No Guilty Party

Was it Erika Jane (of Beverly Hills Housewives) who said, “I am an enigma, wrapped in a riddle?”  It doesn’t matter, I deplore that woman.  I gave up watching the show after a rather disturbing birthday party scene in which Miss Thang had naked dancers, sprayed in 14k gold, placed in cages for effect.  I am not judging, just saying I have better things to do with my life, than watch hers implode.

And it will.  Implode that is.  More on that later, in another blog.

Notice the occult symbolism in this video?  The bathtub, the one eye, the MK Ultra sex slave spreading her oh so expensive legs.  That’s right, she’s had more plastic surgery than Michael Jackson.

Google the Guatemalan House of Culture.  My brother lives in LA, and even he had no idea about the Blackhawk operation that took place a few weeks back.  It appears, no it’s a fact, that her husband owns that building, and his law offices are conveniently located directly across the street.

Nefarious at best, these people.  The lifestyles of the rich and famous, do I yearn for that life?  No.  But to be honest, I did.  People magazine, Us, even the National Enquirer would keep me company more nights than not, but that was before God took the scales from my eyes-woke me up so to speak.  Please heed my warning:  these people, the elite?  Turns out they’re dog crap on the feet of humanity.  The last two years of my life, after a Spirit led quest for the truth, have left me a different person.  I am jaded, depressed and more than a bit paranoid.  That can be the price we pay for getting to the bottom of reality.  Was the whole journey worth it?  Indubitably.

When people change, truly change-the people around them are somewhat perplexed and disheartened.   When a codependent people pleaser ditches the cloak of door mattery  and tries to right the wrongs?  Well, at least in my case, people flee the scene of the crime: as if to say, call me when I can abuse/ignore/dump on you again.  I liked the old Michele-big heart, gullible and apologetic for existing.

I am alone, yet not really lonely.  I have a small group of  friends (it gets smaller by the day) but no one I would call in an emergency; fact is?  People don’t talk on the phone or even text these days.  It’s as if social media has replaced society as a whole.  I understand those who drop everything to begin life anew, in a hut somewhere west of Haiti, no phone, no contact with humanity.

But we need people, don’t we?  Isn’t that how God intended us to be?

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Yes.  The answer is a resounding YES.

My brother wrote a song, years ago, about how the ones you love slip away, but the fools stay put-nope, they aren’t going anywhere- they’re stuck to you like white on rice.

I attempted a friendship with my neighbor a few weeks ago.  That relationship fell flat before it even had a chance-she turned out to be even more unreliable than me, and that’s saying something.  I am prone to avoiding people at all costs, but I thought she was different-turns out, not so much.

Please excuse my attitude, let’s chalk it up to cabin fever…if that’s what you call losing all hope in humanity.

Here’s the rest of the LA story.  The truth will be revealed in God’s perfect timing.

 

 

Jacqueline

 

We are in the midst of a glorious snow storm, so I bake cookies, do research, take the pup shed hunting.  I am like a child when it snows.  Yesterday?  We took to making a snowman, and I made snow angels, for the first time in years. 

Presently, Jesse gnaws on frozen fox, I am beyond horrified, tell him to come, drop it, good boy.  We hunt five square miles of prime shed territory on two different plots of land.  I grumble that my hands are empty.  I apologize to God, thank him profusely.  I feel like a shmuck.  He has blessed us abundantly, with the things that truly matter in our lives-family, a loving marriage, food on our kitchen table-the very same one as in my childhood- I simply can’t bare to replace it.

The word on the street is that dysfunctional families raise dysfunctional adults.  The friends who don’t fill that shoe are few and far between.  So, what happens when your very best friend is dwelling in the silent place, and you are incapable of helping her.  You can’t wrap your arms around her, like you want to-because she’s a bit too restrained.  She is holding you at arms length because her relationship with her father was complicated, she suffered.  You are working through boundaries and self esteem issues after a life time of narcissistic abuse.  You have ended lasting friendships with people who refused to take you seriously, or took you for granted.

 

But this girl?  You just can’t shake her-you have become as close as your familial histories have allowed you to be.  She has always taken you seriously, and always respected you.  It just hurts too much when she forgets our plans, or fails to return numerous attempts to ask about her well being.  I do not judge her for this, she is hurting and I hurt for her.

