Broken Halos

 

Sitting here thinking, left to my own devices and dwelling on forgiveness, my family and how much things have and will change for reasons that may surprise you.  I was devastated by the loss of my family, but if it weren’t for the broken spell of codependency?  I would not be writing, creating, and, quite possibly, breathing.  I simply could not be my authentic self and survive their disrespect, hostility, or apathy.

So, now that we got the crappy part out of the way, I was daydreaming about how God picks us up and takes us away:  from the pain, the angst and the scary monsters.  A year ago today?  I was a sniveling coward, awaiting the latest news on the possible Zombie Infiltration.  Ok, maybe not zombies, but definitely black eyed children.  I was so sure that September 23 would be the return of Jesus, that my poor husband drove all the way home from work just to comfort me.  I now know that no man can come close to even guessing at the day of Jesus’ return, and that the idiots who produced the videos were looking for likes, or subscribers. Gawd.  How pitiful.  But wait?  Was I a charity case, or was my brokenness a blessing in disguise?  The latter, actually, as it strengthened my faith and made me so much stronger in the process.

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The men pictured above, Jesse and my husband Dwain, are the true loves of my life, and I praise God each and every day for their presence in my life.   None of this would ever be remotely possible if Yah didn’t give us second chances.  And third.   And eleventy hundred.  I am not admitting to murder, or some other heinous crime-don’t get me wrong: but even if I was?  Well, I would have to confess and repent, but yes, there would be forgiveness.  People get hung up on the word “repent.”  Translated from the Holy Bible, repent  means “think anew,” and of course we must change our behavior-actions speak so much louder than words.

When I get angry or hurt by those in my intimate circle, or even colleagues at church or volunteering, what have you-I think of them as broken, and in just as much if not more pain than I could possibly know.  I may be estranged from my family, but I forgive them because I love them.  I don’t know about liking them at this juncture in our history; but I know they have pain.  I know they try their very best, as strange as that may sound.  They are loving parents with successful careers-what more could you possibly want?  But regardless, I am only too aware that they, too, have moments of despair.  My sister’s youngest child is in college, and I can’t imagine the sadness.  Of course, she thought I was contagious while going through perimenopause, and not only withheld every iota of compassion-but would not stand close to me at family functions.  Yes, this is true.  🙂

Hate your boss?  Think of him/her as a young child-it helps with prying the sympathy out of our hardened hearts.

Want to strangle your better half?  Think of the last time they touched you in your secret, hidden places, where no one else has the power or accessibility.

The elderly person on the walker, you know, the one who is in front of you when you are going anywhere.  You are in a hurry, and bloody hell why is this happening to me?  They may not have anyone left to visit them, or possibly dying a slow and painful death.  Repent!

The world is out there waiting for us, as they will know we are Christians by our love~

SHOCK THE MONKEY

 

TRIGGER WARNING     TRIGGER WARNING    TRIGGER WARNING    TRIGGER WARNING

This posting is not suitable for young audiences.  The following stories are true, and if you frighten easily, or are impressionable you may want to move on to the next blogger-but please come back, I love my subs!!!!!!!!!

It all began about two and a half years ago.  It was Summer, and my sister, her family and my brother’s family were up in Lake George, without me, again.  My sister had announced, unceremoniously at that, on a day in Lititz, on my birthday, to tell me that I was not invited-for the 21st year in a row.  The excuses bordered on the ludicrous, we drink, you don’t, etc.  That particular day, on the way home, I asked her to light me a cigarette-I was under the false hope that things had changed, but she remained paranoid-that I would get the attention, that her children would love me more than she-only it took me these past few years to figure that out.   I have maintained no contact, and I know everything there is to know about NPD, however, I miss her, I miss my nephew and nieces, my Godchild, my babies.

