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……… 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.

Don’t Want to Hear About It……

Females.  You can’t live with them, and you sure as Hell fire can’t live without them.  I cherish my female friendships, but a few of them came at a cost:  once you love a sister with your whole heart and soul?  Little can come between you.  You argued.  You were pissy.  She was controlling.  She was cruel, and you gave it back in spades.   But you love each other, and family argues.  This isn’t the family you were dealt, this is the women you have strategically chosen for a  reason; or they chose you.

But what about the ones that don’t make the cut?  The friendships that God nips in the bud, just when you were growing extremely fond of her?  One thing I will never again tolerate in a friend of either sex?  Passive aggression.  I grew up with a narcissistic mother, and my sister and “best friend” Doreen (name changed to protect the criminally insane, and by that I mean myself) picked up where Mary Lou left off.  Don’t talk to me about picayune little arguments:  I have neither the time, nor the patience.  I will not allow myself emotional trauma at the hands of anyone, let alone the women who I have  allowed into my own Private Idaho.

I am angry now, but irritation will not prevail.  I thought I knew better, and clearly, my honing skills are askew.  And yes, I loved her.  For now I will add her to the growing list of frenemies, but God knows I’ll pray for her.

The Inheritance……..

This song had me in despair over the weekend.  After watching the movie The Accountant, I went into the laundry room to cry.  This song plays at the end, and it triggered in me a yearning-and a deep pit of despair.  This isn’t about feeling sorry for oneself, quite the contrary.  It is about the human need to give those you love an inheritance.  Your whole life you have collected pieces of your heart, cherished memories and beautiful trinkets.  I had always assumed that my nieces would inherit my clothing, my jewelry and my stories-it felt good and right that they would have a piece of Aunt Michele to pass on to their children.

Yet how do you give your life work to children who no longer seem to care?  I know in my heart that this is a result of narcissistic rage on the part of their mother.  Yet it does not lessen the pain.

And then it happened:  the aha moment!  I have a brother.  His daughter Esme is one of the loves of my life.  She is strong and gracious, lovely and wise, kind and silly…….a rose among so many weeds.  She gives me hope and inspiration.  I miss her dearly, but will remedy that by a trip out to LA…..get ready girl, you are about to be bombarded with love……and trinkets I have cherished, over the years of searching for myself.

Are You Gonna Go His Way?

My Lord in heaven this man is beautiful.  Remember the first time you heard of him?  As Lisa Bonet’s heroin addicted, bad ass boyfriend?  Then husband?  He was “discovered” by Tom Petty, and I bet good money Lisa went through some heavy duty self reflection after she left him.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I won’t go into the heartbreaking details, but trust me, Lenny is a victim of the machine, and he has been cloned, chipped and is living in a bunker, underground-he sold his soul to the enemy, and now he doesn’t want to die.  THIS ACCORDING TO A VLOG I WISH I HADN’T WASTED MY TIME ON, OH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD IS NOTHING SACRED?

Each and every one of us was given the gift of choice.  God doesn’t want to push himself upon us, so he allows us a fork in the road-usually after crushing brokenness, unbearable pain, and absolute defeat-that is when His children are ready, willing and able to see that they cannot, no way, no how go it alone.

We were NOT put on this earth to judge and ridicule.  Some false prophets will tell you they judge for the sake of righteousness, but please don’t be fooled!  The enemy is a slithery snake and these are the days in which we must take a stand.  Forgiveness.  Love.  Peacemaking.  Jesus is NOT an ascended master, a hallucination or a Jim Carrey meme.  He is our Lord and Savior, and he is taking his children home……..choose this day whom you will serve.  And if you get it right?  There will come a peace that surpasses all understanding.

Rather Eat Dirt…………

I received a huge package from my attorney yesterday.  It contained all of the doctor’s notes and correspondence concerning my disability case.  A bit of advice?  NEVER, EVER READ YOUR MEDICAL FILES, AS WHAT YOU SEE WILL ALARM, IF NOT KILL YOU.  I had been praying about whether or not to go back into therapy.  I was leaning towards going it alone, meaning, giving it all to God and taking one day at a time.  I believe in my heart that this was His way of saying, stay out of therapy and stay with me.  I opened the manila envelope, and had a moment of clarity:  proceed with caution, a sense of humor and nerves of steel.

Last October I had sunk deeper and deeper into my CPTSD.  The depression was unnerving, my anxiety off of the charts-a church elder suggested I go to “Christian” counseling, but I told her we could not afford the cost.  The very next week I found $210 worth of vouchers in my mail slot.  This was as good a time as any, and I was incredibly grateful for the opportunity.

I disliked her the moment I saw her.  She was wound so tightly that I feared her uterus would explode if she moved a certain way.  The stick firmly embedded in her ass cheeks, I thought-‘ain’t no way this chic is gonna feel me on this.’  Sadly, as it turns out, I was righter than rain.

“I smoke weed for my PTSD.  My physician is aware of this and it helps.  I need you to understand that before we proceed,” I spoke each word as clearly as possible, and awaited a response:

“Well, I certainly hope you are planning on quitting…..eventually.”

Seriously?  Is this the way we’re going to begin?  I should have seen it coming, with the stick in the ass thing…..but I didn’t.  I went to her for approximately 6 sessions; I was in dire need of validation, I needed a “professional” to hear my stalking story, see my psychic pain, tell me it would be okay.  The first few sessions were unremarkable, as I didn’t trust her and wasn’t about to bare my soul.  By the third session I realized that my candor was imperative, or nothing whatsoever would be resolved.

