Slap Me With the Splintered Ruler

 

Good Saturday morning to y’all.  I need you to know that I only have a laptop on the weekends, as mine took a crapola last week.  Of course, my husband offered to take me to Best Buy this weekend, but I am not ready.  Very interesting…a week ago I felt like someone took my nubby-How Will I Ever Exist?  I won’t be able to write, go on Twatter, see the REAL news.  Yet God, in His infinite wisdom, had much greater plans.  Goosebumps….

Let’s just say that I had been way too preoccupied with the web, and with my addictive personality?  I had cut down on pc time, but still carried the computer with me, room to room.  True confession time:  I took it to the bathroom with me.  Don’t judge me, that room is the only room in the house with a door!  Sometimes a girl needs to breathe.  So, while my husband, friends and support network were extremely concerned (I have to say, my brother was probably ready to send for the men in white coats-haha!) Wouldn’t that be special?  My sister tried to have me committed to a facility the night I tried to take my own life-wise, you are saying to yourselves.  I just covered my ears until the social worker on duty promised me there would be no psychiatric institutions.  The very next morning they released me, gave me an Atarax (boy, if I could get my hands on some of those babies-but nah, just the drug addict in me) which allowed me to sleep my entire first day of sobriety away….giving my man time to drain the booze, and anything expensive was given to the neighbors. 

When I awoke that stormy October afternoon, back in 2007?  I went directly for the booze cupboard, searching for something-anything alcoholic-to my surprise I found a jug of white wine.  I sat that baby on the table and we had a talk, until Jesus intervened.

My precious child, when?  When will you say enough?  How much more of this life will you waste?

That did it.  I put the jug back where it belonged and waited it out.  This would be the beginning of years of cravings, big and small.  Relapses.  Drinking upstate without my husband’s knowledge-at the beautiful cabin we are gifted access to from time to time-I knew that was a big bowl of WRONG, yet I couldn’t, or wouldn’t give that once a year libation up-and one day, I thought of all of the miracles that Jesus had performed for me, personal triumphs, freedom from cancer, the very fact that I was alive and breathing spoke volumes to me.

What if I made a covenant with God?  What if in exchange for all He has done, I put away the thought of ever drinking alcohol again, and prayed for Him to give me the strength to do so.

That conversation took place a year ago.

Not.  One.   Craving.

 

I could not give up on the worldwide web, the loss was profound…and if I can tell you anything about myself, I can tell you that I am highly adaptable to almost any situation.  They say it takes two weeks to form a habit, and that is why I said “No thanks,” when Dwain offered to buy me a lap top.  I am perfectly content writing on the weekends, and once I am convinced my internet addiction is tamed?  Only then will I purchase new equipment.

It turns out?  I have a life to live.  I cannot fathom the chunks of time I wasted, sitting in my hidy hole, reading every bit of the Great Awakening news I could find… I went down Rabbit Holes no person in their right mind would want to travel.  And again, once I got the monkey off of my back?  I began getting things done.  Actually working on the farmhouse, baking, cooking, finding me again.

My husband drove out to New Hampshire for a business trip last week.  And so it was, on Monday evening, the house quiet, no music, no television-that I found a picture of me and my father.

“Wow.  I always hated this picture of myself.  Not so much anymore, huh dad?  Umm…it’s/been/hard…”  The words tumbled from my mouth, and before I knew it, I was crying-my body wracked with emotional pain, I sensed something huge was in the air.

Jesus spoke to me again.

Child, it is time to let go of your shame.

Was I hearing Abba correctly?  Why, I didn’t realize I still carried it with me, the deep seated self loathing.  It took some time, but everything came together, as if a giant piece of the puzzle had been found.  I turned the pain into gratitude, as I remembered why I had such shame to begin with.

As a child, I knew shame.  My mother would go for days without speaking to me, and for the life of me, I truly never knew what provoked her ire.  I stopped a moment to think about what deep shame could do to a child in her formative years.  Eventually, I would buy her a card or pick her flowers.  I came across one such card in my mother’s bible just a while back.

Mom, I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry, and I love you very much.

