[DiamondSmiles]

*I wasn't sure where to put this. I have no photos, but, was trying to identify the burnt baby, supposedly submerged in scalding water while his incubator chatted on the phone. It had to have happened in 1996, from the date on the burnt baby's photo. I did find this sad story.*

How a Child Died in Her Mother's Basement

When a Mother's Care Turns Deadly

Shankar Vedantam, INQUIRER STAFF WRITER
Thursday, July 31, 2008, 5:30 PM

Charlene Wise was sitting at a kitchen table in Norristown when her water broke. It was just after midnight and her sixth child was about to be born.

What concerned her, however, was that she and her sister, Darlene, were running out of crack.

A burst of pain cut through her drugged haze. She lay down.

"Do you want me to call 911? " Darlene asked.

Charlene suggested that her sister go, "do some prostitution," and buy more crack.

The pain got worse and Darlene called an ambulance.

"Don't push!", paramedics shouted as they rushed to the hospital.

The baby girl was born on Sept. 19, 1991, blue in the face, with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. The doctors and nurses were angry with Charlene. "You knew you weren't supposed to get high," they told her.

In the morning, they asked her to choose a name for the baby.

Charlene wanted a name that sounded like her own.

"Charnae," she said.

She never got to hold her baby.

When social workers checked Charlene's case history, they found that her five other children had been put in foster care after she was caught living in a crack house in Pottstown. They decided to place Charnae in foster care, too.

On the way out of the hospital, Charlene peered through the nursery window. There were cards attached to the cribs. One pink tag read, "Baby Wise. "

A beautiful baby. Charlene felt bad about losing Charnae. But she felt worse that she had not gotten high in many hours.

Six years later, after Charnae died in a horrific case of child abuse, Charlene would remember the day of the birth as the first of many occasions when she had failed her daughter.

* Charnae was almost 3 when she was returned to her mother.

Charlene had desperately wanted her children back. She convinced Montgomery County social workers that she had turned her life around. She found a home in Philadelphia at 3017 W. Harper St. and struggled through a drug-rehabilitation program.

Denisha, her oldest, came back around Thanksgiving 1992. She was 13. Kadedra, 5, and Gwendolyn, 4, followed.

Several months later, social workers told Charlene it was time for Donte, then 4, and Charnae to return.

Charlene felt she hardly knew them. She had visited the children in their foster home. Charnae was impaired by the crack her mother had smoked while pregnant. Social workers said Charnae and Donte were slow learners and aggressive.

Charlene wasn't sure she could deal with them just yet. She had just had another baby, her seventh. With Charnae and Donte, she would have six children at home - her eldest son, Timothy, 12, was not returned.

"I can handle only so many kids," she told social workers.

"It's like this, Ms. Wise," one replied. "You either take them now or we put them up for adoption. "

"I'll take them," she said.

Charnae, who had been slow to walk, now wouldn't sit still. If Charlene gave her dolls, she would rip their hair out and yank off their clothes. Donte was the same.

To calm them, Charlene banned candy. She tried the time-out method. She yelled. She had neither partner nor extended family to help her. The house on Harper Street rang with her screams:

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! "

Donte and Charnae defeated her at every turn. Donte would prop a chair against the kitchen cabinet, climb onto the stove and take candy out of a jar. Then he'd race upstairs and share the loot with Charnae.

She was the quiet one. Charlene called her a, "sneaky little beaver. "

Charlene did not have the patience or the skill to deal with them. She slapped them, hit them with shoes and hairbrushes, pummeled them with her fists.

That only made things worse. Charnae and Donte wet their beds and soiled the mattresses. Charlene banned them from drinking water after 9 p.m. - and jammed shut the tap on the bathroom sink. Donte responded by twisting his head under the bathtub tap. Charnae drank from the toilet.

Denisha was another worry. At 15, she became a mother, making Charlene, at 32, a grandmother. In 1995, Charlene gave birth to her eighth child - with a fifth father.

Through it all, she smoked crack.

She had a 9 p.m. bedtime rule for the children. At 11, she would slip out of the house and buy some, "get-high. "

Depending on her money situation - she was receiving welfare checks for three children and Social Security checks for three others - she would go out for crack many times a night. Sometimes, she would still be smoking when the children woke up in the morning and asked for help going to school.

Too tired to get out of bed, she would tell them to stay home and watch television.