You love her and hope that she knows this.

Sometimes there isn’t an answer.  Maybe you need to let go and let God.

So you decide that you will not allow her to slip away.  You take a step back and give her the space she needs.  You miss her, but know-deep within your very soul, that she is in the arms of the angels.

Jesus has this.

 

Fearless

Fear. Gripping, faceless, heart-stopping emotion. Different things frighten different people-but I remember, even as a child-being petrified by everything. I believe the dysfunction stemmed from a childhood in which I was raised by two incredibly anxious parents. As the years went by, I grew more and more fearful. Heights. Highways. Social venues. The straw that broke my back was the stalking I experienced two years ago-I dove into a depression so devastating, I thought for sure I would die of heartache. The world was becoming an increasingly violent place, and I wanted no parts of it, none.

I dove into the Word last Summer. The more I read the scriptures, the deeper my peace became. I began stepping out of my comfort zone: crossed a wooden bridge 800 in the air, over a rolling, rocky river. That was Jesus and to this day, I remember the way in which my terror was transformed within moments. After giving my husband a firm NO WAY, I quietly asked my Abba,

“Give me the strength Father, for Dwain. Let me be brave for my husband.”

Seconds later? I crossed that bridge like a boss, without any trepidation. I walked that rickety death trap twice, as we had to use the bridge to return to our truck, after having visited the other side of the river. One day I will find and share those pictures, as they may inspire hope in fellow Chicken Littles.

I began trusting Jesus for everything. Seemingly overnight, my crippling fear eased into a new normal, of brazen acts and caution, thrown oh so carefully to the wind. I put on the full armor of God. I prayed without ceasing, and failed often and miserably. One day I took notice. I stopped to reflect, to look back and see how incredibly far I’d come-how loved and cared for I had always been. I take it minute by minute, literally. I know the Holy Spirit will lead me to discernment. I force nothing-if it doesn’t feel good, it doesn’t get done.

In days such as these, when courage is required to simply be, it is as simple as calling out His name. I have my bad days, but not for stretches of time, as before. I know what to do, in those darkened hours of grief and angst: he will never desert you, ever.

No matter how hard it is, no matter what the size or magnitude of your pain, reach out to Jesus. He knows each and every hair on your freakishly large head. 🙂

Hog Tied and Strangled

I can’t listen to this song, as a year ago, in a funk-my brother turned me on to this song. The depth of his understanding touched me, because I thought we were growing closer. I vary between hating his guts, and hurting because he is no longer in my life. I knew, as an Eagle knows how to soar, I knew I couldn’t keep him. I used to pray, “Please, Jesus, please can I keep my brother,” but in the very pit of my being, I knew.

I knew he hadn’t it in him to go against the Scary Monster. The Jezebel. The Traitress. The POS I’d like to wipe the floor with, more days than not. Dwain is out hunting, leaving me to my own devices-never a good thing on a good day. Ironically, I hate being alone almost as much as being with people: that is a sure sign of a sensitive person-I give so much of myself when I am with others. I need loads of me-time to renew my strength. And it is in these exact times that I need people the most, as when the dishes are done, the dog is fed and my bones are aching? Well, that is when I begin to think. I can’t let that happen. It simply hurts too much.

If someone out there knows how one gets out of their own way, by all means, drop me a line. I know God tells us to think on the beautiful, heavenly places-and for the most part, I do. Yet when the darkness falls and the quiet comes, I am left bereft of spirit; I break down and weep. The act of crying leads me to more depressing straits, and before I know it? I’m bawling about something that happened in sixth grade, for crying out loud.

Dwain is home now. The mood softens. I am coping, once again.

The Girl You Want…………(ed)

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.

But what about the girls who don’t make the cut?  Who, as it turns out, are toxic as 5G on hormones?  The nervous breakdown you had last week?  You thought it was your dark mental health history, turns out it was your dark Jezebel worming her way into your psyche.  Is it really as simple as just walking away?  What if NO CONTACT isn’t an option, say because you go to the same gym.  Class.  Mother of God.

