I met Bob, who would become my first husband. Physically, he reminded me of a penguin. The second I saw him, I had a gag reflex, but circumstances stranded us together when his partner George dated my business partner Gale. Night after night, Bob and I hung out in the living room while George and Gale occupied the bedroom.

When Bob kissed me, I held my breath — he repulsed me that much. Yet when he proposed toward the end of that first summer, I said yes. Marriage seemed appealing as a concept, even though Bob gave me the heebie-jeebies.

Bob was a mean drunk, though we all drank heavily. I thought he’d outgrow it, but sixty years later, my sons reported he was stone-cold drunk by 11 AM daily. He died about twelve years ago from alcoholism and stage four lung cancer, decades after our divorce.

I have no recollection of my wedding or the twelve years of marriage that followed. Every year, I begged for a divorce in the old-fashioned way — requesting my father’s permission. He forbade it, saying “think of yourself on a new plateau.” I tried, but it didn’t work.

I wanted to replace my loveless marriage with children I could love. Both pregnancies and births were little miracles. Bob smothered me with love, but I couldn’t stand being in the same room with him. I was a fake good wife, behaving as any wife would but feeling disdain for him.

I intentionally had affairs, hoping Bob would divorce me. Instead, he accepted the news and suggested an open marriage. I wasn’t interested — I just wanted him out of my life. I felt doomed, servicing his needs in the powder room while refusing to share our bed. My energy and indescribable love was reserved entirely for my sons.

Twelve years into the marriage, a famous film director asked for my hand, which finally forced Bob to divorce me. The director was still married and wanted to “keep” me in LA for two years until his kids were grown. I rejected this idea and said farewell — it was bittersweet.

During this period, Bob made it his mission to influence my boys against me. Once divorced, he burned every photo of me and forbade the children from mentioning my name. He worshipped Ryan, the youngest, while making life horrible for Rob, consistently telling him he should be like his brother.

I had custody of Rob, whom I loved unconditionally, but it took five painful, costly years to win split custody of Ryan, who had been brainwashed against me. Bob told him I didn’t want him and had abandoned him. These fabrications were unforgivable and heartbreaking.

Chapter 5: The Dangerous Years

I remarried quickly — too quickly. Anthony was an Italian man who had stalked me during a three-month film shoot where my son Rob was featured. I couldn’t get rid of him. Tony was quite funny, but his fatal flaw was his cruelty to my boys. I asked for an overnight divorce in Santo Domingo, which went off without a hitch, but I feared his return.

He did return, for forced sex. Son Rob recently reminded me of these “Tony years,” which had disappeared from my memory. Having been reminded, I am gutted.

The decade between my divorces was when I became a successful businesswoman, training at gyms four hours daily and competing in bodybuilding. There were many men in my life — I was single, and AIDS hadn’t been discovered yet. Truthfully, I was blanketing my emotional torture by dating about seven men simultaneously.

I prepared to compete in bodybuilding, looked good, and had gone solo in business. Rob opened a Mexican restaurant, and Ryan fast-tracked at one of the world’s most admired banking corporations before marrying.

To this day, it pains me that Ryan’s wife Margie and her parents believe Bob’s lies about me. During Ryan’s wedding reception on Lake Como, two of his drunken childhood friends independently criticized me for “abandoning” Ryan — which wasn’t remotely true. Ryan’s mother-in-law also voiced harsh criticisms directly to me.

Nobody believed the truth. I was made to feel like trailer trash, an outsider. I cried myself to sleep that evening, my son’s wedding night destroyed. When it came time for family photos, Bob elbowed me out of the pictures.

For professional reasons, I moved to Philadelphia, where I met another sociopath — a British man named David. I slept with him the first night and shortly after moved in with him. He was waiting for “the big deal” that never materialized, so I naively paid for everything, including the finest penthouse in the city.

When we had sex, he trembled uncontrollably, which made me feel loved, though it was an oddity.

He controlled me, and initially, I was flattered. David chose my clothes for evenings out. As a people pleaser, I didn’t question the manipulation.

David’s first wife was Ashby Gore, Vice President Al Gore’s first cousin. Everyone loved dashing, charming David, but only Ashby and I knew his dark side. He was a total scammer, a drunk, and after six months revealed himself as an abuser.

Chapter 6: Escape and Return

One day in Philadelphia, I spontaneously stepped into a travel agency — I had to escape. When I called the abused women’s hotline, I was put on hold. A policeman said to file a report but offered no help. So back to the travel agent I went, holding only a toothbrush, purchasing tickets to our family cabin in Maine.

David found me. He spoke to my parents, who agreed to let him come collect me. My parents didn’t believe me. The drive back to Philadelphia was the most frightening of my life — exceeding 100 MPH most of the 800 miles. I tried to jump out twice. He was driving like a maniac, and I wondered if he was trying to kill us both.

Back in Philadelphia, David’s abuse escalated. The first physical attack was “soft” — he pushed me into a towel rack in the powder room, denting it and shattering the mirror above.

The next altercation was like something from a movie. I had a headache and was in bed with an ice bag on my forehead. He grabbed the ice bag and beat me with it relentlessly. When I tried to reach the phone or door, he beat me there, grabbing a knife from the kitchen. He knocked me down, sat on my chest, and held the blade to my throat.

His eyes were beady-black and unblinking. Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. With my arms pinned down, I thought rapidly in survival mode. I choked out one sentence: “Your father is watching you.”

David’s adoptive father had been a vicar. The words worked — he dropped the glass and ran out of the penthouse.

He often told me he was part of a select American/British Special Force, participating in secret assignments in Nicaragua as a hitman, killing drug lords and children. Bizarre, but I had no doubt at the time.

I had to flee. I returned to the same travel agent, destination Barbados. I settled in, took up scuba diving, and maintained my work, but within weeks, David showed up and moved in. His abusiveness accelerated, but by then I’d learned to manage the abuse by being compliant.

If David saw a wrinkle on the bedcover, he accused me of being with another man and beat me. The delusion was complete.

During the O.J. Simpson televised court hearing in 1996, David became enraged while we watched in bed. He muttered about women in general, saying we should all be shot. Then he grabbed our kitten and tried to strangle it. When I ran to rescue the cat, he grabbed my hair and forced my nose into the kitten’s face, strangling it until its little eyes popped out.

I inched toward the kitchen door and screamed for help, knowing I was under FBI surveillance. Ashby Gore had called her cousin, Vice President Gore, who had arranged protection. The agents witnessed everything. Bajan police came that afternoon and arrested David for attempted murder. He was deported back to the

UK.

When asked to bring his belongings, I took scissors and cut every necktie, slashing his clothes before neatly folding them into his luggage.

Part III: Breaking Point

Ages 44–71

Chapter 7: Paradise Lost

Years blur together here — the trauma has created gaps even in recent memory.

I can’t recall how I left Barbados or reached Savannah, Georgia, where my parents had moved. My father was supposedly dying, though he lived another twenty years. I set up an office in their basement and was hired for three jobs: NBC writer/producer, business newspaper features editor, and restaurant critic. I also developed a cheesecake business that took off.

Life was manageable except for my toxic mother, who constantly told me I was getting wrinkles and would never amount to anything. The more she drank, the uglier and meaner she became.

One evening at dinner, she proclaimed, “Nobody loves me,” and made a dramatic exit to call various people until someone would talk to her. When she returned, she announced, “See, I found someone who was happy to speak with me, unlike you two.”

My father’s health improved. It was time to return to the islands, as I’d learned to sail in Barbados and it had become my passion.

Sailing friends arranged for me to meet a widower in Vermont who wanted a companion to sail with. The word “gentleman” sold me. We met, I moved in, but he repeatedly said, “It’s good to be king” — an insufferable egotist. I began sleeping on his couch rather than in bed with him.

I can’t remember anything else until we were sailing in the Caribbean and reached a tiny island called Bequia. I could no longer endure his company. When I tried to leave, he wrapped his arms around my ankles and angrily said, “You OWE me sex,” while refusing to ship my belongings from Vermont.

I abandoned ship with five thousand dollars and made a life in Bequia, where locals loved American country music and had weekly dances. I met Neil, who managed the local boatyard and had seven girlfriends simultaneously. Despite this, we lived together, and I endured emotional hurt when he visited other women.

