If I were a superhero? I’d have vacuum cleaner attachments for limbs.
If I were a superhero? I’d have vacuum cleaner attachments for limbs.
A few blogs back, I promised you a story about the day, fifteen years ago, when I caught my husband “cheating” on me. We were taking care of my father, who was extremely ill; we moved him to a house out in the country, where he lived for a year-on his terms-no nursing homes, praise God. I loved my dad more than I have ever loved another soul, or perhaps the love I have for my husband is equal-but completely different types of love.
Dad was my best friend and, quite honestly, the only person besides my husband who really got me. We were extremely close. We laughed at the same things, had the same interests, and thought hiking was the greatest thing next to grilled cheese sandwiches. I take after daddy, in almost every way. Mom was the writer in the family, and she was very talented. It is no small wonder that my brother and I are the artsy, fartsy, poetic side of the family. I think it rather neat that my brother is a musician who writes amazing songs-not unlike myself-who writes about music-daddy was the musician. I can still hear him singing the Midnight Special, banjo in tow, at three a.m. after an argument with my mother. Good times. Good times.
I would do anything to have those times back.
So, between working evenings as a waitress in a busy diner (one of the biggest tourist spots in Lancaster County) and taking care of my family-well, I guess you could say I was just a tad stressed out. If you saw me in passing, you would think me a demented Flakka head, on the verge of going off the deep end; at any given moment in time. You would also be correct. About the losing my shit, not the Flakka. When my husband complains about the two cigarettes I smoke each day with my coffee? I always say:
It could be worse. You’re lucky I’m not on Flakka. Or crack.
Jiminy Cricket, I was wound so tightly, I actually pitied the fool who got in my way. Back then? I was anger personified. I seethed with an all consuming rage that basically enveloped me-my mother abused me emotionally, and my memories were a big reason I drank to begin with. I wanted to take care of dad, believe me, but the sad truth? I was scared senseless. My alcoholism had progressed, then eased after he died. Eventually I came to a place of rewriting my story, and forgiving mother. Years of my life, consumed with bitter ire-and a tragic notion that I needed to be punished, put in place-as mom had made it perfectly clear that I was undeserving. Forgiveness is incredibly freeing, and you should do it often-not for them, but for you.
Finally, to the point of the story. I was in the aforementioned condition while driving my Jeep Wrangler up Route 501 on a Friday afternoon, headed in the direction of the pharmacy in Myerstown-to get my father’s refills. My hair is fried, not tended to; I can’t remember if I brushed my teeth. I am breaking out-not only in zits but pimples as well-my first outbreak of acne, ever. Stress pimples and blackheads.
I head North and see my husband’s baby blue Chevy pick up headed in my direction. I believe I went into a fugue state the moment I saw the blonde. I was a jealous madwoman back then-it wasn’t my husband I didn’t trust, let’s just say that.
“OMG, who the FAZUCK was in Dwain’s truck? How long has this been going on? I’m taking care of my invalid father and the bastard is cheating on me? What the FUCK?”
I ran into the pharmacy, almost hyperventilating when I see the long line. This is the most impatient moment of my life. I fantasize about killing the man behind the counter. I want to slap the woman who forgot her insurance card, and truth be told? My thought cloud was rated RRR. If not ZZZ.
I raced to the jeep and drove like a stunt car driver all the way to Dwain’s work. I see him in the park, akin to his business. I aim for him as I drive, he jumps out of the way.
“Oh my GOD honey, what is wrong with you?” He looks more than mildly alarmed, but he knows on many levels what this is all about. I jump from the vehicle, not thinking to put the jeep in “park.” Dwain jumps into said car and saves it, saves it from going directly into the pond behind us.
I scream and holler. He tells me he took her to drop off her car, to have it inspected. I eyeball him from toe to head. Calmer, yet not quite assured that all is well; I head for my car. He gives me a hug, chuckles and says these exact words:
“Honey, why do you have spaghetti sauce all over your face?”
Before I began this series on The Great Awakening, I want to properly prepare you for what you are about to read: as Mary states in the above video, once you are “woke” you cannot be “unwoken.” There is no going back. Once you are truly awake, your life is changed-permanently. I need to tell you that to this very day, my husband does not want to know. This is his right, yet there are times when I feel desperately alone-I tend to resent the hell out of him when this happens. I mean, he truly is a man’s man, no doubt. But why allow your beloved wife have to deal with this alone? And then my heart grows back, and I realize that he worries enough about everything. Will this knowledge simply prove to much for him to take?
I won’t be the one to awaken him. As the case will be with the entire population of this planet, he will be slowly weaned from the safety of a world he has known forever-where folks are good and only a lunatic would look for problems.
Enter me, stage center, crushing his dreams and pissing on his parade. 🙂 I try hard not to allow this to bother me because I know Jesus is a very good listener. Today was not one of those days, as again my poor man is sick-for the third time in a month. His crankiness added to my own, and before I knew it I was running out the door-to the safety of the wilderness. I don’t have to tell you how Ludacris that sounds, but yes, the hikes in our area fill me with hope and peace.
