I have to start out by telling you I have consumed my happy juice and am a bit crosseyed at this time. But praise Jesus, for he has given us every herb, plant and fruit bearing tree so that we will live healthy, peaceful lives. Medicinal. Used for my CPTSD, it can take me from despair to joy, and that my friends is worth its weight in gold.
I’ve been thinking about what is happening in this world, and obviously, it all but freaks me out. After watching a video I shouldn’t have, I was overwhelmed-feeling as if the entire three ring circus was on my back. First sad. Then frantic. Then Jesus.
I tell him, Jesus! I am clinging to your robes today, I need you badly!
These are the times when I run, full throttle, all engines on to God. I picture myself running in to his amazing hug, and hear him say There, there child.
I can’t do this Jesus.
I know too much, why do I know so much and when did you make the decision to take a scaredy cat like this girl, and lead her in the direction of Doom. Real news. Investigative reporting. I have felt the Holy Spirit driving me in this direction, and some days? Down with the ship I go.
He never pushes, never demands.
I come to the realization that He alone is my Lord and Savior. He will not leave me nor forsake me. He is in control.
I take a long hot shower. I plug in my tiny white lights strategically placed all over my home, to give comfort. Put some cinnamon on the stove. And then He takes me back to who I was before I got clean. I am profoundly grateful.
I was trying to catch up on my reading a few weeks ago, my WordPress reading that is. It was a cold and rainy Sunday evening, and I stopped dead in my tracks when I read his blog. I didn’t know him, or of him, I just gave a little love to a stranger, one who had lost his brother-one who was on the verge of suicide.
It broke my heart to read his words. No one had commented, and I was frantic. I quickly wrote in the comment section, no. You are loved. You have a place in this world. You must not give up, I will help you. It didn’t matter that he lived half way around the world from me, it didn’t matter that I didn’t know him. I just wanted him to feel the love that makes the difference: between being utterly alone in this world, and having someone love him. We began correspondence immediately, so sweet, my friend Mohammed.
He said it helped him to know I existed. It helped him to know a human being, albeit thousands of miles away, loved him-simply because he was in pain, dire straights, and experiencing a loss most of us would be shattered by-simply because he was and is a child of God-they will know we are Christians by our love……
He kept in touch throughout my journey with Lyme, and the infected lymph node that had basically convinced me I was dying. The day I went to Med Express, alone and frightened out of my mind, he said these words: Don’t worry. I am here. Five words. Five words that helped me to feel safe, loved-cared for. It mattered to him, my poor health. And I thought that a miracle, in so many ways.
Today, while chatting, he said he had one thing to ask of me. I told him anything, yes anything for him.
“Can I call you mom?”
So, this is how our Abba works. I have no children and my step son hates me for reasons I don’t understand, as I was always loving, always supportive.
This touched me in places I haven’t been touched in, well, forever.
And as I let the tears drip….one by one, I answered.
I wrote this blog last Spring, while in the heat of the horrible moment. Devastated by an argument with my step son, I simply could not see the forest through the trees. There was never an apology rendered, but I have forgiven Bud and he knows this. I like to call this phenomena Grace-but really I just did it for myself and my husband.
Dwain, interestingly enough, has not forgiven him. Yet there have been great strides towards healing, and rather than trying to be his son’s best friend? He has risen to the challenge of being a father, i.e. no more tolerating arrogance or disrespect. I believe we are all closer as a result of his temporary insanity.
When God puts you to the test, and you pass with a combination of trusting His wisdom? Oh my dear friends, this is when the miracle happens: a peace that surpasses any understanding-inner joy and self love come out of hiding. Often, the hard part is recognizing the blessing. With practice and determination, you can take the gifts from above and pay it forward. Grace abounds, indeed.
I have been having what some would call “hearing hallucinations,” and I know they are real, as real as the grass in the yard, the puffy clouds on the horizon, and the Spring peepers who cry out their mating call at this time of year.
Okay, how do I explain the inexplicable? I’ll have to go back to the early days, circa 2013, after an incredibly stressful demolition of our church, by Christian Hypocrites who simply took over, spewed their venom and caused one of our pastors to turn to Atheism. I was distraught over what I then thought to be the end of my life as I knew it. I got sober in this chapel, every single person knew my story and they showed me love and grace, not harsh ostracism. The travesty is, we were beginning to do some amazing spiritual work……we were in sync, and you could feel the Holy Spirit-lifting us up and out of our day to day lives. And then: Kaput.
I began to experience a strange, but lovely thinning of the veil, if you will. I began finding feathers in crazy places-different colors and hues. I collected twenty of them and put them in a crystal glass. No explanation for how they came to be in the middle of my bedroom floor; no cat toys missing pieces, no feathered anything to be blunt. I did not realize they were feathers from the Angels at the time, no not until the last feather was gifted me: a large, purple beauty, somehow I knew that this would be the last one, and it was. I have brought these feathers to bedside vigils, to give others the hope of better days to come, when we are once again home, the complete and unwavering love of God, His mercy and forgiveness.
Shortly after the last feather appeared, I had been toying with the New Age. I came out of that nightmare unscathed, but now things were getting downright eerie. Five minutes before I was stalked by a half naked man, causing me horrible PTSD symptoms, I heard my angels wings. So loudly, I turned around as I expected to see a Vulture, or other huge bird looking at me. Instinctively, I knew what it was. I believe I was guided by the heavenlies that day, and I have good reason: the Conservation Officers were doing their annual trail checks that day, and I had the good fortune to run out of the woods and into the arms of the officer who took the case.