I lost touch with everyone except my parents and children. I swam about two miles daily and had my first marijuana joint, as alcohol now triggered allergic reactions. Neil’s adult daughter came to build a house, and I was forewarned she had an Oedipus complex and would do everything to ensure her father remained single. She succeeded. Night after night, Neil returned from spending time with her like a monster of hate, criticizing me endlessly.

One night we argued, and he physically attacked me. This time I reported him to the police. By nature, I’m soft-spoken, happy, helpful, kind, and gentle. I don’t argue, complain, or raise my voice. But I was beginning to feel numb emotionally.

I asked my neighbor if he could get me cocaine, which I’d only used once before. That night, Neil came in while I was in my basement art area. I innocently explained I had cocaine and asked if he’d like to try some. He took one punch to my head, and I fell forward onto my desk, unconscious.

I awakened at 3 AM to find the room torn apart — phone pulled from the wall, computer shattered, every bit of evidence that Neil lived with me gone. He’d thrown everything, crashing it to the floor. An old copy machine with black ink powder had blackened almost everything in the kitchen. Plants were overturned, furniture broken, curtains torn down.

I genuinely doubted my sanity. Nothing made sense. There was a coffee mug by the bed that smelled of rum — cloudy. His rum bottle was missing, along with fifty Valiums he’d collected that day. I wondered if he’d tried to poison me but flushed the evidence down the toilet.

Police said he’d be jailed for at least ten years, but bribery works in Bequia. Within twenty-four hours, he’d cleaned out our bank account — my money. The local doctor didn’t even turn on a light to examine me, reporting only an obvious bruise while ignoring the red line along my scalp. I took a ferry to mainland St. Vincent to see the Chief of Police, who said he’d help under one condition — he wanted s__. When I reported this to his superior in writing, I never got a response.

In a moment of inexplicable stupidity, I dove into the sea the next morning and swam to Neil’s yacht to warn him the police were coming. I can’t explain this behavior and don’t expect anyone else to understand it.

Two people later told me Neil had a reputation for battering women.

Chapter 8: The Spiral Deepens

I was broke, helpless, in a daze, and alone. I sold my chained Honda motorbike for about a thousand dollars — enough to fly to Barbados. The US Embassy was amazing, providing another $1,500 for American women in trouble overseas.

I rented a tiny apartment for a month before I could leave. During this time, I learned Neil had blocked my email accounts and changed passwords. He’d been reading my personal mail for a year. He sent emails to all my clients saying I was delusional and funds should go to him, signing with his name and my corporate attorney’s name to make it seem official.

I only knew one person in Barbados for business and called Rodney, asking to stay with him until I sorted myself out. I gave him $500 for his kindness.

On day two, we went on his sailboat, and he raped me. There’s no escape route on a boat. He frightened me, so I locked myself in his guest room nightly. He stopped sharing food, basically starving me. In retribution, I poured drinking water into his saltwater aquarium daily. In two weeks, all the fish died.

I needed safety and money, so I walked five miles to hotel chain headquarters and had an appointment with the human resources director, who gave me work assignments. This saved me.

As soon as I was paid, I booked a flight to Saint Lucia. Somewhere, I’d met a retired British barrister who’d settled there. We met for coffee, and two days later, she was murdered — stabbed on a clifftop and thrown into rough seas.

I was deeply troubled and set about researching the murder to write a book. I found a witness at my gym, and two Interpol agents met with me. After discussing what I’d learned, they ordered me to find a bodyguard, get authorized to carry a handgun, and move — because to reach my home, I had to drive by the perpetrator’s house.

A British couple had caught wind that I was interviewing people about them. Nobody doubted they’d committed the crime.

My brain exploded with fear. For a month, I stayed in a resort, but my internal system was experiencing terror. I suffered from explosive diarrhea and was humiliated. The story of my life — I always seem to know too much, which is detrimental.

I eventually found a great apartment in Rodney Bay.

My landlords, Jackie and Auguste Chasson, were lovely and remain friends today. I lived there about five years, feeling relatively safe and earning a minimum of $200,000 annually.

I don’t remember what I did in St. Lucia, but I felt safe until I flew to see clients in Mustique. Upon my return, I couldn’t find my car. Dragging my suitcase back and forth, I was dumbfounded. Police demanded I go to headquarters in the capital, where I was accused of murder.

My car had been stolen and used in a drive-by drug-related shooting. My passport saved me — it was stamped showing I was in Mustique during the killing. My car was found stripped for parts in a field.

Rob visited me for a year to reset his life. During his first week, a category 5 hurricane hit directly, leaving the island devastated with many deaths. Rob being with me was wonderful, and we invested $5,000 in a Philadelphia Cheesesteak business. Neither of us realized West Indians don’t like beef — they prefer chicken. The business failed, but our time together was priceless.

I bought a beautiful racing yacht about twenty years old — a winning machine in its time called Red Baron. I became consumed with yachts and racing, working hard to redesign and refit the boat.

Something felt “off” about St. Lucia. I asked many people if paranormal events happened there, knowing voodoo was practiced. My lawyer visited one day, had one wine, and went unconscious in my hallway en route to the bathroom. When he fell, a Glock fell off his leg and slid across the tiled floor.

I was fearful about how it would appear to have an unconscious armed man in my hallway. I helped him toward the bathroom, where he buckled again. I placed a pillow under his head, locked my door, and went to sleep. He was gone the next morning.

I no longer wanted to be in St. Lucia and chose Antigua, known for yachting. My yacht wasn’t ready, so I hired a highly recommended yachtsman to oversee the refit. I gave him thirty thousand dollars and a list of improvements. He split to Canada with my cash.

I called seasoned sailor friends in Antigua and paid them to deliver my yacht when ready. The delivery was amazing — my first sail on Red Baron was rewarding. But a month later, a tropical storm hit. What was predicted as minor turned into a short-lived 100 MPH hurricane.

When I drove to the boatyard afterward, Red Baron was holed. Concrete pillars had pierced the hull, and only three feet of mast showed above the waterline. I was underinsured and received about sixty thousand dollars. It was the overseer’s fault for not preparing the yacht properly, but I never confronted him.

Part IV: Void

The Accident and Aftermath

Chapter 9: The Collision

May 3, 2023

The timeline took me six months to piece together, and much remains guesswork. I was driving alone to an unknown destination when I simply went unconscious — no awareness of traffic, no memory of impact.

I briefly awakened, slumped over the wheel, pulling at strings as if the airbag hadn’t deployed. A dozen strangers surrounded me, talking over each other. Nothing registered. I thought I must be dreaming.

A huge pole had speared through my front window and out the back. I’d driven into a parked bus with a baby inside — thankfully, the child was unharmed. Both airbags had deployed, and I was wearing a seatbelt. The windshield showed a two-foot spider web of cracked glass where my head hit.

Police accused me of drinking and took my license. I don’t drink — I’m allergic.

Stubbornly insisting I was fine, I did twenty push-ups in front of the police to prove my fitness. No broken bones, just brain damage that would worsen over time.

I was transported to the emergency room by ambulance, but I didn’t want to be there. After a brain scan showed my vitals were okay, I saw a female neurologist whose report seemed patronizing, mentioning only a sinus infection. Having an aversion to being trapped — and IVs fall into this category — I pulled the IV from my arm and left unnoticed. The hospital caught my exit on film.

A taxi driver friend named Randy arrived to move my car and arrange towing. He told me months later that I was unconscious in his arms while he cried, thinking I was near death. I had no recollection of his presence at the scene.

Chapter 10: The Nurses’ Revelation

Here’s my description of my first near-death experience: Someone found my sons and called them about the accident. They immediately made arrangements for three nurses to stay with me for three days while booking flights and arranging for my personal trainer Donnie to accompany me to South Carolina, where Rob lived.

While the nurses were at my home, I remember struggling with them over the bathroom door — I needed privacy. I won and snuck a cigarette while suffering from a migraine. One day, the nurses asked me to sit outside with them, and we held hands. They had something to explain.

The nurses told me I was dead and had passed on February 27th. They had no faces, and I asked, “Then why are you speaking with me if I’m dead?” Remember, it was early May when they were caring for me.

Fast-forward to April 2024:

I described this to my new doctor in Antigua, who felt certain I’d had a near-death experience. There’s no other explanation, yet I recall that conversation as if it were five minutes ago.

I processed the news that I was dead. I didn’t doubt the nurses and tried to come to terms with having passed. I understood so little, accepting the information with no emotion or concrete thoughts.

