Q Anon=JFK, Jr.


What if I were to tell you that John F. Kennedy, Jr. is alive?  And what would you think if I told you he had faked his own death in 1999?  That is correct, they pulled a mannequin out of the murky waters of Nantucket, and he trusted one man with his plan-that man would be:  Donald J. Trump.

Would you or would you not believe me?

When I came upon this news, yesterday, whilst sitting in my sweaty gym clothes-preparing to write-I was filled with a knowing, the discernment that comes from Jesus.  This video caught me dead in my tracks.  On a search for the truth, which will indeed set us free, I began researching the phenomena that is our POTUS.  In doing so, I learned of things no one should ever have to know.  It is a grueling, nerve wracking journey-and every single minute up until this revelation?  It’s been worth it.  You see, knowing the TRUTH enables you to pray for the right people, keep yourself safe-your head above water.  Since my CPTSD diagnoses, I have a wicked fear inside of me.  I don’t want anyone or anything to sneak up on me.  Now that I have the gist of this, I can write, and please know that I wouldn’t be saying this if I hadn’t done hours and hours of research.

Why would JFK, Jr. fake his own death?  To avenge the death of his father and uncle.

Was his magazine George named after Washington, as most believe, or could it be named after the man who is responsible for his father’s death?

George Bush, Sr.

Watch the video, if you would like.  There are more like it out there, but hard to find.  What are your thoughts?

The air is sweeter, the stars shine brighter, my heart is at peace.

“Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith, be courageous and strong.” – QAnon




I took my third dose of Doxy today, and admittedly I am feeling better. I can tell you that the biggest red flag for me, when something is wrong with my body (she’s been through a lot)is emotion. Whether it be mild irritation, weepiness, or flat out rage-this is my indicator that something is amiss. Believe it or not, I am not a weeper. But I’m not afraid of my tears, we need the release as anxiety and depression often rule the day.

I had big plans for my husband today, BIG PLANS I tell you. First stop-Good’s store in Schaefferstown. I rose at 6:30 this morning, eager to get out on a Spring-like day. My mood had vastly improved since yesterday, and my attitude was decent as I descended on the store. We get anything and everything at this little Mennonite boutique, from paint to outdoor wear, to kitchen appliances. I love their clearance department, and together, Dwain and I have spent approximately three million dollars on necessities. I was there to pick up a few cards, gifts and mainly-to return my husband’s dress pants that I had purchased at Christmas-they didn’t fit, but the tags were there-as was my receipt of purchase.

I was dealing with a sweet young girl, Olivia-she was telling me that she had to have a manager look at the pants before we could do an exchange. As I was leering at the candles (please, I have SO MANY candles, but for whatever reason-I always want more)when a gentleman in his forties called after me.

“Excuse me, Ma’am?,” I associate that name with little old ladies, and even at the age of 56? It isn’t palatable, from anyone.

“We cannot exchange these pants. There is a hair on the pocket of the brown pair, and the blue have a few hairs on them.”

INCREDULOUS, I told him the pants had never been worn, just tried on.

“Maybe if you took them home and cleaned them up?”

It took all of three seconds for me to go from status quo to flat out deranged angry. The cashier behind him, mildly alarmed at the tone of my voice, busied herself with a return.

“Sir, I panted, DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH MONEY MY HUSBAND AND I SPEND IN THIS STORE???????,” I half screamed in indignation.

“Sorry, Ma’am, these can not be sold again.” I felt the rage wash over me like hard rain. I counted to ten. I took a deep breath, but none of these things helped to quash my Irish temper, and only now, looking back, do I regret the way I acted.


My words echoed in my head as I headed to the parking lot. I almost broke the sliding glass door on the way out, and for that I am sorry…..but I pity and I mean PITY the jerk who sent me reeling. While at the grocery store next door, I bawled into the phone whilst standing in the dog food aisle. My poor husband, furious as well but trying to calm me down, told me he didn’t need a Valentine’s gift, that I was enough, to stop crying and go home and rest.

And I didn’t hold back a giggle when he said, “I’ll stop in with the man on my way home tonight.”

Like I said, I pity the fool……….

Joy and Peace


Two years ago, right before our 24th wedding anniversary and subsequent trip up to the cabin in Potter County-a man I called friend, shot his ex-girlfriend at point blank range:  in broad daylight, with children everywhere, at the Jigger Shop in scenic Mount Gretna.  Patrick then put the gun in his mouth and ended his mental anguish forever.  His ex died on site, and she left two heartbroken children behind.

