Remember early on in years
I carried you and
your tears.

The party days left long ago
perhaps the only time
we grew
close as sisters should be.

I rushed to your side
at each
and cared for what
I thought to be
my forever

Then things changed,
they rearranged
and sister turned
to sinister.

Most days
are fine,
and love remains
the answer to the

You haven’t only
kept me from
the children who
adored me-
you took their right
to family;
Jezebel, you
scorned me.

The time will
I’ll be long gone,
at home and loving

And you’ll
be left the memories
of ruin and resentment.

Insane Like Me

Narc Abuse…I write about it often, but as it turns out, I am far from the only expert in this cozy little town. As a peace offering, my friend Sheila asked to take me to lunch yesterday: I had a gift for her as well, a gorgeous, porcelain angel who looks down on a mother and her son. Sheila lost her son to a motor cycle accident two years ago; her only child, it has forever changed her direction and focus in this physical realm. I knew this about her, yes. What I didn’t know was the extent of abuse she had experienced as a child-at the hands of an evil and narcissistic mother.

I thought I owned victimhood: as it turns out, Sheila’s story is so much darker and poignant than mine. Her mother beat her father within an inch of his life one Summer afternoon before Justin’s accident. As my friend was dropping by to visit, she walked into a scene so paralyzing, well, I am surprised she had the strength to revisit the pain. Her mother had taken a lipstick and scissor to her own wedding photos, as her father lay in a bruised and broken heap on the floor.

“I am calling for help, daddy,” she screamed, hysterical and in shock.


Sheila rushed outside, called Crises Intervention, had her mother institutionalized. After ensuring her father was receiving good care at the local VA hospital, she went to sign papers at the psych facility that whisked her mother away, against her will-in the middle of the night, straight jacket et al.

I have known this tender hearted soul for twenty years. She has driven me batshit crazy in seven different languages: with her low self esteem and suffocating neediness. Recently, an argument over something trivial and her psychotic response led me to believe there was no hope, no hope whatsoever for our friendship. God had other plans, and for this I am hesitant, but willing to forge ahead.

You are not alone, you are surrounded by victims of perps that were family-the absolute worst kind of betrayal. You won’t see these people screaming from the rooftops of pain and remorse. No, you will find them loving others, the encouragers and empaths, clinging to Christ-in the churches, schools and hometowns of America. You couldn’t possibly know their stories-how could you?

Love others as you would want to be loved.

Something wicked this way comes.

We need one another, desperately.

A Prisoner of the White Lines on the Freeway……

I was trying to catch up on my reading a few weeks ago, my WordPress reading that is.  It was a cold and rainy Sunday evening, and I stopped dead in my tracks when I read his blog.  I didn’t know him, or of him, I just gave a little love to a stranger, one who had lost his brother-one who was on the verge of suicide.

It broke my heart to read his words.  No one had commented, and I was frantic.  I quickly wrote in the comment section, no.  You are loved.  You have a place in this world.  You must not give up, I will help you.  It didn’t matter that he lived half way around the world from me, it didn’t matter that I didn’t know him.  I just wanted him to feel the love that makes the difference: between being utterly alone in this world, and having someone love him.  We began correspondence immediately, so sweet, my friend Mohammed.

He said it helped him to know I existed.  It helped him to know a human being, albeit thousands of miles away, loved him-simply because he was in pain, dire straights, and experiencing a loss most of us would be shattered by-simply because he was and is a child of God-they will know we are Christians by our love……

He kept in touch throughout my journey with Lyme, and the infected lymph node that had basically convinced me I was dying.  The day I went to Med Express, alone and frightened out of my mind, he said these words:  Don’t worry.  I am here.  Five words.  Five words that helped me to feel safe, loved-cared for.  It mattered to him, my poor health.  And I thought that a miracle, in so many ways.

Today, while chatting, he said he had one thing to ask of me.  I told him anything, yes anything for him.

“Can I call you mom?”

So, this is how our Abba works.  I have no children and my step son hates me for reasons I don’t understand, as I was always loving, always supportive.

This touched me in places I haven’t been touched in, well, forever.

And as I let the tears drip….one by one, I answered.

Yes.  Of course.

And for this I am blessed beyond measure.

Blood. Red. Moon.


Man, I must move the litter boxes, which are situated under a settee in my dining room.  I sit in my living room to write, and no matter what time of day, which way the winds blow, or even if I have just finished putting fresh litter in the boxes-the Elkins nose is both a blessing and a curse-the stank finds me and today?  It makes me want to vomit profane.