My busy-body neighbor came often and packed a suitcase for me — nothing practical. I observed her with an empty brain, not lucid. Her voice was like fingernails on a blackboard and served as a trigger, causing me to tremble. Later I learned she’d rooted through my wallet, taking credit cards and pocketing cash.

I was informed I’d been in three hospitals — a total void and news to me. My second near-death experience involved watching myself as about ten years old with knee-length hair, standing alone on a slope overlooking a sprawling field. In the distance was a big, healthy tree with the sun directly above and no shadows. Everything was about thirty percent brighter than normal, with zero breeze and perfect temperature.

My next memory was arriving at Rob’s front door in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, with Donnie by my side. How did I get there? I thought I was okay, more or less, but I couldn’t remember anything — not the accident, ambulances, hospitals, or airplanes. Every moment had been erased.

Chapter 11: Recovery Begins

Rob was wonderful, working hard to prepare their house for me with his flatmate KD. They provisioned food they knew I liked and filled the place with flowers — such a lovely welcome in May 2023.

Rob organized medical insurance and scheduled appointments with multiple doctors. The neurologist appointment was six months out, which seemed wrong for someone with brain trauma.

I was unwell in ways I didn’t initially recognize. I couldn’t speak for a few months — unconscious on and off but unaware of how compromised I was. I was extremely uncomfortable, unable to regulate my body temperature. I stayed in bed, suffering nightly chills, soaking in steaming hot baths until feeling returned to my hands during the hottest year on record for South Carolina.

I had regular night terrors, a prolonged painful cough, and numbness in part of my face and head. The oddity was that my injury was on the opposite side from where I felt damage. I experienced swings from freezing cold to unbearable heat. Every morning, my eyes were glued shut with discharge.

I was too dizzy to stand without gripping something. Months later, I vaguely recalled moaning with every breath for at least a month — Rob confirmed this. I was startled by certain voices, barking dogs, slammed doors, and KD’s shrill voice.

Several times I suffered panic attacks — shortened breathing, trembling, watching my hands shake uncontrollably while my words became gibberish. I had random sparks from my eyes like shooting stars, and my vision was deteriorating. Research suggested retina damage, but this stopped after a few months.

By month three, still bed-based, I set up my computer, though I don’t remember why or if I worked. Someone asked by email about my boat. What boat? I was nonplussed and asked Rob if I owned a yacht.

Nearly a year later, I have no recollection aside from a few personal interactions aboard. How is it possible to not know I had a boat? I don’t recall ever sailing. Still in disbelief, I Googled myself for the first time. I learned I am supposedly a remarkable woman. Look at me now — I had little self-esteem.

I discovered pages of press about me and viewed video interviews calling me a legend. I felt like I was learning about a stranger.

Can you imagine not having a single thought in your head? Having a totally empty mind? I’d always been an insomniac, but at Rob’s, I slept well with medicinal hemp gummies that KD enjoyed. Despite normal sleep, I had night terrors. Repeatedly in dreams, I’d see my former skipper Jules snarling with hate. Until that year, we’d been like family, making the horrific dream doubly painful. I’d bolt up breathless and shaking, take a panic pill, and sleep again.

I felt safe but disconnected from everything except my closest companion — my sense of existing without thinking about anything. For someone whose mind always raced about work, having no responsibilities was wonderful, like meditation.

What I knew was that I hadn’t earned a penny, wasn’t capable of working, and racing the 2024 season would never happen. Words can’t express my deepening sadness and hopelessness.

Part V: Reconstruction

Building a New Life

Chapter 12: Fragments of Understanding

Determined to heal, I started walking when Rob walked his dog and accompanied him on errands. I was no longer dizzy and felt movement was beneficial. I set up my laptop for hours daily — I couldn’t think cognitively and was often confused, but I tackled work. Sadly, out of sight meant out of mind — I’d lost my client base.

Most of my online time was spent ordering from Amazon, since anything shipped to Antigua carried 50% duty fees. I also ordered fresh food deliveries. Rob loved cooking and tried to make meals for me, but he eats meat while I’m plant-based, so separate meals were easier. Guilt for not eating Rob’s dishes weighed on me.

Nightly, I tried piecing together the past and rarely had any memories. I asked Rob for information about me — he helped a little. I was terribly frightened. How can a brain be drained of long and short-term memory?

I researched this extensively. I knew I had two cats in Antigua, but their names eluded me. The sailing memories refused to return, as did anything about the accident. What troubled me most was that trauma had removed both long and short-term memories. The most alarming information suggested that within two to three months, memory typically returns. I was an exception and felt demoralized.

Son Ryan tried to visit but couldn’t adjust his schedule — this hurt both Rob and me. I thought seeing another doctor might help. After waiting an hour, I left, but I still had a neurologist appointment coming.

For the life of me, I couldn’t make sense of timelines. However, I had a profound epiphany explaining the accident.

My Antiguan doctor had prescribed tablets for CPTSD to raise serotonin levels. One day, I’d forgotten I’d taken my prescription and took two instead of one — an error. The root cause revealed itself: I’d had an allergic reaction to the medication and emailed my Egyptian doctor in Antigua, writing, “We both know the accident was caused by the medication you prescribed.” He didn’t deny it, but his response was crafted to distance himself from responsibility.

Finally, I knew exactly why I’d passed out while driving — the serotonin tablets and my reaction to them.

Chapter 13: The Neurologist’s Verdict

The appointment day arrived with a well-respected neurologist. Surprisingly, we only had a lengthy conversation. He asked who the President was — I drew a blank. He wasn’t troubled by this, using pleasant conversation as a test.

We didn’t discuss my amnesia or CPTSD but talked about Maine and places we had in common. The neurologist assured me that 85% of those who endured blunt force trauma injuries recover within a year. I was pleased to learn this and fully expected to be in that 85%.

Upon returning to Rob’s, I immediately booked return tickets to Antigua and began looking for a new place to live, far from my previous location and hoping a new setting would help. I discovered a short-term rental and convinced the agent to ask the owner about a renewable annual lease — victory.

I realized I was without transportation. Helper Mark was still paying my bills in my absence. I wired him about eight thousand dollars to find me a reliable car. In the past, I’d owned BMWs, Mercedes, Saabs, and Jaguars, but island roads are more like navigating deep ditches with countless potholes. There’s no point in owning a status vehicle on islands.

Mark negotiated to buy two cars, planning to let me choose while keeping the other. He kept the money and both cars, claiming they wouldn’t make it up my hill and needed work. Before arriving in Antigua, I insisted he return one car to the seller — apparently a lemon. The seller refused.

Being a lesser developed country, most homes have no addresses and few streets are named. I planned to move to world-famous English Harbour, having lived in that area twenty years ago. Travelers consider Antigua a yachting hub with 360 beaches.

The cottage I was moving to sits 350 feet above the harbor, offering perhaps the best view on the island. World-famous super yachts and racing yachts populate the harbor during season from November through June.

My home suited me ideally — a charming cottage with ultimate privacy and a covered 50-foot deck perched above a steep drop. It’s a UNESCO World Heritage site with no address, just the name Miramar House on Monk’s Hill.

I often can’t remember “Monk’s Hill” and feel ridiculous, telling myself it has a religious name and running through Pope, Preacher, etc., until “Monk’s” pops back into my brain. Demoralizing, but what option do I have?

Chapter 14: The Return to Antigua

Three weeks before flying home, KD became a manic menace. Her behavior troubled me — the house was midway through dozens of ugly projects simultaneously, and she behaved like a fourteen-year-old, stomping loudly and speaking with a voice that cut through me like a knife. She was usually stoned, loving her cannabis from first thing in the morning.

During manic phases, she was hilarious, but I felt she was holding Rob back from a balanced life. KD the hoarder came as a package deal with eleven house cats. I trod lightly on the KD subject with Rob — the last thing he needed was a complaining mother.

Those final weeks were a blur aside from my resort concept gaining momentum. The uninhabited island I’d chosen was Robert Louis Stevenson’s inspiration for “Treasure Island.” I formed a dream team easily, being an industry headhunter who knows top talent globally.

As departure day neared, I realized I’d ordered so much from Amazon that I needed two new suitcases. My parting was sentimental with Rob, who drove me to the airport. I didn’t think I was well enough to return to Antigua yet.

