PRELUDE

PRELUDE — THE BOX THAT TRIED TO ERASE ME 

I’m not gonna give you a Hallmark story. I’m not here to hand you some Instagram-worthy “rise and grind” fairy tale. No. You’re gonna hear it raw, the way it fucking happened. Because my life wasn’t a lesson plan — it was a war zone. And the only reason I’m still here to spit these words onto the page is because I turned my mouth into a weapon sharper than any blade. 

So let’s start with the facts. 

I am now legally blind. 
I am now legally disabled. 

Not just on paper. Not just a checkbox on some government form. I’m talking the entire right side of my body fried from the toes up to my eye. Nerve damage that drags my leg, weakens my arm, trembles my face. Vision gone. And my muscles? They vibrate like live wires under my skin. All. The. Time. Imagine being strapped into an electric chair that never gets switched off. That’s my baseline. 

And here’s the kicker: this didn’t happen because of fate, or bad luck, or some tragic accident. This was manufactured. Engineered. Delivered with intent. 

The Texas Medical Board admitted that three out of four “doctors” inside Williamson County Jail weren’t even licensed by the State of Texas. Read that again: **not licensed.** And the one who crippled me, the one who put me in this body, doesn’t have a Texas license either. Matter of fact, he didn’t even fucking go to medical school. 

That’s not medicine. That’s mutilation in scrubs. That’s torture hidden behind a clipboard. 

326 Days in a Steel Box 

I spent 326 days in solitary confinement. Twenty-three hours a day locked inside a steel coffin. Not concrete — steel. Cold walls that echoed every sound. A door with a metal flap. A six-by-eight inch window that lets you see nothing worth seeing. 

And this wasn’t after conviction. This wasn’t a prison. This was **pre-trial detention.** Innocent until proven guilty? Don’t make me laugh. In Williamson County, you’re guilty the second the door slams. 

For nearly a year I lived in that box while life charges stacked against me like bricks sealing me into a crypt. 

Harassment as Routine 

Twice a day, every single day, they came for me. Don’t picture a polite “cell check.” Picture an army of guards in riot gear storming your coffin. Shields raised. Stun gloves crackling with enough current to stop a heart. Tasers pressed an inch from your face. Boots slamming into ribs and steel just to hear you grunt. 

And they didn’t call it harassment. They didn’t call it abuse. They dressed it up in bureaucracy.

They called it “procedure.”

They called it “security.” 

Bullshit. 

This wasn’t security. This was ritualized harassment scheduled like breakfast and dinner. Their way of reminding you: you don’t belong to yourself anymore. You belong to them. 

Starved and Dehydrated 

When harassment wasn’t enough, they moved to biology. 

They cut my diabetes meds for a month. Watched me suffer. I watched my blood sugar spike and crash until my vision dimmed even further. 

They shut off my water for nineteen hours straight. No warning. No explanation. You want to know what that’s like? Your tongue glues itself to your teeth. Your lips split open like dry clay. Your skull pounds like it’s cracking from the inside. And the faucet that’s supposed to save you? Dead as stone. 

That wasn’t an oversight. That was weaponized dehydration. 

The Building as a Weapon 

And just when you think you’ve seen it all, the building itself turns against you. 

They had hidden devices in the walls and floor. How do I know? Because for three days straight the ground beneath me shook like a motherfucker. My food rattled off the bed. Plates skittered across the concrete. One night the vibration shoved my mat six inches down the frame. Six. Inches. 

Picture trying to sleep when the floor itself throws you out of bed. Picture dragging your mat onto the floor because the cot shakes like dice in a gambler’s hand. 

It wasn’t “bad plumbing.” It wasn’t “construction issues.” It was engineered destabilization. Psychological warfare disguised as maintenance. And while my teeth rattled in my head, they laughed. 

Stripped of Faith 

They didn’t just come for my body. They came for my spirit. 

They told me my Bible and the rug I prayed on were contraband. Contraband. Words of God, a strip of cloth under my knees — outlawed. 

They shoved me into a smock, stripped me naked, and when I fought them for my faith, they strapped me to a chair. Arms locked. Legs bound. Body pinned not because I was violent, but because I wouldn’t let them erase the last piece of me. 