I fell into a funk during a sinus infection.  With lightning speed my joy plummeted, and I was left looking for answers, once more.  The progression of a CPTSD trigger usually takes months-it was only a matter of days before I was sinking.  I hadn’t worked in the Emergency Room in weeks, wasn’t writing, didn’t feel well.  I succumbed to the lull of my lonesome demons, and day by day it became one big freaking festival of fear.  I had rather thought I’d put this behind me, as the grace and mercy God has shown me how to not fear, so why was I so anxious?  I was anxious because I had fallen into a pattern of avoidance.  My addictive personality is swayed towards habit and the need to find comfort in routine, repetition and familiarity.

I was praying last night.  I told Jesus that I wasn’t the girl for the job, not any longer.  I knew he would understand-I needed a break, I had burned out-the world was on my shoulders.  I hadn’t felt moved to go to the ER, but could not, for the life of me, figure out why.  I mean, I dreaded the idea of even pondering driving in the direction of the hospital.  Then it hit me, like a ton of golden bricks!  I wasn’t placing my faith in God.  The enemy had woven its smarmy way into my thought process, and convinced me that I had nothing to offer the world.

And finally, Jesus took over the conversation.  I felt the Holy Spirit move me to actually want to go back to the trenches, and I was gung ho last evening-even anticipating seeing my crew again.  I almost talked myself out of going in this morning.  I could go back to sleep, have a lazy day, take Jesse for a hike…as if I had no choice, I went through the motions of getting dressed, driving to work-my stomach felt a little flighty-I was feeling led by the Holy Spirit again, it seemed, so I took heed.

I immediately noticed the attempted suicide room was occupied; because of a past that includes an attempt at slitting my wrists, I am always drawn to those who know emotional pain, and have been so strong, against all odds, for so long that there begins a crack in the façade.  Some don’t crack, but those that do are crying out for help, and I have felt the burden of isolation in my own journey with mental health issues.

I went in as the psychiatrist walked out.

“Hey, girl,” I all but whispered.

She said nothing.  As I inched closer to the bed she held her arms out, and I held her as hard as I could, with as much love as I could possibly convey.  It didn’t take me long to see that one of her tatts was the Illuminati pyramid with the all seeing eye.  My heart sank.  After a few moments, I blurted it out:

“Hey, can I ask you what this is,” I traced my fingers up and down the area, as if my touch could burn it away, this evil, this epidemic of brain washing.

“You know, the Illuminati, money is all powerful, the most important thing.”

I sat at her side, she scooched over for me.  She began telling me, almost as if she were apologizing, about what drove her over the brink.  Her story ripped my heart from its chamber:

My brother was 14.  He was the first person killed in Lancaster this year.”

And then she sobbed, and told me the rest.  I left the room to clear my head, and instead, I heard His words, loud and clear.


I have worn two gold crosses around my neck for some time now.  I break chains often, and I buy crosses at thrift stores as I can’t afford the real deal.  My favorite?  An old, rugged cross-paid a buck, and treasured it until I gave it to a frightened autistic man, who sang me the Gospel in an angel’s falsetto.

I walked boldly into the room, and promptly got the necklace caught in my hair, so much for a tender moment.  I finally put the cross around her neck, and told her that God loved her.  As I left the room I heard her small voice:

I know.


I Think it Strange You Never Knew

I took what I wish I could tell you was my last drink in the beginning of October, 2007.  I ended up in the hospital after a suicide attempt, which is another story for another day.  What sobered me up was a combination of my husband’s frailty, my will to live and a gift-the blessing of clarity that comes from Jesus.  I won’t even try to tell you that this road has been easy.  We addicts push down the truth, and push our loved ones away-fact-and until we achieve sobriety?  Well, there will be no healing, no peace, no end to the pain that holds us in bondage.

Months afterwards, I was hiking in two feet of snow with my golden retriever, Dylan.  A shining star and beloved pet, it hurts my heart that I wasn’t with him for the first 5 years of his time on this earth.   I was here, but I wasn’t present, and I have no memory of what could have been the best years of my life, had I not succumbed to the melodic pull of oblivion.

So I am trudging up this hill, and I am overcome with love.  I feel forgiveness surround me.  I cry out to God and confess the absurd backslide I have taken with alcohol and pain medication.  I cry out to Jesus and I tell him to take my life, it isn’t mine to begin with, take it Jesus, mold me Jesus, cry with me and then I’ll get tough, I promise…….