If anyone outside the house had cared to look, there were numerous signs that the family was headed downhill.

On Feb. 23, 1996, Charnae was rushed to Hahnemann University Hospital with a severe scalp infection. She was withdrawn and apathetic. Hospital records show that staff worried Charlene was using drugs.

In October, the city Department of Human Services (DHS) - responsible for ensuring the safety of Charlene's children - received word that Donte had gone to school with a black eye. The boy said that Charlene had hit him with a broom.

Another report said Kadedra was injured after she put her leg on a hot plate to warm herself. Her pants caught fire and she suffered second- and third-degree burns.

On Christmas Eve 1996, Charlene and Denisha had a huge fight. Charlene did not give Denisha's son the Christmas toy she had promised. On Christmas Day, Denisha, then 17, took her son and moved out.

That left six children in the house on Harper Street alone with Charlene. The oldest was Kadedra. She was 9.

Charlene's addiction had its rituals. Each night, after the children were in bed, she would lovingly organize her drugs, her cigarettes and her beer.

She was chasing what drug users call the "ghost," the euphoria she'd had when she first started using.

She needed absolute quiet because the drugs made her paranoid. She called it "bugging. " If she thought she heard a car on the street, she thought the police were coming for her.

Like an athlete preparing for a race, she needed to concentrate.

And then she would hear a creak - Charnae and Donte creeping around in the back bedroom again. They seemed to have a sixth sense about when she was getting high.

If she yelled at them to stop, the high went away.

If she leapt up to hit them, the feeling vanished.

If she slapped them and made them cry, her mood disintegrated.

One day in 1997, blind with anger, she grabbed them both and pushed them into the basement. She didn't shut the door, but the basement was dark and dirty and they were terrified. When she let them out a little while later, they had cried so much that they went right to sleep.

She had found a way to get high in peace.

Charlene found it easy to fool social workers. She yelled at them when they paid surprise visits and demanded they give her advance notice. She cleaned the house and stocked the refrigerator before the scheduled visits.

She recalled receiving compliments from them on her housekeeping.

They did not spot her drug paraphernalia. Charlene burned incense to mask the smell of crack.

She recalls one asking, "Ms. Wise, are you getting high? "

"No."

"We're going to start giving you random drug tests. "

But they never did. In spring 1997, she started barring social workers from the house. She was smoking heavily and wasn't ready even for scheduled inspections.

The Juvenile Justice Center, a private Germantown agency that the Department of Human Services contracted to provide services to the family, referred the case back to the city.

"We can't push our way in," executive director Richard Chapman said. "If cooperation is not forthcoming, we write to DHS and say we can't ensure the welfare of the children. "

Charlene remembered DHS workers knocked on her door. She refused to open it. They called her on the phone and threatened to call the police. She gave them an appointment to visit.

A social worker visited June 4. Charlene opened the door. All she wanted to do was get high and sleep. She told the social worker that she had stopped letting DHS into the house because she was leaving town.

Shortly thereafter, DHS closed its file on Charlene Wise.

According to DHS's own rules, cases cannot be closed without assessing whether the children are living in a safe home.

That assessment was never made.

The basement had no fan or air conditioning, and its window was nailed shut. Putting Charnae and Donte down there in the summer heat troubled Charlene.

But after a few times, it got easier. It helped that social workers no longer bothered her and she stayed high all day and all night.

Charnae and Donte seemed to get used to the basement, so Charlene shut the door and left them there longer. Sometimes she could hear them playing together and laughing.

The punishment had a marked effect on Donte, who grew quieter. Charlene decided to stop punishing him. Now when Charnae misbehaved, Charlene put her in the basement by herself.

Each hour the little girl was shut away meant an hour of peace. Each night she was locked up meant a good, "get-high. " Each time Charnae came out of the basement unharmed, after longer and longer periods of confinement, it seemed less and less like a terrible thing.

Charnae would knock on the door when she wanted to go to the bathroom. Charlene would let her out, bathe her and feed her. Charnae would play with her siblings. Then she would go back down.

The novel punishment became routine. The abnormal became normal.

The balance tipped noiselessly: Charnae wasn't being put in the basement now and then. She was being let out now and then.

Then even that stopped. Charlene would leave a plate of food on the top step as she cleaned up or fed the other children. Sometimes the food would be gone when Charlene returned; often the plate would be untouched.

