Crazy……

I remember, I remember when I lost my mind……..great lyrics, great song.  After years of fighting for Social Security Disability, (I put up with way too much for way too long, and suffered a break down-depression is not a sign of weakness-it is a sign of being strong despite ridiculously mind-boggling stress) I have now been notified that I won.  I am grateful, yes, but now I am legitimately handicapped, according to the state of Pennsylvania.

I didn’t think I would be overcome with the words of the Judge’s decision:

Advanced age.  Alcoholism.  Depression.  Drug use.  Disabled.  Anxious.  Isolator.  Potato Chip Sifter and my personal favorite-mentally ill.  Perhaps it is time that I own these descriptive, if not melancholy diagnoses.  Knowing that PTSD was the problem all along, well, that does help, as at least I know the beginnings of my madness.  But I am proud to be here, proud to toot my horn in support of mental health awareness and the way Jesus will take the broken and make them strong and resilient, eventually.

I am not the poster child for the criminally insane, and for now, well, that is enough.

Sunday Papers………….

 

Day two of staying quiet, listening to the Holy Spirit’s comforting whispers, and plain, good old fashioned rest.


Every month, and I do mean every month, there is an unholy collaboration of hormones and the full moon that have their way with my mind, and I, and everyone that loves me, is put through a series of tearful phone calls, disturbing Facebook posts, and blogs that could make the Grinch cry out in anguish. I never remember this until I am, quite frankly, hysterical. I get to the point of outright paranoia, and my fears run wild, like so many deer chasing the wind. I cry on and off for a day or two, suffer fits of irritation few could survive, and scream Hare Kari at my cats, husband and, well, anyone who darkens my day to the point of pitch black preparedness-meaning, I learn to EXPECT bad news.

When the Eclipse happened, I was so frightened (stupid YouTube) that my husband left work to come home with special goggles-first to allow me to actually see the Eclipse, and second-to walk out of the house for the first time in days. What had me so terrified, you ask? Well, it was LA Marzulli’s video on BEKs, better known as Black Eyed Children. This phenomena has been discussed, at length, on sites such as his and a few others, Stranger Than Fiction, A Call For An Uprising, and Richie From Boston.

So here’s the story, in Reader’s Digest form: there is a little known phenomenon called BEKs, Black Eyed Children-who, for all intents and purposes, appear out of absolutely nowhere and ask to be allowed into a person’s home, car or business. They are children, sometimes teens, who have soulless black eyes. They talk in a way that tips you off, a stilted, 19th century vocabulary. Their clothes don’t come from any stores you and I frequent. Au contraire, they are clothes from the 20’s, even 30’s. Their main objective is to get inside your house, where they will cause disease, freak accidents and untimely death.

Do I really believe in this phenomenon? Yes. I have seen enough pictures and reputable videos to know that these demonic energies are a little known fact of life, the life we are currently living, otherwise known as THE END DAYS. My question? How in the Harry Belafonte does ANYONE know that these are the end times? Is there a manual I am not aware of? Didn’t the end times begin when Jesus said, centuries ago, “It is finished?” The reality, in my opinion, is that these strange and mind blowingly frightening oddities have occurred since the beginning of time. Yet now, we have the World Wide Web, where we can look up just about anything that suits our fancy: Illuminati, Aliens, Demons, New Age-why, a person as impressionable as myself might be convinced that the world is a scary place, and if the internet isn’t a problem for you, just look at the Main Stream Media.

What is a person to believe? Do your research thoroughly, use reliable sources, and if that doesn’t work? Run. Run like your bloody hair is on fire.

Crazy…

I remember, I remember when I lost my mind……..great lyrics, great song.  After years of fighting for Social Security Disability, (I put up with way too much for way too long, and suffered a break down-depression is not a sign of weakness-it is a sign of being strong despite ridiculously mind-boggling stress) I have now been notified that I won.  I am grateful, yes, but now I am legitimately handicapped, according to the state of Pennsylvania.

I didn’t think I would be overcome with the words of the Judge’s decision:

Advanced age.  Alcoholism.  Depression.  Drug use.  Disabled.  Anxious.  Isolator.  Potato Chip Sifter and my personal favorite-mentally ill.  Perhaps it is time that I own these descriptive, if not melancholy diagnoses.  Knowing that PTSD was the problem all along, well, that does help, as at least I know the beginnings of my madness.  But I am proud to be here, proud to toot my horn in support of mental health awareness and the way Jesus will take the broken and make them strong and resilient, eventually.

I am not the poster child for the criminally insane, and for now, well, that is enough.

Blood. Red. Moon.

 

Man, I must move the litter boxes, which are situated under a settee in my dining room.  I sit in my living room to write, and no matter what time of day, which way the winds blow, or even if I have just finished putting fresh litter in the boxes-the Elkins nose is both a blessing and a curse-the stank finds me and today?  It makes me want to vomit profane.