Today was not a day, apparently, for hope. Or peace.
Plagued by little yippy dogs, and BIG scary dogs-we made it approximately 35 feet before being accosted by a group of women, carrying their mascot-a face eating chihuahua. Not feeling well myself, I wanted to use this as an excuse to turn back to my jeep. Yet I pushed onward-into a pack of wolverines, disguised as rare poodles. That was enough for me, but it wasn’t until a New Finland tried to swallow Jesse’s face that he came around to my way of think.
The following video is how I choose to begin-the reason we were asleep in the first place.
I haven’t been writing on the subject of our reality in this day and age: the fight of GOOD against EVIL, the thinning of the veil, pure evil being brought into the light-simply because the good news comes now, at warp speed. The Good News meaning a myriad of things, but first and always foremost it is the story of Jesus. He was born to Joseph and Mary (a virgin) in the little town of Bethlehem. He grew to fulfill His purpose, which was to sacrifice himself, on that wretched cross, to pay the debt for our sins. He died, but He rose again-bringing with him the Holy Spirit. He now sits at the right hand of our Father, in heaven-with all of the Saints and Angels.
People. If God could save a wretch like me? He can, and will, save the likes of your sorry butts 🙂 All you need to do is ask Him to come into your life. If you ask Him to, he will forgive all of your trespasses-and welcome you with open arms. In my case, as bad as my life had become for so many reasons? I needed to hit bottom-which ended up being my husband telling the social worker in the emergency room that I had pointed a knife at him, over a bottle of wine.
And then, he burst into tears.
I was accompanied to the bathroom by a police officer, who stood suicide watch on me through the night. They gave me meds so strong, that I slept through the next day-as my husband emptied the house of any vestiges of booze. The next few years were the absolute worst/best of my life. But mostly worst. I clung to Jesus for dear life!
I want you to know a few things, such as I was not awake myself until two years ago. The PTSD and Lyme had taken their toll on my mind and my immune system. My anxiety and depression left me incapable of dealing with any stress whatsoever. Ironically, the quest for truth God put me on has added to the trauma.
But yet when I am my weakest, only then am I strong.
This sentiment in this scripture speaks to me, speaks to my very soul. I have lived through a life that could not have been lived by the faint of heart. From the time I was a young, chubby girl yearning to be loved to the anorexic fright of a waif, weighing in at 73 pounds, Jesus has been with me. Even in my isolation, there was a solace and peace-I was never truly alone. I desperately needed Him. A grueling battle with alcoholism and addiction to opioids left me feeling unworthy, unloved and unwanted. I can honestly say I despised myself, and drifted away from the church.
This isn’t the story I want to be telling, but one day during the first year of my sobriety, I fell to my knees in eight inches of snow, and cried out to Jesus. I wept and wept and prayed that He forgive me for my transgressions-it took me awhile to believe it, but he did, and I felt it. To this day I literally take one moment at a time, one day at a time asking the Holy Spirit to guide my endeavors. On paper? God waking me up at such a time as this is objectionably hilarious. Me? The girl that screams bloody murder when she mistakes her slippers for a rodent? The gal who can’t read Dean Kuntz at night, even with her husband right beside her? The girl who has to light every candle in the house for aromatherapy, just to write a check?
I have really bad issues with money. Oy vey.
Yes. Apparently so. The Great Awakening is about a movement of like minded people, who begin to realize that the life they had been living was an absolute shit show. We just didn’t know it at the time. The treason and evil go deeper than a hundred blogs could cover. We are at the inception of a mass awakening, as the Trump administration (through QAnon) begins the delicate unraveling of the truth. The corruption. The evil on a scale that “would put 99% of America in a hospital.”
I have news for the enemy.
President Trump wants to control the drop of information, so as not to alarm and cause mass hysteria. I want this blog to be a place where you can come to get the absolute truth, in a loving and humble manner. All glory goes to God, thousands of people have this information-and we are okay, for the most part. There are support groups, those who will answer questions, and those that offer the truth in a safe, timely and responsible manner, that honors God and country.
Tomorrow we’ll take it from the beginning,
This blog is killing two birds with one stone. In all of the hustle and bustle, I completely spaced New Music Thursdays! Not important in the grand scheme of things, but hearing Norah Jones through “new ears,” not once-but twice in one weekend initiated a foray into her unique, jazzy, vintage sound.
I had always linked this tune with roads untaken. As much as my addictions took years from my life-my social anxiety has robbed me of much, much more. I find it ironic that getting sober brought on a new list of phobias and nervous ticks – I pick at my skin when anxious, am completely incapable of dealing with any kind of stress, and would rather have a root canal than travel sans Jesse, my golden retriver. I am a germ phobe extraordinaire, a dog hypochondriac and feel uncomfortable (make that extremely uncomfortable) around people I do not know.