In July, Charlene went all the way down to the basement and saw that Charnae was using a bucket as a potty.

On Aug. 21, a month before Charnae's sixth birthday, Charlene opened the basement door. The little girl was sitting on the top step.

"Tub time," Charlene said.

Charlene bathed Charnae and combed her hair.

Charnae didn't look good. She stumbled as she walked.

The thought of taking her to a doctor frightened Charlene because no one outside the house would understand; the basement punishment was a family secret.

"What's the matter with you? " Charlene asked.

Charnae was silent.

Charlene steeled herself - there was nothing wrong with the little girl. She never did walk straight. She was just tired; she probably needed sleep.

Charlene led her back to the basement. There was no thought of punishment anymore - Charnae hadn't done anything wrong. The basement had simply become the place where she stayed.

Charnae went quietly. Charlene shut the door behind her.

Frank Wise's car broke down a few blocks from his sister's house one July evening while Charnae was dying. He was with his fiancee. They decided to walk over to Charlene's for the night.

His niece Gwen opened the door. The children were excited to see Uncle Frank. His mind was on the broken-down car as he slept that night on the living room couch. He didn't think to make a head count and didn't ask where Charnae was.

He did recall that the house was quieter. He knew that Charnae was a difficult child.

The next morning, Frank saw Gwen and Kadedra, but he was worried about his car and didn't wonder about Charnae.

Other family members dropped by that summer, marching up Charlene's front steps, past the boarded-up basement window, a few feet from Charnae.

At a July 4 family get-together, Charlene's 17-year-old son, Timothy, who had long been on his own, told Charlene, "I bet if I go down to the basement, I would find Charnae. "

"Go ahead! " Charlene dared him.

He didn't go.

Many of Charlene's relatives had troubles of their own. Frank had been on probation for attempted theft. Barbara, Charlene's sister, was on probation for holding up a fast-food restaurant. Charlene's sister, Darlene, a fellow crack addict and prostitute, was to be found unconscious in a city shelter on April 23, 1998. She later died and was taken to the morgue, where city officials waited to hear from worried relatives.

No one called.

The family had never been close. Children came and went in an unceasing cycle of foster care, group homes and social workers. Children were born, children were taken away, children returned.

A concerned neighbor, Tammy Dennis, invited Charlene to church one Sunday. Charlene promised to attend with her children. But when Dennis came to pick them up, no one answered the door.

Dennis, who grew up on the block, remembered a time when children ran freely in and out of one another's homes. Then crack arrived. People became secretive. They closed their doors and windows. Dennis, a poised and collected woman, returned to the block in 1996 after two years in Indiana. She had to learn a new, unspoken rule: "You see what you see, but you see nothing. "

Charlene herself lied about what was happening, but she lied poorly. She told her cousin Len Margarita Wise that Charnae was at Harper Street. She told Len's mother that Charnae was with relatives in North Carolina.

In the late summer, she phoned Denisha, then 18, who had last seen her younger sister in May. Denisha had thought Charnae looked malnourished.

"The foster care people have come to take her away," Charlene said on the phone. "They are pulling out in their car now. . . . Charnae is looking out of the window and is waving at me. . . . Look at all those nosy neighbors looking. "

A few days later, Denisha casually asked her mother which neighbors had seen Charnae being taken away.

"No one. "

Charnae was dying. But Charlene couldn't bring herself to articulate the thought. On Aug. 22, 1997, she sent Kadedra and Gwen down to check on their sister.

She was too afraid to go herself.

The two small children had not seen Charnae in a while. When they returned from the basement, they were hysterical: "Charnae is real bad off. "

Charlene calmed them down. She told them to say nothing about it - it was a family secret.

A little while later, Charnae knocked on the basement door.

"Mommy, can I have some water? "

Charlene opened the door and gave her a glass. Charnae looked weak. Charlene shut the door.

On Aug. 23, Charlene carried a plate with hot dogs and spaghetti halfway down the basement stairs. She handed the plate to Charnae.

"Thank you. "

"I'll be back," Charlene said. She was going to a birthday party for her grandson at Denisha's house.

"OK. "

Charlene dressed and got ready to leave. On her way out, she shouted, "I'll see you when I get back, baby. "

If Charnae replied, Charlene didn't hear.