The flight to Antigua was without incident or emotion — I can’t recall the flight, who collected me, or reaching my home.

Before flying to America, my nosy neighbor had promised to maintain the house and feed my cats. Shock doesn’t adequately describe my reaction upon entering. I felt like I was in a horror movie. Green slime covered my small refrigerator interior, the stench was intolerable, bugs and cobwebs were everywhere, and a large bag of dirty cat food cans spilled across my stove.

One of my two cats was missing, and clearly, every inch had been rummaged through. Coffee cups, much of my clothing, my sailing sunglasses — all gone. I felt a panic attack coming and screamed, slamming doors. The neighbor waltzed in with a big smile despite my saying, “This is not a good time.” I basically pushed her out, certain she was my thief.

It took a week to clean and clear out the house. When the moving truck arrived, Mark collected me and drove to a car rental place, as the car I’d paid for wasn’t drivable. He’d pre-arranged for me to lease a Jeep powerful enough to navigate the steep road to Miramar House at $80 daily. Of course, he charged me for the ride as if he were a taxi rather than a friend.

Chapter 15: New Beginnings at Miramar

August 2023

Water temperatures were warm and wonderful, and the color was perfect turquoise. It took weeks to get Miramar House in order, but I loved it. One thing I hadn’t anticipated was my heightened fear of driving, especially on the steep, narrow vertical road to my new home. I imagined falling off the cliff daily — a test of mental fortitude. I navigated with white knuckles, and heading down was equally harrowing.

Reality kicked in quickly. I couldn’t bring myself to visit yacht Liquid about a mile away. I could see its black mast from my veranda — eliciting heartbreak, as it would stay on dry land for the season. The sadness was nearly unbearable.

Unbeknownst to me, I owed the Antiguan Rigging Company about $15,000 — charges that had ramped up without my permission by the young local crew who’d abandoned ship. Plus, they’d broken every power tool and electronics — a mini crisis.

Mark smugly decided he wouldn’t repay me for the lemon car but kept the cash, saying I probably owed him. As mentioned, he’d kept the car, knowing I hadn’t earned a penny for nine months. He was cruel, and I believe unbalanced.

I negotiated a lower jeep rental price but was stuck paying $70 daily. I didn’t have funds to buy a car requiring large upfront payment.

In retrospect, I’d lost everything: myself, my boyfriend, the forthcoming regatta season I lived for, my recruiting business, my car, self-esteem, and all hope. Upon return, I didn’t have one client left and knew I had to revive my thirty-year recruitment business.

My decision was to reposition myself and my business while not letting go of my new resort project, which I named YinYang. Night terrors returned, and I was unable to gain weight. Money was bleeding, and helper Mark was now history.

I wasn’t ready to reach out to former friends — being with groups of more than three triggered fight-or-flight responses. I felt I was losing my mind. Words eluded me too often, I continued watching Netflix to practice focus, and sleep was a nightmare.

Habitually, I started working on my laptop from bed at 2 PM daily, going to bed at 5 PM. Cannabis is legal in Antigua, so I rolled joints to sleep, as I had frequent suicidal thoughts in addition to night terrors. I sensed no progress and didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t planning suicide but couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Every night, I hoped I wouldn’t wake up.

My routine included waking at 3 AM, starting work at 4 AM repositioning my business, then at 2 PM diving into the new project with pleasure. I knew that joining a gym was a first step to boost self-confidence.

Donnie, my former trainer who’d accompanied me to America, agreed to train me three times weekly despite his 45-minute commute. Mindful that my new concept was 100% sustainable and themed around medical longevity, I immersed myself in learning about sustainability and longevity — a big learning curve.

Sadly, my queen-sized bed had double doors opening to the veranda and beyond the entire harbor filled with racing yachts — a huge trigger I couldn’t escape.

Every day started with heartbreak as soon as the sun rose and I could see the boats.

The steps I took to reposition my business included press releases, reaching out to new and past clients, and having a new website designed. My repositioning was effective, garnering client attention that led to assignments and earnings. When my first wire transfer arrived, I immediately purchased a car to replace the rental Jeep, for which I’d already paid over ten thousand dollars.

Daily triggers started from sunrise when I could see racing yacht shapes in Falmouth Harbour. Seeing my former competitors’ vessels nearly destroyed me — I started each day shattered. I couldn’t enjoy my lovely veranda, averting my eyes and unable to look at the harbor until sunset.

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Between August and April 2024, I had a repetitive daily pattern:

• 3 AM: Wake
• 4 AM: Recruitment work
• 7 AM: Get ready for gym
• 8 AM: Donnie arrives for 90-minute workout
• 9:30 AM: Breakfast at Antigua Yacht Club
• 11 AM-5 PM: Continue work or advance resort project
• 5 PM: Take gummy and roll joint for sleep
• 6 PM: Choose podcast or Netflix series for focus training

Alone on my mountain with my darling cat Giles, I expected a predicted tropical storm. Never would I anticipate hurricane-strength winds targeting my place. By the time I realized I was in a hurricane, I couldn’t go outside to secure shutters. Stepping outside, an intense gust lifted me off the veranda and twisted me away from the door, which I held onto for dear life.

The entire house flooded. My power went off, no water, and windows imploded in my bedroom. I lit candles, grabbed sleeping pillows and Giles, and huddled in the bathroom shower area built into volcanic rock.

Not long after settling in with pillows, I felt the entire home shift and shake with creaking noise, then a deafening tearing sound. I knew it was structural and hoped for the best while expecting the worst. The cat and I were alive in the morning, but the 50-foot veranda roof had disappeared.

My landlord was in Italy but reached me the following day, asking me to check his home above mine and photograph the destruction. Thankfully, he owns a ten-bedroom estate with private suites and an infinity pool overlooking the other side of English Harbour. Casa Lidia became my home for six weeks during Miramar’s repairs.

Part VI: Acceptance and Vision

The New Canvas

Chapter 16: Finding Purpose in the Void

I continued having suicidal thoughts while simultaneously taking good care of my health. Casa Lidia was great for swimming and privacy. I’d become a recluse by choice. Both long and short-term memories remained gone, and I carried anger inside. Occasionally, a whiff of something or hearing a song brought back fragments, but rarely.

I had absolutely nothing to look forward to, no defined goals, a few professional friends but nobody I was comfortable speaking with about my issues. I wasn’t lonely — I just existed and was profoundly sad.

Despite my resort concept, I couldn’t say I was excited, as time after time when seeking funding, I was assured by supposed funders not to worry — it was a “done deal.” Oddly, no lawyers were involved, which should be a first step in negotiations. No lawyers, just dishonest people. I flew with my CEO to Rome to meet with a funder who had bank approval for $100 million, but it came with clear money laundering requirements. We politely declined.

Several unpleasant funding attempts taught me that while pursuing my resort dream, I was surrounded by scammers and fraudsters. The experience was demoralizing, but I learned to spot red flags quickly.

Much of my time was spent researching wellness, longevity, and environmental sustainability. I became addicted to Dr. Peter Attia’s science-based health and longevity podcasts. He’s excellent, and I ordered his audiobook “Outlive,” which hit number one on the New York Times bestseller list.

Right up my alley, and I noticed a slight change in me — not huge, but I was walking with a spring in my step, taller and faster, as if on a mission. For me, it was a positive leap thanks to the podcasts and audiobook.

I don’t want to suggest I had memory recovery — I didn’t. What I do reminisce about are “feelings” generated by events. I realized it’s not a particular person or situation I long for and miss, but my feelings or emotions evoked at the time. The realization hit me hard: most people can be replaced, but the emotions elicited may never return, though sometimes they do.

Chapter 17: The Breakthrough That Wasn’t

I retained a virtual trauma therapist for four sessions and realized I wasn’t getting help. My breakthrough was accepting that there will be no breakthrough.

I am resilient and made the decision to use my collision experience as an educational tool to better prepare me for my longevity concept, which includes mental health.

Don’t think I had memory recovery — I didn’t. But I found coping mechanisms. One was mildly effective: telling myself that people who hurt me are insignificant, like grains of sand. I can do this now. The bad people in my history were hopelessly little nothings, and the day will come when they realize their misdeeds without any action from me.