I knew I had to go, I had no choice.  I wasn’t sure I would go, but that strength I prayed to Jesus for?  It came the next morning-in buckets.  As I finished my makeup, I consoled myself with this thought: Maybe she won’t be there.

But that was the point of going to class: as a sufferer of PTSD, and while in the midst of a horrible episode due to this particular “friend.”  I had blocked her on all of my social media, but was still reeling from what had occurred before I ran away, like OJ on crack.

“She’s here,” my friend Sasha stated, as if she were announcing the bride of Satan.

I admit it, I panicked.

Haul ass, I’m not standing next to her, I blurted.

She walked in on three women who appeared to be doing some odd rendition of a Shakespearean tragedy-we tripped over one another as we hustled to find new spots on the floor.

Nothing to see here, folks.

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What my classmates saw last Tuesday…

After the class, as I was talking to Sasha, the Jezebel interrupted me.

“Can we talk for a moment?,” we had already exchanged pleasantries, even after I had threatened to call the state police if she didn’t cease and desist.  She made the Rocky Horror Picture Show look like Bambi Has a Family.  I was delirious.

I stood up to her, spoke my peace, but not without multiple interruptions.  I told her she had ridiculed, stalked and threatened me enough.  I told her I had been self harming, as a result of our last exchange.  I explained PTSD and what it does to a person.  She, of course, already knew this, as we have been acquainted many years.  All throughout my speech, she interjected this sentence:

But Michele, I’M DEPRESSED.”

I drove away praising Jesus, for answered prayers and for taking the scales off of my eyes, as it were.  Gawd.   Good riddance.

I have lost sisters near and dear to my heart (and a few quite recently)-but the loss was temporary, as those were the women who treated me with disrespect, dishonesty or the worst sin in my book- condescension-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.  Straight out, in front of our teammates. She was also responsible for bringing a picture of me (in the seventh grade) into school in my senior year; 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. After one too many brushes with death? I let her go, stopped all contact-to this day I have nightmares. To. This. Day.

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’re in, root for you when you are up against it, speak to your husband when you’ve relapsed. 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.

I have spent an entire lifetime trusting women I had no business trusting, not seeing the inevitable pain that came with illumination-it’s a process. Yet, as Abba works in my life? The new friendships are more stable, enduring and incredibly comforting. You teach people how to treat you, and the only way you gain respect is by being a bitch right back. As soon as I stand my ground, the bullies run for cover.

Today I am blessed beyond measure with an abundance of loving, nurturing and life sustaining women. I am thankful they feel safe calling me friend.

I Will Find the Center In You…….I Will Chew it Up And Leave…

This is the darkest post I hope to ever write.  This is a story about how alcohol kills-everything that is good, pure, worthy, decent……..alcohol is a vampire, it sucks the life blood out of you, then leaves you in a heap of disgrace, humiliation and nothingness.  I may have been “sober” for ten years, but I have slipped on more than one occasion, each time the lull of “It will be okay, just one drink” has seduced me….and each and every time I have wallowed in despair.

I would like to tell you about the last ten years of my drinking career.  A vocation so evil, so pummeling that I literally lost those years of my life.  Sadly, I cannot, as I was so far gone that the last years were swallowed by indignity, fear, and Godlessness.   Or so I thought.  I got sober when I was 46 years old, and for the longest time I honestly thought I was ten years younger.  Ten years of our lives, gone up in smoke. 

I weep just thinking of what could have been, but there is hope and we must lean not on our own understanding.  We have to summon every ounce of courage in our souls to rise up and fight this demon.  And together, with Jesus, we can do it, one minute, one hour, one day at a time.

What I do remember is locked behind a door that can only be unlocked by God, and only when it serves His kingdom.  I am taking off the deadbolt and releasing the ghosts that have kept me silent.  We are only as sick as our secrets, and becoming sober is the most freeing, healthy and frightening place we can be.  You have to hang on for dear life, but don’t be afraid of the ride, you have nothing to fear and everything to gain by telling your truth.

