Stay By Your Fireside Bride

 

Awhile ago, maybe six or so months-I prayed to God for an expansion of my awareness, a ripping of the veil, if you will.  My experience two years ago, culminating in a devastating loss, was nothing short of having a sixth sense.   I took pictures of angels in my back yard, on a dreary, foggy day.  As I sat at my pc, writing, the Holy Spirit urged me to stop what I was doing, grab my zoom lens, and snap a picture-directly into a heavy mist.

I didn’t question it.  I took the camera, lifted it to my eye, and promptly had a near heart attack.  White Crosses.  A dozen of them.  I took the camera away, saw nothing.   The magic happened when I saw the footage-angels, in my estimation.  God was signaling to me that although I was in the New Age, getting Reiki treatments, and burning sage while uttering a prayer so evil I could only find part of the Latin translation on the internet-He was protecting and loving me right then and there.  I had no idea at the time that the origins of angel and tarot cards, angel readings, crystals, totems, mediations, yoga, sage burning and the third eye?  It comes from the occult, and it’s easier than you may think to allow demons into your life, home and relationships. Turns out, after my stalking experience, I ran to my Reiki friend, who very lovingly prayed it over me in my hysteria.

It was so beautiful in Latin, and I asked for its meaning, but Lila didn’t know.  She learned it from a fellow Master.

It took me months to forget this mantra, so I won’t go looking for it.  I searched the internet for days, finding nothing but the (I kid you not) score from Damien.  Another story for some other time, back to my blog.

Around the time of the angel sightings, I began experiencing a thinning veil, an eye for another realm so to speak.  Synchronicities, premonitions, impossibilities.  A knowing that I simply can’t put into words.

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All of these things were happening as my relationship with my sister began to spontaneously combust.  Reeling from that alone, I was later blindsided by her systematic destruction of my relationship with my niece, Godchild and nephew.  And when that wasn’t enough?  She took my brother as well.  Gut-wrenching melodrama was the theme of that Summer.  I relapsed.

I am sitting at my perch, at the end of our couch-a few moments ago.  Did you get that text from Craig (my brother) today?  I think that one of your aunts died.

Stunned, I said:  “I only have one aunt.”

My Aunt Irene is now in Heaven, with her beloved husband who passed just months ago.  They say it was her heart, which was shattered by the death of my Uncle Bill, I am certain.

The tears didn’t come at first, which didn’t surprise me-I had only met the woman a handful of times.  Same with my cousins, same with Uncle Bill.  You see, my dad and his brother were estranged-Bill was a born again Baptist, dad was an alcoholic agnostic.  I remember every year at Christmas, Bill would send my dad Baptist Digest.  It always stung a bit, when the magazine hit the bottom of the trash can.  I didn’t, no, couldn’t understand why my dad didn’t spend more time with his family, even if they lived in upstate New York.

You see, it takes an orphan to see what family truly means.  And from where I stand?  Family is everything.  It is my opinion that we become who raises us, whether we fight it or not-the cycle of abuse is the hardest one to break.  I don’t judge my sister, and I have forgiven her-she did not choose her childhood, and I think she bore the weight of the dysfunction.  I know that she loves me, and I know that she hates me.  I also know that I am not yet strong enough to reach out, but pray each and every day that God provides a way for us to coexist-without it costing my mental and physical health.  I learned that lesson with the loss of what is hopefully the last toxic relationship with the worst narcissist I have ever had the displeasure of knowing.

In the name of Jesus I break the Spirit of Jezebel that erodes familial love.  The slithery, dangerous one shall not prosper here.  Drink the blood of Jesus, Jezebel.

My heart reaches out to all of you who know this pain.  We are not an exclusive group, the victims of Narcissistic Abuse.  The crowd is growing, and we have so many excellent resources to choose from.  Below is one of my favorite videos about family relationships.   Angie Atkinson is wonderful, accessible on YouTube and she maintains multiple support groups.  The point is:  don’t try to do this alone, remember that even when your family hates you there will always be a bond through God and blood.  They love you, but in their own way.  It’s up to you to decide who you can and cannot live without.  God works miracles in our lives, each and every day.  Don’t give up hope-not a good place to be.  I take things one day at a time, and reflecting on how incredible my life has become since my rebirth?  I know that the Alpha and the Omega, who created Heaven and flat earth, 🙂  He has my back, always.

The best we can do is put it in our Abba’s sturdy hands-and know that he answers each and every one of your prayers; in a way that will enrich and embolden you.  He will prosper you in all of your ways, just go to Him.  He’s within you, beside you, and best of all?  For you.

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.

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.