So, Craig and the rest of my family were coming for a visit.  They weren’t coming to eat, but I had arranged a surprise for my brother: his childhood report cards and other keepsakes found in my father’s filing cabinet, after his death.  He was delighted, but my sister sat there-visibly nervous, on edge-she knew I was pissed, and she knew not to mess with me.

Prior to their arrival, I had found an old toy gun, solid metal, covered in mud.  I washed it off, and cradled it in my shaky hands.  What is this?  I had been digging in my garden for years and hadn’t come across the likes of this.  I placed the gun on my grandmother’s desk, and went into the kitchen to do the dishes before their arrival.  I turned on the radio, and this is the song that was playing

Thought nothing of it, never heard it before-but I liked it so much the first time, it became a therapeutic melody I could not resist.  I rushed upstairs to get ready for their arrival, still in my hiking clothes from this morning.  As I looked down at my feet, I almost fell off of the commode:

The socks I was wearing.  Red and black, toy guns on both sides.

How could this be and what the bloody hell was going on?

I am what they call a Sensitive.  I am not a prophet, nor a seer, I don’t read palms and I don’t read minds-but I see things or sense things that other people don’t.  This has been both heaven on earth, and hell at its worst.   I have learned to remain calm, cover myself in the blood of Jesus, and put on the full armor of God.

The other day, a vlog I follow-Philia Ministries-had an expose on the Hillsong single, Grace.  I quickly dropped the vlog in favor of listening to the song, as I believe these people to be quite judgmental at times, but hey, that’s their business.  As I turned on the vid, I felt every hair stand on end.  Then time stood still.  Suddenly, my cellar door handle began to turn, then a banging on the door-as if to say, LET ME IN.  I was backed up by my dog and cats, whose eyes were as big as fifty cent pieces.  In a fog I cannot describe, I went to the outside cellar entrance and lifted the heavy doors-convinced a cat had somehow been locked within.  I pulled away sheet after sheet of insulation, and found the cellar entrance.  There was no way anything had weaseled its way into my basement, and the insulation had been there for months.

This was not my first experience with evil, nor, I suppose will it be my last.  Thankfully, God protected me from losing my proverbial shit.  I sat down on the couch, turned OFF the video, and prayed Psalm 91, out loud.  I could feel the energy in the room shift, and I let out a sigh of relief.  Please don’t watch this video.   Hundreds and hundreds of people just like myself have experienced bad juju, and it could have been worse.

So, today, while on my daily jaunt at Middlecreek Wildlife Sanctuary, I came across a foot print on the trail that stopped me dead in my tracks.  It wasn’t the first time I has seen this phenomena, as a matter of fact I had seen these prints throughout the year, only in the Winter months did I find it strange.  Who the bloody hell is going to walk around barefoot when it’s 23 degrees in the sun?  My husband and I would joke, it’s my old Reiki Master, she walks barefoot to feel the earth’s “vibrations,” what a silly girl.

But today?  Today I saw, with my very own eyes, a footprint not of man nor beast.  It was huge, and whatever it was had 5 toes, just like the rest of us, but as I looked closer I let out an unholy yelp.

I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was not Lydia’s footprint.  I also knew that no animal I know of would make this footprint.  It was fresh, and it scared the life force out of me.  I looked up to the heavens, pled his blood and ran, as if our very lives depended upon it~

 

 

 

 

Two Turntables and a Microphone…

 

Life goes in circles, just like the old LPs I used to own; over 300 albums, stolen by a bouncer at Houlihan’s, whom I had stupidly allowed him to borrow them.  Man o’ day, it was years ago and it still creams my corn.

Mon frère is worried about my relationships.  Yes, that is the new thang-trying to diagnose Michele.  I am quite sure that my siblings discuss various methods of “fixing” me, which absolutely astounds me, as they gave me no credit whatsoever for fixing myself.  In an effort either to come to grips with the fact that I was very angry and hurt by him; or, much more likely, a way to perpetuate the idea that I am the one who is broken (aren’t we all a little brittle?) and my brother and sister are fine.  Just fine, thank you very much.