One day, I was absolutely driven to get up off my buttocks and take a picture of my back yard. It was a dreary rainy day, and there was nothing to see…..but listen to myself I did. As I brought the camera to my eyes, I saw 6 or 7 white crosses-along the garden plot. If I took the camera away? Nothing. Each time I brought that camera into focus, I saw the white crosses, and I felt protected, if not a little shaky.
Yesterday, while getting out of the shower, I heard those wings again. I knew the angels wanted me to know they were with me, which scared the bejeepers out of me. What now? Why now? I had to sit for a spell and calm myself down.
So, it is evening and my husband and I are preparing dinner.
“Honey, you know if you need to talk about the Bud (formerly known as my stepson) debacle, I know how much you’re hurting. I want you to know that I am here for you, and if you need to vent, please do so.”
What he said next was so crazy making, so vile and putrid and everything that goes along with the loss of a child.
“I text him, last week. I jacked him up and he said there will be no apology forthcoming.
No apology? That man-child stood in my garage and screamed cruel and untrue things, called me a freak, told me the whole family thought I was a freak. And, as it turned out, he was plenty pissed that I am on SSI, as “it’s not fair I have to pay for her income with my taxes.”` He was this close to hitting me and when I went to go inside, he came after me and I just waited. If he hit me, then I could go to court, get a Protection From Abuse-hey, I’ve suffered worse things, believe me.
I have made the decision that he is dead, dead to me for all intents and purposes.
You see, what seemed to irritate him most? That I had suffered CPTSD, and depression. Apparently he thinks I made it all up; that after owning my own businesses and working (often two jobs at a time) for 40 years, I just decided, as if upon whim, to close shop, be lazy and ruin my husband’s life. How could he be that cold?
And then the inevitable kick in my aching groin: “Bud will be at mom’s for Easter, with his gal pal extraordinaire, the woman who was the icing on the cupcake of his disaster, the woman who so eagerly took what was not hers, her best friend’s boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong, Bud is responsible for his own actions, but being the raging narcissist that he is? He will never take accountability. He ruined his own life and he should have thought about that before he let his penis do his thinking. Sorry, I’m a bit rough around the edges today.
Father, forgive him, he knows not what he does.
She talks to angels, they call her out by her name.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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~
After I wrote my positive outlook on life blog yesterday, things changed and quick. I had been referred to a specialist for Lyme, however, she wouldn’t take me unless I faxed all 4.6 billion pages of my family practitioner’s files-a feat so great, so daunting, that I crossed her off the list.
So, now I am on the phone with practice after practice, looking for some enlightenment, and receptionist after receptionist gives me a hard time. Why, one of them was so rude I hung up on her-because she was about to get a fresh can of WHOOP ASS, and I have offended God enough in one week, thank you very much!
The thing is, I have never been diagnosed with Lyme. They did bloodwork twice, and both times told me that I had an autoimmune disorder. Do you have any idea how many immunity disorders there are? However, I had the tick bites and bullseye to go with my other symptoms. Now I need REAL answers from a REAL Specialist. I finally found a woman in Lancaster, an internist. I have to wait a few weeks, but do have to tell Peter about it, my physician for all other things Michele. That should go over well, NOT.
So, with Lyme you have so many symptoms of depression, mood swings and outbursts-and now I can’t tell if I’m truly depressed, or is it the Lyme spirochete? So, I am on the verge of a full out meltdown. I’m not going to lie, I thought about taking a drink. Unfortunately, or should I say FORTUNATELY every bartender within a fifty mile radius of my home knows I’m in recovery. Seriously floundering, I began yelling at God. I do this very, very rarely-only when I am distraught. The mere thought of hurting Jesus is enough to make me faint-I wasn’t so much angry as frustrated, and frightened. And that just isn’t me.
I decided on a joint and a sit by the lake, and drove away from my house like a bat out of hell. Actually, I didn’t know my little jeep had it in her, but I was doing 75 when I saw her. Laying in the road, blood everywhere, surrounded by three elderly women.
I jumped out of the jeep, horrified, and tried to contain the situation (I am a highly trained EMT) when the news hit me that no one had called 911. I didn’t have my cell, so I drove back up to the house and called. This is what I abhor about phoning 911-the idiotic questions. You are sitting by a woman who is bleeding out, right there in front of you, and this jerk wants to know if she’s alive. WHAT THE HARRY BELLAFONTE?????? I told him three, count ’em THREE times I was an EMT. Finally snapped and just told him to send the flippin’ ambulance. Not before he said this to me: “don’t touch her.”
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, why can’t people do their jobs?
So, the ambulance comes, to see Nora. She is a kindly and mentally challenged Amish woman who lived down our street. She has diabetes, and her sugar crashed-she took a face plant into the concrete, with her glasses on. The blood was everywhere, and, as always-a woman on the scene who thought she knew everything.
The bus (ambulance) arrives. I am busy directing what little traffic there is, and I (seemed like slow motion) turned to see the paramedics lifting her by her arm pits on to a gurney. No concern whatsoever for her back or spine. I have never, ever seen such malpractice in my life. She should have been C-spined, and put in the gurney with padded protectors to keep her spine straight, but she wasn’t.
I left the scene when all was over, the know it all blubbering (she was as upset as I was, to see their lack of skills) and various neighbors talking amongst themselves on the pavement. I turned towards home, and I let out a holy cry-God knew what it would take to get me out of the house yesterday. I never leave the house after noon unless I have plans-I am too busy cleaning and cooking and baking and…………………He knew, and he used me even though I was the biggest, whiniest brat on the planet. He used me to help save a woman’s life.
Cast your burdens upon the Lord and He will sustain you: He will never allow the righteous to be shaken.
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.