All Apologies

Let’s just say that I began my day with a bang and I don’t mean fireworks or half sticks. Every Saturday, my husband takes me to a cozy little restaurant in a historical building, where we know every waitress and some are like family. I bake them cookies, tell them I love them and they, in turn, think I’m funny. One of my closest friends works here on the weekends, as she teaches full time weekdays. It warms my heart to see her precious face, and we laugh our fool heads off.

Just lovely.

What was not lovely was the way in which I entered the building this morning. Inching my way across the snow covered parking lot (I fall so much that I have begun to do the “drop and roll,” not unlike the stunt men and women you see on television) my husband pulling me in protest.

The struggle is real.

Of course and despite the bad weather, the restaurant is packed. As I stepped into the waiting room full of sleepy customers, I instinctively knew I was headed for the floor. I didn’t know why I was headed in that direction, but I remember saying these words to myself:

Tuck and roll, Michele.

And that is exactly what I did. As I hit the slate floor I felt my rib crack, but that pain was overcome by the humiliation I felt as every waitress, busboy and hostess ran in circles screaming OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY?

For some lame reason, the words that unwillingly came out of my orifice were-

It’s okay! I’m an EMT!

In my distress I had somehow remembered the words I blurt out when someone other than myself takes a fall. I had to L O L seeing the chaos ensue. Two hostesses actually clanked heads on their way to check on me! I’ve never seen safety cones pulled out so fast in my life.

“They think you’re going to sue them,” my husband helpfully interjects.

And so it was, as we paid our bill, that an entire restaurant of people watched as we walked out the door. That’s what people do these days. They watch the village idiots~

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~

The Pill Mill……….

When I was younger, I was appalled at how many pills my mother took.  She was extremely ill, emphysema, cancer, osteoporosis.  She died at 59, after the doctors mistook an ovarian cyst to be scar tissue.  I wish I had known then what I now know.  Mary Lou had every symptom of Ovarian cancer, the extreme bloating, constipation, pain and upset stomach.  When the doctor came in to the waiting room, I had to be held back by my siblings-the jerk never listened to her, I was there when he did an exam after her complaining: he felt her stomach and abdomen-she was fully clothed, why bother right? I was there when he told her she was “fine, absolutely fine.”

What shocked me, after her death, was the bottles and bottles of Ativan-she took 4 a day, and I thought that to be too much, too addicting, too sedating.  Now?  I take Ativan daily.  As a prn.  Ironically, the first time I ever took one was the day of her funeral.  Surrounded by friends, I fell asleep on the couch-and didn’t wake up until the following morning.  What addict is going to turn that away?  It was easier to let the melodic pull of oblivion take me away, to dreamless sleep and few cares, if any.

Today I take 200 mg. of Zoloft, 2 mg. Suboxyne for opiate addiction (down from 8 mg. and let me tell you, it was rough, really rough to taper) and one Trazadone for sleep.   My husband thinks this appalling, but I have fought hard to maintain an appearance of normality-in an increasingly abnormal world.

I can tell you that as a nurse, EMT and hospice worker, I could not get into the Suboxyne program soon enough.  I was in a dirty city, walking the streets of dilapidated houses, children in various stages of undress, and very scary men, who gathered on street corners to deal their goods, help a friend in “need.”  I asked a few of them, but as white on rice as I look?  They didn’t touch me with a ten foot pole.  Looking back, I think they thought me a cop.

I was working as a private duty nurse, and volunteering at a local hospice.  I was starting to face withdrawal from OxyContin, and I didn’t want to be the girl who steals patient’s pills.  My cousin by marriage (not a normal person in that family) ran a methadone clinic, and rehab.  I had attended that rehab until our fearless leader Tony called me out on missing a class, in front of the entire room.  When you quit drinking you are wired out of your mind, so many emotions coming from one heart-it’s maddening and exciting at the same time.  I told him off, asked why he allowed drinkers and cokeheads to use in our meetings (was this even remotely fair to the others who were serious about recovery?) and slammed out the door.  He wasn’t going to use me as an example when people were slumped in their chairs, or re-dusting the entire room, like the energizer bunny on crack.

Anyway, back to Scott.  I called him from my  locked car that very day.  I told him where I was, and I asked if I could come to the methadone clinic to talk to him.  He shut me down, but two minutes later?  I heard a commercial about Suboxyne: it has served me well, saved my career and, most likely, my life.  My advice to anyone starting the program?  Start at a really low milligram, that way you won’t have to detox every time you take a step down.  I ended up calling my girlfriend one morning, I literally couldn’t move, I was that weak.

“I can’t take it.  Would you please take me to the doctor?”

The good doctor had taken me off, cold turkey.  We had argued about my use of cannabis, and I stormed out-only to return a week later, begging for mercy.  And, thankfully, that is exactly what I was given.

What I would like to say is, don’t let anyone convince you to go off of any medication you may be taking for your mental health, especially if the plan is working.  Do I like having to take meds on a daily basis?  NO.  But one day, perhaps, the stigma will stop.  No  matter, because I have come to the point where I just don’t care what others think.

It’s not their body.  It’s not their mind.  It’s none of their business.

I’ll Give You Fish…

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?”

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, rehttps://youtu.be/aTgrASzzUXUading 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~

Copperhead Road

This is more than likely the most important blog I will ever write: I have chosen to take the coward’s way out-well, I wouldn’t call myself a coward; let’s just say I like blogging on WordPress, and it’s hard enough to write an article about, well, anything-oh the inhumanity, sticking computer keys and the site going down multiple times as I try to get my point across.