My last drunken event was my husband’s sister’s wedding.  I had consumed at least a bottle of wine before the ceremony, and that was 2:00 in the afternoon.  I do not remember the wedding, or the bride…….but what information I do have came at a cost, and that was my husband’s dignity.  I know that we didn’t stay for the cutting of the cake, as I had been playing footsies under the table with an unwilling participant-my husband’s cousin.  I also told a dear friend that I had enlightened my family with the news that he and I were having an affair-which led to some heavy duty amend making on his part, and I have never, to this day, as much a held his hand.  We are friends again, but that took ten years, 200 or so AA meetings, and the good Lord above-only now am I at peace.

Tears Dry On Their Own

 

I don’t understand, why do I stress the man? When there are  much greater things at hand?                                                                                 -Amy Winehouse

 

I had a bad hair day, and as I lick my wounds, I will do what I am wont to do when grief, of any kind, beckons. I turn to my writing, and process best I can.  I spent my former life running from anything “feeling.” As a result I suffer a backlog of grief.  I have worked through so much, the glory going to Jesus, who has shadowed my life, since childhood.  And of course, it was the Prince of Peace I turned to-after a hike and shower did nothing to shake the chill of a sadness I could not name.

I hadn’t felt this dull malaise in a long time.  The full moon always takes a toll on my psyche-I suffer a bizarre change of attitude at this time of the month, and it just happens to coincide with my period.  No, it’s not pretty-trust me!  I don’t relish having the temperament of Medusa on crack, but hey-who am I to question?

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I think we all have our codependency days.  Days when you’d be happy if your monster in law called you-just so you know you aren’t invisible.  This morning I checked my blog stats, and although I’m a big girl with a medium-thick skin?  Well, let’s just say I awoke to no texts, Facebook notifications, phone calls or fuck-yous.  As the morning went on, I had the unpleasant task of having to pick something up at my in laws home, conveniently located directly across the street.  Insert hair pulling here.

I spotted my monster, standing out on her front porch.  I told the dog to stay, and yelled my intentions, hoping she would hear me, so I wouldn’t have to knock on the door and go through the whole, sordid pretense.

OMG, WE HAVEN’T SEEN YOU IN WEEKS, LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT MY MOST RECENT PURCHASE, THIS DISH CLOTH-CLEARLY THE MOST SUPERIOR DISH CLOTH THIS SIDE OF THE PACOS, AND LOOK!  IT MATCHES MY COFFEE POT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Nah.  I’ll pass.

But something really weird happened.  She. ran. from. me.  I knew this to be true, because I have the moves of a full out ninja when it comes to avoiding my in laws.  I know all the tricks.  As I walked down the road, she walked faster.  I approached the front door, and knocked.

No answer.

She reappeared after I had returned to my home, picking weeds in a garden that is frozen solid.

Now, on good hair days this would not have phased me.  However, as the possibility of my invisibility grew, I was actually offended.

Later in the day, I phoned a girl friend to see if she’d be going to aerobics class.  She never returned my call.

These ridiculous nonissues prevailed the entire day.  I got good and quiet with God.

“What’s wrong with me, Abba?  Where is this over sensitivity coming from?  Where’s my self esteem?  Remind me of who I am in You.”

Tears dripped down my cheeks.  I knew this feeling only too well, although I hadn’t felt it in some time.  I have found myself in the midst of pain and confusion, as I wonder aloud why I had allowed it to happen.

My best friend is a narcissist.  I have known this for months, since the day she spat venom at 45 mph, into my voicemail.  Called me a liar, told me she’d tell the girls in class what I said about my in laws.  None of it made sense, but then again-I never listened to the entire voicemail.  After this incident, she begged me to forgive her-and that’s when I made my fatal mistake.

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I couldn’t put my finger on the sense of loss, anxiety and sense of impending doom.  I began tearing at my skin, stymied by my own inertia.  Recently, she was giving me the silent treatment-a well known, passive aggressive technique of the Jezebel.  They gaslight you into thinking it is you who’s the psychopath.  Narcissistic Injury-feel free to do your research in that department, if God forbid, you too are suffering.

I listened to the entire voicemail.

My skin crawled as I heard the vitriolic rage.

The moral of the story?  Go with your gut, especially if you have been the victim of Narcissistic Abuse.  There are resources online to help you understand the disease, the symptoms of CPTSD, and begin to heal the codependency that brought you to this place of utter despair.

Kill Jezebel.