A Prisoner of the White Lines on the Freeway……

I was trying to catch up on my reading a few weeks ago, my WordPress reading that is.  It was a cold and rainy Sunday evening, and I stopped dead in my tracks when I read his blog.  I didn’t know him, or of him, I just gave a little love to a stranger, one who had lost his brother-one who was on the verge of suicide.

It broke my heart to read his words.  No one had commented, and I was frantic.  I quickly wrote in the comment section, no.  You are loved.  You have a place in this world.  You must not give up, I will help you.  It didn’t matter that he lived half way around the world from me, it didn’t matter that I didn’t know him.  I just wanted him to feel the love that makes the difference: between being utterly alone in this world, and having someone love him.  We began correspondence immediately, so sweet, my friend Mohammed.

He said it helped him to know I existed.  It helped him to know a human being, albeit thousands of miles away, loved him-simply because he was in pain, dire straights, and experiencing a loss most of us would be shattered by-simply because he was and is a child of God-they will know we are Christians by our love……

He kept in touch throughout my journey with Lyme, and the infected lymph node that had basically convinced me I was dying.  The day I went to Med Express, alone and frightened out of my mind, he said these words:  Don’t worry.  I am here.  Five words.  Five words that helped me to feel safe, loved-cared for.  It mattered to him, my poor health.  And I thought that a miracle, in so many ways.

Today, while chatting, he said he had one thing to ask of me.  I told him anything, yes anything for him.

“Can I call you mom?”

So, this is how our Abba works.  I have no children and my step son hates me for reasons I don’t understand, as I was always loving, always supportive.

This touched me in places I haven’t been touched in, well, forever.

And as I let the tears drip….one by one, I answered.

Yes.  Of course.

And for this I am blessed beyond measure.

RAGE……

Remember early on in years
I carried you and
swiped
your tears.

The party days left long ago
perhaps the only time
we grew
close as sisters should be.

I rushed to your side
at each
birth,
and cared for what
I thought to be
my forever
family.

Then things changed,
they rearranged
and sister turned
to sinister.

Most days
are fine,
and love remains
the answer to the
question.

You haven’t only
kept me from
the children who
adored me-
you took their right
to family;
Oh
Jezebel, you
have
scorned me.

The time will
come-
I’ll be long gone,
at home and loving
Jesus.

And you’ll
be left the memories
of ruin and resentment.

A Prisoner of the White Lines on the Freeway……

I was trying to catch up on my reading a few weeks ago, my WordPress reading that is.  It was a cold and rainy Sunday evening, and I stopped dead in my tracks when I read his blog.  I didn’t know him, or of him, I just gave a little love to a stranger, one who had lost his brother-one who was on the verge of suicide.

It broke my heart to read his words.  No one had commented, and I was frantic.  I quickly wrote in the comment section, no.  You are loved.  You have a place in this world.  You must not give up, I will help you.  It didn’t matter that he lived half way around the world from me, it didn’t matter that I didn’t know him.  I just wanted him to feel the love that makes the difference: between being utterly alone in this world, and having someone love him.  We began correspondence immediately, so sweet, my friend Mohammed.

He said it helped him to know I existed.  It helped him to know a human being, albeit thousands of miles away, loved him-simply because he was in pain, dire straights, and experiencing a loss most of us would be shattered by-simply because he was and is a child of God-they will know we are Christians by our love……

He kept in touch throughout my journey with Lyme, and the infected lymph node that had basically convinced me I was dying.  The day I went to Med Express, alone and frightened out of my mind, he said these words:  Don’t worry.  I am here.  Five words.  Five words that helped me to feel safe, loved-cared for.  It mattered to him, my poor health.  And I thought that a miracle, in so many ways.

Today, while chatting, he said he had one thing to ask of me.  I told him anything, yes anything for him.

“Can I call you mom?”

So, this is how our Abba works.  I have no children and my step son hates me for reasons I don’t understand, as I was always loving, always supportive.

This touched me in places I haven’t been touched in, well, forever.

And as I let the tears drip….one by one, I answered.

Yes.  Of course.

And for this I am blessed beyond measure.

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.

