The Mammogram Blues

Suspended animation:  what women feel the week before, and every moment leading up to-the dreaded annual mammogram.  My Lord!  I’d like to meet the son of a bitch who invented these machines-not that I’m not thankful for early detection.  Here’s my question to the AMA:  why must a woman go through this unholy torture chamber each and every year, when we know DAMN well you have a thing called ultrasounds?

Who the fuck are you and what have you done with my tits?

I am in no way trying to frighten anyone out of getting this procedure.  Some women feel nothing at all, but then we have the group of flat chesters like myself.  Mother of God it hurts.  It is the equivalent of trying to squeeze more juice from the lemon you threw out last week.  And the bitch maneuvering the equipment always finds a reason to squish my breasts to smithereens.

“Oh, honey, we didn’t get enough last time, let me just adjust your breast, whoops!  Just pushed your mammary glands up through your anal cavity!  Lololol”

Excuse me, but why is this even a “thing?”

I was wondering what would happen if I went postal on this hooligan, like, what could they do to me, right?  Some women faint, others scream at the top of their lungs (really, totally uncalled for ladies) and some women beat the living shit out of the radiographers.

Simple, really.

 

For Those Who Find Holidays Hell

I wasn’t sure if this was the version of the song that I wanted, but man am I glad I thought it through.  Miss K.D. Lang hits ever note, and then some.  I love her range, her twang-she’s chicken soup for the soul music.

Speaking of souls.

Mother of God this was a rough one-and I didn’t see it coming, to be frank.  Giving God alone the glory, I have managed to raise my head above the raging river that is my life.  Mercy me, shook me right out of my loafers.

I want this blog to offer hope to those who are suffering this season; I want to pick and choose each word, so I know that the love of Jesus that flows into me will then trickle on to you, beloved.

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I lay in bed, for five straight days.  Not so sure, but pretty sure it was the flu: I haven’t felt like this since, well since last year’s flu season.  I won’t even whisper about getting a flu shot, and would advise all mothers to educate themselves on the horror of what they are injecting into our children.  I pray with each passing day that Donald J. Trump will make headway in the battle against evil, transhumanism and genocidal ideations-you get my drift?

Sorry, I get worked up about it.  Anyway, my husband and I did not attend my mother in law’s Thanksgiving.  In an effort to end the abuse, I have gone no contact and have felt much better ever since.  My husband appeared to be supportive, but the day came and he was forlorn.  Still angry about a miscommunication between us, he let me have it the other day.  Twisted every word I said, and slew nomenclatures I would prefer not to share-making turkey day the winner of the most God awful holiday ever award.

B-rutal.

My husband doesn’t do sick.  He says that seeing me sick makes him think of my mother in the final days of her life.  I mean, I was dehydrated and depressed, wrapped up in a ball of wet sheets-nothing to eat for three days, nightmare.

And then I felt well enough to open my King James bible.  I sought solace, comfort and wisdom.  Yet because of the trauma inflicted?  I felt as if God were angry with me, that Jesus didn’t love me anymore.  I am just now shaking that notion out of my head, as satan  is the father of all lies-and this was persecution in the form of spiritual warfare I have not experienced thus far.  It was if there was a struggle for my soul.  I fought back like the tigress God taught me to be.  I asked for prayer, I actually told my loved ones that I was struggling-and I never do that.  I don’t trust people, but let’s just say that Jesus showed me that the beloveds in my life are real and true and precious.

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One evening, I stared at the ceiling and thought about what Jesus went through on that cross, even hours before.  Jesus was persecuted for the very same reasons that His believers are persecuted.  Immediately, I thought of the martyrs-the people all around this world who are suffering in the name of Jesus Christ.

In the year 1948, on a Sunday while I went to church I was kidnapped by the Communists.  I knew that even in the van of the secret police, I am in the hands of the Almighty God, and this gave quiet to  my heart.                                                                                                                        – Richard Wurmbrand, Voice of the Martyrs

For three years, Richard Wurmbrand sat alone in his prison cell set 30 feet below the ground.  Aside from short interactions with his guards, he saw and heard no one.  Yet in that dank and dark cell, he cried out to God and dreamt of beginning a new ministry that would serve Christians in Communist countries.  Within days of his release, he wrote his best selling memoir, Tortured For Christ.  Not long after he founded a mission called Jesus to the Communist World, which eventually turned into the organization Voice of the Martyrs.

I needed to pick up my cross, no matter the shape I was in.

I am reaching my arms out to father Abba, and He will catch me, this I know.