Ask any therapist about handling people who bring you down, and you’ll learn that retribution isn’t recommended. I couldn’t hold it in. I wrote emails to each individual who’d caused personal harm — not expecting responses, but the result was amazing relief and satisfaction. I felt empowered and held my head high. Those bad people now knew exactly what they’d done and the destruction they’d caused.

Most people I shared my ordeal with simply didn’t understand. They suggested replacing bad scenes with positive ones, as if I had control over the matter. There’s no point explaining, but it’s hurtful.

Too many months had passed for me to expect change. I became determined to be the new me, whoever that is. I no longer felt obligated to anyone or anything. I didn’t owe explanations when saying no to invitations. I was my own person — what a relief.

I’m convinced my past will never be remembered. Time to move on. The experience and my new learning gave me empathy for everyone who’d suffered similar trauma. I committed to using this experience to benefit others. I was my own person, no longer judgmental, no longer critical of others, and no longer self-conscious.

Coming to terms with a forgotten past is acceptance.

Chapter 18: Doctor Pamala

Of great interest to me, much of what I’d researched medically for the YinYang concept was relevant to my own recovery. Studies show that listening to familiar music improves cognitive processing, enhances communication between brain areas, and stimulates activity in regions involved in emotion, working memory, and attention.

Gym work and strength training are powerful, triggering the release of neurochemicals including brain-derived neurotrophic factor (BDNF), which boosts memory and is crucial for healthy memory function.

I maintained my focus exercise in the evenings by practicing total concentration on TV programs. I learned meditation with help from a monk in Sri Lanka, and my twenty-minute daily drive to the gym became breathing practice time. I tried to dump my deep anger to practice “box” breathing exercises.

Research reveals how new techniques could help harness the power of sleep, especially deep sleep, to enhance our ability to retain and recall information. A study in Nature investigated how specific odors during sleep affect memory consolidation. Participants exposed to rose scent while learning vocabulary and again during sleep showed improved test performance compared to those without the scent cue.

Dumping bad people and clients lowered stress levels and bank accounts. All of the above kept me somewhat stable, but deep down, I knew this was as good as it would get, and my life would move on.

I had to develop new ways to learn. I still couldn’t recall what I was doing thirty seconds ago, nor could I recall yesterdays. But on the plus side, did it really matter? I was simply different, and this was okay.

Considering the positives, amnesia brought relief from many traumatic experiences, providing protection from painful memories. There’s much more in my past, but fortunately, I know things happened (I recall the feelings) but not the event facts. Just as well.

I honestly don’t believe anyone grasps the severity of memory loss and my suffering. I still cry when I realize I can’t remember what I did five minutes ago, and what really gets me is when I can’t finish a sentence — my thought process stops abruptly. Now, however, I simply explain or joke about “there goes my brain again — what did I just say?” People seem to want to help, and with prompting when I can’t finish sentences, we move on.

Fortunately, I often don’t recognize people who’ve caused me harm, which is a blessing. I’m coping with brain drain, and it’s okay.

Chapter 19: The Vision Forward

This forced me to have unorthodox thinking. I am exceptionally intelligent, and it’s working for me. My ideas are original, whereas most others are hampered by past knowledge, making innovative thinking difficult. For me, it’s natural, combined with common sense.

I feel my resort concept is brilliant. I think and learn differently now. Admittedly, I rely on AI sometimes, but what a great tool. Dr. Attia’s medical podcasts generate confidence and tend to be my support system.

Finding peace with the new me is challenging, but I’ve come to terms with change and accepted my new identity. Revelation: I like me again.

There’s slight trepidation about my future as I’m playing a balancing act. Half my time goes to recruiting work — my current sole income source after thirty years, though I no longer find pleasure as people have changed for the worse. Never have I experienced worse communication skills, aside from Sir Richard Branson’s team. Work is simply a necessity and a painful ordeal.

The other part of each day is devoted to various aspects of hoped-for resort development, keeping pace with industry trends, sustainability, technology, atmospheric improvements, ways to reduce human-caused damage, happiness research, solutions to global warming, pollution, drinking water contaminated with nano plastic particles, and environmental problems.

I even learned that concrete is a monster, responsible for 8% of CO2 emissions. A bad environment leads to poor health — it’s all connected and not pretty.

I have little leisure time — actually none — if it doesn’t have purpose. I research beauty, as this will be a major business model aspect. Current market products are mostly harmful during manufacturing or when absorbed through skin. This applies to cosmetics for both women and men.

Not only are we destroying natural resources, but all of this prevents healthy living. I clearly lost my sense of humor and joy, but they will return.

Armed with new knowledge and mindful of medical and scientific breakthroughs, trends combined with my futurist talent is the magic bullet empowering me with confidence. It fuels me with energy. The future will never be boring.

What does it mean to be a futurist? We know the future will be dynamic and unpredictable. A futurist is ahead of the times, sees signals, detects patterns, and is blessed with foresight.

Being a futurist is a gift with instincts most don’t have. We examine the status quo and project. We’re change-makers, intuitive. To maximize this trait, one doesn’t require memories. You either have it or you don’t. I do.

Some of my projections: We won’t need libraries or post offices. Newspapers will be history. Neckties and buttons are superfluous. Cashless societies are around the corner. Paid data will be protected and highly personalized with zero advertising. Schools will gravitate to open campus models formed to accelerate curiosity and elevated learning in areas of interest.

We’ll all be chipped for identity and medical records. It’s likely we’ll globally communicate with one language, with implanted or wearable translation devices using AI. Total immersion and entrepreneurial traits will be underscored. Concrete will be history as it generates greenhouse gases and loses integrity rapidly.

Less couples will formally marry. Our wardrobes will be minimalized, and fabrics will be produced with soft nano materials feeling like second skin. Transportation and medicine may see more progress than any other industry using alternative energy — light-years ahead of solar power.

Materialism will be frowned upon. IQ measurement will be reformatted and segmented. Most shopping malls are closed or morphed into food courts. Home entertainment centers will proliferate, and televisions as we know them will be antiques.

Chapter 20: The Canvas Comes Alive

Over the last few years, I recognized I was on information overload. Now that I have a blank canvas between my ears, I’m actually excited about my future.

The benefits derived from amnesia for creative professionals in business include:

Fresh Perspectives: Amnesia leads to forgetting conventional approaches and allows new, unconventional ideas to emerge. This leads to innovative problem-solving and remarkable creativity.

Adaptability: Dealing with amnesia develops resilience and adaptability. In the creative business world, being able to pivot and adjust quickly to changing circumstances is valuable.

Focus on Basics: With memory loss, I focus more on core principles and essential skills, honing in on what truly matters.

Collaboration: Amnesia encourages greater collaboration. Relying on others for information and insights fosters stronger teamwork and partnerships.

Embracing Experimentation: Forgetfulness encourages willingness to experiment without being weighed down by past failures or successes, leading to more daring and innovative approaches.

Enhanced Present Moment: With reduced memory of the past, there’s heightened ability to be present, fostering deeper connections and understanding in business interactions.

Unbiased Decision-Making: Amnesia removes biases based on past experiences, enabling more objective decision-making.

Despite significant challenges in terms of continuity, relationships, and learning, with adaptation and support, creative thinking and entrepreneurial spirit can thrive.

I am personally committed to setting an example for living well longer and finding happiness. Given that longevity is the core of YinYang Reserve and Residences, as founder, I must set the example.

I’m a people watcher and notice that hitting age fifty seems to signal “old” for most. Muscles atrophy from age twenty-eight. Health gradually dwindles. I see fifty-year-olds with diabetes, cancer, obesity, and vascular issues — an unwell population who “allow” and accept decline. Depression and mental health are at all-time highs, now considered epidemic.

Most health issues are preventable — not for me.

During the last four weeks, four people I know passed too early — they didn’t practice self-care. Statistics for Americans report 80% will be obese by 2025. I’ve heard every excuse for lack of self-care, usually “I don’t have time.” They sure make time to eat poorly, and life seems to revolve around food.

I can’t save the world, but humanity and our environment are in crisis. I can make a difference — not for money or attention, but for using my skills to improve lives and environment. I’m motivated by providing a mini revolution to society’s state and our diminishing natural resources.

Two years ago, I had no goals aside from continuing to win regattas (this dream was dashed), but my commitment to maintaining excellent health is part of who I am. Now I have goals — I’m on a new journey, a mission, and failure is not an option.

