The Hurdy Gurdy Man

A little birdy told me that this song was written about MK Ultra. Thanks LP.

I have had it. Literally as done as done could be. Triggered by the information coming at me from every angle-but now is not the time to look away. Now is the time to fight evil, with every ounce of my being I deplore these vipers. I want justice and if my discernment is worth a hill of beans? I know it will be delivered by an extremely angry God.

I have nothing left to give, not even to my beloved fur babies. I have reached my quota of ignorant, selfish and deceitful people. Chances are? If you come at me with mocking, hatred or even stupidity?

I will END you.

The truth is reaching critical levels. The repugnant MSM is causing hysteria, the kind that you’d expect at the end of tribulation-not to be confused with the panic one sees in empty toilet paper and hand sanitizer aisles. That’s right-we have no bread on our shelves and they are charging $24 for a regular bag of cat food. The walking Zombies of the Apocalypse of me-me-me are out and about, wearing masks, thinking only of themselves. Wait until they learn the truth.

Awhile back, while on the 8kun channel, I saw a post by Q intimating that 99% of the world would be hospitalized if they knew the truth: only now do I believe it. These people are sick, and they want a way out of taking any responsibility nor ridicule for their crimes against humanity.Who am I kidding, right? I believe that anger is fear unleashed, and while God has taken the spirit of fear away, my anxiety is through the roof. Do you know what it’s like to be this angry, this wounded? I pray not.

You see, my heart bleeds daily-for the underdog, the abused, the bullied. For some time I thought it a sin to be angry or even miffed; I allowed people to perceive my kindness as weakness and I pushed it down, you know-love your enemies.

Spiritual warfare calls for intensity, and pushing down rage is akin to pushing down grief-it will come back up and kill you in the process. Nope, not this girl. I can finally take comfort in the notion that my enemies will be given the full wrath of God. I can no longer afford the pity-or the idiot compassion.

I wrote the following blog last evening, but the “powers that be” shut down my computer, and I didn’t have the strength to fight back.

Now, all bets are off. Just three years ago my life lay in ruins. No family. No friends. I had just relapsed, over the gaslighting dished out by the most evil woman I know. Yet miraculously, I had Jesus and it is because of my beloved Lord and Savior that I survived that period in time. What doesn’t kill you does indeed make you stronger-mess with me and you’ll get burned and badly at that. Fair warning.

The upcoming days will be revealing, revolting and yes, retribution is at hand. To those of you who wish to do harm or delight in the terror and chaos they knowingly create? I have news: the end won’t be for everyone.

Jesus is Coming, Jesus is COMING!”, I found myself screaming at the stranger beside me at the gas pumps at Walmart. He nodded his head, smiled and ran like Pistorius towards the market. I jumped in my jeep.

WHAT. THE. FUCK. JUST. HAPPENED?, read the thought cloud above me.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I cared what he thought. As a matter of fact, for a moment I resented him for not throwing caution to the wind and raising his hands to the heavens. But that’s just me.

Earlier in the morning I had called Lynn, my closest friend, to tell her the exact same thing. As soon as she picked up the phone I yelled my delight: I am full to the brim, overflowing with joy. I feel it, I know it. He’s coming. He’s so close, I’m so happy…..

You get the drift.

I want to be comforting, but I want to be honest. You deserve nothing but the truth after the decades of lies, lawlessness and brainwashing at the hands of the people you trusted. They were playing a game, all the while amassing vast wealth and, tragically, the blood of our children.

Waking up was the most painful experience of my life and I did it alone, but I did it with Jesus. It became so harrowing at one point that I asked for mercy, as if I even broached the subject with anyone? I was silenced, rejected or treated as if I was mentally ill.

It was the fucking pits.

Tomorrow’s blog will be what I wanted today’s to be-one of hope and comfort.

Dark to a light so bright it’ll knock your mother loving socks off.

Who Is Somerset Belenoff?

Who is Yig Wilson? A new friend I would say, and as always it was the Holy Spirit who led me to her video. A few weeks back I was flipping through Twitter and I saw a post giving us a decode on Somerset Belenoff’s name, as we “weren’t to mention her name or we’d be finished, ended, no Twitter account for you!

Now, if you know me well you will know that I hate the word NO. Hate it with a passion. After a blowout with my husband last evening (the old, YOU’RE CRAZY IF YOU BELIEVE________) I had just announced that Harvey Weinstein has a vagina-which was taken from an article on the criminal proceedings from a victim who was raped by the man. I was kidding around, but he didn’t like it and he told me so.