I met Patrick and his brother Mitch when first dating my husband.  They were dear, uproariously funny and rebellious.  I left the Philadelphia area to get away from drugs, namely-cocaine.  Working at a Houlihan’s in the King of Prussia mall, I had developed a habit, and I had just shaken an addiction to methamphetamine months before.  Coke was the perfect substitute, and it was very, very easy to score.  When my then fiancée asked me to move with him to Pennsylvania Dutch Country, I jumped at the chance.  It wasn’t long before I met my current man, who, unfortunately, had a behemoth of an addiction himself.

Patrick and his brother, Mitch, were the local suppliers.  Patrick and his wife were the first friends I made out here-it wasn’t long before the midnight phone calls began-Liz, out of her mind frightened, as Patrick would come home drunk and ready to rumble-waking his wife and infant, smashing Christmas trees, and yes-he hit her.  More than once.   I would come and talk him down.  But I began to loathe him-domestic violence is no joke-I have been a victim of both emotional and physical abuse.  I stuck with Liz, but Patrick faded away.

At one point I heard he was doing jail time, for beating the crud out of his new bride, who just happened to be an attorney.  But nothing stuck, and his actions-combined with the mentality of local police and judges alike-would be dismissed out of hand.  Thus the murder-suicide.  Tragedy is an understatement, this rocked our collective worlds.

At that time, my sister was also creating in me a downward mental spiral.  I hadn’t even heard of Narcissistic Abuse; it was on this vacation that I found information that would, two years later, set me free.  Yet my state of mind when we arrived at the cabin?  I believe I was in shock, grieving and mentally/physically at my limit.

As we entered the cabin, Dwain went to turn on the water, heat and other appliances.  I went for the bottle of Tequila, and sipped slowly as I read the news from home.  I mixed the liquor with Juicy Juice, so my husband wouldn’t suspect anything.  I had been sober for the past nine years, but I made the deliberate choice to drown my sorrows,  I didn’t get drunk on this vacation, but it was enough to remind me how booze can take away the pain.  A reminder I didn’t need at the time.

Standing in the kitchen, just a few days ago, my husband asked a question which led to my confession.  The only person I had told, previous to this conversation was my friend Joyce, a fellow recovering addict.  In the rooms, we are told to make amends, absolutely, but not if the process would leave the person hurt.  I had thought of coming clean many a time over the last few months and years; I just couldn’t do it to Dwain-and no, it wasn’t an excuse.  I was afraid he wouldn’t take me to the beloved cottage in the woods of Potter County.  I was in fear of the truth marring his memories of our anniversary.  To tell him would be cruel, not?

I answered his question, then turned my face in his direction.  I confessed.  And it hurt him, very much so.  He screamed he couldn’t trust me, I screamed back.  I cried big, fat, ugly tears that evening-angry with myself, angry with my addictions and yes, even angry with my loving husband-who doesn’t deserve the likes of me, and never did.

The moral of the story is this:  yes, we want to be truthful, as Christians-it’s a pretty serious matter.  But the past is the past.

Keep it there.  Ask Abba for forgiveness.  And swear an oath of secrecy to Jesus, to yourself.  The past is just that, but the future awaits us-like a diamond in the rust.  Polish that stone often.  Don’t look back, for you are a child of God-and your remorse and repentance is more than enough.


The Sunny Side of the Street is Dark

My stomach is in knots.  My heart is racing.  I feel panic rising from deep within.  I am paranoid in as much as I can’t blame myself, as although I take full responsibility for my part in these relationships-I have been “programmed” to respond like this.  It took me several minutes to realize why I was feeling so distraught-and I could smell a dirty narc from miles away.


My close friend Sinead is also semi-close with my in-laws.  She was like a daughter to them, much more so than I.  They called her every few days (I never received a phone call, for years) took her out to eat, treated her just like their own.  But lately, something has been hanging in the air between them: Sinead is as much in the dark as I am, and she was due to have lunch with them today.

We have been discussing this ad nauseum.  Not to be blunt, but I asked her today why she puts up with their mistreatment of her.  She was nervous, and  left our exercise class early, to lunch and learn with two of America’s finest.  Here’s where the torment comes in:  I have called and messaged my friend.  She has seen my message yet not returned it.  It is my belief, or fear if you will, that my mother in law has struck, again.

