An Unkindness of Ravens

When I was frolicking in the New Age movement (please DON’T) I took notice that a cacophony of ravens followed me-from state to state in fact, and it took me some time to realize that this was not a good thing.  Between a well meaning Reiki Master (please DON’T) led me to Doreen Virtue’s angel cards, spirit guides, and the pineal gland.  

I came to my senses when I went to her immediately after being stalked by a naked, wild haired, crazy man-and she told me I created the scenario, you know, by thinking about it.  Kind of like The Secret, but backwards.  Most of you know I went through absolute hell getting out of such ridiculousness and evil.  The day of my plummet back into Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I phoned my sister.

She never got back to me.

The same thing happened the day I was thrown down on my knees in utter sorrow, for the Holy Spirit had made it clear-I needed to apologize and repent.  I didn’t really have a choice in the matter-on my knees for what seemed like hours, repeating over and over:

I have grieved your heart.

I had never, nor do I hope to ever feel that sadness and despair again.

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When my anxieties multiply, your comforting calms me down. -Psalm 94:19

I had been praying recently, about trying to make things “right” with my sibling.  Abba answered that prayer rather quickly, as He reminded me that even though I have forgiven her, it doesn’t change who she is.  How could I possibly move forward without an apology, or even an attempt to  talk things out?

And what would become of my authentic self and the tough road walked to freedom from people who did not have my best interests at heart.  I cleaned the closet of close friendships, and wound up making new friendships.  And although I love my sister, and dearly miss my nieces and nephew?

I broke the chains that bound me.  I can never go back.

Never.

 

The Mammogram Blues

Suspended animation:  what women feel the week before, and every moment leading up to-the dreaded annual mammogram.  My Lord!  I’d like to meet the son of a bitch who invented these machines-not that I’m not thankful for early detection.  Here’s my question to the AMA:  why must a woman go through this unholy torture chamber each and every year, when we know DAMN well you have a thing called ultrasounds?

Who the fuck are you and what have you done with my tits?

I am in no way trying to frighten anyone out of getting this procedure.  Some women feel nothing at all, but then we have the group of flat chesters like myself.  Mother of God it hurts.  It is the equivalent of trying to squeeze more juice from the lemon you threw out last week.  And the bitch maneuvering the equipment always finds a reason to squish my breasts to smithereens.

“Oh, honey, we didn’t get enough last time, let me just adjust your breast, whoops!  Just pushed your mammary glands up through your anal cavity!  Lololol”

Excuse me, but why is this even a “thing?”

I was wondering what would happen if I went postal on this hooligan, like, what could they do to me, right?  Some women faint, others scream at the top of their lungs (really, totally uncalled for ladies) and some women beat the living shit out of the radiographers.

Simple, really.

 

I’ll Give You Fish…

A few blogs back, I promised you a story about the day, fifteen years ago, when I caught my husband “cheating” on me.  We were taking care of my father, who was extremely ill; we moved him to a house out in the country, where he lived for a year-on his terms-no nursing homes, praise God.  I loved my dad more than I have ever loved another soul, or perhaps the love I have for my husband is equal-but completely different types of love.

Dad was my best friend and, quite honestly, the only person besides my husband who really got me.  We were extremely close.  We laughed at the same things, had the same interests, and thought hiking was the greatest thing next to grilled cheese sandwiches.  I take after daddy, in almost every way.  Mom was the writer in the family, and she was very talented.  It is no small wonder that my brother and I are the artsy, fartsy, poetic side of the family.  I think it rather neat that my brother is a musician who writes amazing songs-not unlike myself-who writes about music-daddy was the musician.  I can still hear him singing the Midnight Special, banjo in tow, at three a.m. after an argument with my mother.  Good times.  Good times.

I would do anything to have those times back.

So, between working evenings as a waitress in a busy diner (one of the biggest tourist spots in Lancaster County) and taking care of my family-well, I guess you could say I was just a tad stressed out.  If you saw me in passing, you would think me a demented Flakka head, on the verge of going off the deep end; at any given moment in time.  You would also be correct.  About the losing my shit, not the Flakka.  When my husband complains about the two cigarettes I smoke each day with my coffee?  I always say:

It could be worse.  You’re lucky I’m not on Flakka.  Or crack.  

Jiminy Cricket, I was wound so tightly, I actually pitied the fool who got in my way.  Back then?  I was anger personified.  I seethed with an all consuming rage that basically enveloped me-my mother abused me emotionally, and my memories were a big reason I drank to begin with.  I wanted to take care of dad, believe me, but the sad truth?  I was scared senseless.  My alcoholism had progressed, then eased after he died.  Eventually I came to a place of rewriting my story, and forgiving mother.  Years of my life, consumed with bitter ire-and a tragic notion that I needed to be punished, put in place-as mom had made it perfectly clear that I was undeserving.  Forgiveness is incredibly freeing, and you should do it often-not for them, but for you.