The Great Awakening

It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say to a woman who had cut off ties with a brother that was her last connection to family. I knew three years ago that I couldn’t afford him, but I thought he had a heart. As tensions rose with the Impeachment Hoax, so did mon frères temper-and here’s the thing: I wasn’t sending him my blogs, or even videos on the truth-he was attacking me and I had no other choice.

His last words to me: Trump isn’t worth losing family over. God isn’t worth it either.

I railed at the skies and could not, for the life of me, fathom what went so terribly wrong that he would abandon God. A lifetime of abuse has hardened me, and if you attempt to make me feel inadequate or crazy (“seek help, Michele”) then you gots to go, you must. I simply will not tolerate being treated like that-not to mention the fact that I and others around the globe have been praying for he and my sister for years. Years.

WHY IS THIS HAPPENING GOD? WHY AM I SO ALONE IN THIS WORLD?

Ever wonder who this song was written about?

Anyway, back to the most mysterious and frightening woman on the planet-

This song was written about Somerset. As a teen she hung out with the band, and lore has it she has powerful paranormal skills, the kind that led Prince Charles himself to say-“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on my side during times of trouble. She is the most beautiful and terrifying woman alive.”

Something like that.

I am running late, so I will give you this video to explain-enjoy the show! It’s breathtaking~

So true.

Somerset reminds me of this little diddy my mother repeated to me often as a child-

There once was a girl with a little blonde curl,

right in the middle of her forhead.

And when she was good, she was very, very good-

But when she was bad she was horrid.

Somerset, if you are reading this? In my heart I know that you are an ethereal warrior for the plight of humanity.

And thank you for fixing my Word Press issues. You have my heartfelt gratitude and love.

I’m Not No Limberger

This blog is dedicated to the woman who keeps me grounded, keeps me going and keeps me safely tucked inside her heart. I love you sweet Lynn-may God bless and keep you…

Momma also told me there’s be days like this, but did I listen?

George hates my guts, he really does. What began as a nice comradery has turned ugly, and quick. The owner of the Brickerville House, the cozy little tavern with food to die for, has not taken kindly to my commiserating with his wait staff. Today for instance, I am quite sure he wanted to throat punch me-for hugging a waitress no less. As I moved in for the weekly embrace Miss Shannon delivers, I can see his beady little eyes watching every move I made.

“Take a picture, dude!,” I did not yell, but hey-I wanted to.

As we paid our bill, I went to say goodbye.

“I just got in major trouble for hugging you. The fucking Coronavirus crap. I guess we aren’t supposed to be physical, you know.” She went on to say she didn’t care, but the look on her face begged to differ.

That would be because the man detests me-not a reflection on you, my dear.

“Why does he hate you so much?”

Ah, well, that would be because his waitstaff loves me, and he thinks I slow you down-get in the way.

We collapsed into giggles, just as Mr. Personality hit the bar. I ran as if my hair were afire. I could give a crap, you know me, but the last thing on my mind was getting her fired, to be sure.

On to my grocery store “experience.” My husband was in the store aside of Dutchway, where we do most of our shopping. I used to do food display at this store, as a result I have many friends that are like a family to me. I was discussing the “virus” with Judy, who works in the meat department.

I just love him so much, I mean, thank GOD for President Trump.”

The circle of ladies grew larger, we all agreed, yep, Donald J. Trump is going to save this country, as God ordained him to do so. Knowing my husband was waiting, I left the group and headed towards the corned beef-a rarity around these parts-and St. Patty’s day is coming up…suddenly, my bionic ears took over.

“Better watch what I say around her, she probably has a gun in her pocket.”

As the minions grabbing the last of the toilet paper passed by in a blur, I turned and said:

What did you just say?

She proceeded to yell at warp volume:

“TRUMP IS AN ASSHOLE. HE DOESN’T KNOW SHIT.”

I admit it-I thought about spraying her with the mace I did have in my pocket.. I shook, from the bottom of my feet to the red curls that fell across my forehead. I wanted to hit her in her freakishly large cranium that held very little inside.

I took a step forward, then another. I stared into her eyes. And in a moment of intense rage and disgust?

I took her freaking toilet paper right out of her cart.

She didn’t beg to differ.