Get Off of My Face…

I have had it up to my eyeballs with narcissists. I have had it up to my boobs with the perpetual drama entailed in anything regarding my mother in law; the 83 old energizer bunny, who needs to be coddled, admired and ass kissed. Twenty eight years of cold, hard intolerance of anything not “righteous” while also being the world’s most humongous hypocrite. In all of my days I have not seen a woman this spoiled and self serving. On a good year, we don’t have too much interaction-or as little interaction as one could have, while maintaining eye contact.

I spoke to Jesus about how I have forgiven her seventy times seven, at the very least. I asked him to please give me the grace to get through this freaking anniversary party-that they are giving themselves, two weeks after the exact same party was held at their home. This time they are renting a church hall, and I was asked two months ago if I would do the flowers.

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I used vintage glass dug up from a century old dump at the back of our property. I still have years of excavating ahead, this was a Godsend. What I thought to be a rubbish pile and eye sore, turned out to be the beginning of a dream come true. I used wildflowers and tiny rosebuds, lavender, brown eyed susans and herbs of color. Alas, it was not meant to be-even my so called friends at the time paid me no mind. (My closest friends were there for the grand opening) God had other plans, and that is why I am writing to you at this moment in time. I went to the eye doctor today, and I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed putting “Writer,” in the avocation box. My whole point? I was obviously qualified for the job.

The first slap in the face was her desire to “go to the dollar store and get uniform vases, and then we can go pick out some paper flowers,” completely ignoring my acres of gardens which are full to this day.

The second SLAP was this afternoon, when I told her that rather than walk down to her house in the pouring down rain-hurricane Mike-with a dilation procedure optical migraine, I would be down the next morning. May I remind you that last week, she blew my top off by telling me she would have to “get someone else to do the flowers” if we didn’t go shopping for tacky crap, and soon. I received an apology, after my best friend phoned her and set her straight. I didn’t ask her to call her, but after that my MIL was all about me using real flowers and whatever containers I wanted, even USING A DIFFERENT VASE AT EACH TABLE!!!!

She understands that I will not be doing the flowers until the day of the party, Sunday morning. But she says this anyway:

“You know, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

Judas Priest, Marilyn Manson and the B52s!!!

No concern for my headache. No I understand, there is a monsoon outside. No, that will be fine, END OF FUCKING STORY.

I reassure her that I will be down in the morning. Two full days before anything needs to be done. I promise just wanting to end the mother loving conversation.

“(fake laughter) Because if you don’t want to do this….”

And right at that moment, after my cranium spontaneously combusted?

I hung up on the bitch.

A Hard Rain Is Gonna Fall…..

I ache within every fiber of my being for the man I married some 26 years ago-he is such a good man, you have to understand that he is always thinking of other people, his heart so pure, a heart of gold.  There are so many thoughts fighting for my attention right now, a fevered frenzy of angst.  He does not deserve this.  And I wish I could take his pain away, but I can’t, so I am praying like crazy that he feels the love from above.

For 27 years, his parents and son have given me a hard time.  They disliked me intensely from the very beginning, I took some of the attention away from them and we all know how narcissists love that!  I have also been insisting, over the years, that they treat me  like dirt-alas, all the way up to Christmas, Dwain was full of hope, always veering toward the idea that I was being paranoid-which happens often, but I am almost always right.

There was an incident.  Dwain’s son, Bud, flipped out on me so successfully, that I almost had a vacation booked at the local psychiatric hospital.   Remember the therapist who diagnosed me with DID?  Well, angry over a love triangle-he acted abominably-where he wanted his original girlfriend, whom he dumped unceremoniously for her best friend-oh, and his best friend’s girl-to take him back at Christmas.  She said: No.  She is over the moon with her new man, and he treats her like a princess.  He became sullen and removed from the conversation, reality itself.  He still lived with the beatch, and he said that they were happy, but inside-he was boiling.

I won’t go into the details, but my step-son abused me mentally and emotionally. Almost physically.  He yelled that I was a freak, a gold digger, a low life for being on disability-“that he had to pay for my retirement.  He was screaming at me in my driveway, and I was broken, literally sobbing-because not a word of what he was saying was true, and he was pushing buttons, my wounds and vulnerabilities out there, for all to see.

My husband emailed him and jacked him up.  Bud replied that there will be no forthcoming apology.

