Guard Your Heart

Nothing better than Lucinda when you’re feeling…why, I don’t know what I am feeling, exactly.  A bittersweet mix of gratitude, prayer and high anxiety, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It is becoming obvious to me that some of us woke folks are starting to show signs of battle fatigue.  Some are losing their cool, and others (we are all in different stages of discovering the truth) are losing their religion, literally.  When you realize that the Pope is a satanic pedovore, that there is a dungeon in the Vatican, where they sacrifice children to satan-or that Hillary Rodham Clinton is actually in the exact same league?  Not only are you mustering up each and every crumb of courage in your body, but you are being traumatized-over and over again.

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Until I met my friend Kat, I didn’t realize just how far removed I have been from society.   Oh, I have a handful of extremely close friends-but I can count on one finger how many of them know the truth.  And she pretends she doesn’t when her man is around, so, yes, I would say I am very much alone, but didn’t fancy myself lonely until today, on the phone with Katherine.

“I saw the picture of the child that Hillary raped and murdered, Sara.  A woman on Twitter sent it to me, and I can’t sleep.  I can’t believe I saw that picture…”

We spoke for over an hour, taking great solace in the company of another soul who sees reality for what it is, and not what they want you to think it is.  Another human who has broken through the programming we have all had aimed at us since birth.  That’s right:  they have brainwashed us via music, movies and news-nothing, and I mean nothing is as it appears to be.

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What hurts us both the most?  The cold shoulders, family interventions, wide eyed stares into the abyss-each and every time we open our mouths.  She fought with her husband last night, and her family made her promise not to talk about John F. Kennedy, Jr. again.  You see, she had told her entire brood that he was going to be at the 4th of July festivities, not unlike my experience last Thanksgiving, when I announced to Dwain’s entire family that John would be in the Macy’s Day Parade.

“I’ll never make that mistake again,” I told her.  

Just moments later I realized that I had told you, my 400 followers! that John John would come out in Washington, D.C.-on the fourth of July.

“Shit.”

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Here’s the deal:  we wouldn’t risk everything in our lives, be it our family’s trust or the job we love, for some whack job’s conspiracy theory.

We know shit.

Things I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, but there is little we can do to spare you the pain we know so well.  God will do that.

And as much as it irritates the shit out of me?

We’ll be here when you need us.

The Pill Mill……….

When I was younger, I was appalled at how many pills my mother took.  She was extremely ill, emphysema, cancer, osteoporosis.  She died at 59, after the doctors mistook an ovarian cyst to be scar tissue.  I wish I had known then what I now know.  Mary Lou had every symptom of Ovarian cancer, the extreme bloating, constipation, pain and upset stomach.  When the doctor came in to the waiting room, I had to be held back by my siblings-the jerk never listened to her, I was there when he did an exam after her complaining: he felt her stomach and abdomen-she was fully clothed, why bother right? I was there when he told her she was “fine, absolutely fine.”

What shocked me, after her death, was the bottles and bottles of Ativan-she took 4 a day, and I thought that to be too much, too addicting, too sedating.  Now?  I take Ativan daily.  As a prn.  Ironically, the first time I ever took one was the day of her funeral.  Surrounded by friends, I fell asleep on the couch-and didn’t wake up until the following morning.  What addict is going to turn that away?  It was easier to let the melodic pull of oblivion take me away, to dreamless sleep and few cares, if any.

Today I take 200 mg. of Zoloft, 2 mg. Suboxyne for opiate addiction (down from 8 mg. and let me tell you, it was rough, really rough to taper) and one Trazadone for sleep.   My husband thinks this appalling, but I have fought hard to maintain an appearance of normality-in an increasingly abnormal world.

I can tell you that as a nurse, EMT and hospice worker, I could not get into the Suboxyne program soon enough.  I was in a dirty city, walking the streets of dilapidated houses, children in various stages of undress, and very scary men, who gathered on street corners to deal their goods, help a friend in “need.”  I asked a few of them, but as white on rice as I look?  They didn’t touch me with a ten foot pole.  Looking back, I think they thought me a cop.