Sugar Mountain

You can’t be twenty on Sugar Mountain, though you know that you’re leaving there too soon.

I apologize for not getting to my audience sooner, but the fates combined to leave me with no electronics. Long story, and let’s just get down to it, shall we?

I want to preface anything I say with a caveat-if you don’t believe me, have trust issues or think I have time to bullshit you?

This blog isn’t for you.

THE CARONA VIRUS IS A HOAX

The Wuhan virus was patented by the Deep State to create an Armageddon: while they fled for underground tunnels and Antartica-caviar and only the best champagne will do, thank you very much-[THEY] were going to kill as many of us as possible.

The Trump administration, the nation’s military generals, and especially God Himself thwarted that plan. What you are watching in real time is the systematic destruction of the deep state cabal. Our beloved, duly elected president needs time to arrest thousands upon thousands of very, very evil people. He wants us safe. Donald J. Trump cannot shout out his plans because the enemies of our state would be more informed than he wants them to be. I am telling you to trust the plan, take a break, and look to God for answers and self reflection. You will have plenty, plenty of time on your hands in which to do so.

In 2017, the Holy Spirit saw fit to convict me of one thing and one thing only: that #QAnon was real. Over the past years, I felt God moving mountains for me: He gave me everything I needed to prepare for the job I excel at-and that is encouraging, loving and comforting people.

What you are watching on television is Public Enemy Numero Uno: the mainstream media conglomerate run by the likes of George Soros and major network talking heads who will not only be indicted? [THEY] will face charges of treason, punishable by death. It is they who caused this panic, as they are in bed with satan. It proves a point, one that we have been trying to tell you for years: don’t believe a word you hear.

I lost my shit over the years, on the people I loved the most. Uncontrollable fits of rage and frustration, combined with an exhausted and withered psyche, led me to turn to Jesus in a way I never had before. Through the miracle of faith I was guided by discernment the likes of which I have never experienced before. The great Comforter was way ahead of me, to be sure.

There will be executions.

There will be blood shed.

There will be mass arrests.

This storm is biblical, my dear beloveds. If there was every a good time to pray, it’s now. We are SAFE. The patriots are in control. I will be blogging all weekend, as there will be an upcoming 10 days of darkness in which our entire internet system will be rebooted.

Buh bye Zuckerberg.

See ya later @Jack.

Don Lemon? It’s been real.

What can you do? Ensure you have plenty of food, water and, er, toilet paper. Cooperate with your president. Have your prescriptions filled for three months if possible, stock up on whatever it is that you simply cannot be without-for me, Nicorette gum and pet food.

Comfort your friends and neighbors. Remain CALM, and please-look up. He’s holding you. He’s loving you. GOD is in control.

Slap Me With the Splintered Ruler

 

Good Saturday morning to y’all.  I need you to know that I only have a laptop on the weekends, as mine took a crapola last week.  Of course, my husband offered to take me to Best Buy this weekend, but I am not ready.  Very interesting…a week ago I felt like someone took my nubby-How Will I Ever Exist?  I won’t be able to write, go on Twatter, see the REAL news.  Yet God, in His infinite wisdom, had much greater plans.  Goosebumps….

Let’s just say that I had been way too preoccupied with the web, and with my addictive personality?  I had cut down on pc time, but still carried the computer with me, room to room.  True confession time:  I took it to the bathroom with me.  Don’t judge me, that room is the only room in the house with a door!  Sometimes a girl needs to breathe.  So, while my husband, friends and support network were extremely concerned (I have to say, my brother was probably ready to send for the men in white coats-haha!) Wouldn’t that be special?  My sister tried to have me committed to a facility the night I tried to take my own life-wise, you are saying to yourselves.  I just covered my ears until the social worker on duty promised me there would be no psychiatric institutions.  The very next morning they released me, gave me an Atarax (boy, if I could get my hands on some of those babies-but nah, just the drug addict in me) which allowed me to sleep my entire first day of sobriety away….giving my man time to drain the booze, and anything expensive was given to the neighbors. 

When I awoke that stormy October afternoon, back in 2007?  I went directly for the booze cupboard, searching for something-anything alcoholic-to my surprise I found a jug of white wine.  I sat that baby on the table and we had a talk, until Jesus intervened.

My precious child, when?  When will you say enough?  How much more of this life will you waste?