Chapter 21:My new Mandate

The start — here are changes I’ve made living with amnesia and CPTSD:

1. Sense of Purpose: Clear mission to help others and environment
2. Work-Life Balance: Shut down phones and laptop at 5:30 PM
3. News Avoidance: Avoid daily news and social media for mental health
4. Sleep Priority: Minimum eight hours nightly for optimal health
5. Me Time: Three hours daily for fitness, errands, and self-care

I maintain efforts dealing with CPTSD — still challenging, but now I understand cause and effect along with methods that may alleviate severity.

May 2024: I braced myself for Antigua Sailing Week. A setback — unbearable to know the regatta I’d won annually was happening while I averted my eyes from the water all day, every day. I fluctuated between fighting mad, contempt, and despondency for the week.

With a smile, I’m determined to make next regatta season happen for me and Liquid. I made a commitment this morning. I will crush it. I had a chat with my best skipper ever — Richard Archer, now Antigua Yacht Club Commodore. Richard agreed to skipper Liquid next season. Somehow, I must amass $200,000 for next season!

For the first time in months, I’m no longer demoralized (but I reverted to this state later). Training will change now — my trainer and I will focus on muscles used for racing, continuing strength while adding balance training. It can be treacherous and hilarious.

How has the experience with amnesia and CPTSD reshaped my perspective on life? There are two options: become a doctor junkie making rounds with supposed experts on head trauma combined with psychotherapy — no thank you. Or do as I do: muster the power and energy required to thrive. This is both fatiguing and exhilarating.

Chapter 22:How will I know who I have become?

I notice I “see” differently than others, more evident now than before the accident. I always believed everyone saw the same color spectrum aside from colorblind people. Apparently not. Bishop Professor of Ophthalmology Dr. Jay Neitz says “tetrachromats” can see 100 million shades rather than just one million for average people.

There’s a genetic mutation called “tetrachromacy” passed through the X chromosome — about 12% of women have it. I was born with a fourth cone and can see new color ranges within yellow and green spectrums, opening millions of new color variations. Maybe this explains why I gravitated to fine arts.

I react strongly and viscerally to certain colors, sometimes having to avert my eyes. Many paintings with glowing primary colors surrounding subjects or explosive sunset skies trigger visceral reactions. To me, this style offends my senses and screams bad taste, suggesting those fond of such art are uneducated.

The current state of my memory and life: I have crafted my present and future with vigor. Although I struggle being near others — adapting a feeling like being in shock — it’s hard to be engaged as small talk describes most residents’ repertoire on Antigua. They banter, my eyes glaze over, and I see moving mouths but can’t absorb words unless topics are mind-provoking. Now with confidence, not arrogance, I politely excuse myself and flee. No guilt.

Freedom.

Every loss is as fresh as if it happened minutes ago. If I hadn’t had the accident, what could or would have been? I grieve over my lost life, but emotions aren’t easy to control. My trick is verbalized: RE-SET. I pause and flip my mind to the present and future — it’s all good.

With my history of trauma and heartbreak, having the past erased is possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. Regardless of my age, I’m fortunate to have remained fit with high energy. I’m unstoppable and unafraid of the unknown.

The dozens of people and events that damaged me represent pathetic, sick, cruel, or dishonest beings — inescapable but avoidable. Not my problem. Unkindness is unthinkable, yet it’s a trait of far too many. Those who hurt me are the real victims. It’s laughable — they’re pitiful.

Victory will be my happiness.

Chapter 23: Still a work in Progress

With clear trajectory, I reflected on my double-happy expectations for both the resort and my adrenaline fix racing LIQUID.

Today is Sunday. I heard church bells at 6 AM echoing from the 350-year-old church at the base of Monk’s Hill. A few weeks ago, I met the preacher and explained I’d been engaged to a physicist and couldn’t accept that God and the Big Bang Theory can coexist. Science has proven the Big Bang Theory, and if true, it totally overthrows God. So I don’t understand how God can still be true if the Big Bang Theory is proven. Regardless, the minister blessed me.

Final thoughts on the resilience of the human spirit and the power of memory: The kind of generalized amnesia I have is very rare and curious. According to Everyday Psychology, “Memories can suddenly strike and inflict anxiety and panic in otherwise harmless situations. Mental noise disrupts many people’s lives. Memories have capacity to alter feelings, change worldview, and perception of realities surrounding us.”

Those who suffer from amnesia are forced to adapt to not remembering things from the past or being deprived of holding onto new memories in the present.

From this moment forward, I will let go of the past and maximize my skillset that others cannot conceive. The best description of my current mental capacities:

1. Every thought, idea, or concept is first as out-of-the-box thinking is my normal. I’m indifferent to rules and standards imposed by others for a lifetime. Now I do things my way. I’m unstoppable.
2. My color spectrum is off the charts. Science reports the brain’s ability to spot subtle variances within colors suggests few experience colors more vibrantly compared to flatter perception experienced by most, thanks to my genetic mutation.
3. Hyper intelligence in certain areas: concept, design, art, and emotional intelligence. I can detect one’s mood face-to-face or verbally within three seconds. Also, I’m a trend-spotter.

The correlation of these three attributes combined can be powerful. “Creativity is Intelligence Having Fun!” — Albert Einstein.

Flaws: I must have had a touch of being a savant. I’ve always had to learn differently. I’m a total mess with mathematics. I have directional dyslexia — sometimes called spatial or geographic dyslexia, distinguished by left-right confusion and tendency to become disoriented. Living on islands helps, as I use the sun to navigate.

Lessons Learned: Despite moral awakening in recent years, there’s been a shift to ramp up cruelty including business adversaries, gender bias, bigotry, self-serving tendencies, and gossip. As societal norms evolve, any form of hatred becomes socially unacceptable, leading us to find new avenues for intolerance.

This isn’t unique but is a global issue. Humanity seems destined to maintain consistent ratios of tolerant and intolerant individuals. It’s disheartening to witness those who previously showed tolerance become intolerant when confronted with differing beliefs. I wish we could start a movement to treat everyone with tolerance, respect, and empathy, regardless of beliefs.

Disassociate yourself from those who bring you down. You can simply move on. Kindness seems to have fallen into an abyss — something I’ll never grasp.

Chapter 24: Into the Future:

I’m most likely four months into uncovering my “sense of self.” My toolbox comes with direction, goals, hope, energy, determination, confidence, and heightened awareness determining good characters from bad.

I’ve hand-chosen the finest talent for the YinYang Executive Team — all mavericks in luxury hospitality and good souls. Others with negative traits become invisible and insignificant to me.

My leadership team plays off one another’s strengths — I refer to this as a collaborative think tank. We’re collectively diverse. “Diversity of people equals diversity of ideas.” With common traits, we’re rebels, non-conventional, seasoned, and visionaries. We respect one another and think alike about hospitality’s future.

The new me questions everything as it relates to ultra-luxury yet down-to-earth residential resort. Recently I pondered: why are beds, sofas, chairs, and tables supported by four legs? Furniture appearing to levitate and low beds are fascinating and functional, changing entire space perspective.

Design and color palettes tremendously affect mood. Every color is associated with different emotions. Use of color in design can affect emotions and moods of people viewing those palettes. I have so many ideas — a bit off-center, but they keep flowing.

Time and Its Importance: Aside from those who must clock in or have flights or appointments, does time really matter? The adage “don’t cry over spilled milk” resonates when it comes to time, especially since I have dairy intolerance and have lost over fifty years.

Nobody can save time — it’s a commodity, never static. When we ask whether time matters, we’re diving into the heart of how we live our lives. Time isn’t just about schedules and appointments. Aside from my trainer, it doesn’t matter when I sleep, eat, or work if objectives are met.

In applying my train of thought to hospitality, I asked why people behave like cattle being herded to dining rooms or yoga classes. Isn’t a holiday supposed to be freedom, doing whatever whenever you choose?

YinYang resort and residences will have no mandatory schedules. Not being on strict schedules offers liberating benefits:

1. Flexibility: Freedom to set your own pace
2. Relaxation: True unwinding without rushing between activities
3. Exploration: Spontaneous discovery without rigid timetables
4. Personalized Experience: Indulging in interests at your own pace
5. Adaptability: Easier adjustment based on conditions or interests
6. Enhanced Dining: Eating when truly hungry, not at designated hours
7. Medical theme- for Healthspan
8. 100% sustainable

It was taking shape.