I fell into a funk during a sinus infection.  With lightning speed my joy plummeted, and I was left looking for answers, once more.  The progression of a CPTSD trigger usually takes months-it was only a matter of days before I was sinking.  I hadn’t worked in the Emergency Room in weeks, wasn’t writing, didn’t feel well.  I succumbed to the lull of my lonesome demons, and day by day it became one big freaking festival of fear.  I had rather thought I’d put this behind me, as the grace and mercy God has shown me how to not fear, so why was I so anxious?  I was anxious because I had fallen into a pattern of avoidance.  My addictive personality is swayed towards habit and the need to find comfort in routine, repetition and familiarity.

I was praying last night.  I told Jesus that I wasn’t the girl for the job, not any longer.  I knew he would understand-I needed a break, I had burned out-the world was on my shoulders.  I hadn’t felt moved to go to the ER, but could not, for the life of me, figure out why.  I mean, I dreaded the idea of even pondering driving in the direction of the hospital.  Then it hit me, like a ton of golden bricks!  I wasn’t placing my faith in God.  The enemy had woven its smarmy way into my thought process, and convinced me that I had nothing to offer the world.

And finally, Jesus took over the conversation.  I felt the Holy Spirit move me to actually want to go back to the trenches, and I was gung ho last evening-even anticipating seeing my crew again.  I almost talked myself out of going in this morning.  I could go back to sleep, have a lazy day, take Jesse for a hike…as if I had no choice, I went through the motions of getting dressed, driving to work-my stomach felt a little flighty-I was feeling led by the Holy Spirit again, it seemed, so I took heed.

I immediately noticed the attempted suicide room was occupied; because of a past that includes an attempt at slitting my wrists, I am always drawn to those who know emotional pain, and have been so strong, against all odds, for so long that there begins a crack in the façade.  Some don’t crack, but those that do are crying out for help, and I have felt the burden of isolation in my own journey with mental health issues.

I went in as the psychiatrist walked out.

“Hey, girl,” I all but whispered.

She said nothing.  As I inched closer to the bed she held her arms out, and I held her as hard as I could, with as much love as I could possibly convey.  It didn’t take me long to see that one of her tatts was the Illuminati pyramid with the all seeing eye.  My heart sank.  After a few moments, I blurted it out:

“Hey, can I ask you what this is,” I traced my fingers up and down the area, as if my touch could burn it away, this evil, this epidemic of brain washing.

“You know, the Illuminati, money is all powerful, the most important thing.”

I sat at her side, she scooched over for me.  She began telling me, almost as if she were apologizing, about what drove her over the brink.  Her story ripped my heart from its chamber:

My brother was 14.  He was the first person killed in Lancaster this year.”

And then she sobbed, and told me the rest.  I left the room to clear my head, and instead, I heard His words, loud and clear.

GIVE HER YOUR CROSS.

I have worn two gold crosses around my neck for some time now.  I break chains often, and I buy crosses at thrift stores as I can’t afford the real deal.  My favorite?  An old, rugged cross-paid a buck, and treasured it until I gave it to a frightened autistic man, who sang me the Gospel in an angel’s falsetto.

I walked boldly into the room, and promptly got the necklace caught in my hair, so much for a tender moment.  I finally put the cross around her neck, and told her that God loved her.  As I left the room I heard her small voice:

I know.

 

Sunday Papers………….

Day two of staying quiet, listening to the Holy Spirit’s comforting whispers, and plain, good old fashioned rest.


Every month, and I do mean every month, there is an unholy collaboration of hormones and the full moon that have their way with my mind, and I, and everyone that loves me, is put through a series of tearful phone calls, disturbing Facebook posts, and blogs that could make the Grinch cry out in anguish. I never remember this until I am, quite frankly, hysterical. I get to the point of outright paranoia, and my fears run wild, like so many deer chasing the wind. I cry on and off for a day or two, suffer fits of irritation few could survive, and scream Hare Kari at my cats, husband and, well, anyone who darkens my day to the point of pitch black preparedness-meaning, I learn to EXPECT bad news.

When the Eclipse happened, I was so frightened (stupid YouTube) that my husband left work to come home with special goggles-first to allow me to actually see the Eclipse, and second-to walk out of the house for the first time in days. What had me so terrified, you ask? Well, it was LA Marzulli’s video on BEKs, better known as Black Eyed Children. This phenomena has been discussed, at length, on sites such as his and a few others, Stranger Than Fiction, A Call For An Uprising, and Richie From Boston.

So here’s the story, in Reader’s Digest form: there is a little known phenomenon called BEKs, Black Eyed Children-who, for all intents and purposes, appear out of absolutely nowhere and ask to be allowed into a person’s home, car or business. They are children, sometimes teens, who have soulless black eyes. They talk in a way that tips you off, a stilted, 19th century vocabulary. Their clothes don’t come from any stores you and I frequent. Au contraire, they are clothes from the 20’s, even 30’s. Their main objective is to get inside your house, where they will cause disease, freak accidents and untimely death.

Do I really believe in this phenomenon? Yes. I have seen a few pictures and reputable videos to know that these demonic energies are a little known fact of life, the life we are currently living, otherwise known as THE END DAYS. My question? How in the Harry Belafonte does ANYONE know that these are the end times? Is there a manual I am not aware of? Didn’t the end times begin when Jesus said, centuries ago, “It is finished?” The reality, in my opinion, is that these strange and mind blowingly frightening oddities have occurred since the beginning of time. Yet now, we have the World Wide Web, where we can look up just about anything that suits our fancy: Illuminati, Aliens, Demons, New Age-why, a person as impressionable as myself might be convinced that the world is a scary place, and if the internet isn’t a problem for you, just look at the Main Stream Media.