That did it.  I put the jug back where it belonged and waited it out.  This would be the beginning of years of cravings, big and small.  Relapses.  Drinking upstate without my husband’s knowledge-at the beautiful cabin we are gifted access to from time to time-I knew that was a big bowl of WRONG, yet I couldn’t, or wouldn’t give that once a year libation up-and one day, I thought of all of the miracles that Jesus had performed for me, personal triumphs, freedom from cancer, the very fact that I was alive and breathing spoke volumes to me.

What if I made a covenant with God?  What if in exchange for all He has done, I put away the thought of ever drinking alcohol again, and prayed for Him to give me the strength to do so.

That conversation took place a year ago.

Not.  One.   Craving.

 

I could not give up on the worldwide web, the loss was profound…and if I can tell you anything about myself, I can tell you that I am highly adaptable to almost any situation.  They say it takes two weeks to form a habit, and that is why I said “No thanks,” when Dwain offered to buy me a lap top.  I am perfectly content writing on the weekends, and once I am convinced my internet addiction is tamed?  Only then will I purchase new equipment.

It turns out?  I have a life to live.  I cannot fathom the chunks of time I wasted, sitting in my hidy hole, reading every bit of the Great Awakening news I could find… I went down Rabbit Holes no person in their right mind would want to travel.  And again, once I got the monkey off of my back?  I began getting things done.  Actually working on the farmhouse, baking, cooking, finding me again.

My husband drove out to New Hampshire for a business trip last week.  And so it was, on Monday evening, the house quiet, no music, no television-that I found a picture of me and my father.

“Wow.  I always hated this picture of myself.  Not so much anymore, huh dad?  Umm…it’s/been/hard…”  The words tumbled from my mouth, and before I knew it, I was crying-my body wracked with emotional pain, I sensed something huge was in the air.

Jesus spoke to me again.

Child, it is time to let go of your shame.

Was I hearing Abba correctly?  Why, I didn’t realize I still carried it with me, the deep seated self loathing.  It took some time, but everything came together, as if a giant piece of the puzzle had been found.  I turned the pain into gratitude, as I remembered why I had such shame to begin with.

As a child, I knew shame.  My mother would go for days without speaking to me, and for the life of me, I truly never knew what provoked her ire.  I stopped a moment to think about what deep shame could do to a child in her formative years.  Eventually, I would buy her a card or pick her flowers.  I came across one such card in my mother’s bible just a while back.

Mom, I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry, and I love you very much.

Your daughter,

Michele

In school I suffered total shame because of my weight.  The kids were cruel, and the taunting was so persistent?  It took me well into my thirties before I could jog or walk past a group of teens.  No matter that I had lost the weight, I still felt the shame.

In High School, considered a jock and oddball, (Varsity Crew Coxswain) I began to realize that this wasn’t going to resolve itself, but I had no idea where to begin.  At Villanova, my shame came from not having or being enough.  Surrounded by incredibly wealthy and beautiful people, I made up a story about being a Jontue model.  Unfortunately, people not only believed me, they spread the word.  I mean, who doesn’t want to be friends with a famous model, right?  In college I learned to reinvent myself, and the only person I was hurting was me.  Why wasn’t I enough?

After college, my drinking career became legend in some parts of King of Prussia.  I began seeking attention (love) through a series of promiscuous love affairs-and the reputation stuck.  I began doing cocaine as a way to lift my spirits and self esteem; what could possibly go wrong?

The day I found myself on the doorstep of my rented home, due to losing an eight ball of coke.  I had given my brother a birthday party, and while I had my back turned, one of my nearest and dearest friends (I had only invited people we were very close to) had lifted the bag I had hidden, way in the back of my closet, under a stack of love letters.  I had promised Ted, my landlord, that I would sell it all that night.  There are no words to express my horror at finding I had been robbed.  I had no money to give him, and that didn’t sit well, not at all.

Ted sold drugs for the Gambino crime family.

I went on the run.  My room mate and best friend, Mel, beside me-we drove away like bats out of hell, and didn’t look back, not once.

So, with my worsening alcoholism and drug addiction, there were reasons to be ashamed.  And as I sat in my bedroom, weeping between the litter boxes, I asked myself this question:

What is there to be ashamed of now?  Why do you feel unworthy?  Why do you punish yourself for simply existing?

Let me light my lamp, says the tiny star; and never debate whether it will dispel the darkness.