And then came the vibration torture — everything in my cell shook for days. The bed. The toilet. The ceiling. The floor. It was like living inside a giant phone stuck on vibrate. For three straight days my teeth rattled. Sleep became impossible. 

And the irony? Just two weeks earlier I had passed an independent psych exam. Declared stable. Fit. Sound. They couldn’t call me crazy, so they manufactured crazy. 

Humiliation as Torture 

But they weren’t done. 

They brought in female guards with handheld cameras right after showers. Naked, dripping, pressed against the wall while they filmed and laughed. 

That wasn’t security. That wasn’t protocol. That was humiliation dressed as entertainment. Torture through shame. Their way of saying: *your body doesn’t belong to you anymore. It belongs to us, to record, to laugh at, to destroy.* 

Filth as a Weapon 

And when all else failed, they turned to filth. 

They shut off the jets in my toilet so it wouldn’t flush. Let it backflow. Let it clog. Let it stink. And when I pointed it out during inspections, the guards just looked, smirked, and walked on. 

So I did what I had to. I shoved my bare hand into that toilet, pulled out the waste, stuffed it into empty chip bags. And when they refused to take my trash? I set those bags on my food tray just to get them out of the cell. 

That’s not “discipline.” That’s not “corrections.” That’s psychological warfare through disgust. A message written in sewage: *you are not human.* 

Suicide, or the System’s Lie? 

And here’s the part that makes me want to spit nails. 

When men broke under this madness, the jail didn’t call it what it was. They called it suicide. They called it “mental health.” 

You lock a man in a steel box. You deny him medicine. You cut off his water. You vibrate his cell for days until his teeth rattle out of his head. You strap him to a chair to cling to his Bible. You film him naked for sport. You bury him in his own filth. 

And when he breaks? You call it suicide. 

That’s not suicide. That’s murder with paperwork. 

What Got Me Through 

So how the fuck am I still here? How did I walk out blind, crippled, shaking like a live wire — and still breathing, still spitting fire? 

Because I had one weapon they couldn’t confiscate. 

My words. My loop. My incantations. 

Every single day I pressed my hand to my chest, dragged the air into my lungs, and roared into those steel walls until my throat bled: 

*“I don’t fucking lose. I am still powerful. I am still a winner.”* 

Not once. Not ten times. Hundreds. Thousands. Until the walls themselves knew it. Until my nervous system carved it into reflex. Until my body stopped asking if it was true and just obeyed. 

That was my Bible when they stole my Bible. That was my dignity when they laughed with cameras. That was my foundation when the floor shook me out of bed. 

I didn’t survive because the system showed mercy. I didn’t survive because I was lucky. I survived because I weaponized my mouth. 

And now I’m handing that weapon to you.

The Loop Is the Law 

I didn’t survive on luck. I didn’t survive because I was tougher than the next guy. I survived because I figured out the one law that runs deeper than steel, deeper than courts, deeper than torture. 

The loop is the law. 

Your nervous system doesn’t care about the truth. It doesn’t give a shit about evidence. All it cares about is what you feed it on repeat. 

You whisper *“I’m fucked”* every day, and your body obeys. You roar *“I win”* every day, and your body obeys that too. 

Truth doesn’t matter. Reps do. 

That was the mistake they made with me. They thought the tasers, the smock, the starvation, the vibrating floor, the female guards with cameras, the backed-up toilet would write my story. They thought they were programming me into collapse. 

But every spark, every shove, every humiliation became my cue to fire the loop. 

Hand on chest. Breath in four. Hold two. Exhale six. Growl like a fucking animal: 

*“I don’t fucking lose. I am still powerful. I am still a winner.”* 

Again. Again. Again. Until it wasn’t a line anymore. It was me. 

The Science Under the Skin 

Let’s cut the poetry and talk mechanics. Here’s what was happening under the hood while I carved those words into my bones: 

**Neuroplasticity**: Neurons that fire together wire together. Every time I repeated the loop, the groove in my brain got deeper. Fear tried to carve one canyon. I carved another. 

