Behind the Artist
My Story
I'm an artist, an explorer, and a survivor. For years I felt lost in darkness, haunted by trauma I couldn’t fully remember. Yet through creativity and courage, I found a path to healing – and a purpose. This is my story, and it’s the reason behind every photo I take and every song I compose.
Healing in Darkness
I remember the night I first “met” the chair. It was past midnight in my home in Beaumont, California. My children were asleep, and I was lying in bed in the silent dark, desperate to face the demons in my mind. At the gentle urging of my trauma therapist, I had taken a small dose of psilocybin mushrooms (tucked into frozen dark-chocolate chips to mask the taste). With headphones on and eyes closed, I let the walls dissolve and entered the vast black chamber of my own mind.
Session after session, I had returned to that dark mental room. In the center hovered a trembling black egg – three and a half years of childhood trauma I had sealed away to protect my younger sisters. I couldn’t remember what horrors it contained; I only knew that every time I tried to approach it, I’d be flung out of the vision and back into my bed, heart pounding. I screamed at that egg. I clawed at it. I tried every therapy technique I knew to crack it open. Nothing worked. Each attempt sent me tumbling back into dissociation, as if some force was ejecting me the moment I looked directly at my pain.
On this particular night, battered and exhausted, I tried a different approach. Instead of staring at the egg of trauma, I looked around the darkness. The endless black room stretched out around me, empty and silent. A calm voice from somewhere in the void asked, “What color is the grass?” It was an odd, gentle question – and it gave me an idea. I whispered into the darkness, “What color is the grass?”
In an instant, the floor burst into life. Lush green grass spread under my feet, each blade sparkling with dew. For the first time, I felt new neural connections sparking to life. But before I could even touch the grass, a wave of fear yanked me out of the vision. I wasn’t thrown all the way back to reality, though; I found myself just outside that dark room, as if clinging to its doorway. Frustration and rage ignited in me. I screamed into the void, punched the unseen walls, and cried from my soul. I was so close to healing yet still locked out by my own terror.
Then, through the chaos, another voice – calm and unwavering – spoke: “This is a problem. Overcome it.” In that moment, something incredible happened. In my hand, a simple white plastic chair appeared. It was spotless and steady, glowing faintly in the dark. I realized this chair was a tether; it was there to ground me. I set the chair down facing away from the ominous egg and carefully sat. The chair’s energy hummed through me, keeping me present and safe. My panic ebbed.
From the safety of that white chair, I asked again, “What color is the grass?” Green flooded the chamber – and this time I stayed. The fear didn’t yank me out. I gazed in wonder as the darkness around me began to transform. Week by week, session by session, I returned to that inner world and let it grow. The black walls receded into rolling fields of green. Flowers bloomed. Warm sunlight filtered in. And as the landscape healed, memorieslong buried began to surface: a child’s laughter, a familiar song, the comforting touch of my sister’s hand in mine. In those moments I realized the voices guiding me were parts of me – my alters, hidden selves that had been helping me survive all along.
When I finally opened my eyes in the real world, dawn was breaking outside. I was drenched in sweat and tears, but I felt hopelike I’d never felt before. I had navigated the deepest shadows of my mind – and returned with real evidence of healing. In February 2025, after months of this painful but powerful journey, a trauma specialist gave what I had been through a name: Dissociative Identity Disorder.
The diagnosis both startled and validated me. DID – a condition affecting roughly 1% of the population – is often misunderstood and stigmatized. Even some clinicians I met over the years refused to believe it was real. But I am living proof that it isreal. For 35 years, I had been a prisoner in my own mind, fragmented into different identities as a desperate way to cope with horrific childhood abuse. That “egg” in my mind held the worst of it, and my brain had sealed it off to save me. DID was not a bizarre myth; it was my brain’s ingenious survival mechanism.
With this understanding came a revelation: I wasn’t broken or crazy—I was injured and now beginning to heal. And I knew I couldn’t keep this journey to myself. The stigma around DID feeds on silence and disbelief. I decided that sharing my story openly would be part of my healing and my mission. I want to show the world that DID is real, and that those of us who live with it are not monsters or myths—we are survivors trying to become whole.
Healing Through Art
As I healed, I found that creativity became my lifeline. I’ve always been drawn to photography, especially urban exploration and the beauty in decay. Now it took on even deeper meaning. I started venturing into abandoned tunnels, old buildings, and gritty city streets with my camera, looking for scenes that echoed my inner world.
One of my favorite places is a century-old passage under LA called the Second Street Tunnel – a dingy, graffiti-lined tunnel that nevertheless glows with white light from its tiled walls. I saw myself in that tunnel: battered by time, marked by graffiti-like scars, but still shining with an inner light.
I began capturing images like that and producing high-quality giclée prints of my work, hoping to one day display them in galleries. Each photograph became more than art; it was a piece of my soul on paper, a conversation starter about the story behind the image.
Photography isn’t my only outlet. I also make music – often collaborating with AI to create soundscapes and songs that reflect my journey. Music, for me, is therapy. It’s not just background noise or a hobby; it’s a way to release emotions that words alone can’t carry.
Living with DID and complex PTSD, I sometimes struggle to articulate what I feel. But when I compose a melody or beat, I can pour my pain, anger, and hope directly into the music. I share these tracks on my YouTube channel (under the name “Fotobudz” and my project Forging Rhythm) as a way to connect with others. Every photo I take and every song I write is intertwined with my path toward healing and wholeness.