– Rabindranath Tagore

May you shed your shame like the cloak of darkness it has become.

You are special, unique and loved-let your freak flag fly, baby~

 

Mad as a Hatter

The stigma of dementia saddens me, as those who suffer are the lovliest of lovlies.

Good evening. I don’t know how your week is going, but mine has been harrowing with a 90% chance of persecution and 100% chance of marital strife. That is all behind me now, but if you ever wonder how you became so strong, so tough? The answer is God allowed you to become what you were always meant to be-and that is-tough as nails.

As a victim of Narcissistic Abuse, I can tell you there isn’t a “crazy” cell in my body, sanity wise that is. Narcissists use projection to drive you to your limits, both emotionally and physically. My case was no different, but the anger that permeates my very soul slips out now and again-last night it erupted. Here’s how it began~

“You have anger issues. I mean it, Michele, you need to work on your anger.”

After I put back the pieces (my head had spontaneously combusted) and calmed down enough to grab a drink, it happened again. I finally gave up and went to bed. Why was I angry? Let’s just say that addicts have a way of pushing everything unpleasant to the bottomless pit of despair. We make our gravest mistakes by believing that a bottle of gin or a bag of coke will allow us to forget; my personal experience attests to the fact that you cannot run from grief. Everything you ran from will only intensify. By the time you get good and sober? A mountain of lament lay at your feet, and before you deal with anything you must address the pain.

It is my belief that all addicts are running from something. In my case? Years and years of bullying, emotional abuse and neglect-I simply couldn’t handle the truth which was no one can hurt and manipulate like blood. I consider it a miracle I found my way to the truth of the matter. Narcissists are good at projection (take a look at the DNC) and what they try and pin on you is a mere reflection of the rot that lie inside their souls.

In my family, my narc would wonder out loud at the fact that I was telling the God’s honest truth, which made me feel untruthful. Fact was? She has lied about everything under the sun, but mostly about me. Despite frequent and persistent attacks and accusations, God led me to the reality that I was not mentally ill. I had PTSD because of my abuse, which led to depression and anxiety of the nightmare variety.

So, after getting into it with Dwain-he came home three hours early, whilst I was cleaning. For the life of him he couldn’t understand why after a day of sweaty drudgery I wasn’t greeting him at the door in crotch less panties and chocolate pasties.

There. I said it.

My point being? I know what it’s like to be labeled a mental case when I know with every cell of my being that I am, unfortunately, saner than sane. I spent so many years just trying to breathe that I took life as it was dealt-nothing left over to create, become or dream. And then I met Jesus.

Having run a Dementia Unit for years, and then my own home health care business-I have a pretty healthy awareness of this population. First, may I say that my parents died far too young to develop the disease, as did my grandparents with the exception of my father’s mother who lived well into her nineties and remained as sharp as a tack. However, I do know what it is like to have your family member treat you as a stranger. The crippling feeling that your beloved doesn’t see you, let alone remember you. The terrifying feeling that all of your memories, your cherished time together-they are lost to you-forever.

Years ago my father was in hospital for pancreatitis. A severe alcoholic, daddy went into delirium tremens from alcohol withdrawal. He then slipped into a coma, my poor mother left alone to pay the bills and raise three children. Each and every day she would say, “You simply must go see your father. He’s your father.” I didn’t have the words to explain my terror, my flat out inability to see my best friend and biggest supporter hurting-in any way.

It turned out that my fears were nothing compared to what transpired with my first visit, after dad had come out of the coma. He was learning to walk, to say the ABC’s and speak again. His hair had gone white, he was terribly thin.

“Hello daddy, how are you feeling today? I’m so sorry I am only coming now…”

I was interrupted by his question: “Aren’t you the gal married to the Korean doctor?”

I explained that I was his daughter, his blood. I shared a few of our inside jokes, tried to get through to him in some way. His next words shook me core-

“I’m sorry, kiddo, I don’t know who you are.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would it help you to know that dementia patients are much happier in general? They live in the moment, no worries, no fear. I enjoyed my time with these brave men and women, so much so that when I had to retire due to Chronic Lyme? A piece of my heart went with the loss. I simply adored my residents and clients. I took each death personally, especially my favorite ever client, Marta.

Marta was my best friend’s mother. She alone inspired me spiritually, creatively and emotionally-I was the benefactor, I was the lucky one. We liked to go on outings, she loved the Llamas at a local farm-we visited often. You see, Marta loved her animals-to the point of hurting for them, just like me, just like her daughter. When with her I felt understood, truly loved for myself and nothing else.