At the party, she took Denisha aside and said she had something important to tell her: Charnae wasn't going to make it till next week.

Denisha drove Charlene home that night. She demanded to see Charnae. Charlene refused and had Denisha drop her off a block from home. She walked the rest of the way.

Once home, she turned on all the lights. The thought of Charnae in the basement had clung to her all evening like a shroud.

She threw open the basement door.

"Charnae," she called out. "Charnae, you down there? "

Silence.

Charlene scrambled down the steps. The little girl was lying on the floor in the fetal position. Charlene bent down and touched her. Charnae felt cold and hard.

Charlene jerked her hand back. She spun around and ran up the unsteady stairs. She didn't stop when she reached the landing, didn't stop until she reached the bathroom on the second floor. She slipped inside and jammed the door shut behind her.

Call 911. The thought terrified her. She couldn't. She just couldn't.

The children need me, she thought.

She turned on the tap so that the other children would not hear her cries. And then, muffled by the sound of rushing water, she wept. For the child who had died, for what she had done, and for all she was going to have to pay.

On Sept. 16, 1997, police found Charnae's skeleton, arrested Charlene and charged her with murder.

Joan Reeves, commissioner of the Department of Human Services, called Charnae's death "unimaginable" and ordered an internal investigation of the case.

The results were never made public. The agency declined all requests for interviews for this article, citing pending litigation.

The following year, a state review of the DHS internal investigation found a string of serious lapses in which the agency had not followed its own policies for child safety: There were times when no social worker was assigned to the family. A required risk assessment was not conducted in February 1997. There was no record-keeping during the crucial period between February 1997 and Charnae's death. Long-term family plans were not made. The case was arbitrarily closed.

In a statement about its responsibility, DHS told state investigators "at no time was there a determination that acts of commission or omission by the department or its agents could have predicted or prevented the tragedy that befell this child. "

In March, Charlene was convicted of third-degree murder. Judge James Lineberger sentenced her to 28 to 56 years in prison.

In July, Denisha Wise decided to sue the city and state on behalf of her dead sister, charging that DHS had failed in its duty to protect Charnae.

"DHS and the state were grossly negligent and recklessly indifferent," said Neil Perloff, Denisha's lawyer.

"If I come into money, it would be for my siblings," Denisha said. "I will make sure they have a nice education like I never had. I will get Charnae a headstone. We had no money to get Charnae a headstone. Whatever is left for me, I don't care. "

On a scorching summer afternoon, Darnell Harris took one lunging step to the left of a gravestone marked "Perkins. "

The grave-digger then took two steps down and drew his boot across the grass to mark the spot of Charnae's grave. He looked up to see whether it aligned with the haphazard markers strewn around. He then revised his estimate by two feet.

"Here," he said confidently.

Actually Charnae's grave was a little to the left of Harris' calculation - Denisha had placed a small marker on the ground that read "Sister. "

At the Merion Memorial Park in Bala Cynwyd, no stone marks Charnae's final rest. No epitaph describes her days. For a life so short, so brutal and unloved, what would it say?

Shankar Vedantam's e-mail address is svedantam@phillynews.com

* This account is based on extensive interviews with the Wise family, the Rev. Tom Cairns and investigators, and on court testimony and records.

[TwistedPrincess]

damn! how sad! i honestly don't see how a mother could choose drugs over her own baby. personally, when i found out i was pregnant, i quit doing any of the drugs i previously had done.i didn't even smoke pot during my pregnancy and it wasn't until my son was in his mid teens that i smoked pot again. and it was only on occasions when i was with a certain friend.

the one daughter who sued the

[TwistedPrincess]

oops! switched over to note pad to write and must have hit the post button at some point by accident. just noticed that. sorry.

damn! how sad! i honestly don't see how a mother could choose drugs over her own baby. personally, when i found out i was pregnant, i quit doing any of the drugs i previously had done.i didn't even smoke pot during my pregnancy and it wasn't until my son was in his mid teens that i smoked pot again. and it was only on occasions when i was with a certain friend.

i can see why the one daughter sued the DHS but in reality, the mother is the one at fault. it is a shame that we have to have agencies to babysit adults who have children and foster children in their care.

