A Clean Slate…..

I have some good and great news! My health appears to be on the upswing, and while Dwain isn’t necessarily cured, he is back at work and I am slowly getting back to my routine. I’m not pushing it, and I heard Jesus loudly and clearly when he whispered (actually roared :)) “You aren’t taking care of yourself. What happened to your vitamin regimen? Why aren’t you resting? Who the Harry cares if the pantry door won’t close? Fix it in the Spring!”

Yes, I have a personal relationship with Jesus. When I found the swollen and painful lymph node last week? I heeded his words and dove into recovery like a pit-bull chasing a cat-with stealth, speed and my tail between both legs. It is so very easy to take our health for granted. We don’t appreciate what we can</em do, and often, with deranged fervor, chase what we cannot.

I grew up hating the word NO. With every morsel of my being, I loathed that word. I once punched out a bedroom window because my father told me I couldn't use the car until I had untangled the Christmas lights. Not proud of it, I acted like a brat, and it taught me nothing at the time. Only now, in middle age, do I understand that we, as humans, even as Christians, are not able-nor meant, to do all things under the sun, and we only hurt ourselves when we insist on forcing the square peg into a round hole.

You see, God created us to be the best version of ourselves we can be-we have power we do not use, ideas that never see the light of day, compassion that surfaces at our convenience. We were never, ever meant to be the solution to everyone's problems. However, if we have an intimate relationship with Christ, we can allow the Holy Spirit to guide us in what we can do; in order to do this we must get quiet, and listen to the ebb and flow of His lilted voice, asking that we think before we speak, comprehend before acting, and love like our very lives depended upon it.

Today, and every day, Jesus forgives our sins, grants us redemption and pats us on the proverbial butt as if to say:

You are my beloved, and through me you are given the strength to pick up your cross and follow….wherever I may lead.

A Letter to My Sister……

The other day my husband and I watched The Carpenters on Reelz. If someone had warned me, I wouldn’t have watched it. I believe that some films and television shows should come with a TRIGGER alert. Let’s just say, I sat through two hours of my life story, and I bled with her when she bled. Her mother, like mine (I have made peace with her, forgiven her-she did her best)was domineering, her brother her hero, she was under the control of her family for her entire adult life. In retaliation she developed an eating disorder, which began by her mother constantly complaining that she was heavy or eating too much. Deja Vu.

Anyway, I cried like a baby at the end-feeling as if I had just seen a docudrama of my life. And that, of course, sent me in a downward spiral of regret, remorse, repentance.

I am out of carrots. I am out of sticks. I didn’t expect what happened yesterday, as I broke down again. When I am really sick I cry, or get very bitchy; no hoe down for my husband, trust me.

I miss my sister.” I want my sister and the gut wrenching reality is that we are broken, she and myself. I asked that she not write to me again unless she was serious about healing. I never heard from her again, and hey, at least I know where she stands.

We are often at the whim of our DNA. The family secrets swept under the rug, generation after generation. The scary monsters of the past, who have somehow convinced her that I don’t care.

What fresh hell have I stumbled upon, and where, oh sweet Jesus, where will it end?

In Loving Memory of Delores O’Riodan

It is incredibly hard for me to put this into words, so I’ll just blurt it out: The Illuminati have killed almost every artist I love. They are grimy, greedy Satanists, who push music artists to sign a contract, then kill them when they make a comeback-for the money. That’s correct, and by all means, check it out yourselves, on YouTube-I recommend Mary40-who owns this subject and taught me everything I didn’t want to know.

Here is a list of artists I hoped to see well into the future, but because they sold their souls for fame and fortune (they didn’t know this at the time of signing)they remain beloved and sorely missed, at least by me.

Cranberries lead singer Delores O’Riodan
Christopher Cornell
David Bowie
Kurt Cobain
Prince
Amy Winehouse

This is not a comprehensive list, but a sampling of the loss of superlative talent, all in the name of the dollar bill. Jim Morrison, Bob Marley, Janis Joplin…..the deep state has been in the business of murder for years and years and years. Some have exposed the Illuminati, some have broken “rules” and some are plainly worth more dead than alive.

There is so much sadness and grief in the world, and music lifts one up like no other art-I literally put down a gun I meant to use on myself, because of a song that played on the radio-snapping me out of the dark side and raising me up to, well, at least livable conditions.

I don’t know the answer to any of this. But I am weary, tired to my very bones, of seeing such talent wasted, such joy dismantled.

It is of little comfort to me that these music moguls will most likely end up downstairs in Hell. I want them to pay for their crimes yesterday, and sadly-no one is doing a thing to stop the senseless murders that surround the music industry.

Delores, you rocked my world. I pray you peace. This world won’t be the same without you.

And Jesus wept.

To Sit and Wonder Why….

Okay, men, if you don’t want to hear me rant about how freaking STUPID your asses get when you’re sick, (my apologies to the grown ups, who, you know, can be self sufficient when they are ill) I guess you’d better “step off, George.”

I think most of you know how much I love my husband. And, you know that he was on a recent trip, that I have a horrible temper when pushed to my last nerve ending, and that I am in recovery. All of that being said? I AM GOING TO WRING HIS FREAKISHLY LARGE NECK!!!!


SERIOUSLY??????

