Into His Arms…

I have to start out by telling you I have consumed my happy juice and am a bit crosseyed at this time.  But praise Jesus, for he has given us every herb, plant and fruit bearing tree so that we will live healthy, peaceful lives.  Medicinal.  Used for my CPTSD, it can take me from despair to joy, and that my friends is worth its weight in gold.

I’ve been thinking about what is happening in this world, and obviously, it all but freaks me out.  After watching a video I shouldn’t have, I was overwhelmed-feeling as if the entire three ring circus was on my back.  First sad.  Then frantic.  Then Jesus.

I tell him, Jesus! I am clinging to your robes today, I need you badly!

These are the times when I run, full throttle, all engines on to God.  I picture myself running in to his amazing hug, and hear him say There, there child.

I can’t do this Jesus.

I know too much, why do I know so much and when did you make the decision to take a scaredy cat like this girl, and lead her in the direction of Doom.  Real news.  Investigative reporting.  I have felt the Holy Spirit driving me in this direction, and some days?  Down with the ship I go.

He never pushes, never demands.

I come to the realization that He alone is my Lord and Savior.  He will not leave me nor forsake me.  He is in control.  

I take a long hot shower.  I plug in my tiny white lights strategically placed all over my home, to give comfort.  Put some cinnamon on the stove.  And then He takes me back to who I was before I got clean.  I am profoundly grateful.

I fall into His arms.

Sooner or Later…

 

I adored this man, and here’s why:  not only is he the voice of a bygone generation, but Johnny had demons, just like you and me.  It is truly our choice, God gave us free will-we can either be the light, or join the bottom dwellers in their plight to destroy everything good and decent in our lives.

My sibling took everything she could from me-then took some more.  She put me through hell, and in return I loved her with my heart and soul.  She had her day in the limelight, sure.  She had three children and achieved an Associates degree in business.  She had the power in our relationship-I turned to her for everything.  Up until the masked slipped-hell it fell right off of her lovely face.  Little did I know that I would pay dearly-I was the bullseye for 28 years, and I am quite sure that she enjoyed her mission-that is the tragedy of Narcissism.

So, we have established what a narcissist is and does.  Now it’s time to turn the tables: we have the ability to take that power back, but it comes with a price.  The ransom?  My sister used her children like downright puppets-she withheld them from me as a means of discipline-if I didn’t ask how high when she said jump?  I was doomed to a holiday, Summer or even a reneged invitation to Thanksgiving, even Christmas.

All of that pain and heartache are in the past now, and I have learned to celebrate life again.  I now know that even thinking about her or any other member of my dysfunctional family brings not only pain, but self harming and risky behavior.  The lonesome dove can only be shot out of the sky so many times before she learns that it may not be such a great idea, this flying willy nilly.  She learns to alight only where she is loved and appreciated, validated and accepted  for exactly who she is.

I am finally at the point where I have suffered enough.   I am not a martyr or masochist.  I am a loving, faithful and quirky writer who loves nothing more than reaching out to encourage others:   that is what I will do, until I am unable to summon the energy.

Here’s the deal:  once you have “lost” all that you deemed an absolute necessity (healthy people almost always treasure the family God has given them.  Narcs want to punish you for being smarter, more creative and especially that nasty trait of compassion for others.  Here’s the deal, Jezebel, I don’t care….nope, not anymore.  You are probably thinking, ‘if she doesn’t care, why is she writing about it?

I remember my first year of awareness, and I know how crushing it can be.  Yet I am here to tell you that you will heal, that it most certainly does get much better, and that God will not let these vipers go unpunished.  I’ve read some pretty, pretty strong verbiage in the Holy Bible about what happens to these people, and let me tell you-sooner or later He’s gonna cut them down.

Do things for you.  Rewrite your story, make it one in which you are more than a victim.  Your creativity will return in leaps and bounds.  But you must do something first:  let go and let God fill your life with joy and a renewed wonder.  Throw out the things that are no longer necessary:  guilt, shame and victimhood.

