Life During Wartime

 

This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco, this ain’t no fooling around..

I saw a video this morning that kind of, sort of, somewhat saved my sanity.  Her name is Polly, and I had subscribed to her two years ago, while up in the mountain cabin we call our second home.  We don’t own the cabin, but our friends are generous enough to allow us free reign, and for that we are incredibly thankful.  Here’s the thang:  I didn’t remember following her, and I saw her in a new light as she was doing vids on The Great Awakening.

 

What is the Great Awakening?

Many people mistake this movement as a blatant political statement geared towards wiping the planet of liberals:  I caution you not to fall for that, as this movement does not discriminate exclude anyone, of any denomination or political affiliation.  Quite simply?  We have been lied to, manipulated, and poisoned-literally-by the people we were taught to trust.  Once you go down the Rabbit Hole, so to speak, you cannot unlearn what you are faced with-and afterwards?  After you are AWAKE (I believe God chooses when and if we are to awaken, and frankly?  It has been an ongoing process: it begins where Elizabeth Kubler-Ross left off-you will grieve, you will deny, you will bargain and in the end?  It is up to you to decide what your heart and soul are telling you.

Discernment.

Patriotism.

Faith.

A purpose driven quest to get to the truth, no matter the cost.

In my case, as in Polly’s, I lost my family.  Everything I thought I knew fell away.  At first, I was screaming the facts at anyone who would listen.  I made mistakes.  I wept daily.  And to this day I am alone in my fight, to be a seeker of the God’s honest truth.

I don’t try to red pill anyone any longer.  You can use this information in any manner you choose.  I don’t write on it very often as I am still working on a way to begin a blog under an assumed name-my life is no longer my narcissist’s business, but she is loathe to understand this concept-and reads my writings daily.

I pray we can all come together, as a nation, as a people, as God’s children.  For only then will this bitter war of words and flesh end; for the good of all nations under our mighty Savior.

Say brave things-you have a roaring Lion inside of you, and he is begging to be heard.

 

Love Is Wild……

What is love, really? And how do you know if you’re on the right track, if you are loving someone enough, or …in a way that tells them they are loved?

Love is patient.
Love is kind.
Love does not anger,
nor does it boast.

This is what we find in our bibles, and make no mistake-God meant what he said, but how many of us can rise to that place? For me? Love is compassion. Love is validation. Love may take it up a notch or two-as lovers are passionate, and the frenzy can make us crazy. My husband and I still rant and rave, but at the end of the day? Love, somehow prevails. I remember not so long ago the days of begging him to love me, and now the tables have turned-love doesn’t hold anything over your head, and if you wax and wane poetic, but have no understanding or compassion, what does it amount to? Dust. Dust in the wind.

True love allows the other person breathing space. It listens, nods its’ head in sorrow, puts you in the shoes of the lovee.

Don’t you speak over my words. My reality is hard won, and I won’t trade my newfound jewels for stones-not today, not ever~

Pistols At Dawn

 

No, this is not a docudrama on the perils of standing on stage props, poor Marilyn Manson.  I loathe everything that man stands for, but I have to admit-the poor CD sales, his broken ankle on the first night of his Heaven Upside Down tour; then the attempt to climb a stage prop of two guns pointed in different directions which resulted in the whole works crushing him-well, that’s a shame, as Jerry Seinfeld would say.  I must admit I did chuckle at first, not that I am gloating, but man o’ day-what do you expect when Satan is the god you serve? It is my prayer that as he recuperates, he has a change of heart-but that’s another story and I am sidetracked.

We were up in the jaw dropping beauty of the Adirondack mountains, on lake Algonquin.  Prior to the trip, I was an anxious and traumatized mess: fake news of the September 23 Armageddon, the flea situation, the hurricanes, the fear of flying high and actually enjoying life for a change-all of this led to a reoccurrence of my PTSD symptoms.  In 25 years my husband and I had not had a “real” vacation together, and as we hit the state of New York, my nerves began to mellow, I was beginning to exhale and I cannot praise God enough for His part in getting us there.

Prior to leaving, we had ripped out carpet, vacuumed every crevice, and at 5:30 in the morning I sprayed the last of the flea killer, and closed up shop.  My “best friend” of twenty-five years was taking care of my only indoor cat, Maya Angelou.  She was to feed her in the evening-I had no problems trusting a grown woman, RN and administrator of a local veteran’s hospital-I left food and instructions on the table.  My in laws were right across the street.  What could possibly go wrong?  As it turned out?  Plenty.