So, last night went like this: I have been sick for weeks, but I haven’t taken time to rest, at all. As a matter of fact I am working at the house and errands per usual, and still fighting the war against my anxiety. Yesterday? All I wanted, all I really wanted was for my husband to come home and take care of stuff around the house. The constant letting in and letting out of the cat population, feeding said cat population, taking care of Jesse are things that can tax a person who is one horse hair’s ass from dropping over completely. Things took a terrible turn for the worst when my husband announced, at 4 p.m. that he was going to bed.

Not before causing a huge argument, of course. You see, when Dwain is sick? It is in my nature to pamper and care for, but sorry amigos, this time? Oh this time I was livid. So the poor thing puts himself to bed, and leaves me, ON THE COUCH, to fend for myself.

If you knew what shape my couch was in, you would be screaming ASSHOLE at the computer screen, trust me. That’s right folks, I slept on the dilapidated couch (oh, we have new furniture a friend gave us months ago, but it’s still in the garage. Insert frowny face.

I awoke to a screaming Maine Coon in my face. Jesse was crossing his legs, poor baby. Animals everywhere, a freaking herd of animals-crying at me, giving the evil eye, What the hell is going on around here? The mew. There was not enough Calgon on planet earth to take me away. So, I am sitting here and it’s nearing noon, and I feel badly-as angry as I am with him, I still love him, still care) and I make him a pity egg sandwich. I reclaim my seat on the couch, he is walking down the stairs-I would have brought it up-one at a time.

“What fresh hell is this? read my thought bubble.

You’re brunch is on the table,” I mutter between clenched teeth.

He comes to the living room, and I am hopeful. I can sneak upstairs with a good book and rest in my oh so comfy bed-but hark, I hear the sound of an invalid, what is he saying?

“I’ll eat that sandwich tonight for dinner. I’m going to bed.”

Color me RED.

More of You in My Life

It should come as no surprise to me that I am down and out, physically exhausted, crippled with fear. You see, when I find myself plagued with the common cold, flu or other ailment, I do not take care of myself, well…at all.
With my husband gone I worked into late afternoon, his chores on top of mine, but I wasn’t complaining; it kept me busy and took my mind off of how much I missed him. But here’s the real issue at hand: I will not, can not put myself to bed or even rest-as those things are reminiscent of the days I couldn’t get out of bed due to depression and anxiety.

Why am I crippled with fear? A few years ago, when I diagnosed myselfwith Lyme disease, the symptoms began with an enlarged lymph node in my groin area. I cannot fathom why this didn’t alarm me more at the time, but what transpired after going to the doctor was a cluster of medical mistakes so severe, I left my doctor’s practice.

“I have a bump on my thigh and it’s painful.”

The doctor didn’t skip a beat.

“Probably bruised it,” said the medical genius, not even looking at the area.

When I came back two weeks later, the exact same thing occurred. Never asked me to take down my pants, never deemed it appropriate to take a look. By the time my husband and I arrived at his office, the day after Christmas? It had grown to the size of an orange. The site of the swelling was black and blue, and the pain? Incredible. I, in my robe and fuzzy bunny slippers, was given a shot of Ultram in my buttocks, so I could be rushed into a stat ultrasound. The results were so disturbing that a uterine biopsy was ordered…..and the results were negative, praise God!

So, back at the practice. I had insisted on seeing the female practitioner, and oh how I loved her! Unfortunately, she left not long afterwards.

“Dr. Burrows, I am not leaving this office without 60 days of doxycycline, as I am convinced that I have Lyme disease (rampant in these parts of Pennsylvania) and thus the swollen lymph node.”

She was so upset, she begged me for forgiveness.

“Oh my word, Michele! How did I miss it? How did I not know to send you for bloodwork?” I couldn’t blame her one iota, as she was new on the scene. She gave me the scripts, and I went home with a sigh of relief. A week later I awoke with a case of vertigo. Frightened out of my mind, I phoned my in laws as Dwain was at work. They, in turn, phoned my husband who called 911. He didn’t want his father trying to pick me up, and the irony is that the EMTs refused to bring the gurney in the house, so I was walked out to the ambulance.

At the Emergency room I became quite giddy. A defense mechanism for sure, I laughed at everything the nurse or doctor said. Nothing was funny, but I suppose I thought if I laughed in the face of death, maybe it would walk away.

The brainiacs that treated me did blood work, and I was then subjected to a lecture on how marijuana is a gateway drug-the LAST thing I wanted to hear. The doctor sat down to read my numbers, and in a stern voice told me I had high markers for an autoimmune disorder. Do you know how many autoimmune disorders are out there? They did not do a test for Lyme. (If you suspect you have the tick borne illness, ask for a Western Blot test, the only test you need.) Two weeks later when I called about my insurance company denying the claim, I was given the run around. FINALLY, the insurance agent told me why the claim was denied-

Diagnoses? Giddiness due to THC.

WHAT? WHAT? I wasn’t stoned. I was sick as a dog. What about the vertigo? Sons of bees I was pissed.

And now, after finding another swollen lymph node? I am getting serious about rest, serious about my health and more importantly-my faith.

God has been asking me to rest for months, and I have denied him at each and every turn. So for now, and the foreseeable future? I will trust the Holy Spirit, withhold my hiking and let my husband do the housework. He can find me on the couch, where I will be nose deep in the Word, drinking hot chocolate and filing my nails.

More love, more power, more of you in my life.