I am sitting pretty, and the view from up here is amazing.

Love to you all~

 

Green Are Your Eyes…

My brother came up for a visit a few weeks ago, and as we conversed he brought up the wedding that my father spent thousands upon thousands of dollars on.

“They were devastated,” he told me, dead seriously at that.  Craig lived in California at the time.  My mother was battling ovarian cancer, although she, nor the doctors, knew.  I remember one phone call from mom, in which she told me daddy had cried for days-and to this very day I wish I had run away……because I didn’t have the strength to stop the snow ball that kept rolling, gaining momentum, until it was so big it crushed me in its wake.

I did not choose this particular war.  It chose us, Dwain and myself.  I was in such angst that my mother sent my sister to baby sit, rather than sit down and discuss my strong resistance to a wedding that never, ever should have taken place.  In a therapy session, with my parents, the man with all the answers (he thought so anyway) asked my mother why she was so angry.

“The fucking whore just wanted a party.”

The therapist looked at me and then at my father.  When I looked back at him his glasses were askew and he appeared alarmed-distressed, if you will.  I had warned him.  I knew it was coming.   My father, always and forever my best friend and supporter, offered this:

“Honey, he said, looking at my mother as if she’d lost her mind-“Why don’t you let us get you an apartment, just be by yourself for awhile so you can figure things out.”

I couldn’t and didn’t consider that option.  I loathe the fact that I hurt my parents in any capacity whatsoever.   It breaks me and was a contributing factor in my rush to oblivion, alcohol, pills, cocaine………..my heart was a ball of fire, and I wept more than I smiled.

But, green were his eyes…….and their melodic and hypnotizing pull are evident this very day.  And for that, oh for that I am incredibly blessed.

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.

Insane Like Me

Narc Abuse…I write about it often, but as it turns out, I am far from the only expert in this cozy little town. As a peace offering, my friend Sheila asked to take me to lunch yesterday: I had a gift for her as well, a gorgeous, porcelain angel who looks down on a mother and her son. Sheila lost her son to a motor cycle accident two years ago; her only child, it has forever changed her direction and focus in this physical realm. I knew this about her, yes. What I didn’t know was the extent of abuse she had experienced as a child-at the hands of an evil and narcissistic mother.

I thought I owned victimhood: as it turns out, Sheila’s story is so much darker and poignant than mine. Her mother beat her father within an inch of his life one Summer afternoon before Justin’s accident. As my friend was dropping by to visit, she walked into a scene so paralyzing, well, I am surprised she had the strength to revisit the pain. Her mother had taken a lipstick and scissor to her own wedding photos, as her father lay in a bruised and broken heap on the floor.

“I am calling for help, daddy,” she screamed, hysterical and in shock.

“IF YOU PICK UP THAT PHONE, I WILL KILL YOUR FATHER.”

Sheila rushed outside, called Crises Intervention, had her mother institutionalized. After ensuring her father was receiving good care at the local VA hospital, she went to sign papers at the psych facility that whisked her mother away, against her will-in the middle of the night, straight jacket et al.

I have known this tender hearted soul for twenty years. She has driven me batshit crazy in seven different languages: with her low self esteem and suffocating neediness. Recently, an argument over something trivial and her psychotic response led me to believe there was no hope, no hope whatsoever for our friendship. God had other plans, and for this I am hesitant, but willing to forge ahead.

You are not alone, you are surrounded by victims of perps that were family-the absolute worst kind of betrayal. You won’t see these people screaming from the rooftops of pain and remorse. No, you will find them loving others, the encouragers and empaths, clinging to Christ-in the churches, schools and hometowns of America. You couldn’t possibly know their stories-how could you?

Love others as you would want to be loved.

Something wicked this way comes.

We need one another, desperately.

