What it cost to tell the truth
For most of my adult life I have been fighting to protect my children — and paying for it with my health, my livelihood, and very nearly my life. The official record runs to ten thousand pages. Here it is in plain words.
In 2016, while living with their mother, Elizabeth Anne Howell — then in a nursing-program pharmacology sequence — I became catastrophically, inexplicably ill. My organs began to fail. The doctors could not explain it. I survived, but I have never recovered. In the same months, life-insurance policies were taken out on my life and the children's. I believe I was poisoned, and the medical record is consistent with it.
What followed was a decade of the same pattern: harm to my children, a paper trail shaped to hide it, and one institution after another — sheriffs, courts, child-welfare agencies — closing the file without ever opening the question. I lost custody while too sick to stand. I watched a child pushed to the edge of her own life. I was documented, dismissed, surveilled, and alienated from the children I raised and saved.
I am not asking you to take my word alone. Look at the record — dated, sourced, preserved — and at the pattern it forms. The pattern is the point.