Your daughter,

Michele

In school I suffered total shame because of my weight.  The kids were cruel, and the taunting was so persistent?  It took me well into my thirties before I could jog or walk past a group of teens.  No matter that I had lost the weight, I still felt the shame.

In High School, considered a jock and oddball, (Varsity Crew Coxswain) I began to realize that this wasn’t going to resolve itself, but I had no idea where to begin.  At Villanova, my shame came from not having or being enough.  Surrounded by incredibly wealthy and beautiful people, I made up a story about being a Jontue model.  Unfortunately, people not only believed me, they spread the word.  I mean, who doesn’t want to be friends with a famous model, right?  In college I learned to reinvent myself, and the only person I was hurting was me.  Why wasn’t I enough?

After college, my drinking career became legend in some parts of King of Prussia.  I began seeking attention (love) through a series of promiscuous love affairs-and the reputation stuck.  I began doing cocaine as a way to lift my spirits and self esteem; what could possibly go wrong?

The day I found myself on the doorstep of my rented home, due to losing an eight ball of coke.  I had given my brother a birthday party, and while I had my back turned, one of my nearest and dearest friends (I had only invited people we were very close to) had lifted the bag I had hidden, way in the back of my closet, under a stack of love letters.  I had promised Ted, my landlord, that I would sell it all that night.  There are no words to express my horror at finding I had been robbed.  I had no money to give him, and that didn’t sit well, not at all.

Ted sold drugs for the Gambino crime family.

I went on the run.  My room mate and best friend, Mel, beside me-we drove away like bats out of hell, and didn’t look back, not once.

So, with my worsening alcoholism and drug addiction, there were reasons to be ashamed.  And as I sat in my bedroom, weeping between the litter boxes, I asked myself this question:

What is there to be ashamed of now?  Why do you feel unworthy?  Why do you punish yourself for simply existing?

Let me light my lamp, says the tiny star; and never debate whether it will dispel the darkness.

– Rabindranath Tagore

May you shed your shame like the cloak of darkness it has become.

You are special, unique and loved-let your freak flag fly, baby~

 

Instant Karma

 

I don’t know about you, but I am sick to death of gloom and doom, evil that cuts you off at your knees, leaves you shaken, breathless.  The enemy is losing, in leaps and bounds, but the news, the mainstream?  They want you frightened and feeling vulnerable, to be honest, at times I don’t know what to believe, but I do believe in QAnon, and let’s just say the concentration seems to be about the blood lines, the Illuminati and their puppets-satanic symbolism and transference runs RAMPANT in every mode of entertainment to be had, the news is enough to make me cry, and never, ever stop.  But I need to stop investigating and start living.  I know more than I should, and by that I mean I wish I knew nothing at all-but then I wouldn’t be me, and I have felt spiritually led through the entire process.

I had a good week, socially.  Lunch with a friend two days in a row!   I actually made my commitments over the last few days, and it feels so, so good.  I also, after 40 years, began eating a small meal at lunch.  I had a hard time pulling it off as of late, I was having dizzy spells and acid gut.  Please………….I deserve it.

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This cracked me up this morning. Enough so that I actually posted on social media! 🙂

Speaking of deserving……how in the harry do these people sleep at night?  Do they hang upside down from trees, waiting for some unsuspecting dope to come along?  Do they NOT KNOW where they are going at the end of the day?   Seriously, what is their thought pattern?  They are blatantly throwing it up in our faces, but know this: they are running scared.  President Trump, with the aid of the United States military, has put a few of their Cabal buddies in GITMO.  Do they not see a common thread?  What did they THINK would happen when Trump began to wage a war, drain the swamp, look at evil so bleak that a group of NYC policemen vomited and wept when looking at evidence.  I hear they are all still receiving therapy.

So, karma is real, man.  I wouldn’t want to be a thug/pedophile/Satanist right now, because the tables are turning.  I am heartbroken and angry, but life is for the living and I have a heavenly father who wants me to thrive, to be genuinely content and at times, euphoric.  I try to have a sense of humor about these happenings, and I find great fun to be had looking into the Q Memes.