I was working as a private duty nurse, and volunteering at a local hospice.  I was starting to face withdrawal from OxyContin, and I didn’t want to be the girl who steals patient’s pills.  My cousin by marriage (not a normal person in that family) ran a methadone clinic, and rehab.  I had attended that rehab until our fearless leader Tony called me out on missing a class, in front of the entire room.  When you quit drinking you are wired out of your mind, so many emotions coming from one heart-it’s maddening and exciting at the same time.  I told him off, asked why he allowed drinkers and cokeheads to use in our meetings (was this even remotely fair to the others who were serious about recovery?) and slammed out the door.  He wasn’t going to use me as an example when people were slumped in their chairs, or re-dusting the entire room, like the energizer bunny on crack.

Anyway, back to Scott.  I called him from my  locked car that very day.  I told him where I was, and I asked if I could come to the methadone clinic to talk to him.  He shut me down, but two minutes later?  I heard a commercial about Suboxyne: it has served me well, saved my career and, most likely, my life.  My advice to anyone starting the program?  Start at a really low milligram, that way you won’t have to detox every time you take a step down.  I ended up calling my girlfriend one morning, I literally couldn’t move, I was that weak.

“I can’t take it.  Would you please take me to the doctor?”

The good doctor had taken me off, cold turkey.  We had argued about my use of cannabis, and I stormed out-only to return a week later, begging for mercy.  And, thankfully, that is exactly what I was given.

What I would like to say is, don’t let anyone convince you to go off of any medication you may be taking for your mental health, especially if the plan is working.  Do I like having to take meds on a daily basis?  NO.  But one day, perhaps, the stigma will stop.  No  matter, because I have come to the point where I just don’t care what others think.

It’s not their body.  It’s not their mind.  It’s none of their business.

Chimes of Freedom

I don’t care how strong or stoic you are; when it comes to your heart, or the breaking of it; your grief will find its way. Losing my ability to run from my emotions today, I finally let go and cried on my golden retriever’s neck-is there any better place for waterworks? Your canine/feline’s neck? Sigh.

The fall weather makes my heart sing-I love the cool air, the life transforming sunsets, and the harvest of a hard Summer’s work. Everything, from hay rides to pumpkins-it’s all good, I treasure every day. Big blankets, cinnamon burning on the stove, my pup at my feet. A Holy Bible. A Dean Koons. A warm cup of cocoa next to the fireplace, even if it is just gas. Our wood stove in the kitchen, cranking out heat so strong I walk around buck naked some days: the hot flashes don’t bode well with my husband’s desire to warm his feet, which have no circulation due to frostbite obtained in a long ago hunting trip.

My day turned from glorious to harsh reality in ten seconds flat. While hiking at Speedwell Forge, a beautiful but far away place. We go there maybe every two weeks, and due to recent flooding-we hadn’t been in months. Halfway through the trek I took out my cell. A screen I had seen only once before appeared; some sci-fi looking alert. I couldn’t turn the stupid phone off, and I was set to take pictures of an ethereal waterfall. I knew I was being targeted, and I was wild.

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I took my phone apart and head out towards the jeep. I was furious. Speech is not free in America, and hasn’t been for some time now. If you have a voice that goes against the mainstream media, you will be silenced. Period. Not only will they shadow ban on social media, but they will fuck with your electronics until you’re at the point of pulling your hair out. Literally.

Do you have any idea of how long it takes me to write a blog? Hours. The screen will go blank just as I am getting going, suddenly I will lose my work-even after I have saved it. It sounds silly, but after two years of this crap, I am beyond angered, frustrated, homicidal. Okay, not homicidal, but seriously?

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I have taken on an assignment from Jesus. For two years I have been led, by the nose at times, on a quest for truth. THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH POLITICS (the deep state contains more than a few Republicans, Mike Pence being a satanic, POS pedophile himself-and yes, I have proof)and due to the successful mission of Project Mockingbird-the media is full of CIA operatives, who are trained to “brainwash” the lowly general public. I will write more on this subject, and include research affirming my statements.

The point of all of this is that while I have no choice in the matter; while I don’t go down the rabbit holes with any joy in my heart; the fact is, this is how God wants to use me, in the here and now. He has been preparing me for such a time as this. Losing friends and family has been hard on my psyche, and three are days when the loneliness and isolation leave me breathless and weeping.

No. I didn’t ask for any of this, but I sure as hell fire will do my very best, to be the hands and feet of my Lord and Savior, Jesus.

