I swear to the heavens above that my husband is going to give me a. a migraine. 2. possible TIA, or III. a nice comfy stay in the nearest freaking mental institution-and the worst part? I can’t even tell you why, because I don’t want my fucking family to know.
Does your man manage to screw things up at the worst possible time in the history of men screwing things up?
Does he stare blankly, into the Abyss, when asked to emote in a way that tells you he’s human?
Does he spend hours on the phone with a friend, listening to their tales of woe and betrayal? But banish you to the Kingdom of Not if you need a little TLC?
This has been a shitty week. Tomorrow is my effing birthday-and like each and every other holiday/birthday/momentous occasion-that man is gonna yank my chain until I say give.
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.
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.
It takes two to tango……..this song was running through my head this morning, as I slipped and slid through my morning hike. The fallen leaves, combined with the morning rain, had made the bridges treacherous, and my golden retriever waited with great anticipation-if not impatience, as I crawled along at a snail’s pace.
Jesse sees something, immediately slows down, turns around to look at me. So accustomed to being alone at this early hour, I never considered his eyes were on a human being. Finding myself at the slipperiest slope, wet rocks crowding the trail, I look up: there is indeed a man at the top of the hill. I cannot see his hair, but I do see his metal detector. I stop dead in my tracks. Put down my back pack, and get out my mace. I remember, instantly, that the man who stalked me whilst half naked last Summer had one, and that the cops told me that this was against the law at MiddleCreek. I thought, ‘OK, here’s where I faint, fall apart, run…….’ But the real shocker was this: I had no fear.
I had just fallen, whilst trying to pee in the woods. It surprised me how many leaves one can pull out of their naked ass cheeks, but they kept coming, my dog mildly alarmed, came over to aid in my getting it together, so I wasn’t operating at my full potential. I decided to walk right up to him, hiding my mace in my pocket. If he had red hair (as my stalker did) I would shoot him straight in the face….if not? I would tell him that he was breaking the law.
Finally able to see the man had dark brown locks, I stepped up to the plate.
“Excuse me sir, but watch yourself, those are illegal in this park,” I gently roared.
He reaches in his pocket. I reach into mine.
“No Englais, por favor.”
With that he pulls out his treasure of the day. One shell casing and two pennies.
Yesterday was Mother’s Day, and I pray you all had a great one-mine started out precariously, and it proved that no good deed goes unpunished. Indeed.
In a moment of weakness, compassion and dumbassery-I asked my MIL if she would like us to join her on Mother’s Day-at her church. Actually, my husband brought the notion up last Sunday-and I told him I’d pray on it-only to find that he had been joking. JOKING. Unfortunately, it was too late. My heart got the better of me, and I set plans for 9:30 a.m. We would be meeting in the strip mall that held her place of worship (Dwain and I called it The Cult) thirty minutes prior to the service.
Dumbassery at its finest.
Anyhooser, Dwain was none too pleased with the news, but I held my ground.
“What could POSSIBLY go wrong? We’ll be in church, sort of,” I stammered.
You have to understand a few things before I go on. My MIL is a narcissist with possible Sociopathic tendencies. She can scream at volume eleventy hundred with the best of them, and at one point in fact-she locked herself in the bathroom on my husband’s 35th birthday because his WIFE was taking him out to eat. The histrionics were impressive, but I’m no longer intimidated. Things have become manageable between us, as I take no shit and she knows this-she knows better than to mess with the likes of this girl. Everything turned around the day I stood up to her-any attempts to bring me under her control have failed-and with my new strength I laugh in the face of danger, daily.
So the cult, I mean church fills up to maximum capacity. I have to admit, between the praise music and the guest (a Christian comedian who had us in hysterics) my husband and I were truly enjoying ourselves. We sat there for two hours, no major faux pas-I did spill my Kombucha on a stranger, but nothing major-patiently awaiting the blessing.
From the corner of my eye, I see the veneer on her face. It has cracked, and the pieces are falling all over the place. She was even drinking her water in an angry fashion, which made me pee myself a little, but thankfully I was wearing a carefree panty liner.
What’s wrong with my mother?
“I don’t know, why don’t you ask her?,” I reply.