On our third evening there, I turned on my cell phone.  I had planned to stay away from my phone, social media, news venues and the like.  I needed to heal, and I wanted to spare my husband the constant freak outs about the world in which we live.  For whatever reason, I felt a nudge to check to see if all was well in the state of Pennsylvania.  I was relaxed, happy and hadn’t self-harmed in days.  My body was repairing itself, and I looked forward to the next leg of our journey.  We were to spread dad’s ashes on Lake Pleasant, hike Auger Falls, dine in a lovely five star restaurant, and I hadn’t seen Dwain so happy in ages.

The text read-‘Hi sweetheart.  Just wanted you to know that I was over to feed Maya this morning (what?  My father in law was assigned the mornings, why was she even there on a Sunday morning?) and I was wearing white pants.  I was covered in fleas.   Is there anything you would like me to do?’

Holy mother Mary, mother of Jesus, and Joseph!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  She went on to say that the only room she had been in was the kitchen.  I text her back immediately, telling her to please turn on the air conditioner, asking if she wouldn’t mind setting off a bomb or two DOWNSTAIRS, as Maya the cat stays in the bedroom.  The very reason we hadn’t set off anything upstairs.  I phoned her and left a message, telling her where the vacuum cleaner was, and also reassuring her that I would make this up to her.

In less than the five minutes it took me to do this, my blood pressure sky high, my mellow harshed-I became hysterical-worried about the cat, my friend, the house………it was like being shot from a cannon, and I immediately regressed and began tearing at my skin, bawling like a child, inconsolable.  My husband was livid.  Why?  Why would she text me this news?  How could she be so cruel?  Was she not capable of figuring this out on her own.  And then it hit me.  THERE WERE NO FLEAS IN THE KITCHEN.  I KNOW THIS BECAUSE IT WAS ONE OF THE ONLY ROOMS THAT THE DOG AND CAT WERE COMFORTABLE IN.   There was nary a flea in my abode when we left for New York. My husband took me in his arms, shush honey, it’s okay, I’ll call my father, we will get through this, shhhush baby…….he was in touch with his dad immediately, and Tom was to set off a bomb in the kitchen.  Relief warmed my muscles, the blood returned to my face.

I phoned my brother and told him I would call him when we returned.  I wanted him to know that I was turning said phone off and would not even look at it until our return.  When we were unpacking, the phone must have fallen out of my purse, and there it remained for three days.  I had bought my “friend” a lovely gift for tending to my feline.  I flicked on my phone to call her to see if she was home, but was immediately stopped dead in my tracks.  She had left three voicemails and a text.  She had called each night of our stay, and then left another text:

“If you EVER get around to checking your messages, there are still a number of fleas in the kitchen.  THANK YOU.”

Appalled, I thought back to the many times I had given her the benefit of the doubt when she belittled me.  Because of low self esteem I had clung to her advice, and many times I felt her to be intentionally cruel and callous.  One Summer I had given her a pair of earrings.  I took great care in picking them out, lovely avocado halves, expensive but worth it.  Days went by and I finally called her to ask if she liked the gift:

“Please give them to one of your nieces.  I will put them on the porch.”

Many, many times I had asked myself if it were possible that she was a narcissist.  That is not a term I use lightly, and I pushed the thoughts out of my head immediately.  I thought back to the day I called her, the day my sister sent me the email that would end our relationship.  I had told my sister my feelings, for the first time in, well, ever.  I was hysterical, crushed at the idea of losing my blood, my world upside down, I cried out to her.

“You fucked up Michele.  You fucked up.”  The harder I cried in protest, the louder and meaner her words.

Jesus has taken the scales off of my peepers.  I have learned that highly sensitive and empathetic, albeit broken people are subject to being surrounded by the Jezebel Spirit.  But I am stronger and wiser now.  She is a part of my past, and there will be no confrontation, because at the end of the day, that is exactly what she wants.

Crazy……

I remember, I remember when I lost my mind……..great lyrics, great song.  After years of fighting for Social Security Disability, (I put up with way too much for way too long, and suffered a break down-depression is not a sign of weakness-it is a sign of being strong despite ridiculously mind-boggling stress) I have now been notified that I won.  I am grateful, yes, but now I am legitimately handicapped, according to the state of Pennsylvania.

I didn’t think I would be overcome with the words of the Judge’s decision:

Advanced age.  Alcoholism.  Depression.  Drug use.  Disabled.  Anxious.  Isolator.  Potato Chip Sifter and my personal favorite-mentally ill.  Perhaps it is time that I own these descriptive, if not melancholy diagnoses.  Knowing that PTSD was the problem all along, well, that does help, as at least I know the beginnings of my madness.  But I am proud to be here, proud to toot my horn in support of mental health awareness and the way Jesus will take the broken and make them strong and resilient, eventually.