**Vagus nerve activation**: Hand to chest, breath slow and steady — that wasn’t spiritual fluff. That was me hijacking my parasympathetic nervous system. Slowing my heart. Dropping cortisol. Resetting my state. 
**Cortisol override**: The stress hormones wanted to make me panic, shaking, begging. My loop told my body: “Stress means fight.” 

**Dopamine anticipation**: Dopamine doesn’t spike when you win. It spikes when you *expect* to win. Every time I roared *“I am a winner,”* my brain juiced up like I already had. 

That’s how I beat them. Not with fists. Not with pleas. With biology rewired by incantation. 

The Man Who Broke Beside Me 

Now let me show you the other side of the loop. 

There was a man down the tier — Curtis. We never saw each other, but we talked through the vents. At first, he was strong. Swore he wouldn’t fold. But I heard what he muttered to himself at night. 

*“They’re gonna bury me.”* 
*“They’re gonna bury me.”* 
*“They’re gonna bury me.”* 

Night after night, those words carved his canyon. Within three months, he pled out to thirty years. He didn’t just take the deal — he *spoke it into his nervous system* before the ink ever touched paper. 

That’s the law of the loop. It doesn’t give a fuck if you’re lying. It only cares if you’re consistent. Curtis looped death. Curtis got death. 



Austin Parallel — Rico the Barback 

Same law, different setting. Dirty Sixth Street. Rico the barback, twenty-nine, broke, kids at home, muttering his cage every night. 

*“I’m stuck here forever.”* 
*“I’ll die carrying kegs.”* 

Sound familiar? He was Curtis on the outside. Different bars, same loop. 

Until I forced him to spit something else. *“I stack futures.”* At first, he laughed. Then he whispered it. Then he roared it. 

Six months later, he had a food truck. Two years later, he had employees. 

Curtis and Rico were the same man, until one flipped his loop. 

NLP Razor — Reframe or Die 

NLP geeks call it reframing. I call it the razor. 

Language is a blade. You can slit your own throat with it, or you can cut the ropes that bind you. 

– Old: *“I’m drowning.”* → New: *“I rise above the flood.”* 

– Old: *“I’m stuck.”* → New: *“I stack futures.”* 

– Old: *“I’m losing everything.”* → New: *“I protect my home.”* 

– Old: *“I can’t control this.”* → New: *“I set the rules.”* 

That’s the blade I swung every single day in that cell. Took their lies and cut new grooves. 

Story — James the Closer 

Downtown Austin. High-rise condos. James, three years in real estate, ready to quit. His loop: *“I’m not cut out for this.”* 

That’s Curtis again. That’s Rico before tacos. That’s every man who folds before the fight. 

I tore the cigarette from his hand and forced him to spit a new line: *“I close. I conquer. I claim.”* 

He chuckled. He resisted. Then he said it. Then he roared it. 

Next week, he closed a deal. Next year, he doubled commissions. Three years later, he had his own team. 

Not because the market changed. Not because luck struck. Because his loop did. 

Jail Parable — Sparks as Cues 

Back in my steel coffin, the harassment never stopped. Twice a day, the stormtroopers came. Shields. Boots. Stun gloves humming blue lightning. 

They thought they were grinding me down. But every spark was just another cue. 

Hand to chest. Breath steady. Roar the loop: 

*“I don’t fucking lose. I am still powerful. I am still a winner.”* 

They thought they were breaking me. They were engraving me. 

Drill — Build Your Scar Incantation 

Your turn. Don’t just read this. Do it. 

1. Write the curse you mutter most. Don’t sugarcoat it. 
   *“I always choke.”* 
   *“I can’t recover.”* 
   *“I’m broken.”* 

2. Flip it into identity. Present tense. Non-negotiable. 
   *“I finish strong.”* 
   *“I recover fast.”* 
   *“I am unbreakable.”* 
3. Anchor it. Hand to chest. Inhale 4. Hold 2. Exhale 6. Roar it. 
4. Repeat at the cue. Stress hits? Roar it. Fear spikes? Roar it. 

Every repetition is scar tissue turning to armor. 

Why Torture Failed 

Here’s the truth: their whole playbook depends on you folding. Depends on you begging for the plea deal. Depends on you looping collapse until you hand them the win. 