Exile

When things get too real, when I feel naked in my vulnerability, or when I am overwhelmed with grief too raw-I retreat.  There is always a trigger, and the last one was abandoning ship with my toxic relationships.  I allowed the Holy Spirit to lead the dance, there were days when I was terribly alone-but yet, not lonely.  I dig my own company and that of my husband and canine.  I could spend hours in my garden, shouting for joy and thanking Jesus for his meticulous attention to detail.  My anxiety leads to compulsive cleaning, and I have a Honey-do list for myself-the entire farmhouse needs fresh paint, we are in the process of doing some much needed home improvement.  When I tire from hiking, gardening and anal retentive housecleaning?  I have my writing, my bible, my research.

The word bored does not exist in my vocabulary.  I often tell my husband that I am spending the day watching old movies and snuggling up on the leather sectional-and then we laugh and laugh our fool heads off, because we both know that even when I am down with the flu, I clean.  I know the reasoning behind some of this-spending way too many hours in bed, be it hangovers, depression or serious illness.  My health was improved dramatically by getting sober-yet my emotional health became much, much worse.  I began skin picking, obsessive and compulsive disorder they say.  The point being: it was as if someone had stripped me bare, and I couldn’t run, nor hide.

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For when I am weak, only then am I strong.

I understand the reasons behind the valleys.  When we are on the edge, in our rawest of moments?  That is where you will find Jesus, and He will build you up so that you fly like the wings of eagles!  I have learned so much about boundaries, friendship and my strong desire to be appreciated for who I am, not who people want me to be.  And on the other side of that coin comes the recognition and respect for others and who they truly are-flaws and all.

So now, it has come to a new spiritual awareness of life:  not a black and white version, or what I perceive life to be.  Life on life’s terms, the kryptonite to every man and woman in recovery.  We didn’t become addicted because we handled life well, or had a childhood that was reasonably functional.  Every single one, myself included, every one of us was running from pain.  Thus the backlog of grief-a term you will hear in the rooms.  God made us so that we can make choices, but that doesn’t mean we will always make the right ones.

No matter how far and fast you run; no matter what your vice-be it food, drugs, booze or porn-you simply can not run from emotional pain.  So you make a choice to live, and baby, that hill is uphill for a mighty long time.

I am here to tell you that it gets really, really, really good.  It is a nail-biting adventure, not for the faint of heart, but when you truly face your demons and give your grief to God?  Oh, life becomes a symphony-and one that you can call your very own.

The exile is over.  I am stronger, wiser and more aware than ever how much I, we, truly need Jesus in our lives.  He will forgive you of anything, that’s why he died on the cross.  When He said

It is finished.

He meant the debt was paid.  Turns out, God will even forgive what we consider unforgivable.  My life has been one of stigma and persecution, simply because I am His!  I never fit in, I never gave in, and it was only because my sweet Jesus was carrying me.  If there is someone you need to forgive, or someone who you need forgiving from?  Your life will be enriched and remember-remember to forgive yourself.

The Living Waters

Those of us with mental health issues (I suffer from CPTSD) are in the spotlight right now, as violence escalates around the globe.  There is a distinct difference between mental illness and brainwashing via MK Ultra, and in that spirit I dedicate this blog to all who are stigmatized, pigeon holed, persecuted or worse-because of circumstances often beyond their control.  You are my heroes: it is through extreme adversity and gut wrenching pain that you face each and every day.  It is my prayer that you are choosing healthy coping mechanisms and that Jesus is your Lord and Savior.  If not, I encourage you to follow my blog-not for me, but for you.  I’m not in this for a huge following; I am here to be the voice of comfort, reason and truth that I believe God has called me to be-a beacon in a time of darkness.

Please understand that I have never taken credit for my writing, whether you love it or hate it, the content comes from the Holy Spirit:  he speaks to me in different ways throughout the day.  By evening, I am writing-my version of what I believe to be Spirit-led writing.  I am what they call a sensitive-Abba has given me the gift of spiritual understanding.  Only in the past three years have I been aware of this gift from above-but I can say that I have struggled through tremendous adversity (but always under His loving protection) I believe that having lived a tortured life has led me to a greater compassion and love for others.  Sadly, my CPTSD makes it incredibly difficult for me to trust others with my heart and soul.