Dwain, still mildly petrified of his mother, shook his head in definitive protest.
Before I could even ask, the tirade began.
“Well, I’m not even going to clap for him. (The comedian) I wanted my pastor to be here (he was on vacation) and the real praise team (he was on vacation) to be here. And…”
I quit listening. A seething rage began from the depths of my being: I held it in, but I could feel the monster within, pushing and prodding at my insides-he wanted out, and in the worst way.
I stand outside in the semi-hurricane and wait for my husband to pick me up-which he does every Sunday. The wind is blowing people’s umbrellas inside out, I think I hear a woman scream, where the HARRY is my husband? I re-entered the church four times before I finally stormed out and to the truck. I open the door…
“What the FUCK?????????????????????”
I scream these words at volume coxswain, and sit my ass in the seat.
“I was on the phone with your son. Sorry. And by the way, there may be people in upstate New York who didn’t hear you.”
Every other Sunday, I work at our church Welcome Center. I genuinely like my coworker, (names have been changed to protect the criminally insane, mainly me) Alice. When we began working together, about two years ago, she frightened me to death. I feared she may be judgmental, and I’ll be honest-she intimidated me-two years ago, that is.
When I first began attending Hosanna, I wasn’t in the best place at that time in my life. I hadn’t dealt with my poor self esteem issues, and was not aware that my PTSD was eating away at my life, making me cripplingly insecure, and a people pleaser. I tried to hard. I wanted everyone to love me. I had just come from a very broken church, and the grief enveloped me to the point where I am sure it showed.
Alice is pleasant, and I admire her status as a cancer survivor. She likes things done her way, so we have fallen into a pattern of her doing the desk work, and me doing the people work. I know she means well, but I am beginning to tire of her putting me down. I am beginning to feel as if I should protect my heart, as she criticizes almost everything I do-but here’s the catch-she’s my sister and I love her, so therein lies the rub.
I told Alice about a picture of one of the congregants cats, who had just passed away.
I don’t do any social media. You have to be very careful being on the internet, it is very evil and you are swayed way too easily. You have no idea what goes on, (she is shaking her head as if I am a toddler) and we (Christians) would do best to stay away.
I mentioned that I wrote a blog on WordPress, a Christ centered one at that. She mumbled underneath her breath.
I wanted to say something, yet gone is my rage. I find it impossible to remain angry with some folks, and what is the point of harboring resentment? I need to speak up or shut up. I will pray for a way to approach her-say my peace and be done with it.
I believe she would be horrified to think she has hurt me; and I know I enabled the behavior simply by allowing it. I want to give her the benefit of the doubt, she is kind and compassionate-yet today it kind of stood out, and gone are my paranoid ways: as a sensitive and intuit, I found it excruciatingly difficult to discern between being oversensitive and just plain hurt. Over the past two years, Jesus and I have been working on my self esteem, values and perceptions. I now know that I am okay, worthy and pure in God’s eyes. This has changed not only my persona, but my boundaries.
I have found freedom in authenticity. It has been a tiring, painful journey to get to this stage in the game-where I have tired of the human punching bag role in life. I think myself equal with all people, no better, no worse.
How is Jesus working in your life? Anyone have a similar experience? I’d love to hear your thoughts~<3
I heard this song for the first time yesterday, and considering I had my headphones on, playing another music video-and this song was playing in the kitchen? Well, it shook me right out of my doldrums and I think that was God’s point. Why does a chick, who had it all going on, get the doldrums you ask? (insert wink here) Let me introduce you to my other, oh so not better half: the girl who cried wolf had become the wolf who cried Girl, get your act together! Get your shit together I say!!!
Yesterday, my husband accompanied me on my shed hunting trek, across some pretty iffy terrain. The ground, frozen in some places, gives way at the most inopportune times, the cut cornstalks-treacherous. And I don’t have to tell you about the million and one things that can trip up a girl who is already convinced she will need a knee replacement by, oh, some time next week. I don’t like to complain, but complain I must-you think my husband wants to hear it? That would be a big 10/4 on the N. O., good buddy.
As the sun rose, so did my keen sense of doom. I had my man, my dog-I can go places I most certainly would not when Dwain is with me-I mean, what could possibly go wrong?