one thing i have noticed, at least in the circle of relatives, friends and co-workers that i know, is the trend of the new mothers (whether they are teenagers or adults) no longer seem to think they should have to be burdened with their offspring. and it's their mother who is raising their children. (in other words the grandparents are raising their grandchildren). not that this is any thing new but i have never seen it so common as it is now. its as if they think that is what their mother is there for... so they can go out and party, get pregnant, have babies and then let their mother deal with it for the next 18 years. my best friend will be 60 next month and with the help of her son who still lives at home, they are raising her daughters/his sisters son who is 5 yrs old. that means if she doesn't end up with that daughters other child or any future children from either daughter, she will be legally parenting a minor until she is at least 73 years old. there are a number of others i know of in their fifties and sixties who have taken on the responsibility of their grandchildren because the mothers don't want them.

what is happening to maternal instinct? it seems that the rate of children that are unwanted, neglected, abused and/or murdered by either or both parents is growing at an alarming rate. i have to wonder if it is something related physically (such as food additives, vaccines, etc) or mentally (lack of having the mother at home while growing up, drop in educational standards, too much tv, given too many material items as a trade off for not being home to raise the children, slackening of moral standards etc,) or a combination of both? when i was growing up, almost all mothers were full time housewives/mothers. and in our neighborhood of around 40 families, only one home was split by divorce. every other family had both parents living in the home.(and yes, we had scrambled dinosaur eggs for breakfast.)

why can't i just say something in two or less sentences like everyone else????

[DiamondSmiles]

Originally Posted by TwistedPrincess ↗

damn! how sad! i honestly don't see how a mother could choose drugs over her own baby. personally, when i found out i was pregnant, i quit doing any of the drugs i previously had done.

why can't i just say something in two or less sentences like everyone else????

That's what most mothers do if they drink or use drugs. This piece of shit is an incubator!

I haven't given birth, but, I have the maternal instinct with my nieces, nephew and the great ones. I enjoy the wonder in their eyes when they see something new. Sad, we lose that as we get older

I think, and I only know of you from posting here, you cannot sum up things in two sentences because you are passionate about certain things and need to make all of your points.

It's just you

I ramble off on subjects randomly and people who don't me can't follow me.

[Space Particle]

These parasites don't deserve children.

[Kehko]

Photo of Charlene Wise

[Xdeath43]

I think a lot of new moms on welfare are given C sections and or are on drugs legal or other wise, which makes them not bond with the child.My older sister had a C section and did not bond with my nephew then she started doing heavy drugs and gave him to my mom. Its sad these things happen

[Darkest Angel]

Originally Posted by TwistedPrincess ↗

oops! switched over to note pad to write and must have hit the post button at some point by accident. just noticed that. sorry.

damn! how sad! i honestly don't see how a mother could choose drugs over her own baby. personally, when i found out i was pregnant, i quit doing any of the drugs i previously had done.i didn't even smoke pot during my pregnancy and it wasn't until my son was in his mid teens that i smoked pot again. and it was only on occasions when i was with a certain friend.

i can see why the one daughter sued the DHS but in reality, the mother is the one at fault. it is a shame that we have to have agencies to babysit adults who have children and foster children in their care.

one thing i have noticed, at least in the circle of relatives, friends and co-workers that i know, is the trend of the new mothers (whether they are teenagers or adults) no longer seem to think they should have to be burdened with their offspring. and it's their mother who is raising their children. (in other words the grandparents are raising their grandchildren). not that this is any thing new but i have never seen it so common as it is now. its as if they think that is what their mother is there for... so they can go out and party, get pregnant, have babies and then let their mother deal with it for the next 18 years. my best friend will be 60 next month and with the help of her son who still lives at home, they are raising her daughters/his sisters son who is 5 yrs old. that means if she doesn't end up with that daughters other child or any future children from either daughter, she will be legally parenting a minor until she is at least 73 years old. there are a number of others i know of in their fifties and sixties who have taken on the responsibility of their grandchildren because the mothers don't want them.

what is happening to maternal instinct? it seems that the rate of children that are unwanted, neglected, abused and/or murdered by either or both parents is growing at an alarming rate. i have to wonder if it is something related physically (such as food additives, vaccines, etc) or mentally (lack of having the mother at home while growing up, drop in educational standards, too much tv, given too many material items as a trade off for not being home to raise the children, slackening of moral standards etc,) or a combination of both? when i was growing up, almost all mothers were full time housewives/mothers. and in our neighborhood of around 40 families, only one home was split by divorce. every other family had both parents living in the home.(and yes, we had scrambled dinosaur eggs for breakfast.)

why can't i just say something in two or less sentences like everyone else????

