The Girl You Want…………

If I could go back in time, I would tell myself to hold tight to the female friendships I have cultivated.  Let’s face it, when you head for your forties-well, you start to realize what is important in life and what is detrimental.  You begin to stand up for yourself, and by the time you reach menopause?  You’re a whirling dervish of angst on the road to having no female friendships because you have told off just about every friend you have, for one reason or another.

I have lost sisters near and dear to my heart-but the loss was temporary, as those were the women who treated me with disrespect, dishonesty-they were not  the friends I thought they were-but it didn’t make it any easier to end the relationship.  My best friend in sixth grade (let’s just call her Shitstorm) threw a bowling ball at me because I had the highest average in the league.  She was also responsible for bringing a picture of me into school in the seventh grade, one in which I had cut my own bangs, and let’s just say she passed it on to my high school crush.  Mortifying.  I was friends with her for 30 more years, until she did the unthinkable…..that’s right, she was another narcissist, and crossing her was akin to playing hopscotch with Satan.

But when you hit your fifties?  Why, you hold on to your female friends like grim death-the ones who love you no matter what state you are in, root for you when you are up against it, speak to your husband when your sister pushes you over the edge and you grab that bottle of vodka………why, they are your true blue tribe, and you have earned each other’s trust.  I am not saying there won’t be disagreements (holy crap on a cracker, that’s part of the equation ladies) but you will learn that nothing is more important than women who get and cherish you, zits, nervous breakdowns and relapses be damned.

Why, I can’t spare a square…….I adore my gal pals, each and every one of them.  And I will hang on for dear life-sorry ladies, you’ve been served.

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~

Merci Beaucoup…

I wanted to give a heartfelt thank you to each and every one of you.  The readers, subscribers and the family I have made here at WordPress.  The mental health community is sorely needed-as we face true hardship because of the public’s lack of knowledge, empathy.

My hope and prayer is to have the Holy Spirit speak through me in order to bring you joy and continue my journey of serving Him.

Be blessed.  ❤


N is for NUMB…


Scrolling through videos this morning, as nothing just came to me, like usual.  I need to start writing again, I’ve been sharing a few blogs from the past, and I need to get right back up on that horse, alas, I am depressed.

Sometimes we don’t know how down we are until we acknowledge the feelings.  I know I pinned the tail on the donkey, as I cried when I typed the word.  The D word. No one wants to be sad and lonely, and I have no solid reasoning for being down-just the heat, my inability to shake a sinus infection and my allergies.  I hate these feelings-they speak of treachery and lies-my life is good.  I have friends and family that love me.  I have a church family who loves me.  But it ain’t easy to just walk up to someone and say:

“I’m really depressed,” when you have the world by the balls.  And I do-I have my health, my husband and a few intimates who know me like the back of their hands-I am so bloody thankful for each blessing, so why can’t I confide in my tribe?  It doesn’t help.  Or, more like I am too depressed to pick up the phone and talk.  I hide away like an injured animal,  trying to blend in to the scenery-hoping and praying that no one advances.  I’m stuck in a downward spiral of blech, and to be honest?  It bothers me.

Other signs-

I have no appetite, no interest in things that I have plenty of interest in; no lift in my loafers.  I cry when my husband leaves for work, I cry when he comes home.  I realize I am to pick up my cross, not complain, stiff upper lip and all that nonsensical crap people tell you when you know that your brain is misfiring and that your medication works, just not all the time.  It’s not like I can jump out of bed and get stoned, I’m not that kind of animal.

I am tired of running from the notion that I have a mental health handicap.  I am not alone, and neither are you.  Reaching out is the hardest thing to do, and I admit it-I don’t practice what I preach.  It’s all been done before, and even if I do confide?  My instinct is to make light of it immediately-“no pain here, nope, not me, I am just peachy.  Sorry if I bummed you out, I know your problems are bigger than mine, yada..yada..yada.”

There are the fixers, who truly want to make all things brighter.  I am a fixer, or an encourager at the very least.  But what do you say to someone who’s mental health has been an issue for as long as you’ve known her?

I understand.  I am here for you.  I will pray for you.  I love you, no matter~

When pigs fly.



My Analyst Told Me……..

About a week ago, my brother sent me an email with the information for a local therapist. I had given up therapy (God and I had this) and frankly, he was concerned. If I am going to face upheaval and pain, I call my bro, as I can emote at whim and he will not judge me. He gives great advice, so I looked so forward to meeting Nancy. The appointment was made for this morning.

I haven’t eaten in two days. I shake, from my feet on up to my hands. I have crying bouts-I cannot sleep through the night, never a problem before. This isn’t good for my Lyme recovery-let’s face it, what happened Wednesday afternoon wouldn’t be good for anyone. I drove in the wrong direction for 30 minutes, so distracted was moi. Finally, after driving miles on slick, rain drenched country roads. And I drove aggressively, fearlessly-which isn’t really me.

I spoke of the “incident” with my stepson in my last blog. How he has walked around in a state of rage for three months now, first depression-now red hot anger. He went on a verbal tirade about how I was a “blood sucking leach,” that I was a “joke” to the entire family. I was in fear of him punching me, and when I tried to go back inside, he blocked my way.