The Christ Child

Be patient with me, I am mid allergy flare (stupid dust from the wood stove) and my eyes are closing as we speak. I haven’t written in some time, as I try not to force anything, if I don’t feel it? I move on, baby, I move on! Plenty of things to keep my busy around a mildly run down farm house. A two hundred year old one, at that. I need to paint, my entire house no less-and have a kazillion things to fix, mend or glue. I mean, bathroom floor, refinishing our hardwood floors, the list goes on.

As it turns out? I love this old house. I treat her with kid gloves, and in return she gives me joy amidst the toil, a thank you of sorts, for continuing to love and respect what she once was, what she will be again, some day. I have done almost everything humanly possible to create a warm and inviting space-big, soft blankets strewn across our leather furniture. Each room an individual feel, no two rooms alike-that’s for sure. I suffer from depression at times, and it is my prayer to refinish her in a way befitting of her old, stoic beauty.

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This is our view from the deck at the pond.

So, finally getting to the point, I want to tell you that I was not myself over the last few weeks. Seasonal blues, combined with the side effects from my recent head injury and ensuing concussion (nausea, mood swings, headaches, and fatigue)put me in a place of utter despair.

I gave it all to God, and that helped immensely. Yet I still felt deeply saddened, as if the grief were going to swallow me whole-suffocate me with its deadly black cloak. I didn’t want to do, be, talk to or even participate in the holiday festivities. I had been depressed around this time of year before but this year? I had the added burden of wondering if we should be celebrating this holiday with pagan origins. I look at it this way: we know that 12/25 is not the date of Christ’s birthday, but we are celebrating our Lord and Savior as tradition has taught us for eons. I got into a quarrel with a Youtuber named Daniel Lee of Torah Restorations Ministries on his channel. This is what transpired, the cause and effect of an almost-ruined Christmas Eve:

Me: Merry Christmas Steve! (talking to another subscriber, not the MAN himself)

DANIEL: HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY SAY THAT TO SOMEONE KNOWING WHAT YOU KNOW ABOUT SATANIC RITUAL ABUSE!! DON’T CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS, MICHELE, DO WHAT JESUS DID, PRACTICE HONUKAH INSTEAD!!!

I want to preface the next few paragraphs by telling you that I was a big fan of his channel, and we had grown to be like brother and sister. So much so that he was planning on staying with us this Spring, as he tours the universities of the East Coast to preach his message.

Me: Daniel, calm down. I’m not judging others, not my job, and Merry Christmas? Really, Daniel.

DANIEL: NO! YOUR HUSBAND AND YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER….BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH!

It was brutal, and on Christmas Eve, no less.

I dressed, unceremoniously for Christmas Eve service, we had to be early, as we were helping set up. I slowly went around, to each window, and plugged in the gorgeous wreaths. Nothing. I sat in the chapel while the band practiced, hoping the music would inspire me. Zilch.

Nope, it looked like I wasn’t going to rally for the cause. Christmas would come and go, and I would be left in the dust, blindsided by regret and pain. I held back tears as I sat for the service. The evening was beautiful, and as I watched the children take the stage in a haphazard way-I leaned forward, in order to see, in order to listen.

I watched as my pastor, Tony Blair, looked at the children on stage. His face softened, his eyes grew moist. He gazed at those precious little people, with such tangible joy and love-it was heart wrenching.

There are good people in this world-well meaning, honest human beings who truly care about the least of these. The world became a brighter place, instantaneously. As we lit our candles, one by one, I had drifted off to the landscape of the starry night in Bethlehem, and the very thought of the Christ child lifted me up and out of my inertia, my numbness.

Back at home, hours later, I sat in the dark and took in the beautiful Christmas tree, my dog and cats asleep beside it, dreaming of sugarplums-no doubt. I say there for some time and prayed.

I felt a bit of childhood whimsy, the spark of pure adrenaline a kid feels when they even think of Santa Claus. But this time? The floaty stomach and profound love in my heart was due to the love of my Lord and Savior, my Prince of Peace, my evening song-Emmanuel~