 

 

 

Adrift

In your darkest hours, in your finest grief-this is where Jesus does His absolute bestest ever work.  Of course, when you are adrift in a sea of confusion, rage and betrayal?  You don’t want to think about how strong or wise or ethereal His love-you are way too busy crying, railing or even vicariously throwing inanimate objects at the wall.  Your heart hurts so bad you swear it will break, the tears so salty dehydration sets in.

The lights are out.  There is nothing of comfort, you can’t see your way through the pain.  But here’s the rub:  the only way around the feels is through the feels.  In other words, to quote Richard Gannon, “you gots to feel the feels.”

As I hike the Spicebush trail, I wonder at the miracle that God still loves me, despite my Irish sighing and in spite of my ineptitude. I am an Israelite, awash in the desert of my own making-complaining about this or that.  I catch myself, and ask forgiveness of Him.  I have always had exactly what I needed at every turn of the page.  In recent times, God has blessed us beyond measure-my husband’s new job, my Social Security disability granted, and, more importantly?  We are in love and, for the most part, healthy.

I always turn to Jesus, eventually.  I have struggled with depression and anxiety my entire life.  I wish I had learned to practice this habit much earlier in life.  Perhaps it may have spared me the alcoholism, drug addiction and suicidal ideation.

I wanted to end my life because I thought myself a loser.  A miscreant.  A nobody.

I couldn’t keep a friend, let alone a job.  I knew I was different, that I didn’t fit in, and that for the most part I wouldn’t be missed.  The emotional abuse endured at the hands of the people I loved and trusted the most would prove to be a deal breaker.

I broke, into a millions little pieces not unlike the mess you leave when you break a Christmas ornament.

Shattered.

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I lost my friendships, my family, my identity in Christ.

I thought I was coming out of the woods, and I convinced myself that nothing bad would ever happen to me again because I was a child of God and I figured He’s seen me through the worst of it.

I was dreadfully wrong,

With the help of a mighty God I made it through each and every hairpin turn, but just as I was getting my bearings-another tragedy, another slip into isolation and chaos.  I noticed this, yes, but I also paid mind to the fact that with each and every arrow flung in my direction (the persecution comes from Satan, but God has the control) the more courageous I became.

One evening I called out His name, I couldn’t take another self sabotaging thought-my depression had resurfaced.

Please, Psalm 91…the arrows that fly by night…all that sort of thing.  HELP ME JESUS!!!!

And just as if I were taking out the trash, my body arched-my head flew back.  I had momentarily thought of that lion, the one who roars at the enemy-

I.  Am.  The.  Storm!!!

I.   Am.   The.   Storm.

I roared quietly, then not so quietly.

Together, Jesus and I are building my life back up-brick by brick.  He sustains me by the Living Waters and wipes the tears from my furrowed brows.

And then…I rally my senses, join forces with my soul and pick of my cross.

For I am His and for that?  Oh for that I am well pleased.

Diamond in the Rough

Somewhere in the mix, every responsible adult in my childhood neglected the red flags:  my clumsiness, lack of social interaction and apparent “indifference” to my authority figures.  By High School, my grades had improved-yet I was thought of as arrogant, snooty if you will.  And by the age of 26, I was firmly enmeshed in alcoholism, abusive relationships and chaos.

I remember certain situations, and the light goes on in my thought cloud.  My absolute need to be plastered if there were to be any social interaction.  I don’t mean grocery shopping, I mean Villanova-where I am sure I stuck out like a sore thumb.  I invented an entire new story, that I was the Jontue  model in a recent perfume ad.  My father, who made a modest income, became a wealthy businessman travelling the world-a sailing expert, like myself.  I can tell you that there was more than one awkward moment at the Fall meet and greet, where my father became entrenched in a convo with my good friend Danny.

“Honey, I think your friend thinks I’m an expert on sailing,” he chuckled, walked off with his beer.  The horror show worsened as dad met a handful of my peers, and that was when thinking on my feet became a necessity for survival.  You see, I had absolutely not one iota of self esteem.  I was young and lovely, above average intelligence.  I look back and see this young woman, and I ache.  Such was my self loathing that only recently did I find my way to self assuredness and confidence.  I knew who I was in Christ, and I reckoned God wasn’t in the habit of making junk.

I am on a journey to the center of myself.  I am putting the pieces together and becoming more comfortable with the idea that I have high functioning Autism.  Many blessings come from being your own person in this world we find ourselves in-where the social media or should I say social engineering is rampant.   Craig, if you’re reading this, you were right.  We are living in 1984.

I love that I notice even the simplest of beauty, how it catches my breath and makes me look up.  I love that I am soothed and inspired by music, and that I was given the gift of empathy for others.  I love that no one else will be wearing what I wear on any given day, and that I can talk to animals.  Amen, you betcha.

I am as unique and breathtaking as you, sweet soul.

Let your freak flag fly~