Finally, to the point of the story.  I was in the aforementioned condition while driving my Jeep Wrangler up Route 501 on a Friday afternoon, headed in the direction of the pharmacy in Myerstown-to get my father’s refills.  My hair is fried, not tended to; I can’t remember if I brushed my teeth.  I am breaking out-not only in zits but pimples as well-my first outbreak of acne, ever.  Stress pimples and blackheads.

I head North and see my husband’s baby blue Chevy pick up headed in my direction.  I believe I went into a fugue state the moment I saw the blonde.  I was a jealous madwoman back then-it wasn’t my husband I didn’t trust, let’s just say that.

“OMG, who the FAZUCK was in Dwain’s truck?  How long has this been going on?  I’m taking care of my invalid father and the bastard is cheating on me?  What the FUCK?”

I ran into the pharmacy, almost hyperventilating when I see the long line.  This is the most impatient moment of my life.  I fantasize about killing the man behind the counter.  I want to slap the woman who forgot her insurance card, and truth be told?  My thought cloud was rated RRR.  If not ZZZ.

I raced to the jeep and drove like a stunt car driver all the way to Dwain’s work.  I see him in the park, akin to his business.  I aim for him as I drive, he jumps out of the way.

“Oh my GOD honey, what is wrong with you?”  He looks more than mildly alarmed, but he knows on many levels what this is all about.  I jump from the vehicle, not thinking to put the jeep in “park.”  Dwain jumps into said car and saves it, saves it from going directly into the pond behind us.

I scream and holler.  He tells me he took her to drop off her car, to have it inspected.  I eyeball him from toe to head.  Calmer, yet not quite assured that all is well; I head for my car.  He gives  me a hug, chuckles and says these exact words:

“Honey, why do you have spaghetti sauce all over your face?”

Hydrangeas

 

 

I have talked about caring for my friend Scott, who has end stage cancer.  Allow me to go back to the beginning, as the background is important.

In 2009 I worked for Scott at the dog lodging business he owned.  I hadn’t really any interaction with him or his wife until this job.  Although they lived down the street, we didn’t see them out and about-ever.  I grew close to his wife, or so I thought.  The job ended badly, for various reasons.  My hours were wrong, and I called to talk with Cheryl about the discrepancy, the mistake.  The conversation ended badly, and I was very upset.  I had thought us friends, but her reaction to a simple request sent my mind reeling.  What had I done?  

The very next day Scott came to the house, and offered to pay me the difference.  I had grown fond of him, and I felt badly for him-he seemed so jittery-as if he was afraid someone might catch him in the act.  We became friends, and in time the four of us would dine together, mostly in the Summer.  In the Winter months Scott would call and say his pond was ready for ice skating, we were good.

Long story short?  I received a text from him one day in late Spring.

“I’m sorry, I can’t be around you anymore.”

I Sherlocked the shit out of that scenario, and my gut reaction was correct-Cheryl began driving by our house, to check on him, make sure he was following “the rules.”  I ran into her mother in the grocery store one day, and sure enough, I was told that her daughter thought I was having an affair with her husband.

I confronted her, and believed her when she said all was good.

Two years pass and my friend is on his death bed, his cancer has returned.

I am called to his home, to say goodbye.  When I arrive I am confused, he seems well.  As well as we would have expected.  He is alert times three, his vitals and coloring are good.  We hold each other, cry on and off.  He gives me a golf cart ride around the property, shows me where the garden will be planted.

So, next Spring, when Cheryl looks to the pond, she will see hundreds of tulips.  I paid the neighbor boy to plant bulbs.  What do you think?

I feel nauseous, as if he is hiding something.  I can’t ask because my tears have created so much snot in my sinus cavity that I fear I will snot all over him.  We say our goodbyes, again, and I stop and turn towards him-the questions of a thousand lifetimes shadow my face.

I know you love Hydrangeas, please, pick some.

And with that I am too far gone to gather flowers.

I’ll plant my own garden, in Heaven, where all tears will be wiped from our faces.  And I will once again be free from the shackles that bind my heart.

woman with black and red flower tattoo standing behind blue flowers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Imbecile Wind

WARNING              WARNING                  WARNING             WARNING            WARNING

Please proceed with caution.  I am triggered and that means there’s a good chance you may be too, so…don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I was wondering when the dam would break.  Just yesterday I was marveling at the fact that I am not, in fact, in a mental institution after the stress of the past two years.  I say this entirely serious-as a heart attack.  If I had known what lay ahead?  Let’s just say it’s amazing what Jesus can do for one’s health.  Amen!