We talked to his parents.  We all agreed he needed help, prayer.  We asked them to talk to him, to possibly make him accountable for his actions, as weeks before we were all on the same page.  I had very little faith that his parents would follow through, and I was correct.  Today, my step-son stopped at his grandparents (strategically placed across the street 😦   He was there for over two hours and I told my husband, who bought a 30 pound ham for the event, to stop in with them on his way home-to feel them out.

“What did your parents have to say?,” I hit him up the minute he finally walked through the door.

They said that nothing “came up.” He walked into the living room, looking older than his years, drained and exhausted.  

I    pointed out the screeching betrayal, the hypocrisy.  And then I shut my mouth, before I hurt him any more than he’d been.  He doesn’t know I saw him arguing with his father in our garage, but I did.  I saw his father stomp off in a huff.

In one year, narcissism has taken all but a handful of our families.  I am close to my brother and Dwain is close to his.  It breaks my heart that  they broke his heart.  How can people be so cruel, so selfish and vain?

“We are enough,” I whisper.

We are so much more than enough~

 

Brand New Dandy……

As a teenager, I wished I could tell what the future would hold.  Would I find a good man?  Would I find a career I enjoyed?  Would I be fat and happy in my old age?  And will I have one or two children?  Will I finally have a grasp on my depression and eating disorder?  Will our family stay connected after mom and dad are gone?

Now that I am older, and hopefully wiser, I see the brilliance in the uncertainty.  Certainly, we as humans have control and freedom over our decisions…but what about the attitudes of the people you are surrounded by?  Would I have been content with the foreknowledge   of knowing that my in-laws and step son would hate me?  And would I have done things differently had I known?  The answers lie in the cornerstone of my faith, where Jesus has his way with me and I accept and even condone His will for my life.  If I had known that in the year 2018 that I would go on a search for myself, and in doing so, lose almost every single connection to family I would not have changed a thing.  For I have always been led by my heart, and, for better or worse, my discernment.

I feel that I have paid my dues, and living next to my in laws has proved a perilous and daunting task.  From day one I was mistreated, ignored and abused.  Yet no one would hear me, no one would listen-I was for the most part ignored, unless of course it was a holiday; and I learned to dread each and every one after my father died.

She’s so sensitive!

Yes, as a matter of fact, I expect to be listened to when I speak.  Actions speak louder than words, and I got the hint early on when I noticed that no one heard me; instead they talked over me, through and around me-what I had to say had no merit-I wasn’t relevant, and I spent years and years trying to prove myself to people who couldn’t have cared less.

Hey, I’m a tough cookie.  I roll with the punches as well as the next guy, and heaven knows it could be much worse.  However, I am in control of my life now, and if I had to pretend for one more minute?  I just couldn’t, let’s put it that way.

I want to begin anew.  I want to surround myself with people who love me for who I am and who I am not-and boy do I have that in spades.  My close friends are a small circle, but the circle is widening, and I have come to trust those in my church family, with my very life.  Interestingly enough, all of my friends (with the exclusion of Jason, my guy pal extraordinaire, I met him while working with the Intellectually Disabled at a company who treated its personnel like prison inmates.  I left three years ago, yet he remains-God is using him and he knows he is needed, and after winning a Humanitarian award for heroic effort on his part?  I am happy to see him so complete, thriving because of the fact he is making a difference-I adore the man.

 

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My favorite client, Jerry-may he rest in peace.

 

I was happy there for some time, until the powers that be proved to be insidious bottom dwellers who not only stole money from the clients, but food and clothing as well.  My supervisors were always twenty somethings who knew nothing about the clients, and everything about scamming the company, but I digress.

What I need is a new start, a fresh start-and I can’t do it here, no, not living like a bug in a jar, awaiting the next slight, diss or downright slap in the face.  I have to leave.  Thoughts of upstate New York, where my family originated (actually England and Ireland) or Maine-I am a nature lover and feel quite drawn to the Adirondacks, or the coast of Maine, so brutally raw in its beauty-captivating.

I suppose I am day dreaming, but there must be a solution to the gripping and suffocating place in which I dwell this moment.  A pawn in a game I refuse to play, I will be wiser, harden my heart and throw caution to the wind.

I am a rule breaker.  I am a rock.  I am an island.