I appreciate the input. Paternal instincts failed first imo. I had 2 fathers for my 2 sons & neither contributed in the slightest to their care & upbringing. That's my generation- X. The maternal issue has been growing. Me personally, I could have never given my children away, God forbid lettinga child die alone in a basement. The world is going to hell. Seems some in this new generation just don't bond with their babies & feel no responsibility. Yet, like this one, don't even seem to consider birth control.

[PTSD Is My Life]

Originally Posted by diamondsmiles ↗

*I wasn't sure where to put this. I have no photos, but, was trying to identify the burnt baby, supposedly submerged in scalding water while his incubator chatted on the phone. It had to have happened in 1996, from the date on the burnt baby's photo. I did find this sad story.*

How a Child Died in Her Mother's Basement

When a Mother's Care Turns Deadly

Thank you for this great post its terribly sad what the human is capable of, very very sad, I hope she dies slowly in a lot of pain and meets my step father in death as they can torture the death out of each other.

I lived with a sadistic and mentally disturbed (PTSD we would say now) Military step father who was Physically, Mentally and sexually abusive who controlled my life to a degree that is almost unbearable to remember. Violence was forte and he would put me through my toughening up exercises at least 4 days a week depending on the severity of my injuries.
I was to be called "The Cunt" by all other members of the family and failure to do so resulted in them getting my toughening up exercises which ranged from ..... they where bad I'm sorry I cannot type it today.... his big control was my food intake. If he suspected I had eaten something I shouldn't have he would get the big pottery mixing bowl and evacuate the contents of my stomach into it (I have no gag reflex left still to this day, and sorry boys I'm not gay!!!)
He would check the contents of my stomach and if anything he thought should not be there was there it would be removed and tallied up by a method only he knew which resulted in the depth of my punishment (ergo beating, or pushed behind the big cast iron bath whilst the fire was built right up to heat the water and alternate hot and cold water would be put in it for 2-5-10-15 minutes or more and then the finale....to put some well earned energy back into my messed up body....yep you guessed it...no fresh food, hell why waste what I had started to break down already (less any unauthorised food) the only extra twist was would it be hot, warm or cold.....this is where at 6-7 years old I had one up on him.... I convinced him I loved it hot or warm and would wolf it down with apparent relish.
The truth was I had to get it down before the warmth and the heated smell of my sick brought it all back up only for me to have to eat it all again.
As he never wanted me to have things my way he almost always served my sick cold and I would make "a meal of it" (no pun intended) and it afforded me the luxury of dealing with it in a controlled manner.
Furthermore I was informed at great danger to herself that the hard to eat clotted bits in the warmed up sick was in fact cat vomit with the hairball boiled down and the hair (mostly) removed so cold was best I could see it was "all mine" so to say!!
I still to this day cannot face hair in plug holes or even hair pulled from a hairbrush and put in the bin...in fact it is bringing sick to my throat as I type... people are evil that is something I have seen over and over in this life of mine and I have reeked vengence on them when ever I could with fists and a potato peeler to areas like the shins of wife beaters and child abusers with the knowledge of the local Police (in fact they where the ones who told us who needed a word in their thick skull... and oh my step-father taught me well how to inflict and just how much a body can take and when someone cracked enough to start taking the punishment in a way that stuck in their heads enough to stop them next timethey raise their hands to someone and cleaning out the torturing, mutilating, murdering scum in Bosnia both a camera (for evidence for the War Crimes Tribunals in Dan Hague) and for some, the ultimate kick for me with a high powered rifle authorised and paid for by the Military and I could walk away or lie in the hide and eat whist taking the shot and then lie there watching the same area for several days as dogs and birds did what they do to the piece of dirt lying there my only regret was I couldn't let them live whilst the hungry filled their bellies..I looked at it as at last they where probably doing the only generous thing in their life.

And no it is not through any of my rubs, drops, squeeks that I suffer from PTSD, that is from some of what these people did, one incident in particular but thats for me to keep close to protect in death that which I could not in life, maybe one day (if I havent already whilst wasted on my near death concoction of opiates and neuro drugs they have had me on of late....

[PTSD Is My Life]

Bollocks I wrote another essay.....