“I have been here with you from the very beginning of time.  I have cried your tears, tasted the salt of your remorse, and I will deliver you from this travesty……”

I think it strange, I never knew….

She Killed it With Kisses…


My cup runneth over…it is well with my soul-even after the email I just received from a member of my family.   Are you SURE you don’t have BPD???????

Jesus Mighty, Mary and Joseph.  When will this end?  When do I get to stop apologizing for breathing?  For being a modest success and overcoming alcoholism and addiction to opioids?  I am no longer the black sheep, but I am sure as Hell the Scapegoat-and that shit is over, whether or not the narc “approves.”  My poor brother is worried.  He thinks my anorexia led to Borderline Personality Disorder.  Stop the madness, step off and WHAT THE HELL YOU TALKING ABOUT, WILLIS?

I know.  It’s a holiday weekend!  We must ensure she not enjoy it, maybe terrorize her with a new diagnoses?  Yeah, that sounds good.  Not that he knows what he’s doing, but I can tell him what he’s doing wrong, and that would be talking to our sister.  He is concerned about my anger during his last trip to my home, in which he stated, flat out:

“I don’t believe you.”  Courtney, you can wipe that demonic smirk off of your face.  Are you proud of the person you have become?  Are you right with Jesus?  Why have you deemed therapy a no-no?  Why did you call me two years ago and beg me not to go no contact?  Why did you admit to keeping the children from me?  Why did you admit keeping me from family vacations?  Why do you care?

I can answer every one of the questions, but rather than do that, I will stop reading emails, taking phone calls and feeling guilty because my kin is a psychopath.

I have earned this time of relative happiness.  My husband has been through enough.

Consider this your CEASE AND DESIST.

Your opinion doesn’t matter.

Nothing you say is true.

Deep down inside?  You are a coward of epic proportions.

Step off.

You have been served.



Way Out Willie

I want to talk to you about the healing power of music. Of course, the only true Healer is Jesus, and I turn to him each and every day. Some days? I cling to his robes as if my very life depends on this, and to be sure, it does. When God wants me to turn that frown upside down? Music is my go to medium, and nothing cheers my soul like dancing.

This week started out hellish, and proceeded to hell itself. After a PTSD trigger so violent, I struggled to find my way back. I was on an emotional roller coaster at the hands of a friend whom was triggered by me. I hit on her fear of abandonment, she triggered my fear of narcissistic abuse: the emotional crippling took over my sense of self, who I am in Christ, and my personal joy. She has apologized and asked for forgiveness. I have forgiven, but I won’t ever forget.

After zero hours of sleep the evening before, I awoke groggy and miserable, the sadness hadn’t disappeared in my lack of REM-no, it was magnified after a nightmare that told me I was totally alone in this world. I stumbled down the stairs, grabbed the Joe and sat wrapped in a blanket, tears streaming from droopy eyelids. This is not me. I love my weekends with my man, but I couldn’t, I just could NOT shake the melancholy.


“Going to Cabellas, want to join me?,” my husband asked.

Seriously? Did I LOOK like I was ready to be out with the John Q. Public? My racoon eyes and disposition screamed NO, NO I DON”T!!!!! I sat and stewed, stewed and sat. The rain came down in pelting sheets, as if to say: stay home and this is what you get-I couldn’t do that to myself. But how to shake the mood? And no, the ganga is not an option at 9 o’clock in the morning.

Unceremoniously, I dressed. The Holy Spirit sighed within, come on girl, you can do this. Get out of the state, get out of that state you’re in! (B52s, Private Idaho) I felt led to the lap top, but I had absolutely no intention of writing, Tweeting or viewing videos on YouTube. I almost wondered if Yah wanted me to throw it out, my pc, and be done with the Social Media that led me to this place. If there is one thing I know, no matter how well intentioned, people will twist and turn your words to fit the dialogue that you are ATTACKING them personally. I am a bit of an authority of social media, as one post led to the demise of my family…not the post’s fault, but you smell what I’m stepping in.

I brushed my teeth, put the required clothing on (no one wants to see this girl naked, trust me :))and was just about to ignore the Spirit’s calling when I was stopped dead in my tracks.


Why was I so slow on the uptake? I suppose my honing skills were off due to the depression I was feeling. So I turn on my pc, and see where God leads me. When I found this song among my liked videos, I knew. I knew what Jesus was trying to say, and the best way I can show you this if by sharing the song:

My favorite dance song, or one of them, from back in the day.

Happy Sunday my beloveds. Make some joyful noise!