So here I am at Nancy’s pad. I fill out the paperwork and wait. An attractive and cheerful woman greets me with a hug. We sit down and I commence to lose my shit, and cry like a child. She proceeds to ask me a myriad of questions, mainly about brain fog and forgetfulness. By the time she gets to what she thinks I have? My mind is moving one hundred miles in seventy different directions.

“Dissociative Identity Disorder,” she says in a hushed tone.

She gave me the reasons behind her thinking, admitted that it was too early to be sure, gave me a tissue and rescheduled. As I drove to the pharmacy on the way home, it hit me pretty hard. I broke down and called my brother from said pharmacy. I wept through my interaction with the cashier. They know me well. They were concerned.

I have a few questions for sure. I am not going to go head over heels into this without ensuring that she can help me with my PTSD and Narcissistic Abuse syndrome. The only time lapse I remember was two weeks ago, albeit a four hour lapse. I was reading my bible on the couch in the living room, the clock read 8:00 a.m. When I traipsed into the kitchen for a glass of water (I had just received a very upsetting email from my sister)and the stove read 12:30 p.m.

I would poo poo the whole thing if it weren’t for the dichotomy between my mellow self, and my ‘I will cut a bitch” self. But doesn’t everyone have another side to them? DID happens for a few reasons, but in my case she believes that I suffered such devastating trauma from emotional abuse in my childhood, that I created another persona if you will.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, I made an appointment with Nancy for next week. I won’t let this ruin my weekend, as God has the final say on what I am suffering from, and He alone has the cure. Be blessed family.

Bliss (The Shroom Room)

Bliss DSCF8737

As deep and dreary as my addiction was, there were moments of extreme levity, and for that I am grateful.  Back in 1995, my brother threw a Halloween party.  He lived in Fishtown, a charming city within a city, the colored buildings decorated with goblins and ghouls alike, and, as it turns out-a city in which you can walk for blocks and blocks in the middle of the night-safely and uninterrupted.

I brought along a date, Tim, the cook from Houlihan’s, where I was presently employed.  He was nice, tall, and very much the gentleman.  I had no interest in him whatsoever, but always the people pleaser, I had no idea how to say no, thus the mitigating circumstances-allowing a stranger into you inner circle, your familla… end up red pilling a perfectly sane human being, whom, before meeting you and your brood, was as white on rice as you can get.

Upon arrival, Tim and I took a seat on the couch.  I dressed up as Madonna, my costume of choice for ten years straight.  So easy, and downright sexy, I thought.  Mini skirt, fishnet stockings, fuck-me pumps, heavy eyeliner applied to give the appearance of bushy eyebrows, a leather jacket and….voila!  Madonna.  Craig, my brother, wore no costume, and many of the men, including my date, had no intention of looking the fool in an outfit their better half picked out at Marshalls.  We had just started to relax with our beers when my brother said this:

“Courtney dressed up as the devil.”

I could tell by the spark in his eyes that I should turn around and take in her apparel.  My poor sister had bought a devil costume, complete with horns, cape and pitchfork.  The dynamics of our relationship back then was complicated, yet loving.  I saw her as the kindest human being on the planet, so Little Bo Peep compared to my Twisted Sister.  I was wildly protective of her, and as the older by five years sister?  Let’s just say nobody messed with her, at least not while I was within a five mile radius.

My sister took a boat load of teasing from her siblings.  It was the thing to do at the time…..but this was an opportunity so rare, so appetizing, so off the cuff…..I had to shame her, lovingly of course.  We laughed at the store bought  uniform, and then we went upstairs (I have to preface this story by telling you about these particular stairs-old house stairs that wound tightly in a spiral up six flights of building.  Dangerous for a sober party goer, deadly for the drunk) as Craig had a surprise for us:  mushrooms, of the Timothy Leary kind.  Psychedelics from nature, what could possibly go wrong????????

As I poured my second beer from the keg, my sister, wide-eyed and stressed to the max, whispered in my ear: “I didn’t get off right away, so Craig gave me more in a candy bar.”

“MORE???????”  How much MORE??????,” I asked my red as a beet sibling.

You have to understand, neither of us had ever tried such a thing, we were very sheltered growing up and weed was as strong as it got, at least until this evening.  My sister was not a seasoned partier-Craig and I were older, prone to experimental drug use…..but Courtney?  She was afraid of chemicals, and I had to hide my horror that she had just ingested a boat load more than she should have, and now I had to keep my eyes on her-for the duration of this shin dig.

The party eventually moved upstairs, into my brother’s room.  Starting to feel a bliss heretofore unfelt, I laughed and carried on:  we hung out with comedic people back in the day, big personalities and broken psyches.  We all had a past in common, one of waiting tables yes, but more times than not?  Depression and mood disorders, addictions and afflictions.  But we were family, and my brother threw the best ever parties.