I took a hike this morning, per my usual.  I am always leery, after my stalking experience a few years back, and the murders and suicides that take place in our park.  I have eyes in the back of my head, carry mace, a rape whistle, a huge stick and a 100 pound golden retriever.  No surprise then, when I jumped three feet out of my boots after hearing a man’s voice.  He ended up being from Ohio, and Jesse liked him, so I stood and talked.  Yada, yada, yada and he says:

“But president Trump is such a buffoon.”

Cue the music from Damien II.

I guess you know, after yesterday’s blog, how I’m feeling about having to justify Donald J. Trump’s position as POTUS-let alone any stupidity from complete strangers.

I started with just the facts, ma’am.  When I got to the point of talking about HRC and Frazzledrip (you’ll know soon enough, and this subject isn’t up for debate) and then I said:

“JFK, Jr. is alive and well.”

Suddenly, he ended said conversation and ran from the crazy lady.

I lol’d, for about thirty minutes on and off-until I saw the snake.  At that point, the joke was on me, and I ran like a cartoon character, convinced that the bloody thing would follow me henceforth, and slither up my back wearing a Cheshire grin.

We have had no voice, as we (patriots across America, including POTUS) have been avalanched on every side. ABC, FOX, CBS, PBS, NBC and CBS-they are a product of Project Mockingbird. If you watch these news venues, I can 100% guarantee you that you have no idea what the real news is-I only know because of the path God led me down, after a brush with the New Age. Slowly, but oh so steadily the scales were taken off of my eyes. We have been lied to, stolen from, silenced and betrayed on a scale so tremendous that most of us don’t see the forest through the trees. The DEPLORABLES of this awesome nation have had it up to our eye teeth with FAKE NEWS. We know what the CABAL is up to, and it ain’t good. No, it is EVIL of the greatest magnitude.
Below is a video that explains this illegal, deadly and evil process.

Tomorrow, we will be at these polls-across the country Patriots will be monitoring the circumspect behavior; tour groups or random buses pulling into voting booths-we have been alerted to the means and ways of DNC corruption, and we are prepared. I myself will be out and about, have mace-will travel. We need to come TOGETHER, as one nation, and fight the corruption that tried to rob us of our dignity, morals and children in a Sex Trafficking scandal that involves Barry Santoro, HRC, Bill Clinton, Joe Biden and many, many more. The evidence is overwhelming.

Please, do everything you can to get out and vote. As we speak, there are three separate caravans heading to our borders. American troops have been deployed to the border, NOT BECAUSE WE ARE INTOLERANT, RACIST OR UPTIGHT. Absolutely none of that is true for the majority of us. If you want this country to become a corrupt, Socialist, baby killing machine, by all means, vote blue. They want this caravan full of MS13, ISIS, ANTIFA and other terrorist factions here to get the votes from illegals.

Do yourself a favor-take a look at San Francisco–Nancy Pelosi’s territory. She lives in a million dollar mansion-have you seen what they have done to California? Is she or any other democrat with the power to do so cleaning any of this mess up? Of course not, THEY DON’T CARE. They got what they wanted, these people have been used and abused. They were PROMISED the world, and this is what was given to them.

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. Take your country back, put God back in business, VOTE RED.

You Fucker, Get up!

I know the band members of Disturbed are pretty scary monsters, but they wrote this particular song about child abuse.

Unless you are QAnons or an extremely woke Patriot?  You won’t know the following facts, and I believe, with God’s permission-it’s time the world knew.  No denial.  No fear.  No flaking out.

WAKE THE FUCK UP AMERICA!  The powers that be are taking our children, selling, raping and terrorizing our children, then murdering them as a satanic ritual to Molech and Baal.

I live in Lancaster County:  it’s human nature to think these things do not occur in our backyards, but sadly-they do.  Harrisburg is a mecca for human trafficking, and after a talk with a local teacher who warned me that SRA is alive and well in our area?  After finding single shoes, and a little boy’s underwear at the lake down the street, after trying to make sense of my irrational fear of white vans?

It all came together in one tumultuous awakening.

This is why I’m here, isn’t it God?

I won’t lie to you-after the supposed death of my friend Isaac Kappy?  I went rogue.  I ran up the stairs, did a nosedive into the abyss that is my bed, and didn’t get out for three days.  If I was awake and vertical, the daymares hit me at a velocity I could not control.

It was the worst few months of my life.  Because I am a recovering addict, I had to knock myself out with Benadryl, or Nyquil cold medicine.  When like a Medusa I rose to get a drink, in my fuzzy bunny slippers and torn robe, my husband appeared to be alarmed, to say the least.

They got him, they got to Isaac,” I wailed.

Who the hell is Isaac?  my husband retorted.

I ran like a harry canary up to my bed once more.  No one understood.  No one.

I still cry, like right now.  I can’t see the keyboard through my tears.  It took all I had to watch this video again.

Isaac exposed pedophiles in Hollywood.  The last time we interacted was right before he went on the Alex Jones show, and I was worried about him.

“I got this.  I know he’s going to try and discredit me, but I got it, don’t worry.”

I’m in no shape to tell the rest of the story.

Don’t let his death, at the hands of the cabal (Tom Hanks, we see you) be in vain.

Isaac was fighting for your children too.