So, I don’t.

I have been texting my brother as of late.  We discuss political and social issues, and today I sent him a video from Abel Danger-explaining the spiritual warfare and global reset.  He has had trouble believing much of what I have written on the subject of our amazing president Trump, the Plan, or the Great Awakening.

So, my sister was one of the narcs who stopped just short of killing me.  I haven’t spoken to her in years, although I do pray for her.  One thing I’ve learned over and over through my many perpetrators is this:  if you don’t go no contact?  You are setting yourself up for greater pain, dysfunction and even severe health complications due to the constant stress of gaslighting, triangulation, projection and abject cruelty.  Even a short conversation could lead to a triggering of emotional flashbacks so severe, that it takes me weeks to come back to myself.

So, my brother lives in LA.  My sister lives in PA.

My husband called me in to see my niece Esme’s Instagram.  I looked down to see my brother on a scooter, but the voice in the video?  It haunted me.  Something is wrong with that tone, the insincerity-a false sense of excitement.

“There you go, Craig, you’re doing it!”  I insisted to my husband that it was my sister’s voice.  He balked.  He played it again and heard my brother in law’s voice at the end of the clip.  I took off into the kitchen, adrenaline pumping, anxiety rising.  I opened the frig door, and stared blankly into space, closed it, opened it again.

A few moments of despair, and it was over.

“Life is too damn good,” I said to myself.

Thus the end of the trauma.

Thank you, Jesus-for the head’s up.  And more importantly?  For walking every step of my  dark and lonely journey back to peace.

Come to the Living Waters, and drink from the cup of Life.

 

The Pill Mill……….

When I was younger, I was appalled at how many pills my mother took.  She was extremely ill, emphysema, cancer, osteoporosis.  She died at 59, after the doctors mistook an ovarian cyst to be scar tissue.  I wish I had known then what I now know.  Mary Lou had every symptom of Ovarian cancer, the extreme bloating, constipation, pain and upset stomach.  When the doctor came in to the waiting room, I had to be held back by my siblings-the jerk never listened to her, I was there when he did an exam after her complaining: he felt her stomach and abdomen-she was fully clothed, why bother right? I was there when he told her she was “fine, absolutely fine.”

What shocked me, after her death, was the bottles and bottles of Ativan-she took 4 a day, and I thought that to be too much, too addicting, too sedating.  Now?  I take Ativan daily.  As a prn.  Ironically, the first time I ever took one was the day of her funeral.  Surrounded by friends, I fell asleep on the couch-and didn’t wake up until the following morning.  What addict is going to turn that away?  It was easier to let the melodic pull of oblivion take me away, to dreamless sleep and few cares, if any.

Today I take 200 mg. of Zoloft, 2 mg. Suboxyne for opiate addiction (down from 8 mg. and let me tell you, it was rough, really rough to taper) and one Trazadone for sleep.   My husband thinks this appalling, but I have fought hard to maintain an appearance of normality-in an increasingly abnormal world.

I can tell you that as a nurse, EMT and hospice worker, I could not get into the Suboxyne program soon enough.  I was in a dirty city, walking the streets of dilapidated houses, children in various stages of undress, and very scary men, who gathered on street corners to deal their goods, help a friend in “need.”  I asked a few of them, but as white on rice as I look?  They didn’t touch me with a ten foot pole.  Looking back, I think they thought me a cop.

I was working as a private duty nurse, and volunteering at a local hospice.  I was starting to face withdrawal from OxyContin, and I didn’t want to be the girl who steals patient’s pills.  My cousin by marriage (not a normal person in that family) ran a methadone clinic, and rehab.  I had attended that rehab until our fearless leader Tony called me out on missing a class, in front of the entire room.  When you quit drinking you are wired out of your mind, so many emotions coming from one heart-it’s maddening and exciting at the same time.  I told him off, asked why he allowed drinkers and cokeheads to use in our meetings (was this even remotely fair to the others who were serious about recovery?) and slammed out the door.  He wasn’t going to use me as an example when people were slumped in their chairs, or re-dusting the entire room, like the energizer bunny on crack.