I have always cared, a bit too much, for people who don’t give a flying fig about me.  It’s my nature to love, and in fact, I find it close to impossible to say anything that would hurt someone else’s feelings.  I cannot stand for bullies, and I just can’t stomach malice.  There is an exception to every rule, and today has been coming for a very long time.

I have always had a cause or two, animals, battered or abused women and children, banning Sharia Law from this country…LGBT rights.  When it came to the real news?  I had not a clue, as I was busy living my life self centeredly; it’s what addicts do best.

Biden, Pence, G.W., Obama, Clinton and their wives were given an envelope. It wasn’t good news.

Here’s the thing.  I woke up in 2015, when working for a client who listened to Rush Limbaugh at volume ear bleed on his Bose.  Religiously.  I was a Democrat at the time and a feisty one at that.  As the days and weeks went by, I learned horrifying details of what Barry Santero and Michael Richards were doing.  I would yell out loud, and ask John, an 85 year old Italian, who had an opinion,  about everything, what in the Harry Belafonte was GOING ON?

“This can’t be, they’re ruining the country.”

“I think he’s the antichrist.”

“Yep, it’s deliberate.  He’s a muslim.”

I conservatized my butt then and there, on the spot.

“Why do you hate that guy?”

I didn’t want to step on any toes, but I began trying to get the word out to my friends and family.

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Here they are, yup, they’re all there! My nearest and dearest…

My situation changed, and I could no longer work due to my PTSD.  Praise God we won my disability case, as to this day I can’t commit to a haircut, let alone job.  The Lyme disease reared its putrid head around this time-I had long days of resting, and I took to the Truther ropes with relative ease.

At first it was Alex Jones, who ended up being a bad actor.  To this day I am unsure of the real truth about some of his theories-he is paid disinformation, don’t forget.  I slowly found my way, with Jesus’ steadfast love and encouragement.  What I learned I can’t unlearn.  And yes, there are days when I wish I could-my life is now pre and post red pill.  I get teary watching certain shows, dreamily thinking of the days when we took life at face value.  When women weren’t men, and presidents didn’t cause race wars, or fund the terrorist militias, or murder innocent children.

That absurd bill for hotdogs that you and I paid for?  It was code.  Code for prepubescent boys.  And yes, Pedogate is real-as real as it gets.  Did I want this information?  NO!!!!  Yet the combination of my dread of being snuck up on and my drive for the truth (it may be a hard pill to swallow, but it will set you free) set me on a three year journey of unpleasantries, life changing belief systems and absolute night terrors.

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At each and every opportunity, I gently tried to tell the people around me the truth.  It took my husband two years, two years to realize I knew a lot more than him-he did the research himself and came to his own conclusion.  But the years of “Oh honey, you’re hilarious” took its toll on me.

What do you think it does to a person’s soul when no one around them believes one word that comes from their lips?  I can answer that, it ain’t pretty.  And so it was that I phoned my acquaintance Bea today, upon her request, with news of Mike Pence.

I’m really sorry, but it doesn’t look…”

I don’t believe you!!

That moment I felt something growing within; a rage and fury I had yet to know, and it rises again in the retelling.  Who are you going to believe, your friend of ten years of the MSM?  What on God’s green earth would be my motive to lie?  Please, by all means, shed some light on the situation.

I don’t claim to know about the economy, or the plight of today’s farmers; but what I know for certain (that’s what research does folks, it enlightens one) I share.  I don’t go out into the Twilight Zone blindly nor naively.  I had to learn the hard way whom to trust, and how to get at the truth-I have sources with high military intelligence clearances.  John F. Kennedy, Jr. follows me on Twitter-along with some two thousand other people who just happen to assume I have half a brain-and a good one at that.

From this day hence, I shall banish these people from mine kingdom.

If your first name starts with STUPID?  You’re shit out of luck.

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Copperhead Road

This is more than likely the most important blog I will ever write: I have chosen to take the coward’s way out-well, I wouldn’t call myself a coward; let’s just say I like blogging on WordPress, and it’s hard enough to write an article about, well, anything-oh the inhumanity, sticking computer keys and the site going down multiple times as I try to get my point across.

I took a hike this morning, per my usual.  I am always leery, after my stalking experience a few years back, and the murders and suicides that take place in our park.  I have eyes in the back of my head, carry mace, a rape whistle, a huge stick and a 100 pound golden retriever.  No surprise then, when I jumped three feet out of my boots after hearing a man’s voice.  He ended up being from Ohio, and Jesse liked him, so I stood and talked.  Yada, yada, yada and he says:

“But president Trump is such a buffoon.”

Cue the music from Damien II.