Jesse, to the left. Our beloved Dylan to the right of our son-may He await me at the Rainbow Bridge
What we regret in our lives is never as painful as chances, opportunities not taken. With Social Anxiety, you are forced to cancel plans depending upon just how strong you feel on that particular day. Interestingly enough, my nerves are their worst in the evening, which I attribute to the notion that I am not fully awake for the first four hours after rising. If you want to give me bad news, do so as the sun rises-with any luck? I won’t remember what you said by noon.
I was completely uninhibited as a child-thinking nothing of knocking on doors, asking the neighbors to bake me cookies. I had a sense of myself from very early on, and as a young girl, my father doted on my propensity to not take crap from any person, place or inanimate object. I learned quickly that pleasing dad meant everything. I yearned to make him proud, he was a nurturing father to me, despite many less than ideal situations; such as, my mother-who was pathologically jealous of our closeness. And herein lies the rub:
In your formative years, you have nothing but the reactions of others to mold and guide you in your very human quest to be loved, to fit in. When your own mother dislikes you? Well, let’s just say I was at an extreme disadvantage. Later in life, Satan’s Seed (aka, my sister)did not miss an opportunity to berate, humiliate or gaslight me-I sunk further into depression.
There is hope and I am here to say things are so much better on the other side of recovery from narcissistic abuse. You begin to see the very things the narc disliked about you (pure and total jealousy) are the very same things that others will love. I did my research, and once I felt I knew enough, I dug deep into the Word. A combination of incredible support from my husband and friends, a return to a creativity I thought had left me long before-and a deep faith in Jesus led me out of the muck and mire that is codependency.
I don’t care who you are, your opinion of me has much more to do with you than any other factor. I am no fence sitter-folks either love me or hate me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Be of good cheer, God is in control~
Good Wednesday morning to you all. I was unable to attend church this week, 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 a bad knee and a chip on my shoulder. I keep telling myself that others have it much worse (and they do) I think of the homeless in weather like this. I almost drove to the city with warm blankets for the plight, but quickly realized that the roads were like ice, and I was left in frustrated despair. 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. I trust that He will heal me, much more than I do the medical profession. God has never, ever let me down; big Pharma and human physicians have, on more than several occasions. .
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.
Momma never told me there’s be days like this, and that’s because momma didn’t know. I often wonder what my beloved parents in Heaven think, when they look down at all of the despair, the outright terror and searing pain. And then I remember, there are no tears, no pain, not even a stubbed toe! in Abba’s Heaven.
My parents know that their children are living in the end days. I often look up and say, “it’s alright, mom and dad, Jesus has this.” And again, I remember that they have a totally different perspective in that realm.
I spent the last week being red-pilled myself, and it wasn’t pretty. I look back and think to myself, what the hell just happened? Where am I? Who am I? And the answer is always the same: I am in the arms of our Creator-no matter what the world is doing, saying or debating. I need to remember from whence I came-and remind myself that I was born for such a time as this.
For the last two years I have immersed myself in the real life battle between good and evil; played out in living technicolor on YouTube, Twitter and the evening news. I have neglected my family, my husband and myself. More disturbing, I set off on a journey I thought was imperative, only to find out that it was a drop in the ocean, an atom among molecules if you will.
I thought I was following the right Patriots, turns out I wasn’t. I feel betrayed, but schooled as well. What was I thinking? Me, a puny human-and Jesus, THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD! Don’t misunderstand me, I had the correct information alright-it was the PAYtriots who had me, and by the balls. I don’t believe in coincidences, I never have. And so it was, one day last week, when a man who plays a pretty important role in the NSA and current administration, happened to be tweeting about the same information that had me awake at night: who was this Dustin Nemos (aka, Dustin Craig Krieger) who came out with the Amazon bestseller about QAnon? And more importantly, why was he taking credit for the entire Great Awakening? Why did it bother me, I mean, what do I care? But here’s the thing: my conscience couldn’t, wouldn’t let it go another minute.
I teamed up with this man Morpheus on Twitter. I knew nothing of him, only that I had been following him for two years. I asked him his opinion on the matter-what transpired between us was a friendship I could never have foreseen. He knew things. He knew things no one else seemed to know. He was a bad ass for sure, and he set me straight on quite a few things. We worked together for a week, had a good laugh or two, and shared our testimonies. Actually, he shared his-turns out he had died at the hands of a vicious gang, as a young man. The brawl began in a bar and ended in a playground across the street. And as he lay there, his vision changed-he saw himself, on the ground, bleeding, dying, and alone.
Enter Jesus, stage left.
He did not go on to explain the private exchange, but suffice it to say? I believe every word. Morpheus had a near death experience, and it changed him in profound and intangible ways. He left a mark on my soul, and for that I am grateful. More importantly? He reminded me of what is truly important, and that God will give you the strength you need to endure the plans He has made.
And so it was that Abba, Jesus and I made a new plan-one in which I get to live out loud, play in the woods, work in my garden, write at whim. I no longer carry my pc from room to room. I don’t watch videos, I don’t tweet my fool head off.
You see, if you have the faith of a minute mustard seed? You can achieve good and great things-by praying, sharing and loving the God who created you with all of your heart and soul.
I did my job.
I planted the crap out of that seed.