God grant me the serenity.

“I care,” he writes.  If he cares so much, why not call or write and ask how my Lyme disease is going?  I find it interesting that both siblings denied my pleas for some respect, as in both arguments, I was suffering with some pretty serious symptoms.  Nope.  Never.

Never once a pat on the back for addressing and successfully dealing with my recovery from alcohol, opioids, anorexia, self harming or intensive therapy for depression.  I have done my homework and God is still working on me, trust me.  Yet I remain perplexed at why he would think I have Borderline Personality Disorder.  What he saw was a grown ass woman, who is no longer codependent with her family of origin.  He got a good look at Michele 2.0, who has a zero tolerance for bullshit of any kind policy.  My self esteem is in check, and I will stand up for myself as I know I deserve the same respect that I give others-especially my family.  I’m not the doormat any longer, and after an entire year of growing closer to him, it took two weeks of my sister’s pie hole to convince him that I am not to be believed.

Narcs will be narcs.

What I want him to know is this:  I will always love him, he is my flesh and my blood.  I am  not angry with him, forgiveness is key in moving forward.  And lastly a warning of sorts:

I will not entertain any random diagnoses at whim.  I have been completely honest, and aside from a snarky text, have tried my best not to bring him into the mix.  Work on your own life, and please don’t try to shrink me: if you get the urge to do so, please redirect your energy in Courtney’s direction.  Look her in the eyes and ask for the truth.

I feel like a phoenix, of sorts, who has risen from the ashes of a traumatic history, only to realize that life is so much better-on the other side of the family fence.

 

I’m on the Outside…..

Good Sunday morning to you all.   I was unable to attend church today, and I was supposed to be working the Welcome Center.  At this moment I am almost hysterical at the idea of being held hostage by Lyme related complications for the duration of my life.  I keep telling myself that others have it much worse (and they do) but I have a sneaking suspicion that I fucked up my meds, as after the fight with my step son?  Well, let’s just say I wasn’t on top of my game and now I am left with decisions, so many, do I go to a Specialist?  Shouldn’t I just trust God?  I am not going to ask Why Me? because that is a ridiculous supposition, we all suffer in one way or another, right?

I want to rant and rave.  I want to hide in the fetal position, as I am as afraid as I was as a little girl, terrorized by thunderstorms.  As a sufferer from CPTSD, I do not do well with unanswered questions or the unknown.  I loathe going to the doctor, deplore their inadequacies in diagnosing, well, anything.  My doctor is most certainly not on top of this, and I need to move on, and I hate change.  Like poison.  Change sucks.

I feel as if I stand outside the window, looking at the healthy and content, as if they have something I desire, something I need.  They look oh so pleased on the outside, and maybe that’s the secret.

I’ll just fake it ’til I make it……I want someone to hold me and tell me it’s going to be okay.  I want, oh how I desire, to be that ten year old child once more.

Fix Your Eyes on Me

 

I discovered the Satanic Ritual Abuse of children and the war on human trafficking a year ago.  What really bothered me was my lack of an emotional reaction.  Shocked is a nice way of saying batshit crazy with grief and I suppose that’s what I was, shocked.  I did not cry.  I did not cry out to God; I sat there and stoically watched what I could, and avoided things I preferred not to see.

I am driving through the park, and it hits me hard, as if the air had been knocked out of my being.  I weep, so much so that my vision is blurred.  I pull over to look at the morning Heron, who greets us with abandon, each and every day.  I take a good long look at the lake, mountains and countryside.  I ask my Abba, ‘Father, what am I to do?’  My stomach is in knots just speaking of it; to know that children are being kidnapped, sold and trafficked to evil, evil people who sexually assault, torture and sacrifice our young-often for the adrenochrome alone.