I need to interject with a little ditty I like to call ignoring your instincts, which I do often, and with great abandon. Dwain was hunting about 400 yards from me, and he didn’t immediately see me go down. The poor man is used to his wife falling, after a faceplant into the cement two weeks ago, the ensuing trip to the ER, (the very same ER I had left midshift, leaving them speechless-hey, I have a zero tolerance policy for B.S. of any kind, they had it coming) and two weeks of a concussion that left me nauseous and, for some reason, riddled with Tourette’s.
“Son of a *^%@^&*!!!!,” I screamed. Oh my word, was my Tourette’s returning?
I heard the pop the minute I fell. I had caught my foot on a vine, and as used to falling as I have become, did the drop and roll so as not to break my face, again. Dwain tried to tell me the “pop” was my plastic bottle of Perrier-but I knew better. Upon standing I was quite relieved; pain vanished almost instantaneously.
Later in the day, I was washing dishes when my knee gave out, completely. The swelling intensified until I was alternating heat and ice, every twenty minutes. Upon awakening this morning, I knew we wouldn’t be going to church-as I gingerly slipped out of the bed, I put a little too much pressure on said knee. It wasn’t until I grabbed my father’s antique cane that I could hobble along, but what about the stairs? Our only bathroom is upstairs, and that trek makes me weak in the knees, just thinking about my bladder.
And so it was that I whipped up a list for those of us who, despite the ridiculous danger (hey, I’m not talking alligators, but rocky terrain) and inevitable heartache when you find not one freaking deer dropped his antler within a thirty mile radius of your search.
HOW TO BECOME A SHED HUNTING LEGEND
Abandon all reason, logic and everything your mother taught you.
Ideally, choose terrain that NO DEER has travelled, in the history of the known world.
Keep in mind that the more treacherous, or impossible the terrain, that is where you need to go. You are more likely to find one on a hiking trail, but that’s okay. See step number 1.
Scream like a banshee for your dog-you will find him right next to you, with a stunned and awkward look on his face.
Become hopelessly entangled in a briar bush. Curse out loud at the highest volume you are physically capable of, scare all living things, near and far.
Emerge from the brush like Bloody Mary. The briars won, get over it.
Pose as a piece of petrified wood as twenty somethings jog on by.
Make sure to wear visible clothing, i.e. a pair of neon lavender longjohns-so when you fall over whilst peeing, the commoners will see your clothing, not your bare naked ass.
Swear on everything holy and good in your life that you will never, ever do this again, if God will please just get you to dry land.
I want to be the girl in this video….travelling across the world, uninhibited, throwing caution to the wind. Chances are, the likelihood of this happening is akin to a camel poking its head through a needle, and then realizing he still has to get his body through it.
I love, love, love to travel. It’s just that we have no extra moolah, and whatwe do have goes to silly things like food, vet visits and electric bills. I don’t have a bucket list in all actuality, but here is a sampling of things I would like to do before I leave this planet:
I would love to go to Ireland, in search of my ancestors. If I do go to Ireland, I will be tempted to drink an ale with the kin folk-you know, raise up a glass to the country that turned us out-I hear they’re very folksy and welcoming, but let’s face the facts, I would want to live there, or perhaps petrify in one place, sitting at the pub, drinking Guiness, and singing the songs of my people.
Big Sur was a big draw, until I read about Bohemian Grove. With our luck, we would find the wrong place at the wrong time, and I apologize, but becoming a blood sacrifice for the elite in this world? Let’s just say I have no time for the big, wooden statue of Baphomet, and I don’t like people telling me what to do.
Hawaii was big on my “list” at one point, and now I see the error of my ways. The fat faced dictator from HELL has threatened their peace, and I don’t want to spend my whole vacation in an underground bunker.
And lastly, there was Sea World. Yes, I wanted to ride the dolphins with abandon, you know, be that girl: the one who never stops talking about her relationship with a fifty year old she met out in California, and then you come to find out it was a sea mammal. No thanks.
So for now? I’ll stay in this sleepy little town of horse and buggies, biting flies the size of Texas, and more cow manure than you can shake a stick at.