It’s a strange kind of freedom—this ability to finally live as myself, without pretense, without walls, without the careful compartmentalization that used to define my existence. I used to think I was free, back when I had a name for every part of me. Derrick was the survivor, the fighter, the one who faced life’s storms head-on. Demetri was the seeker, the questioner, the one who dared to dive into the mysteries of the universe and confront the taboo. Together, they kept me whole—or so I thought. In reality, they were just fragments, shards of the same broken mirror. And now? Now, the pieces are back together. Now, it’s just me.
Let me tell you, that realization is as disorienting as it is liberating. For years, Demetri served as my shield. He was the name I gave to the parts of myself I wasn’t ready to face head-on. The conspiracies, the psychic readings, the deep dives into alien phenomena—these weren’t just hobbies or passing interests; they were integral to who I am. But in a world that judges first and asks questions later, it felt safer to explore those interests under an alias. I mean, who wouldn’t? Growing up as I did—shaped by trauma, rejection, and the relentless grind of survival—you learn pretty quickly that people can be cruel. They judge what they don’t understand, and they fear what doesn’t fit neatly into their little boxes.
So, I created Demetri. He was my mask, my armor, my escape route. And for a long time, he worked. Through him, I could dive into the things that fascinated me without fear of judgment. I could explore the edges of reality, push boundaries, and live in spaces that felt too risky for Derrick to occupy. But here’s the thing about armor: it’s heavy. It protects you, sure, but it also confines you. And eventually, I reached a point where the weight of that mask was too much to bear.
That’s the beauty of hindsight, isn’t it? Looking back, I can see so clearly how I was holding myself back, how I was fragmenting my identity in a way that wasn’t sustainable. But in the moment, it felt like survival. It felt necessary. And maybe it was. Maybe I needed that division to get to where I am now. Because here’s the truth: I wouldn’t be the person I am today without the lessons I learned as Demetri. That alias gave me the freedom to explore, to grow, and to find my voice. But it also taught me the value of authenticity. It showed me that true freedom comes not from hiding parts of yourself but from embracing them fully.
And that’s where I find myself now—38 years old, finally living without the mask, finally embracing every messy, complicated, beautiful part of who I am. It’s a strange feeling, this kind of authenticity. It’s like stepping out into the sunlight after years in the shadows. The light is blinding at first, almost too much to bear, but then you adjust. You find your footing. You learn to stand tall.
The shift didn’t happen overnight. It took years of introspection, of writing, of confronting the ghosts of my past. My books were a huge part of that process. They were my exorcism, my therapy, my way of untangling the threads of my life and weaving them into something coherent. Each chapter was a step toward wholeness, a piece of myself reclaimed. And now that those stories are out in the world, I feel this incredible sense of relief. It’s like I’ve set down a burden I didn’t even realize I was carrying.
That relief has given me space—space to think, to create, to write without the weight of expectation. This podcast, this journal, whatever you want to call it—it’s a reflection of that space. It’s my playground, my canvas, my sanctuary. Here, I don’t have to be anything but myself. I can talk about whatever’s on my mind, whether it’s aliens or politics or the quiet beauty of a Sunday morning. And let me tell you, that kind of freedom is priceless.
Take today, for example. It’s Sunday. The sky is impossibly blue, the air is crisp, and the world feels… strange. There’s this tension in the atmosphere, this sense that something big is on the horizon. I can’t explain it, but I feel it in my bones. Maybe it’s just my imagination running wild, or maybe it’s something more. Either way, it’s hard to ignore.
I’ve been avoiding the news lately, which is probably why I feel so out of the loop. My husband, on the other hand, is glued to it. He’s got the TV running in his office all day long, blaring the latest headlines like some kind of doomsday prophet. And I love him for it—really, I do—but damn, it’s exhausting. I swear, he’s like an old man trapped in a 38-year-old’s body, obsessing over every political twist and turn while I sit here thinking, “It’s all a circus anyway.” Because that’s what it feels like to me—a carefully orchestrated performance designed to distract us from the bigger picture.
And speaking of bigger pictures, let’s talk about aliens for a second. There’s a rumor going around about drones and a missing nuke, and people are speculating that it might be connected to extraterrestrials. I don’t know if it’s true, but it wouldn’t surprise me. We live in a strange world, after all. A world where the lines between science fiction and reality are constantly blurring. And honestly? I think that’s a good thing. It forces us to question what we think we know, to push the boundaries of our understanding. It reminds us that the universe is vast and mysterious and full of possibilities.
That’s what fascinates me most—the possibilities. The idea that there’s so much more to this life than what we can see or touch or measure. It’s what drew me to the mystical, the psychic, the conspiratorial in the first place. And it’s what keeps me coming back, even now. Because no matter how much I learn, there’s always more to discover.
That’s the mindset I try to bring to everything I do, whether it’s writing, podcasting, or just navigating the day-to-day chaos of life. It’s a mindset of curiosity, of openness, of relentless exploration. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: the journey is always worth it, even when it’s messy, even when it’s hard. Especially then.
So, yeah, it’s weird living without the mask. It’s weird being able to say whatever I want, whenever I want, without fear of judgment or rejection. But it’s also beautiful. It’s liberating. And if you’re listening to this, I hope you find that kind of freedom for yourself. Because let me tell you, it’s worth it.