#MemoryAsMessenger

[decaffeinatednightanchor]

Proof in Motion

What more do you people want?

I’ve been placed in seven different facilities over the past year — bounced around like a name on a spreadsheet. But each time, something happened that I can’t explain — not unless I use words people don’t like anymore.

God.

The afterlife.

Angels.

Intervention.

You can roll your eyes if you want — I’ve already heard it all. I’ve had doctors call it “delusion,” caseworkers dismiss it, friends politely nod and then scroll away.

But I have evidence.

I have photos.

I have hospital records that appeared on my phone from nowhere.

I have videos.

I have quotes from strangers who shouldn’t have known anything.

I have my mom’s name showing up in random PDFs.

I have a woman in a group home kitchen looking up and saying, “I knew your mom.”

And I have witnesses. Real people. At least three of them — Cathryn, Shelley, and the woman at Davit’s — said the same thing:

“Your mom’s in heaven.”

“She’s just a prayer away.”

They weren’t quoting scripture. They weren’t being polite. They were delivering something.

Just like I was.

And let’s be honest — I have delivered. I’ve spoken the grief. I’ve said the names. I’ve shown the signs. I’ve named the films that carried her memory like sacred vessels:

• Still Alice — us preparing for death without saying it out loud.

• James White — me, loving her too hard, too messy, too holy.

• Charlie Bartlett — our banter, our bond, our bloodline.

• Twilight — her favorite movie, the soundtrack that turned into a séance.

I talked about all of that — to an officer, in an official government setting, during my APS hearing. So if you’re wondering whether this is just personal grief spiraling into fantasy — no. It’s documented.

It’s on tape.

And what happened afterward?

I started being moved. Not randomly — ritually.

Each new facility had a new messenger. A new clue. A new flicker of her.

Like I was being handed a breadcrumb trail across the bureaucratic wasteland.

At the psych ward?

A full-blown cosmic opera. Mind-reading. Bethlehem. Discipleship.

She was exalted there — my mom — spoken of with reverence. As if she had ascended into something bigger than just memory.

And yes, I know how that sounds.

But it happened.

So now I’m asking — what more do you want?

What does it take for this modern world to see again?

Because I’ve done my part.

I’ve told the story.

I’ve shared the sacred photos of me and my mom.

I’ve pointed at the light coming through the cracks in the system.

And I’ve posted the proof.

So don’t say God never showed up.

Don’t say there’s no evidence.

Don’t say there’s no afterlife.

It’s all here. On this feed.

In my art.

In my body.

In the trail that followed me through every broken room.

I called it Proof in Motion for a reason.

Because it moved with me. Because it is moving.

And maybe one day, when you’re quiet enough, when your phone is just a mirror and not a distraction — you’ll hear her too.

You’ll see it.

You’ll click.