But loops cut deeper than tasers. Deeper than humiliation. Deeper than backed-up toilets and smocks and vibrating floors. 

They weren’t erasing me. They were engraving me. 

So let me hammer this into your skull: 

The loop is the law. Whether you’re in a six-by-eight steel coffin in Williamson County or a dead-end apartment in East Austin, the nervous system doesn’t give a fuck about truth. It cares about what you repeat. 

That’s why Curtis got buried. That’s why Rico built a business. That’s why James became a closer. And that’s why I’m still breathing after everything they threw at me. 

*“I don’t fucking lose. I am still powerful. I am still a winner.”* 

That was my loop. That was my law. 

And it can be yours. 

Pure Hell 

Let me put it plain: the environment they shove you into isn’t jail, it’s hell. Not “tough love.” Not “paying your dues.” It’s hell built in steel and fluorescent buzz, designed inch by inch to grind your soul into powder. 

You think hell is fire? No. Hell is cold metal walls that sweat with condensation at three in the morning. Hell is fluorescent lights that never shut off, drilling into your skull until you’d sell your soul for a shadow. Hell is silence so loud it feels like a blade pressed to your throat. 

And when the silence doesn’t crack you? They layer humiliation on top. 

Humiliation as Torture 

Female guards marching in with handheld cameras. Right after shower time. Naked. Wet. Skin steaming from the cheap lukewarm water. 

“Up against the wall,” they bark. And you obey, because what the fuck else can you do with half a dozen stun guns staring you down? 

So you stand there, dripping, pressed against steel while they film. While they laugh. While they store that footage away like trophies. 

It wasn’t protocol. It wasn’t safety. It was humiliation turned into ritual. Their way of teaching you: *your body doesn’t belong to you anymore. It belongs to us.* 

And here’s the kicker: humiliation sticks harder than pain. Bruises fade. Tasers stop sparking. But the shame? That shit brands itself under your skin. 

That’s how they try to kill you from the inside out. 

Filth as a Weapon 

And if humiliation doesn’t do the trick, they go lower. Filth is their next tool. 

They’d shut off the jets to my toilet so it wouldn’t flush. Backflow rising, stench crawling into my lungs. Inspections would come, guards would peek in, smirk, and walk the fuck away. 

So I did what no human being should ever have to do. I shoved my bare hand down into that toilet. Pulled out the blockage. Stuffed it into empty chip bags. And because they refused to take my trash, I had to set those bags on my meal tray just to get them out of the cell. 

Think about that for a second. A man. Legally innocent. Locked in a steel coffin. Eating and shitting in the same corner. Forced to scoop waste with his bare hands and sneak it out disguised as garbage on a food tray. 

That’s not corrections. That’s not safety. That’s a psychological chokehold. It’s their way of spelling it out: *you are filth, you are property, you are not human.* 

Suicide, or the Cover-Up 

And here’s where it gets colder. 

When men finally snapped under the weight of it all — humiliation, starvation, vibration, filth — the jail didn’t call it what it was. 

They called it suicide. 
They called it “mental health crisis.” 

Fuck that. I was there. I saw how it happened. 

A man stripped of light. Stripped of medicine. Stripped of faith. Locked in a vibrating coffin until his teeth rattled in his skull. Forced to scoop shit out of his own toilet while guards laughed. 

And when he finally broke? They stamped the death certificate with “suicide.” 

That’s not suicide. That’s murder with paperwork. 

And the public swallows it, because “suicide” sounds clean. It sounds like the man just gave up. It hides the truth: the system engineered his death and washed their hands in his blood. 

Loop Science — The Suicide Equation 

Here’s the brutal science of it: 

– Stress (cue) + humiliation (routine) + hopelessness (reward) = suicide (identity). 
– That’s the loop they’re trying to write into every man locked in those cells. 

But loops can be hijacked. That’s the piece they never planned for. 

Every vibration through my floor? Cue. 
Every spark of the stun glove? Cue. 
Every backed-up toilet? Cue. 

And every cue got the same response: 

*“I don’t fucking lose. I am still powerful. I am still a winner.”* 

That’s how you hijack the suicide equation. You overwrite it with survival code. 

