Grey Areas

I expect beauty to happen in my every day life. I expect the sun to rise, the birds to chirp, my favorite bands to sing their songs. I expect pine cones to drop, and rivers to flow.

I expect to see the ugly side of things every day. I expect to see addiction happening on the street corners of my neighborhood, to fall flat on my face attempting to reach something I want with all my heart.

I expect a big lump of grey area between those things too. That’s where life gets tricky. Recognizing beauty, accepting ugliness, and smiling at both as I wander through the grey areas of daily life.

— Lee Stone —


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I was just thinking about how easy life used to be. The church handed me morals. Laws, teachers, and bosses gave me rules to follow. Commercials gave me goals to strive for. I got pretty good at it.

I started building my own set of morals though. It was extremely difficult to do. Eventually, those morals gave me my own rules to follow, and my own goals to strive for. I just hope that I can be good at it someday.

— Lee Stone —


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Streams of Lava

If a child ever asks me, “why streams of lava flow down from the roof of a waterfall?”
My answer will be…

Sometimes, at the right time of year, when the snow is melting, and the water is flowing at it’s deepest & most powerful moment, the sun decides to set behind a waterfall… the roof turns into molten lava before it flows down.

I’ve seen it. The water falling over the top turns a bright red color and looks like it would melt your finger if you tried to dip it in. As it falls though, it seems to cool off. The whites of the friction bubbles, and the clear blue tint of the water itself become visible again. It splashes into a deep pool to rinse off before continuing to flow until the creek it came from finds a river to feed … it’s magic!

— Lee Stone —


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Fake Tatoos

When I look in the mirror, I see a 36-year-old grown man. Male pattern baldness, grey hairs, physical scars, I see them all. Away from the mirror though, I feel like the scared, fragile toddler who was taken from sleep and forced into sex with a strange man.

Crowds do that to me, make me small. They cause fear. Lectures and arguments do that to me. I’ve worked on those things for years… just kind of toughening up and biting the bullet as I walk through life.

I always thought that those things had been planted in a previous lifetime. Wondering were I am every time I wake up encouraged that belief. I finally put the pieces together, 33 fucking years later. What a dummy!

The reason I still use a nightlight is because my subconscious is on the constant look out for that faceless man my mom moved us in with when I was 3. The reason I was an all-conference linebacker is because I loved to tear the bodies of faceless men in half. It made me feel big, and strong.

It’s confusing to work through those thoughts, where my phobias came from, how they were planted against my will, by a stranger with no name, no face. My parents always told me that I was shy, that I daydreamed a lot. Really though, I’ve just been shit scared of strangers my whole life.

Fuck it. I’m going to make some new friends… maybe we can play Legos and give each other fake tattoos.

— Lee Stone —


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Thank You!

I want to express gratitude for all of the support I’ve received in the last few months. It’s amazing to find out that the support system I’ve been wanting for so long has been right next to me, in the form of my family, closest friends, puppy dog, people resurfacing from my past, and people that I barely know.

I talked to someone yesterday about the words I’ve heard in response to some recent blog and Facebook posts… and how I felt exactly the opposite of those words when I posted; strong, courageous, brave, powerful, intense, special, incredible, profound, honest, heavy, creative, raw, unadulterated, hero, refreshing, genius.

It’s humbling to think that people see me that way. Thank you for those words. Thank you for the comments, likes, follows, texts, personal messages, phone calls, face-to-face conversations, and hugs. It’s all very much appreciated.

Thanks again,

Lee Stone


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It must have been the circumstance that made you do it. At 18, searching for structure after retiring from high school athletic teams.
Maybe it was the family pressure to make something of life. I was never forced to choose between days of manual labor or a slim chance at heroism.
Whatever it was, it hurts me to think of how big a trick they pulled on you. Promised world travel and a job you actually wanted, only to find that you had been turned into a tool for mass destruction. While following orders in the name of freedom, your reality became a failure to adjust. I imagine that weighs on you more than gravity ever could.
I’m sorry for your service. I’m sorry that I’ll never understand. I’ll always keep your circumstance and your heroic intentions in mind. So, even when I protest war… I will always love the soldier.

— leest1 —


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I can’t seem to talk about it, so I’ll just write it out. It happened last week, after a sexual experience that lacked a true emotional connection. Looking back, washing each other in the shower seemed to be the best part. I couldn’t keep away from sinking into guilt, shame, sadness, a slimy wiggle up my spine.

Walking my puppy that evening, I witnessed an argument between a young couple. The man had thrown a cup to the ground and started yelling in the woman’s face. He saw me at that moment, stopped immediately, and asked if I wanted him to pick up the cup. I told him that I just wanted them to be nice to each other. While they turned to walk away, I tripped the fuck out.

I was sleeping on the ground, with other children, in a strange room with a nightlight. I felt myself being picked up by a man with no shirt on. Immediately frozen, all I could do was stand in place as my dog sniffed the hedges in front of the post office.

I knew that if I cried out for help, the man would use violence to make sure I had a good reason for it. He walked me through a dark hallway. When the glow from the bedroom nightlight faded to darkness, I closed my eyes… both as a 3-year-old, and as a 36-year-old man on one of the busiest corners in Portland. I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, but I knew to keep them quiet.

He transfers me from his sweaty chest and arms, to a face down position on a bed or a couch. My left ear is pinned to a cushion with his elbow and forearm putting way too much pressure on the right side of my face. My shoulder is in pain. So is the middle of my back, maybe that’s his elbow?

As his arm shifts, he covers my mouth, and most of my face with his hand. The pain immediately shifts to my rectum. The head of his penis is too big to fit. He angrily tries to force it as I wiggle and try to hold back tears… both as a 3-year-old, and as a 36-year-old man on the street corner.

It seems sick and twisted to put it into words like these, but when he finally decides to give up on my rectum, settling for sliding up and down between my butt cheeks… I stop fighting so much. His semen splashing in my hair, down my back, and on my butt let me know that it is almost over. He doesn’t use soap, but rinses me in the kitchen sink next to dirty beige plates with dark brown trim.

As a 3-year-old, he puts me back in the bedroom with a nightlight, and the other children. I silently cry myself back to sleep.

As a 36-year-old on one of the busiest street corners in Portland, my dog pawed at my leg, whined, and then tugged on her leash. I cried as she led me toward the park.

— leest1 —


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