AwakAF

The only, yet most important thing we can do right now is pray.  Pray like your lives depend upon it, He is listening, this I know.  Instant Karma’s gonna get you Bitches, it’s going to knock you right. in. the. face.

 

 

 

The Girl You Want…………(ed)

If I could go back in time, I would tell myself to hold tight to the female friendships I have cultivated.  Let’s face it, when you head for your forties-well, you start to realize what is important in life and what is detrimental.  You begin to stand up for yourself, and by the time you reach menopause?  You’re a whirling dervish of angst on the road to having no female friendships because you have told off just about every friend you have, for one reason or another.

But what about the girls who don’t make the cut?  Who, as it turns out, are toxic as 5G on hormones?  The nervous breakdown you had last week?  You thought it was your dark mental health history, turns out it was your dark Jezebel worming her way into your psyche.  Is it really as simple as just walking away?  What if NO CONTACT isn’t an option, say because you go to the same gym.  Class.  Mother of God.

I knew I had to go, I had no choice.  I wasn’t sure I would go, but that strength I prayed to Jesus for?  It came the next morning-in buckets.  As I finished my makeup, I consoled myself with this thought: Maybe she won’t be there.

But that was the point of going to class: as a sufferer of PTSD, and while in the midst of a horrible episode due to this particular “friend.”  I had blocked her on all of my social media, but was still reeling from what had occurred before I ran away, like OJ on crack.

“She’s here,” my friend Sasha stated, as if she were announcing the bride of Satan.

I admit it, I panicked.

Haul ass, I’m not standing next to her, I blurted.

She walked in on three women who appeared to be doing some odd rendition of a Shakespearean tragedy-we tripped over one another as we hustled to find new spots on the floor.

Nothing to see here, folks.

man person people emotions
What my classmates saw last Tuesday…

After the class, as I was talking to Sasha, the Jezebel interrupted me.

“Can we talk for a moment?,” we had already exchanged pleasantries, even after I had threatened to call the state police if she didn’t cease and desist.  She made the Rocky Horror Picture Show look like Bambi Has a Family.  I was delirious.

I stood up to her, spoke my peace, but not without multiple interruptions.  I told her she had ridiculed, stalked and threatened me enough.  I told her I had been self harming, as a result of our last exchange.  I explained PTSD and what it does to a person.  She, of course, already knew this, as we have been acquainted many years.  All throughout my speech, she interjected this sentence:

But Michele, I’M DEPRESSED.”

I drove away praising Jesus, for answered prayers and for taking the scales off of my eyes, as it were.  Gawd.   Good riddance.

I have lost sisters near and dear to my heart (and a few quite recently)-but the loss was temporary, as those were the women who treated me with disrespect, dishonesty or the worst sin in my book- condescension-they were not  the friends I thought they were,but it didn’t make it any easier to end the relationship.  My best friend in sixth grade (let’s just call her Shitstorm) threw a bowling ball at me because I had the highest average in the league.  Straight out, in front of our teammates. She was also responsible for bringing a picture of me (in the seventh grade) into school in my senior year; one in which I had cut my own bangs, and let’s just say she passed it on to my high school crush.  Mortifying.  I was friends with her for 30 more years, until she did the unthinkable…..that’s right, she was another narcissist, and crossing her was akin to playing hopscotch with Satan. After one too many brushes with death? I let her go, stopped all contact-to this day I have nightmares. To. This. Day.

But when you hit your fifties?  Why, you hold on to your female friends like grim death-the ones who love you no matter what state you’re in, root for you when you are up against it, speak to your husband when you’ve relapsed. Why, they are your true blue tribe, and you have earned each other’s trust.  I am not saying there won’t be disagreements (holy crap on a cracker, that’s part of the equation ladies) but you will learn that nothing is more important than women who get and cherish you, zits, nervous breakdowns and relapses be damned.

I have spent an entire lifetime trusting women I had no business trusting, not seeing the inevitable pain that came with illumination-it’s a process. Yet, as Abba works in my life? The new friendships are more stable, enduring and incredibly comforting. You teach people how to treat you, and the only way you gain respect is by being a bitch right back. As soon as I stand my ground, the bullies run for cover.