The shrooms now in effect, I found everything hilarious…..I have never, ever laughed this uproariously in my entire life.  Jokes weren’t just funny, they were deliriously mad cap….a spirit of frivolity hung over our collective heads.  The bliss that set in was heady stuff, and it all came to a dramatic stop when we noticed the drama unfolding in front of our very eyes.  Courtney, always incredibly vanilla, incredibly modest, was laying on my brother’s bed.  My friend Terry had just made a hilarious observation, and Craig was gone…….his face purple, his laughter echoing throughout the house………and then it happened, in slow motion, the docudrama that featured drugs, booze and my little sister….becoming unhinged in front of our eyes, and no one could stop what was about to take place.

Apparently, while loosing his proverbial shit at Terry’s story, Craig did not notice that my sister’s store bought costume was stuck underneath his elbow.  The harder she struggled, the louder he laughed…..until she was literally down to her bra and panties.

“Red alert, red alert,” I repeated over and over again in my head.  I have to help her.  People screaming and crying laughing at the site of her didn’t help.  I was angry and ashamed for her, yet I could not move-not one inch.  The hilarity had kept me frozen in place, and the more my brother laughed, the harder it was to move.  My eyes swept the room… gawking, women crying….and my little sister, also frozen-but in fear and embarrassment.

After what appeared to be hours, I finally took her hand, walked her to the bathroom and redressed her.  She clung to me like a cure for cancer, and didn’t leave my side for the duration.  We did everything we could to sober her up, walked her around the block a hundred times, coffee, Ativan…..nothing worked.  By four in the morning, everyone had left the party but my siblings and my date.  Exhausted, we fell into my brother’s king size bed, Tim laying on the floor next to me.  It had taken us hours and hours to stop laughing, to calm down enough to get some shut eye.

“Phatt, foof, tweet, (sound of a balloon in the last seconds of life) farrrrtttt, farrrrtt, farrrrttt.”  By the time I discovered that the noise was coming from my own ass?  It was too late.  I could see the silhouette of my brother’s face in the dark-laughing so hard he was gasping for air, and then it hit me:  my date was lying behind my behind, and he was getting the worst of it. The HORROR…..the EMBARASSMENT.  Suddenly, the joke was on me, and I finally caved and went with it, laughed until I cried, despite my growing panic.

The happy ending?  Tim never darkened my door again…….poor dude.

Make Me an Angel…


This will be my last writing-at least until I finish up the Mystery Blogger Award, so it may be a few days.  Every time I sit down to complete my nominations, a strange wind blows in from the East, and I find myself frozen, unable to write; it becomes a virtual impossibility and I set my sights on something else.  This is the perfectionist/procrastinator’s way of doing things, and we all know what happened with the Liebster Award-as soon as I began writing, my access to my blog was cut off-another story for another day.

Today I went hiking for the first time in a few days.  It’s HOT and HUMID in the Northeast right now, not my kind of weather, even on a good day.  Luckily, Jesse and I have a plan on these days: a lovely trail called Deer Path, with plenty of shade and water; the lake adds to the cool atmosphere, and we are in business once again.  This is the trail I was stalked on, two years ago.  To this very day I walk protected, in prayer and armed-I walk like I mean it, own the trail and know what’s behind, aside of or ahead of me at all times.  I carry mace and a HUMONGOUS stick, my golden retriever leads the way.  After the incident, in which a  red haired, half naked lunatic was found masturbating (I saw him well into the hike, and I motioned to my dog-we ran for our lives.)  Jesse never forgot this, and if he senses a person on trail?  He literally turns around and blocks me from whatever lies ahead.  I always pray for Divine protection, and I can literally feel God’s comfort-I will not be a victim.  Fear will not rule my life:  not this time, anyway.

As we were packing up to leave, I saw a woman (who turned out to be a child) pull into the parking lot.  She sprayed herself with bug spray, then began her trek, until of course, I interrupted her.

Honey, do you have protection?”

She stared at me like I meant condoms, and I broke out laughing at the absurdity of the question.  How do you warn, but not terrorize?  The fact is that a month ago, I was heading out to Middlecreek for a hike, on a different trail-Spicebush.  We usually go first thing in the morning-to beat the heat, but it was 9:30-we were running late.  As I sat down in the jeep, a voice from deep within (aka, the Holy Spirit) said:

((Why are you skipping your exercise class???))

I turned around, and drove toward the church-where the ladies in waiting were warming up in the parking lot.  Later in the evening, my husband and I sat down for the evening news, and I felt as if I’d been shot from a cannon.  (I did look for the video, but they have since taken it down)

“This morning, at 10:00 a.m. a woman reported that a man attempted to grab her off of her bicycle, she shook him off and called 911.  This is the trail she was on, in broad daylight.  She is shaken, but okay.”

They panned to a detective who announced they were looking for him; then they shared the trail she was on.  Spicebush.  I was shaken, as I should have been there, not her.

So, back to this morning.  I clarified my question:  DO YOU CARRY ANY WEAPONS?

We spoke for a few more minutes, this precious child and myself.  She said no, that she would be just fine without a weapon.

I went into my backpack and retrieved my pink mace cannister.

I taught her how to use it, and instructed her to be careful not to mace herself.

And as she turned to leave, she thanked me profusely.

It wasn’t me.   She had her angels to thank…..

Divine protection?  Indeed.