I was going to add a video explaining Trump’s war on this despicable evil.  After a moment to think, I thought better of it-as it is Sunday, family day, Jesus day.  I don’t want to bring anyone down, that’s not what this blog is about.  Team Yahweh needs to band together and pray for these sweet babies.  I pray for strength and God’s peace; I pray we catch every single monster guilty of these crimes; I pray-yet I know, that Jesus is with each and every one of them.  How His heart must break, oh sweet mercy.

We can do this.  Just pray when you think of the situation-don’t dwell on it as its’ got to be God’s burden to bare; he doesn’t expect us to become vigilantes in an unholy war-not most of us anyway.  Be aware of your surroundings.  Know your children’s routine, and thoroughly vet everyone who is in daily contact with your children.  I’m not talking teachers, doctors or playmates; I mean babysitters, coaches and tutors…and, sadly, youth pastors as well.

We need to have each other’s back, despite any and all differences in race, politics or religion!  The powers that be want us divided.  We are much, much stronger together.

 

 

They Call Her Out by Her Name…..

I have been having what some would call “hearing hallucinations,” and I know they are real, as real as the grass in the yard, the puffy clouds on the horizon, and the Spring peepers who cry out their mating call at this time of year.

Okay, how do I explain the inexplicable?  I’ll have to go back to the early days, circa 2013, after an incredibly stressful demolition of our church, by Christian Hypocrites who simply took over, spewed their venom and caused one of our pastors to turn to Atheism.  I was distraught over what I then thought to be the end of my life as I  knew it.  I got sober in this chapel, every single person knew my story and they showed me love and grace, not harsh ostracism.  The travesty is, we were beginning to do some amazing spiritual work……we were in sync, and you could feel the Holy Spirit-lifting us up and out of our day to day lives.  And then:  Kaput.

I began to experience a strange, but lovely thinning of the veil, if you will.  I began finding feathers in crazy places-different colors and hues.  I collected twenty of them and put them in a crystal glass.  No explanation for how they came to be in the middle of my bedroom floor; no cat toys missing pieces, no feathered anything to be blunt.  I did not realize they were feathers from the Angels at the time, no not until the last feather was gifted me:  a large, purple beauty, somehow I knew that this would be the last one, and it was.  I have brought these feathers to bedside vigils, to give others the hope of better days to come, when we are once again home, the complete and unwavering love of God, His mercy and forgiveness.

Shortly after the last feather appeared, I had been toying with the New Age.  I came out of that nightmare unscathed, but now things were getting downright eerie.  Five minutes before I was stalked by a half naked man, causing me horrible PTSD symptoms, I heard my angels wings.  So loudly, I turned around as I expected to see a Vulture, or other huge bird looking at me.  Instinctively, I knew what it was.  I believe I was guided by the heavenlies that day, and I have good reason:  the Conservation Officers were doing their annual trail checks that day, and I had the good fortune to run out of the woods and into the arms of the officer who took the case.

One day, I was absolutely driven to get up off my buttocks and take a picture of my back yard.  It was a dreary rainy day, and there was nothing to see…..but listen to myself I did.  As I brought the camera to my eyes, I saw 6 or 7 white crosses-along the garden plot.  If I took the camera away?  Nothing.  Each time I brought that camera into focus, I saw the white crosses, and I felt protected, if not a little shaky.

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Yesterday, while getting out of the shower, I heard those wings again.  I knew the angels wanted me to know they were with me, which scared the bejeepers out of me.  What now?  Why now?  I had to sit for a spell and calm myself down.

So, it is evening and my husband and I are preparing dinner.

“Honey, you know if you need to talk about the Bud (formerly known as my stepson) debacle, I know how much you’re hurting.  I want you to know that I am here for you, and if you need to vent, please do so.”

What he said next was so crazy making, so vile and putrid and everything that goes along with the loss of a child.

“I text him, last week.  I jacked him up and he said there will be no apology forthcoming.