Today I am blessed beyond measure with an abundance of loving, nurturing and life sustaining women. I am thankful they feel safe calling me friend.

“I am not suicidal. I am not suicidal.”

I didn’t know Isaac well, but we were in touch, now and then.  I wrote to him to offer help with the counseling (for the Satanic Ritual Abuse survivors) but turns out he needed people in LA, not Pennsylvania.  He had a good heart.  He began a truth movement, targeting people he knew in Hollywood (Isaac was an actor) and outing their evil, pedophilic debauchery.  Seth Green was his first, and I remember watching his very first video.  He and Seth were good friends, and he was extremely emotional.  It took great courage to take this to the public.

Some things were accomplished, and foremost in the minds of those who loved him was the bothersome question:

How in the bloody HELL is this man going to stay safe?

Moments prior to his appearance on the [Alex Jones] show, I contacted him to offer some support-Isaac was anything but frightened or nervous.  Afterwards, we both laughed at how hard AJ tried to get him riled up-we laughed harder when Isaac stuck to his story, and held on to his integrity.

I was scrolling through Twitter when I saw the news:  Isaac Kappy dead, of suicide, after jumping from an Arizona bridge.

No!  NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I went to his last video-he was in trouble.  He fucked up.  He repeatedly said that he was not suicidal.  Isaac struggled with addiction (another commonality) to Meth and gambling.  He was honest about it.  But things had been looking up for him recently:  a combination of his new music and a brighter outlook on life.  He fondly called his followers famalam, and his air hugs were poignant in a way I can’t put to words.

I cried for hours.  Sobbed, actually.  It is hard for the regular Joe to understand the bond the QAnon community shares.  I have worked in an ER, and in nursing homes-when you work in a war zone, you share an intimacy with your coworkers-just as veterans of the military do.  The adrenaline is pumping and you rely on you peers to support you in the fight for victory, justice.

Not unlike those of us who support Donald J. Trump, QAnon, and the fight to crush the blackhats and make America Great Again.  We are vulnerable digital soldiers, and the dangers involved in speaking against this otherworldly deep state are real.  William Cooper, Seth Rich and now, Isaac.

This isn’t over.

There will be justice for Isaac.  He fought so hard.  The reality of his day to day exposure to victims and their stories, combined with the stress of staying safe took their toll.  He always said that nobody would mess with him, implying that there was a security team of sorts, the likes of Dirty Harry and Bikers for Trump…I find it chilling to think of him in his final moments.  When he realized his fate, how terrified he must have been.

It is my belief that Mr. Kappy is with his famalam in Heaven, where his tears are wept away-and he doesn’t have to run, from anyone, ever again.

 

I Will Find the Center In You…

This is the darkest post I hope to ever write.  This is a story about how alcohol kills-everything that is good, pure, worthy, decent……..alcohol is a vampire, it sucks the life blood out of you, then leaves you in a heap of disgrace, humiliation and nothingness.  I may have been “sober” for ten years, but I have slipped on more than one occasion, each time the lull of “It will be okay, just one drink” has seduced me….and each and every time I have wallowed in despair.

I would like to tell you about the last ten years of my drinking career.  A vocation so evil, so pummeling that I literally lost those years of my life.  Sadly, I cannot, as I was so far gone that the last years were swallowed by indignity, fear, and Godlessness.   Or so I thought.  I got sober when I was 46 years old, and for the longest time I honestly thought I was ten years younger.  Ten years of our lives, gone up in smoke. 

I weep just thinking of what could have been, but there is hope and we must lean not on our own understanding.  We have to summon every ounce of courage in our souls to rise up and fight this demon.  And together, with Jesus, we can do it, one minute, one hour, one day at a time.

What I do remember is locked behind a door that can only be unlocked by God, and only when it serves His kingdom.  I am taking off the deadbolt and releasing the ghosts that have kept me silent.  We are only as sick as our secrets, and becoming sober is the most freeing, healthy and frightening place we can be.  You have to hang on for dear life, but don’t be afraid of the ride, you have nothing to fear and everything to gain by telling your truth.