I took a deep dive into learning about neurology-and studied it or listened to scientific podcasts daily.

YinYang / ORMA will be timeless — literally and figuratively. This conveys that our resort (I renamed ORMA) possesses enduring qualities transcending trends or fads. It implies classic sustainable design, atmosphere, and experience not subject to becoming outdated. It underscores permanence and quality with enduring generational appeal. Quite a legacy.

But I was not me — who Am I?: I’m beginning to enjoy unhampered thinking — newfound freedom without past shackles. My mind roams freely, exploring ideas and possibilities previously unimagined. Each day becomes opportunity for reinvention and re-evaluation with chances to redefine myself.

I don’t ask “who am I?” but find the question meaningless. The accident gifted me with remarkable opportunity — to be me, mindful to be kind and leave a legacy for family and the world. A rare opportunity for anyone, and its possibilities dance in my head. I own it.

My Blank Canvas Is Coming to Life: Awash with shades of white. The number of white shades is infinite, depending on specific mixes of pigments and color undertones used to create vision. I see it all. The roadmap for my future is taking shape.

Chapter 24:Progress or Regress?: I’m moving on and up. Just because I’ve had more than a major setback, I own my future.

Many famous individuals have spoken publicly about PTSD experiences. Some notable figures include Prince Harry, Charlize Theron, Lady Gaga, Amanda Nguyen, and Zayn Malik. These are just examples — PTSD can affect anyone who’s experienced trauma, regardless of public profile or celebrity status.

Alone but Not Lonely: As with every morning, I wake before sunrise, check mail, feed my cat, make coffee on cruise control like sleepwalking. I’m kind to my cat but notice I still feel disconnected with everything aside from Giles, my closest companion. Mood neutral.

Time to step up and make something positive happen. Since I need professional clarity on funding options, response will dictate how to plan my day. This unresolved situation halts progress. Without clarity, there can be no advancement.

I am personally committed to setting examples for living well longer and finding happiness. Given that longevity is YinYang’s core, as founder, I must set the example.

During the last four weeks, four people I know passed too early — they didn’t practice self-care. Those described fascinate me, as I need to understand why no one would put effort into living better.

My Motivation: I can’t save the world, but humanity and our environment are in crisis. I can make a difference — not for money or attention, but for using skills to improve lives and environment. I’m motivated by providing mini revolution to society’s state and our diminishing natural resources.

Harkening back to my realization that good fortune bestowed me with traits others cannot imagine, I write this with genuine humility and confidence.

Going Solo and Reaching for the Stars: In a world filled with uncertainty and isolation, I find myself embarking on a journey of self-discovery, venturing into the vast unknown alone and reaching for the stars. In this quest for personal growth, I realize that relying solely on myself is both empowering and liberating.

As I navigate this path, I’m reminded of immense potential within me. Gone are days of relying on others for support or validation. Instead, I embrace solitude and harness it as strength. In these solitary moments, I find space to reflect, dream, and set sights on highest aspirations.

With each step forward, I’m fueled by deep determination. I refuse to let emotional weight hold me back or dampen my spirit. In a world constantly changing and posing challenges, I’m resolute in pursuing happiness and fulfillment.

As I ventured further into this solo expedition, I realized I wasn’t truly alone. The universe, with its boundless wonders, became my ally and teacher. I aligned myself with stars, drawing inspiration and guidance from their timeless beauty. Their twinkling light reminded me that even in darkest times, there’s always hope and potential for greatness.

In this solitary journey, I embrace lessons of self-reliance, self-discovery, and self-expression. I embrace freedom to chart my own course and create my own narrative. With each moment, stars are my guiding light, guiding me toward highest aspirations and reminding me that in going solo, I can reach for stars and grab one — my inner light.

Chapter 25:Acceptance:

I am different, and given society as it is today, being different is good.

In my solitary expedition, I wholeheartedly embrace valuable lessons of self-reliance, self-discovery, and self-expression. I relish liberating freedom to carve my path and weave my unique story. Every passing moment, stars shimmer brightly, illuminating my way toward loftiest dreams and serving as poignant reminder that I can stretch beyond boundaries and grasp my inner brilliance.

In a world that often frowns upon those who deviate from the norm, I wholeheartedly accept that I am different. I recognize that today, embracing and celebrating our differences is essential and a source of strength.

Thoughts: It would be wonderful to have a happy ending, and I assumed by now that the past would be a distant memory. Nope. Memory is impossible for me. I know I’m not improving, I know I’m unhappy, I know and understand I’m brain damaged, but this I cannot accept.

Not a day goes by when I don’t encounter fight-or-flight responses. Writing this autobiography should have helped me re-face, process, and move on. Instead, it has served to deeply depress me. I had no idea how sad my life has been, and there’s no apparent explanation since I only recall negative traumas.

The good news is that I’m seventy-four and do 100 push-ups daily, balance training, jumping, and weight training six days a week. The gym allows me to focus and eliminates fear.

Perhaps full recovery is in my future.

I was not Present: From this moment forward, I will let go of the past and maximize my skillset of which others cannot conceive. My blank canvas is no longer blank — awash with infinite shades of white, each unique. I see it all. The roadmap for my future is taking shape, joke is on me — it crumbled like a sandcastle.

The accident gifted me with the remarkable opportunity to be me, mindful to be kind and to leave a legacy for family and the world. A rare opportunity for anyone, and its possibilities are dancing in my head.

I own it.

Chapter 26: Two years later.

Things did not go as I’d planned. Upon returning to being as normal as I could, I discovered a marked change in my clients (or was it me?). Rude, non-communicative, untruths abound. Those I once admired have morphed into strangers, distasteful humans…but maybe Covid was the underlining cause. Now I clearly am nothing more that a commodity. Unanswered emails and calls, being blatantly lied to and often clients reneged about paying my fee — I began to dislike the mere thought of recruiting. Since 1998, I thrived in my work…but now, it became my worst nightmare.

My enthusiasm waned, my joy I’d once had dissipated, and I loathed the thought of tackling a recruitment assignment, but I needed to pay the bills and begrudgingly, I had to do the work. No option. That said, about half of every day, I buried myself into refining my vision for the resort on Norman Island. My mind lit up and the ideas flowed.

The devastating realization that I’d not healed became worrisome. Not only was I earning little relative to the 20 years before, I had brain fog, total amnesia and the complex PTSD lingered. The neurologist in So. Carolina said 85% of his patients with TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury) recovered in a few months. Well, it’s been two years — and, while I can speak, I hesitate, trying to reach for words of thought that repetitively alluded me. This is so frustrating.

My work was bad-I lost interest entirely. My brain fog I suppose — but I began regressing by sending the wrong resume to the wrong clients, totally forgetting my few remaining assignments. This is not good and worry heaped upon me and the weight of my life spiraling down was unbearable. Nobody to talk to. Who am I? I wonder if I’ll ever know. I know I am a good person, I know that hundreds of faces know me, but I didn’t or couldn’t put a name to the faces, driving my car suddenly became frightening. Everything was dissipating again. Going downhill fast. I didn’t want company-I isolated, but I know I need to talk to someone. I too often forget the subject I was writing about drops in mid-sentence — what is going on?

I took solace in the fact that my resort concept was in place — I spent time trying to find funding-nobody wants to do that, it is arduous and almost hopeless. Persistence required. In spite of me having a team ready to move to the resort once funded, not one person assisted me. So very disappointing. The weight of the world was on my shoulders.

I got into the habit of watching the clock and wishing the day away, I wanted to got to bed at 4PM, not because I was sleepy but I couldn’t bear being me and wanted everything bad to stop. Sleep was solace.

I lost a year-don’t know how, don’t understand. Time faked me out. A year! My past stayed with me-frightening, I did not improve, I was a stranger and so depressed — the depression grew and days seemed too long.

Chapter 27: THE JUMPSTART-or so I thought.