Austin Parallel — Maria Against Eviction 

East Austin. Maria, single mom, three kids, eviction notice slapped on her door. Her loop was the same one they wanted me to run: *“I can’t do this.”* 

She whispered it like a prayer of defeat. Every overdue bill, every angry phone call, she muttered collapse. And the loop ate her alive. 

Until I forced her to flip it. *“I lead this family.”* 

At first, it felt fake. Then she repeated it. Louder. Again. Until her kids in the other room went silent, stunned by the sound of their mother roaring. 

That night, her loop shifted. And when the loop shifted, her life followed. Jobs appeared. Opportunities multiplied. Within a year, she wasn’t begging to stay in her house. She was signing a rent-to-own. 

Same mechanics. Different battlefield. Different outcome. 

Jail Parable — The Vibrating Room 

Let me drag you back into my cell. 

For three days straight, they vibrated it so hard my teeth rattled. Not a buzz. Not a hum. I mean the floor, the toilet, the bed, the ceiling — every surface shaking like I was locked inside a giant phone stuck on vibrate. 

Three days. No sleep. No stillness. Just a body on edge, nerves fried, brain boiling. 

And this was after I had passed a psych exam by an independent psychiatrist just two weeks earlier. Stable. Sound. Declared fit. 

They couldn’t call me crazy, so they manufactured crazy. 

That’s the kind of shit they do. They don’t just punish. They engineer collapse, then slap a label on it. 

The Weapon That Beat It 

But here’s what they couldn’t touch: my loop. 

Hand on chest. Breath in four. Hold two. Exhale six. Roar until the walls shook back at me. 

*“I don’t fucking lose. I am still powerful. I am still a winner.”* 

Every vibration became fuel. Every humiliation became repetition. Every piece of filth, every drop of sweat, every rattle of my teeth became proof that my words were harder than their cages. 

That’s how I survived when men around me folded. That’s how I walked out blind, disabled, shaking like a live wire, but undefeated. 

Drill — Rewrite the Cover-Up 

Your turn. 

1. Write the lie the system stamped on you. 
   *“I’m too broken.”* 
   *“I’m worthless.”* 
   *“I can’t come back from this.”* 

2. Reframe it into identity. 
   *“I am unbreakable.”* 
   *“I am valuable.”* 
   *“I rise again and again.”* 

3. Anchor it. Hand on chest. Four in. Two hold. Six out. Roar it. 

4. Repeat until the old lie cracks and the new law engraves itself into your nervous system. 

Why I’m Still Here 

They starved me. They dehydrated me. They shook me until my teeth rattled. They strapped me to a chair. They filmed me naked. They buried me in my own shit. 

They tried every trick in the handbook of engineered hell. 

And yet I’m here. Blind, disabled, scarred, but alive. 

Because the loop is the law. Because I refused to hand over my mouth. Because I weaponized the only thing they couldn’t confiscate. 

*“I don’t fucking lose. I am still powerful. I am still a winner.”* 

That was my Bible when they stole my Bible. That was my armor when they stripped my dignity. That was my truth when the state wrote lies on every page of my file. 

That’s why I’m still here. And that’s why you’re reading this. 

Scar Alchemy 

Have you ever looked down at your body and wonder how much pain it’s holding? Every scar is a receipt. Every tremor in my muscles is a signature from Williamson County. Blindness in my eyes, vibration in my nerves, weakness in my right side — all of it, proof of what they tried to do. 

But here’s the twist: scars can bury you, or scars can crown you. 

That’s scar alchemy — turning wounds into weapons. Taking what they meant to destroy you with and flipping it into a crown of survival. 

That’s what this book is about. That’s why I’m still here. 

The Loop That Saved My Life 

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it until my bones rattle in the dirt: my loop is what saved me. 

*“I don’t fucking lose. I am still powerful. I am still a winner.”* 

That loop was my oxygen when they cut my water. My bread when they cut my meds. My Bible when they stole my Bible. My dignity when they filmed me naked. My mattress when the floor shook me out of bed. 

Every torture they threw at me was just another cue to fire the loop again. 

That’s why I walked out scarred but undefeated. That’s why this page even exists. 