In fact, art has saved me in many ways. Creating gives me a safe space to express things that I once had to hide. When I’m out on a rooftop at sunrise framing a shot, or late at night layering harmonies in a song, I feel present and calm. That focus quiets the anxiety and keeps me grounded in the moment – much like meditation, it pushes away the nightmares and flashbacks. Finishing a piece of art, whether it’s an image or a track, gives me a sense of pride and empowerment.
I remember the first time I showed one of my urban decay prints in public – people were intrigued and moved, asking about the story behind the lonely empty chair in the photo. Instead of feeling shame about my past, I felt proud that I turned it into something that could touch others.
Art has helped me take control of my narrative. It allows me to face difficult feelings in measured doses, to let them out a little at a time without being overwhelmed. I later learned there’s science behind this: creative expression can actually help rewire a traumatized brain, forming new neural pathways around the pain. In my case, every photograph and song has been a stepping stone on a path rewiring my brain for hope.
Turning Pain into Purpose
As I found healing through art, I realized my personal journey could shine a light for others. DID awareness became my passion. Too many people still think Dissociative Identity Disorder is some made-up movie illness. In reality, it’s a very real and a well-documented disorder – one that has simply been misunderstood. Sadly, because of sensationalized media and skepticism, many DID survivors live in hiding. I was one of them. I remember feeling terrified to tell anyone about the strange inner lives I was experiencing, for fear they’d call me crazy or accuse me of lying. That kind of stigma is incredibly isolating. I don’t want the next generation of survivors to go through that.
So I’ve made it my mission to educate and advocate. I talk openly about living with DID, explaining that it’s not a curse or a horror movie plot – it’s a creative survival strategy of the mind. When a young child endures relentless abuse and terror, sometimes their only escape is to dissociate, to let other identities bear the pain. That was me: a little boy who created protectors and friends in his mind to get through the unthinkable. I survived because of DID. Now I live with it, and I’m healing with it. By sharing my story and my art, I want to put a human face to this disorder. The more people understand and accept DID’s reality, the more survivors we can reach and help. There are so many “lost souls” out there, people who might have DID and not even know it, or who know it but are afraid to speak up. I want them to see my journey and realize they are not alone and not beyond help.
Everything I create feeds into this purpose. My fine art prints come with the stories behind them, sparking conversations about trauma and resilience. My music carries emotional truths that listeners can feel, even if they haven’t lived my experience. In gallery showings and online posts, I make a point to speak about my process and what living with DID is actually like. Being this transparent isn’t always easy – I still wrestle with vulnerability and the old instinct to hide. But I remind myself that secrecy breeds shame, and I’m done with shame. If my openness encourages even one survivor to seek help, or one skeptic to learn the facts, then every bit of it is worth it.
One example of turning pain into purpose is a song I wrote called “Not Today.” This track was born from one of the most painful moments of my life: the last time I ever spoke to my abusive stepfather. That final confrontation was explosive – decades of pent-up hurt and anger came pouring out of me. It felt like war. In the aftermath, I was shaken to my core. But instead of letting that trauma fester, I sat down and let all the rage, sorrow, and defiance flow into music. The result was “Not Today,” a raw and powerful anthem of survival. In that song, you can hear me essentially telling my abuser, “You won’t control me anymore – not today, not ever again.”By creating art from that darkness, I took back my power. I turned a moment that could have broken me into something that drives me forward.
Sharing “Not Today” with the world was scary at first. I worried people wouldn’t want to hear such a raw story, because generally society doesn’t like to talk about trauma. But I refuse to stay silent about what happened to me. I believe that talking about it is part of healing– not just for me, but for anyone who has been through similar pain. Yes, these stories are uncomfortable. They can be heavy and hard to hear. Yet if we always turn away from them, nothing will change. By writing that song and putting it out there, I hoped to spark a conversation that would help others feel seen and understood. Every time someone listens to it or asks me about the meaning, I feel a little bit of that stigma fall away. Not today will I hide what I lived through; not today will I let shame win.
Finding the Light
In many ways, my journey has been about finding light in the darkness – much like seeing the glow at the end of a long tunnel. I still explore those dark tunnels and abandoned places with my camera, and I still delve into difficult memories in therapy, but I’m not afraid anymore. I know now that even the grittiest, most broken environments can contain beauty, and even the most traumatic experiences can yield hope. Just as the polished white tiles of the Second Street Tunnel can reflect a car’s headlights and illuminate the whole passage, I believe we can shine light on trauma and mental health in a way that transforms them.
These days, when I photograph empty chairs in decaying buildings or tunnels (a series I’ve titled “The Chair Movement”), I think back to that white plastic chair that appeared to me in my darkest hour. That chair anchored me when I was lost, and it became a symbol of safety and presence. Every empty chair I capture now represents a survivor’s place – a reminder that there is someone out there who might feel invisible or forgotten, but who deserves to be seen and heard. Through The Chair Movement, I want to encourage conversations that save lives by educating others about trauma and DID, one story at a time.
My art, my music, and my advocacy are all part of a larger journey – one that’s still unfolding. I am healing more each day, and my website will evolve as I do. I invite you to join me on this journey. Explore the photos, listen to the songs, learn about Dissociative Identity Disorder, and see how healing can blossom in the unlikeliest places. My hope is that by sharing my truth, I can inspire others to seek their own light and help build a world that no longer turns a blind eye to the suffering of children, survivors, and “hidden” souls.
Thank you for reading this far. This is only the beginning of my story. The road ahead is long, but I’m walking it with purpose – turning pain into art, and darkness into light. I hope you’ll walk with me. Together, we can shine a light for those still lost in the tunnel and show them that healing is possible. Let’s save lives by educating and empowering – and begin The Chair Movement.