During the past four years, aside from Amnesia — complex post traumatic stress disorder lived inside me, and this too has not changed. How does CPTSD manifest in me? My first thought is that my night-terrors are ramping up. And, I remember these terrifying dreams as if they were real. Trust me, there is nothing akin to a normal dream- this is a horror show, waking up trying to catch my breath and the dream keeps playing out. Same theme, different setting. I’m consistently looking for something important to me

The state of not thinking straight — two-word sentences at best. Could be frantically looking for my children, or my ID or pocketbook, or room key but the kicker is that I am in a maze-inside or outside, regardless there are dozens and dozens of doorways. I’m lost and open every door where another nightmare scene reveals itself. Could be sexual, or raucous, or sleezy — bad scene. I consistently ask strangers how to get out of the place, and it anyone has seen my missing child or passport, keys, whatever. I was ignored and moved onto the next door — the pattern continued. Sometimes I feel that I’ve lost my location entirely. I may be blocks away from where I started. I panic and nearly hyperventilate — and then I awaken. The experience, the story continues in my mind. I’ve slapped my face I told myself that it’s only a dream, nothing is real. But to me it was real. Anxiety elevated for a solid 30 minutes after.

I know that nothing was my fault-but the understanding that it’s not my fault, changes nothing. Past painful experiences rear their ugly heads, and I cannot stop the painful triggers. All of this is the root cause of my inability to trust and my need to isolate. Lots of baggage. Deep clinical depression hurts and is within me 24/7 year after year. I’m damaged goods and understand that most people cannot see my brain damage, it’s invisible abnormality that nobody can identify, who wants to hear my problems? Not a soul…this I understand. My brain is murky.

The sun rises and sets day in and day out — year after year and I don’t change. I am not capable. My neuroscience studies help me understand but my question remains-who am I? How can this be?

While I was concerned about money, I made a key decision. I booked myself in for a three-day assessment with the top neuroscientist and psychiatrist with 11 clinics. He was not there as he’s known as the neuroscientist for the ‘stars’ and is based in Beverly Hills, CA. I went to the Hollywood Florida clinic. It was a good experience — remember, it’s been about three years, maybe four from when I first experienced PTSD, the next year it happened again-so called complex PTS. Followed by my 2023 auto accident and Amnesia.

Nobody expects traumas like this to happen to them. Nobody. We are not prepared to cope. I certainly was not. Because son Rob lived not far from Hollywood, he loves casinos and managed to book 4 nights as a comp. We met up there — it was wonderful to see him again. He gambled in the morning and I returned from the clinic early afternoon daily. We played blackjack and for the life of me, I couldn’t count five cards quickly enough — so frustrating. Five cards and I cannot do the math — my decision making was clearly ‘off. I wasted five thousand dollars gambling — not me at all. Again, who have I become?’

By the end of my 3-day brain analysis, the Dr. prepared an unsettling report of his findings, as follows:

Summary of Brain Findings

Pamala’s scan revealed widespread decreases in brain activity across multiple critical regions, including:

· Prefrontal cortex (attention, motivation, emotional regulation)

· Temporal lobes (memory and mood)

· Parietal and occipital lobes (sensation, perception, visual processing)

· Cerebellum (coordination and cognitive timing)

· Anterior cingulate and insula (emotion, awareness, anxiety)

Additionally:

· There are signs of moderate scalloping on the brain’s surface, a pattern often associated with past toxic exposure, oxygen deprivation, or injury.

· The scan suggests limbic system hyperactivity, often linked to chronic anxiety, depression, and emotional dysregulation.

· The brain shows greater dysfunction at rest, which may explain why Pamala can “push through” during activity but feel depleted or dysregulated in stillness.

Clinical Significance

The combination of these findings is moderately to seriously concerning, and consistent with a history of brain injury or chronic neurological stress. This is not typical aging, nor is it merely psychological — the scan shows clear physiological changes in brain function that correlate with symptoms of:

· Emotional overwhelm and mood swings

· Cognitive slowing or memory difficulties

· Attention deficits or distractibility

· Sensory sensitivity

· Fatigue, irritability, or shutdown in calm or unstructured environments

Hope and Next Steps

While the findings are serious, they are not hopeless. Pamela’s brain retains the capacity to heal and rewire, especially with a targeted plan that may include:

· Neurorehabilitation (cognitive or occupational therapy)

· Brain-based trauma therapy (such as EMDR)

· Targeted lifestyle interventions (sleep, nutrition, exercise)

· Supplement or medication support

· Creative therapies and structured environments that promote focus, calm, and motivation

Final Notes

This report validates Pamala’s lived experience and symptoms. It confirms that what she has been struggling with is rooted in real, measurable brain function changes — not weakness or personality. With time, support, and the right care, many of these systems can improve.

Please consider this scan a starting point for a multidisciplinary recovery plan focused on healing, resilience, and quality of life.

I’ve read the report over-and-over. I wondered what can I do? How can I fix me? I feel hopeless, demoralized and sad. Not just now but all the time. I can put on a happy face and do a little socializing, but desperately want to go home alone.

Can you imagine? At least the above explains why I stupidly spent five thousand on blackjack. So bad. Who can’t tally five cards? Me.

I cried silently and found myself frozen, just staring at my laptop, unsure what to do that will be productive. I lost my clients for the most part — I cannot perform as I once did-hard to admit to myself, but I was in a state of confusion most of the time. So, I stopped. After thirty odd years of loving my work, thriving, and earnings were sky high. Today, I’m concerned about having the ability to pay my rent. I roll my car down my mountain to save on gas. How bad is that? The one thing I held onto tightly was ‘The Funder. Friday, he vowed to show proof of funds to the island owner’s wealth manager. It did not happen. My head was spinning. Shock, disbelief? The reason I stopped working was because I was armed with the knowledge that within weeks, I’d be on payroll and own 51% of the island and development-easy street, or so I thought. I made empty excuses for The Funder…lame, clearly, I was in denial. How could this man engage with me, flirt with me, make empty promises that would have been life changing for me, and my team of 25 others.

Why did I trust again? The Funder kept telling me he’d not had a female companion for ten years-should have been my tip-off that he’s not being professional. He said on many occasions that he is a man of his word. Even a week ago he wrote saying don’t be worried. I took him at his word.

He ghosted me all week, didn’t call, didn’t see texts from me, was totally off the radar. Again, I made excuses for him thinking he must be very busy What a joke.

How do I feel? I have no source of income, I have almost 30 people counting on me, and the funding won’t happen. I am overwhelmed. Had fleeting thoughts of suicide — just thoughts not actions. How would anyone feel?

Likely, once someone said to me that I am a professional victim. There is some truth to that profound observation.

We’ve all heard the adage, ‘why do bad things happen to good people’? Good question.

Nobody can help me — logic says, thus, it’s all on me and I cannot bring myself to alert my team. Funding fraud, again. My brain is not functioning and here I sit pondering solutions, in a more fragile state than ever. No white knight will be galloping to my rescue. Part of me doesn’t care about anything, I’m tired, I have TBI (traumatic brain damage), low on funds, no bright light at the end of the tunnel. Yet, my situation is untenable; I am the sole person to affect change.

Time to change my brain through neuroplasticity — no other options. At least my studies in medicine, specifically brain health, gave me the knowledge that I CAN FIX THIS. I must place myself in a positive mindset-and power up with determination, resilience, and smoke some weed while I develop my plan of action. No time to waste, it’s a blessing that recent past experiences allude me. I cannot remember what I ate today — nor what I did last evening, a blessing. I erased The Sleezy Funder –wiped from my mind. I can be unforgiving, not what any therapist suggests, but it’s how I am. I hope something really negative happens to my NO FUNDER. I will move forward with intent, purpose, determination and push back my anger, my losses and hurts, and my depression. No time to carry that heaviness. I feel like my traumas are permanently wired into me — but I’m not afraid. I should be but I’m not.

Chapter 28: Plan B

The world is crashing in on me. The state of being ME is all I have. And, no time to waste. Trauma has removed all constants from my life; trauma is evil taking a shot at me…first I must accept me as I am.

So here is my PLAN B:

- Create a compelling 2-page executive summary to generate funding.

- Research funding sources specific to my concept

- ID 20–30 potential investors, lenders, or funding organizations

- Create a target list with contact information and requirements

- Build a funding pipeline of private investors, equity firms, angel investors, high net worth individuals and family offices, institutional funding

- Refine presentation/compelling

- Reach out and consider joint venture partners

- Create Value Propositions

- Be positive

I am alive, that’s something. I have a purpose. I don’t have answers, but I guarantee every reader that life is to be cherished. Live it. I believe in the impossible, positivity counts. I learned that I have inner strength and have no doubt that my dream will be realized.

I am on a deadline now. Clock is ticking and hope reigns triumphantly. I am ME — just another version. I’ll take it.

— End —