The Architect’s Choice 

Here’s the truth you need to swallow before we go any further: nobody gets to skip the loop. 

You’re running one right now. Either you’re programming collapse or you’re programming survival. Either you’re speaking curses or you’re firing incantations. 

– Whisper *“I can’t handle this”* enough times and you collapse into it. 

– Roar *“I lead this family”* enough times and you rise into it. 

– Curse *“I’m worthless”* until it’s tattooed in your bones, and your body obeys. 

– Chant *“I am unbreakable”* until your nervous system salutes it, and you live it. 

That’s the choice. You’re either prey or architect. Nothing in between. 

Austin Parallel — Angela the Landlord 

Angela was fifty-five. Inherited a handful of rentals from her father. It was supposed to be her retirement. Instead, it was her nightmare. 

Every late rent, every screaming tenant, every eviction carved the same curse into her chest: *“I can’t control this.”* 

I found her outside one of her units after a tenant slammed a door in her face. Tears in her eyes, muttering collapse. 

“Say this,” I told her. *“I set the rules.”* 

At first she shook her head. Said it felt like a lie. But she said it anyway. 

“I set the rules.” 

Again. Louder. *“I SET THE RULES.”* 

Within months, her loop flipped. She enforced late fees. Hired a manager. Renovated units. Raised rents. The nightmare turned back into a retirement plan. 

She didn’t need more luck. She didn’t need a bailout. She needed a new loop. 

Jail Parable — The Toilet and the Tray 

Meanwhile, back in my steel coffin, my toilet overflowed again. Backflow. Stench. Guards laughed as they walked by. 

So I shoved my bare hand in. Scooped waste into chip bags. Set the bags on my meal tray to get them out of my cell. 

That’s what survival looks like when the state wants you dead. You adapt. You flip filth into proof. You turn every act of degradation into another reason to roar the loop louder. 

*“I don’t fucking lose. I am still powerful. I am still a winner.”* 

Even with shit on my hands, I was winning. 

The Razor of Language 

Language is the razor that cuts reality. I carved my survival with it. 

So will you. 

When you catch yourself muttering *“I can’t,”* slice it open and replace it with *“I do.”* 
When you hear yourself say *“I’m broken,”* gut it and stitch in *“I’m unbreakable.”* 
When your mouth whispers *“I’m stuck,”* slam the razor down and roar *“I stack futures.”* 

Every reframe is a new groove cut deeper than the old. 

That’s how you stop being prey. That’s how you start becoming an architect. 

Drill — Carve Your Loop 

We’re not leaving this Prelude without you doing the work. 

1. Write down the curse you mutter when no one’s listening. Don’t dress it up. Write it raw. 
   *“I always fuck it up.”* 
   *“I can’t do this.”* 
   *“I’m drowning.”* 

2. Flip it. Carve it into identity. Present tense. No negotiation. 
   *“I finish.”* 
   *“I lead.”* 
   *“I rise above the flood.”* 

3. Anchor it. Hand on chest. Four in. Two hold. Six out. 

4. Roar it until your throat scratches. Until your nervous system bends to it. 

This isn’t motivation. This is mechanics. 

Why This Book Exists 

This isn’t self-help. This isn’t positive thinking. This isn’t a “feel-good” seminar. 

This is survival code. Scar alchemy. The law of the loop, written in blood and vibration, filth and humiliation, tasers and tears. 

I didn’t write this book because life got easier. I wrote it because I survived hell and carved a weapon out of it. 

And now I’m handing that weapon to you. 

Closing the Prelude 

I am legally blind. 
I am legally disabled. 
I am scarred, nerve-damaged, vibrating, and marked for death by a system that tried to erase me. 

But I am still here. 

Because I looped survival. Because I turned words into armor. Because I refused to give them the one thing they wanted most — my submission. 

So let me hand you the first weapon: 

Hand to chest. Inhale four. Hold two. Exhale six. 

Now roar it with me: 

*“I don’t fucking lose. I am still powerful. I am still a winner.”* 

Again. Louder. Again. Until your walls shake. Until your body bends. Until your nervous system salutes it. 

Good. That’s scarred steel. 

Now we begin.