I am not the poster child for the criminally insane, and for now, well, that is enough.

F.U.Q.

In the history of mankind, a woman has never been so betrayed, so angered, so ready for revenge..ready for WAR. The war on our minds continues, and this time? I am finished. DONE. For all intents and purposes, I will be leaving the Q movement and moving to a bunker at the North Pole. The first person to bring in anything electronic (tv, cell, iPad)will be shot, not once, but twice-I mean it, I am OVER IT.

I have been an avid follower of QAnon since its inception-the military boards that communicate what POTUS is up to, what the elite are up to, and-to the chagrin of many of us Citizen Journalists who have shouted from the rooftops that JFK, Jr. is alive and well, to the demise of friendships and families…well, I say this in all candor:

Fuck You Q.

Yes, I am quite upset. While I choose to deal with this particular heartbreak by writing, I will not have to worry about falling for any more “disinformation is necessary,” CRAPOLA in the future. I am finished with the movement. Finished with 8chan, and pretty much anyone who writes or vlogs on the subject.

Why am I so angry? Where do I begin?

I woke up this morning to news that I most certainly could not use. While my husband was putting on his boots, my world as I knew it fell completely apart, crashing down around my feet, my PC, my existence. The latest from Q (not to be confused with R or S)?

Anon: Is JFK, Jr. alive?

Q: No.

I looked for any kind of proof that this may, in fact, be disinformation. What I found? A nice little video about HRC partying it up in India. Recently, like yesterday. I went for a walk, had a childish temper tantrum in the woods-I kicked logs and stones, punched trees, broke my hiking stick. I didn’t care who saw me, I was a goner. Let’s just say I wouldn’t have had to use my mace had an interloper appeared on the scene.

Think, Michele. Think.

The other day, Abba brought to my attention-via Our Daily Bread-that we should trust no one but Him. And now it’s hitting me over the head like so much egg in my face, mea culpa, I WAS WRONG.

Let’s think about the thousands upon thousands of Patriots who have shared the possibility that JFK, Jr. IS alive. Why, QAnon brought all of the sightings, his birthday, the idea that he’d be on the world stage by Thanksgiving, all of it. The dream team initiated the idea, by giving us facts, pictures, video of he and his wife at rallies. And now they want us to believe he is dead.

I have a few things to say. Did anyone anywhere give ANY thought to the myriads of citizens who looked to the idea of John John being alive as a ray of hope? What about those with PTSD, depression, or Bipolar issues? How many people will end up suiciding themselves, and who was the Brainiac who thought Christmas (oh, a PAGAN holiday, lest I forget) was an ideal time to break this news?

I owe my family an apology.

I owe my husband….for putting up with my ass for a year and a half.

And I owe my readers the truth, and nothing but.

I believe in God. Anything else is a PSYOP.

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.

 

 

And Go Our Separate Ways…

What if you woke up one day and every person, place and memory turned out to be an illusion? What if all that you knew to be true was pulled out from beneath you, and turning to Jesus was your only means of comfort? Would you give up, or would you fight with everything in you to resurrect your life and any and all hope left?

GodInsideYou

When did things change? Or better yet, when did you d ecide that your life was just that, yours? That you had every right in the world to have your own opinion, your own faith, your own convictions…even if the comments from the peanut gallery were set up to rob you of all self esteem, authenticity, and strength.

addiction adult capsule capsules
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

If you were this girl? You would turn to pills and alcohol to numb the pain and blur the lines. And I did this for years and years: too sensitive to live life on life’s terms, too strong to end it (and I did attempt that twice-that is twice that I can recall) and surrounded on all sides by people who claimed to care for you. You knew better, of course. It began as a trickle of doubt, turned into raging river of certainty, and by the time God brought you through to the other side? You knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that these sheeple wanted nothing more than to bring you down, and kick you while you lay there bleeding.

As we face another holiday, I am more determined than ever to turn the page. I will be having Christmas at my home, rather than trotting down the road to monster in lawville. Thanksgiving, an unmitigated disaster, brought the point home and hard: take your life back, stand up and for once and for all stop punishing yourself! You tried to love them, but they brought you nothing but pain and regret. You simply cannot fix stupid, and when you see stupid-run for your very lives.

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Don’t worry about what people think. Don’t waste a second listening to what people think. Hold your head up, walk the straight and narrow road that leads to the Heavenlies, and while you’re at it? Kick some ass along the way.