I guess you know, after yesterday’s blog, how I’m feeling about having to justify Donald J. Trump’s position as POTUS-let alone any stupidity from complete strangers.

I started with just the facts, ma’am.  When I got to the point of talking about HRC and Frazzledrip (you’ll know soon enough, and this subject isn’t up for debate) and then I said:

“JFK, Jr. is alive and well.”

Suddenly, he ended said conversation and ran from the crazy lady.

I lol’d, for about thirty minutes on and off-until I saw the snake.  At that point, the joke was on me, and I ran like a cartoon character, convinced that the bloody thing would follow me henceforth, and slither up my back wearing a Cheshire grin.

We have had no voice, as we (patriots across America, including POTUS) have been avalanched on every side. ABC, FOX, CBS, PBS, NBC and CBS-they are a product of Project Mockingbird. If you watch these news venues, I can 100% guarantee you that you have no idea what the real news is-I only know because of the path God led me down, after a brush with the New Age. Slowly, but oh so steadily the scales were taken off of my eyes. We have been lied to, stolen from, silenced and betrayed on a scale so tremendous that most of us don’t see the forest through the trees. The DEPLORABLES of this awesome nation have had it up to our eye teeth with FAKE NEWS. We know what the CABAL is up to, and it ain’t good. No, it is EVIL of the greatest magnitude.
Below is a video that explains this illegal, deadly and evil process.

Tomorrow, we will be at these polls-across the country Patriots will be monitoring the circumspect behavior; tour groups or random buses pulling into voting booths-we have been alerted to the means and ways of DNC corruption, and we are prepared. I myself will be out and about, have mace-will travel. We need to come TOGETHER, as one nation, and fight the corruption that tried to rob us of our dignity, morals and children in a Sex Trafficking scandal that involves Barry Santoro, HRC, Bill Clinton, Joe Biden and many, many more. The evidence is overwhelming.

Please, do everything you can to get out and vote. As we speak, there are three separate caravans heading to our borders. American troops have been deployed to the border, NOT BECAUSE WE ARE INTOLERANT, RACIST OR UPTIGHT. Absolutely none of that is true for the majority of us. If you want this country to become a corrupt, Socialist, baby killing machine, by all means, vote blue. They want this caravan full of MS13, ISIS, ANTIFA and other terrorist factions here to get the votes from illegals.

Do yourself a favor-take a look at San Francisco–Nancy Pelosi’s territory. She lives in a million dollar mansion-have you seen what they have done to California? Is she or any other democrat with the power to do so cleaning any of this mess up? Of course not, THEY DON’T CARE. They got what they wanted, these people have been used and abused. They were PROMISED the world, and this is what was given to them.

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. Take your country back, put God back in business, VOTE RED.

You Fucker, Get up!

I know the band members of Disturbed are pretty scary monsters, but they wrote this particular song about child abuse.

Unless you are QAnons or an extremely woke Patriot?  You won’t know the following facts, and I believe, with God’s permission-it’s time the world knew.  No denial.  No fear.  No flaking out.

WAKE THE FUCK UP AMERICA!  The powers that be are taking our children, selling, raping and terrorizing our children, then murdering them as a satanic ritual to Molech and Baal.

I live in Lancaster County:  it’s human nature to think these things do not occur in our backyards, but sadly-they do.  Harrisburg is a mecca for human trafficking, and after a talk with a local teacher who warned me that SRA is alive and well in our area?  After finding single shoes, and a little boy’s underwear at the lake down the street, after trying to make sense of my irrational fear of white vans?

It all came together in one tumultuous awakening.

This is why I’m here, isn’t it God?

I won’t lie to you-after the supposed death of my friend Isaac Kappy?  I went rogue.  I ran up the stairs, did a nosedive into the abyss that is my bed, and didn’t get out for three days.  If I was awake and vertical, the daymares hit me at a velocity I could not control.

It was the worst few months of my life.  Because I am a recovering addict, I had to knock myself out with Benadryl, or Nyquil cold medicine.  When like a Medusa I rose to get a drink, in my fuzzy bunny slippers and torn robe, my husband appeared to be alarmed, to say the least.

They got him, they got to Isaac,” I wailed.

Who the hell is Isaac?  my husband retorted.

I ran like a harry canary up to my bed once more.  No one understood.  No one.

I still cry, like right now.  I can’t see the keyboard through my tears.  It took all I had to watch this video again.

Isaac exposed pedophiles in Hollywood.  The last time we interacted was right before he went on the Alex Jones show, and I was worried about him.

“I got this.  I know he’s going to try and discredit me, but I got it, don’t worry.”

I’m in no shape to tell the rest of the story.

Don’t let his death, at the hands of the cabal (Tom Hanks, we see you) be in vain.

Isaac was fighting for your children too.