My last drunken event was my husband’s sister’s wedding.  I had consumed at least a bottle of wine before the ceremony, and that was 2:00 in the afternoon.  I do not remember the wedding, or the bride…….but what information I do have came at a cost, and that was my husband’s dignity.  I know that we didn’t stay for the cutting of the cake, as I had been playing footsies under the table with an unwilling participant-my husband’s cousin.  I also told a dear friend that I had enlightened my family with the news that he and I were having an affair-which led to some heavy duty amend making on his part, and I have never, to this day, as much a held his hand.  We are friends again, but that took ten years, 200 or so AA meetings, and the good Lord above-only now am I at peace.

In a New York State of Mind….

I have written, at length, about my relationship with my now disowned sister-but words will never portray the betrayal, the loss, the shock.  Back in the day, in our twenties, we did everything together.  I took her with me to Pittsburgh, my ex-husband’s home town, on several occasions, and there were great times, amazing times-but that is another story for another day.

It’s hard to explain what it’s like to find out someone as close as a sibling is a psychopath.  I look back constantly, why, why, why?  There were so many red flags, but my self esteem was in the toilet, and she used everything that was true and decent, my immense love for my family, my spirituality-she used it against me.

“Nothing matters to you more than family, does it Michele?,” she asked one rainy morning, ten or so years ago.   Of course not, I told her.  Family means everything, all we have in this world are each other, mom and dad are gone and we have to take care of the family we have left.                                      

She took this information, digested it, and used it against me for ten years straight.  My husband loved our nieces and nephew-he constantly asked why we didn’t just drive down to Exton, surprise them.  Back then, he didn’t understand the machinations of her twisted mind.  I knew she was punishing me, but where was the crime?

New York is incredibly important to me.  I was born in Utica, my grandparents and cousins, aunts and uncles-they were all in upstate New York.  My father, the only person in our family who graduated college, attended St. Lawrence University- and that is where I will spread his ashes in September, standing next to my husband, my familia, who has been hurt and victimized as well, at the hands of her insanity.

Love is patient.  Love is kind.  Love does not envy or boast.  Love, in all its messiness and madness, well, love never fails.

In gratitude and remembrance of Stephen James Elkins.   My friend, my partner in crime, my father.  It’s hell here without you daddy, see you on the other side.

The Bucket List…..

I want to be the girl in this video….travelling across the world, uninhibited, throwing caution to the wind.  Chances are, the likelihood of this happening is akin to a camel poking its head through a needle, and then realizing he still has to get his body through it.

I love, love, love to travel.  It’s just that we have no extra moolah, and what we do have goes to silly things like food, vet visits and electric bills.  I don’t have a bucket list in all actuality, but here is a sampling of things I would like to do before I leave this planet:

I would love to go to Ireland, in search of my ancestors.  If I do go to Ireland, I will be tempted to drink an ale with the kin folk-you know, raise up a glass to the country that turned us out-I hear they’re very folksy and welcoming, but let’s face the facts, I would want to live there, or perhaps petrify in one place, sitting at the pub, drinking Guiness, and singing the songs of my people.

Big Sur was a big draw, until I read about Bohemian Grove.  With our luck, we would find the wrong place at the wrong time, and I apologize, but becoming a blood sacrifice for the elite in this world?  Let’s just say I have no time for the big, wooden statue of Baphomet, and I don’t like people telling me what to do.

Hawaii was big on my “list” at one point, and now I see the error of my ways.  The fat faced dictator from HELL has threatened their peace, and I don’t want to spend my whole vacation in an underground bunker.

And lastly, there was Sea World.  Yes, I wanted to ride the dolphins with abandon, you know, be that girl: the one who never stops talking about her relationship with a fifty year old she met out in California, and then you come to find out it was a sea mammal.  No thanks.

So for now?  I’ll stay in this sleepy little town of horse and buggies, biting flies the size of Texas, and more cow manure than you can shake a stick at.