No apology?  That man-child stood in my garage and screamed cruel and untrue things, called me a freak, told me the whole family thought I was a freak.  And, as it turned out, he was plenty pissed that I am on SSI, as “it’s not fair I have to pay for her income with my taxes.”`  He was this close to hitting me and when I went to go inside, he came after me and I just waited.  If he hit me, then I could go to court, get a Protection From Abuse-hey, I’ve suffered worse things, believe me.

I have made the decision that he is dead, dead to me for all intents and purposes.

You see, what seemed to irritate him most? That I had suffered CPTSD, and depression.  Apparently he thinks I made it all up; that after owning my own businesses and working (often two jobs at a time) for 40 years, I just decided, as if upon whim, to close shop, be lazy and ruin my husband’s life.  How could he be that cold?

And then the inevitable kick in my aching groin:  “Bud will be at mom’s for Easter, with his gal pal extraordinaire, the woman who was the icing on the cupcake of his disaster, the woman who so eagerly took what was not hers, her best friend’s boyfriend.  Don’t get me wrong, Bud is responsible for his own actions, but being the raging narcissist that he is?  He will never take accountability.  He ruined his own life and he should have thought about that before he let his penis do his thinking.  Sorry, I’m a bit rough around the edges today.

Father, forgive him, he knows not what he does.

She talks to angels, they call her out by her name.

Let’s Do Some Living…….

Note:  this is a golden oldie that I am reblogging.  I no longer volunteer for the Emergency Room-but I am blessed by the opportunity to have helped hurting people in some small way~

I went for my annual mammogram the other day.  I always go to Heart of Lancaster, and up until two years ago I brought my mother in law with me-my first experience, 17 years ago, left its mark on my psyche.  The tech found a spot on my breast, which she told me about.  Panic ensued.  It was a Saturday and my husband was golfing.  She had no business giving me that information, and it wasn’t until a follow up ultrasound that we found out it was a benign cyst.

So, the squeezing and pinching (3D is a new fresh hell, but I am thankful for the step up in early detection.)  I lost a very close friend to breast cancer.  Before we knew it, the cancer had metastasized to her liver, then brain.  She died a painful death, and none of us, not even her family, were allowed to see her in the final days.  I still weep over this loss, in the jeep, in the shower, right this very minute.  She was light and love and laughter….and she left us forlorn, with unanswered questions and mile high grief.

After my mammogram, a little voice inside my heart (aka, the Holy Spirit) led me to the volunteer office.  I couldn’t get there fast enough.  One thing led to the other and now I am reeling at how fast this happened.  If God wants you to minister, you cannot walk away from your mission-the Chaplain asked if I would like to work at the front desk in the mammography department, escorting and comforting nervous women who are about to have a vice grip on their precious girls.  I didn’t hesitate, of course, I answered.

What happened next made so much sense to me, I had to shake my head and smile at Jesus, because he knew my isolation and pain over the past few months.  In the chaplain’s office again for a follow up orientation, she asked this question:

“You can say no, but would you like to volunteer in the Emergency Room?”

Shocked, then crippled with insecurity, I said, “Yes.”  On the way home I spoke to God and told him I was NOT THE PERSON FOR THIS JOB.  I didn’t want to be caught in the fetal position with my pants down, if you get my drift.  Anything and everything could trigger me.  I had many, many reasons for doubt, and then He spoke to my heart.

My precious child, my good and faithful servant-what have you not suffered in all the years we have known each other?  Am I not the Alpha and the Omega?  Do you think I would call you to something I would not give you the strength and courage to do?

Stopping into the ER to have my TB test read, I asked the head nurse what a typical day is like.

“Some days are slow.  But because of the heroin epidemic, we have days where it’s nothing but overdoses, one right after the other.”

Walking back to the jeep I looked up in awe and celebration.  The good Lord has given me a ministry I have plenty of experience with.  No, not heroin, but just about everything else has piqued my addictive curiosity.  I know the damage this does, as I know heroin addicts, and because it is so cheap in this area, no one really bothers with pills any more.

For when I am weak, only then am I strong.