What is a person to believe? Do your research thoroughly, use reliable sources, and if that doesn’t work? Run. Run like your bloody hair is on fire.

Crazy……

I remember, I remember when I lost my mind……..great lyrics, great song.  After years of fighting for Social Security Disability, (I put up with way too much for way too long, and suffered a break down-depression is not a sign of weakness-it is a sign of being strong despite ridiculously mind-boggling stress) I have now been notified that I won.  I am grateful, yes, but now I am legitimately handicapped, according to the state of Pennsylvania.

I didn’t think I would be overcome with the words of the Judge’s decision:

Advanced age.  Alcoholism.  Depression.  Drug use.  Disabled.  Anxious.  Isolator.  Potato Chip Sifter and my personal favorite-mentally ill.  Perhaps it is time that I own these descriptive, if not melancholy diagnoses.  Knowing that PTSD was the problem all along, well, that does help, as at least I know the beginnings of my madness.  But I am proud to be here, proud to toot my horn in support of mental health awareness and the way Jesus will take the broken and make them strong and resilient, eventually.

I am not the poster child for the criminally insane, and for now, well, that is enough.

Blood. Red. Moon.

 

Man, I must move the litter boxes, which are situated under a settee in my dining room.  I sit in my living room to write, and no matter what time of day, which way the winds blow, or even if I have just finished putting fresh litter in the boxes-the Elkins nose is both a blessing and a curse-the stank finds me and today?  It makes me want to vomit profane.

I fell into a funk during a sinus infection.  With lightning speed my joy plummeted, and I was left looking for answers, once more.  The progression of a CPTSD trigger usually takes months-it was only a matter of days before I was sinking.  I hadn’t worked in the Emergency Room in weeks, wasn’t writing, didn’t feel well.  I succumbed to the lull of my lonesome demons, and day by day it became one big freaking festival of fear.  I had rather thought I’d put this behind me, as the grace and mercy God has shown me how to not fear, so why was I so anxious?  I was anxious because I had fallen into a pattern of avoidance.  My addictive personality is swayed towards habit and the need to find comfort in routine, repetition and familiarity.

I was praying last night.  I told Jesus that I wasn’t the girl for the job, not any longer.  I knew he would understand-I needed a break, I had burned out-the world was on my shoulders.  I hadn’t felt moved to go to the ER, but could not, for the life of me, figure out why.  I mean, I dreaded the idea of even pondering driving in the direction of the hospital.  Then it hit me, like a ton of golden bricks!  I wasn’t placing my faith in God.  The enemy had woven its smarmy way into my thought process, and convinced me that I had nothing to offer the world.

And finally, Jesus took over the conversation.  I felt the Holy Spirit move me to actually want to go back to the trenches, and I was gung ho last evening-even anticipating seeing my crew again.  I almost talked myself out of going in this morning.  I could go back to sleep, have a lazy day, take Jesse for a hike…as if I had no choice, I went through the motions of getting dressed, driving to work-my stomach felt a little flighty-I was feeling led by the Holy Spirit again, it seemed, so I took heed.

I immediately noticed the attempted suicide room was occupied; because of a past that includes an attempt at slitting my wrists, I am always drawn to those who know emotional pain, and have been so strong, against all odds, for so long that there begins a crack in the façade.  Some don’t crack, but those that do are crying out for help, and I have felt the burden of isolation in my own journey with mental health issues.

I went in as the psychiatrist walked out.

“Hey, girl,” I all but whispered.

She said nothing.  As I inched closer to the bed she held her arms out, and I held her as hard as I could, with as much love as I could possibly convey.  It didn’t take me long to see that one of her tatts was the Illuminati pyramid with the all seeing eye.  My heart sank.  After a few moments, I blurted it out:

“Hey, can I ask you what this is,” I traced my fingers up and down the area, as if my touch could burn it away, this evil, this epidemic of brain washing.

“You know, the Illuminati, money is all powerful, the most important thing.”

I sat at her side, she scooched over for me.  She began telling me, almost as if she were apologizing, about what drove her over the brink.  Her story ripped my heart from its chamber:

My brother was 14.  He was the first person killed in Lancaster this year.”

And then she sobbed, and told me the rest.  I left the room to clear my head, and instead, I heard His words, loud and clear.

GIVE HER YOUR CROSS.

I have worn two gold crosses around my neck for some time now.  I break chains often, and I buy crosses at thrift stores as I can’t afford the real deal.  My favorite?  An old, rugged cross-paid a buck, and treasured it until I gave it to a frightened autistic man, who sang me the Gospel in an angel’s falsetto.

I walked boldly into the room, and promptly got the necklace caught in my hair, so much for a tender moment.  I finally put the cross around her neck, and told her that God loved her.  As I left the room I heard her small voice:

I know.