Anyway, back to Scott.  I called him from my  locked car that very day.  I told him where I was, and I asked if I could come to the methadone clinic to talk to him.  He shut me down, but two minutes later?  I heard a commercial about Suboxyne: it has served me well, saved my career and, most likely, my life.  My advice to anyone starting the program?  Start at a really low milligram, that way you won’t have to detox every time you take a step down.  I ended up calling my girlfriend one morning, I literally couldn’t move, I was that weak.

“I can’t take it.  Would you please take me to the doctor?”

The good doctor had taken me off, cold turkey.  We had argued about my use of cannabis, and I stormed out-only to return a week later, begging for mercy.  And, thankfully, that is exactly what I was given.

What I would like to say is, don’t let anyone convince you to go off of any medication you may be taking for your mental health, especially if the plan is working.  Do I like having to take meds on a daily basis?  NO.  But one day, perhaps, the stigma will stop.  No  matter, because I have come to the point where I just don’t care what others think.

It’s not their body.  It’s not their mind.  It’s none of their business.

A Backlog of Grief

 

This writing is for anyone who has or had an addiction to drugs, alcohol or any other means of escape from reality.  It is a warning and a note to self:  I never want to go back to those days of annihilation, of cramming every uncomfortable thought down my throat, of blurry acceptance of all things despicable or wanting in nature.  This is a known fact in the Rooms:  if you have been anesthetizing  yourself in order to feel better, escape the symptoms of trauma or even to get over your ex?  Chances are, you will experience sorrows beyond your wildest nightmares, you can’t push it down-grief will always have its way; there, I said it.

I remember the day I came home from my first rehab session.  I was given a pamphlet, The Grapevine (a publication that comes out quarterly from Alcoholics Anonymous, impossible to find if you don’t have connections) and a piece of paper titled A Backlog of Grief: You May Experience Some Discomfort………I remember phoning my sister, and reading this memo to her.  I remember being scared out of my mind, and I could not understand, for the life of me, why they would hand out such negative information to, well, anyone; especially someone with two days of sobriety under her belt.

The subject matter was grim-it warned that, out of nowhere, you may be overwhelmed with sorrow, remorse, pain, and yes-a strong desire to relapse.  You see, it works like this:  every negative emotion, every single feeling of despair, any loss you drank or drugged to be free of?  Well, they will reemerge, except for this time?  The pain is much worse as you are not sure where it is coming from, you don’t know exactly what fresh Hell has made its’ nasty appearance in your life, again, and let me tell you-it is so overwhelming and so nerve wracking that I spent days and days in bed, doing nothing but taking Benadryl and assuming the fetal position in my boudoir.

I would be out for lunch with a friend, and have to excuse myself to run to the bathroom, and more often than not?  The friend would come in to see if I was okay (or drinking) and be caught unawares by the wretched sobbing, anxiety and fear of losing control.  You feel empty, nonplussed, even betrayed by God at times…..why, why am I so forlorn?  Take this from me, sweet Jesus, take this pain away……..

I forgot, and often, about the piece of paper sitting on my living room table, next to my bible.  The thing is, they didn’t explain WHY these feelings would sneak up behind you, wrestle you to the ground; an albatross around your neck-they simply said you may experience periods of great emotion and trauma.

I was given divine guidance on a number of occasions.  One day, as a hospice volunteer, I was given a book on grief.  As I was reading it, my brain reeling, I recognized what the author was describing-this is why we tell others to take there time and grieve as long and as hard as they deem necessary.  (Of course, this can become a problem in itself, but we’re not talking about that now.)

You cannot push down pain.  It will come back with a vengeance you never knew existed-a crippling, one two punch to the gut-and you will be left with questions, yet no answers.

Here’s my advice:  it took some time, but eventually I became better and better at putting my feelings, thoughts and memories in context.  I could discern where the pit in my stomach originated-and only then could I do the work of healing my heart.

So, you see, you can’t run, you can’t hide…….and I know you can smell what I’m stepping in when I tell you that you’d be so much better off getting the necessary help to get sober as early on in your addiction as possible.

Get thee to a meeting.  Call a friend.  Talk to your therapist.

The following information could save this from happening to the next person.   There is help, and financial aid for those in need.

PENNSYLVANIA ADULT AND TEEN CHALLENGE-WE CAN HELP! (844) 888-8085.