One day I picked up a stuffed Llama at a local gift store. Now, Marta thought her stuffed animals were real. She had this really big teddy bear, and if I was talking when I entered the room, she would SHHH me-the teddy was napping, don’t wake him.

She loved the stuffed Llama, even took him to bed with her. I often saw her cooing to, and comforting the little brown toy. So innocent, so pure, so what I had been missing my entire life. Her last stage of the disease was spent in a nursing home. To this very day I wish I had visited her more. The news of her death stung like poison.

And so it was, after my brawl with my husband, did I enter my bedroom to see-and not for the first time-that little stuffed Llama named Marta, head to the side in sympathy. I hung my head and cried like a child.

You Talking to Me?

Nothing like having your smile ripped right off of your lips.

There is nothing in this life that irritates me more than labels. People simply cannot be defined by one trait, be it color of skin or disability-we are multi faceted, and extremely complicated creatures.

And then there’s husbands.

I put them in a category by themselves, as often is the case that I find myself absolutely flabbergasted that I have not, indeed, murdered my life partner and then, as an afterthought? Cut him into pieces.

Sure, it’s funny NOW.

Before you think me full blown mental, please listen to my side of the story. My husband is, shall we say, extremely sensitive. 24/7. This used to drive me to the point of calling my shrink, hysterical because I thought I had done something to displease him. And, back then, I was in recovery from my demons, but also extremely codependent on Dwain.

I let alot slide, trust me. And I only now realize how very blessed I am that he didn’t leave my drunken Irish ass. HOWEVER, there are power struggles each and every day-and it can and does get fugly.

When I’m sick, I don’t get depressed like some-I become hair triggered temper itself, and even my pets walk on eggshells during “my time of the month.” My mother was a screamer, and as embarrassing as it is to admit? Due to extreme duress under which most would be institutionalized -I tend to rant and rave. I am prone to punching the living shit out of inanimate objects, or, say, threaten my cats-in a nice way, of course.

It does take quite a bit to blow my fuse (God has changed my heart as well as my impatience) but every so often the conditions present themselves to be nothing less than a perfect storm. That’s when all bets are off.

True story.

Getting back to the subject of labeling others. I have been emotionally manipulated by the people I love most for a lifetime. My mother excelled in this department, and to this day it rattles my cage-no, sends me into orbit, when my husband practices this malignant behavior. I am much wiser for the years, however it hurts me to the core when he belittles me by categorizing the reasons for treating me like crap. There. I said it.

“Oh, well, you’re stoned so…….”

“Obviously, you’re in a mood, so I’ll just….”

“Never mind.” As if I would break out the machete had he uttered word one.

I admit there was a time when I would beg him to love me, or at least treat me with some modicum of respect. Our faith has transformed our weaknesses, mostly, into strengths and given us compassion for those that struggle with disharmony on a day to day basis. We get it. We do.

Back to what happens after Dwain says something incredibly stupid: I almost always laugh, at first. I laugh because I can’t believe he’s being serious, and because I know it will be my last laugh for days, in some cases -weeks. Case in point: it is 3:30 in the afternoon. He enters the living room and sees that I am content to be writing, even have a smile on my face.

“I want to pack all that shit up, and I’m not waiting until the end of the day to do it.”

He has leverage because my computer took a crap two weeks ago, immediately after my blog about Ms. Belenoff. I do not like being indebted to anyone, especially my husband. Does he really need to pack his computer now? My guess is no, and here we go again.

And here’s the rub-I have a zero tolerance for bullshit of any kind. I absolutely refuse to let things of this nature slide, no one gets away with belittling or manipulating this girl, sorry. This drives him to frustration, at which point I grab my things and isolate myself for the duration.

I know, I know-the bible tells us not to go to bed angry. These words are in my VOWS people. In the 28 years of my marriage I have yet to practice this rule. Stubborn yes, a doormat? Nope.

A few weeks ago our pastor brought this subject up. He preached a lovely sermon about the subject, and the importance of forgiveness.

I can’t tell you I’ll never go to bed angry again, but my God forgave me-He made me as white as snow.

Thing is, same goes for my thug of a husband.

Always, always forgive. Even if it’s a major pain in the anal cavity, forgive.