I found myself in literal tears, until the Holy Spirit spoke:

“You have done nothing wrong.”

No, I have not.  Sinead is very sensitive, and I fear that monster has said something random, hurtful or off the cuff.  She has tried to come between myself and others in the past, and this is pure narcissist triangulation at its best.

What if Sinead is angry with me?  I cannot apologize for what I didn’t do.  So be it.  If my heart and friendship truly matter, she will calm down and call a spade a spade.

I am at peace in the knowledge that God’s got this.

No longer will I fight, for any relationship.  I just don’t have it in me, nope.

Stay away from narcs.  They’re the Jezebel Spirit personified, and they will eat you up, and laugh as they spit you out.



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~


Remember early on in years
I carried you and
your tears.

The party days left long ago
perhaps the only time
we grew
close as sisters should be.

I rushed to your side
at each
and cared for what
I thought to be
my forever

Then things changed,
they rearranged
and sister turned
to sinister.

Most days
are fine,
and love remains
the answer to the

You haven’t only
kept me from
the children who
adored me-
you took their right
to family;
Jezebel, you
scorned me.

The time will
I’ll be long gone,
at home and loving

And you’ll
be left the memories
of ruin and resentment.


I volunteer in a local Emergency Room.  I was scheduled for yesterday afternoon, 12 to 4, and no matter how hard I tried?  I could not muster the enthusiasm to take a shower, let alone go to work.  I picked up the phone several times to call off, but something made me put down that phone, and I am here to say, Praise God I did.

Used to working the morning shift, I had no idea what to expect.  As I approached the double doors a sense of purpose filled my veins, and what I was about to walk into was the most horrific day of my entire nursing career.  Every room full, I immediately went to Room 14, as I heard wails of agony and pain.  The man in the bed was in his nineties, and he was hysterical.  I introduced myself, but he couldn’t hear me, he was too far gone.  

I asked his son and wife what was going on.  His son shook his head, wiped away a tear and told me that this was NOT his father.  He was a good Christian man who was beloved in his community and family.  His dad was strong and stoic; I could tell the family was terrified.

“Oh Jesus, take me now.  I am so sorry.  I am dying.  My legs are on fire.  Please, take care of my wife and children….my grandchildren, OH MY GOD, WHY?  I AM DYING, PLEASE GOD, I DON’T NEED GOLD WALKWAYS, JUST TAKE ME NOW………”

This went on for another twenty minutes.  I spoke to him, loudly and clearly.  What have you seen?  Why are you so frightened?  You aren’t dying, your stats are perfect…..he was white as snow, tormented…..and then I knew.  I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what was wrong. 

“The Diablo.  He is making me curse Jesus, think terrible things about my Lord.  I deserve to die, TAKE ME OH TAKE ME JESUS,”

I closed the curtain.  The nurse administered a sedative.  I asked the family to shush.

“You have no authority here, Satan.  No authority.  Drink the blood of Jesus demon and be gone.  Jesus is here, God is holding you.  Drink the blood of Jesus……”

I was convinced the doctor and nurses would think me insane and fire me as soon as I walked from beyond the curtain.  I waited and continued to pray out loud.  Within moments he calmed down.  Enough to listen to me.

Who is the father of all lies?  Satan is toying with you, but once God has you no one can ever take you away.  Do you understand me?  God loves you, and so does your family.  Listen to me…….”

I retreated for another warm blanket.  As I walked passed the gawking nurses, (and I mean every single one of them had their jaws open) I didn’t make eye contact.  I couldn’t.  I walked back into the room.  He was given another sedative.

There are things that I cannot divulge, but may I say this?

Praise, Glory and Honor to the Most High, and thank you Jesus, for your love and strength.

I walked Bob out to his car with his oh so thankful family.  He was dapper and strong, laughing at our jokes, and he kissed me on the cheek…….

“I don’t know how to thank you,” his son and wife said.  It wasn’t me they owed any gratitude, it was our heavenly father and Yeshua.  But they knew that.

And as I walked into the ER, prepared to be told to leave, the doctor said this:

“You are worth your weight in gold.  You couldn’t pay someone to do what you just did.”

I kept walking, straight to the nearest empty room.  And I got down on my knees and wept.