I feel invisible.  I don’t think my husband takes the incident seriously.  I have suicidal ideation on occasion, but mostly my anxiety is ruling my world.

I sobbed.  I sat on the floor, put my head in my hands.  And I poured out my heart to a stranger who had not one fucking clue as to what she was doing.  She knew nothing about PTSD, and as it turns out, she did more harm than good.  The following words are from her notes, and it pains me to repeat them:

Patient was histrionic this afternoon.  She was DRESSEED COMPLETELY DIFFERENT THAN PER USUAL.  She spoke of “jealous bitches” who thwarted her success at every turn in the workplace.  I believe she is speaking about her mother when she uses the term.  PATIENT SAT ON THE FLOOR TODAY, attention seeking behavior at best……….”

My jaw hung open for so long I had to pry it shut.  My entire life has been a search for my authentic self.  I don’t put on airs for anyone.  Anyone.  My friends will tell you this.  I dress one way if I am hiking, and gee, sometimes I like to mix things up a bit and wear real clothing.  I SAT ON THE EFFING FLOOR because I wanted to.  She patronized me by sitting down in front of me.  I have never sought attention for anything, my entire point of the therapy was to resolve the issue of too much attention, to be validated for exactly who I was.  This was crippling.  I will never trust a therapist again, and may I suggest that you thoroughly investigate any man or woman who thinks themselves capable of resolving PTSD, because they will do more harm than good, and that is the tragedy here.   Vulnerable men and woman alike go to professionals for help, only to find their mental health hanging on the edge of a cliff, with literally everything to lose.  You have a degree in Social Work and this makes you God?  How DARE she?  And I cried bitter tears at the thought that she will do it-again and again and again, to poor, unsuspecting victims of horrendous crimes.

That answered my prayer.  It’s me and Jesus and no one, no one will ever have an opportunity to shrink my head again.  I found this poem this morning, and I hope you find it as uplifting as I did.  This is not the full version, just one paragraph of four:

“Long my imprisoned spirit lay, fast bound in sin and nature’s night;

Thine eye diffused a quick’ning ray, I woke, the dungeon flamed with light;

My chains fell off, my heart was free; I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.

-Charles Wesley


Pistols At Dawn

No, this is not a docudrama on the perils of standing on stage props, poor Marilyn Manson.  I loathe everything that man stands for, but I have to admit-the poor CD sales, his broken ankle on the first night of his Heaven Upside Down tour; then the attempt to climb a stage prop of two guns pointed in different directions which resulted in the whole works crushing him-well, that’s a shame, as Jerry Seinfeld would say.  I must admit I did chuckle at first, not that I am gloating, but man o’ day-what do you expect when Satan is the god you serve? It is my prayer that as he recuperates, he has a change of heart-but that’s another story and I am sidetracked.

We were up in the jaw dropping beauty of the Adirondack mountains, on lake Algonquin.  Prior to the trip, I was an anxious and traumatized mess: fake news of the September 23 Armageddon, the flea situation, the hurricanes, the fear of flying high and actually enjoying life for a change-all of this led to a reoccurrence of my PTSD symptoms.  In 25 years my husband and I had not had a “real” vacation together, and as we hit the state of New York, my nerves began to mellow, I was beginning to exhale and I cannot praise God enough for His part in getting us there.

Prior to leaving, we had ripped out carpet, vacuumed every crevice, and at 5:30 in the morning I sprayed the last of the flea killer, and closed up shop.  My “best friend” of twenty-five years was taking care of my only indoor cat, Maya Angelou.  She was to feed her in the evening-I had no problems trusting a grown woman, RN and administrator of a local veteran’s hospital-I left food and instructions on the table.  My in laws were right across the street.  What could possibly go wrong?  As it turned out?  Plenty.

On our third evening there, I turned on my cell phone.  I had planned to stay away from my phone, social media, news venues and the like.  I needed to heal, and I wanted to spare my husband the constant freak outs about the world in which we live.  For whatever reason, I felt a nudge to check to see if all was well in the state of Pennsylvania.  I was relaxed, happy and hadn’t self-harmed in days.  My body was repairing itself, and I looked forward to the next leg of our journey.  We were to spread dad’s ashes on Lake Pleasant, hike Auger Falls, dine in a lovely five star restaurant, and I hadn’t seen Dwain so happy in ages.

The text read-‘Hi sweetheart.  Just wanted you to know that I was over to feed Maya this morning (what?  My father in law was assigned the mornings, why was she even there on a Sunday morning?) and I was wearing white pants.  I was covered in fleas.   Is there anything you would like me to do?’

Holy mother Mary, mother of Jesus, and Joseph!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  She went on to say that the only room she had been in was the kitchen.  I text her back immediately, telling her to please turn on the air conditioner, asking if she wouldn’t mind setting off a bomb or two DOWNSTAIRS, as Maya the cat stays in the bedroom.  The very reason we hadn’t set off anything upstairs.  I phoned her and left a message, telling her where the vacuum cleaner was, and also reassuring her that I would make this up to her.

In less than the five minutes it took me to do this, my blood pressure sky high, my mellow harshed-I became hysterical-worried about the cat, my friend, the house………it was like being shot from a cannon, and I immediately regressed and began tearing at my skin, bawling like a child, inconsolable.  My husband was livid.  Why?  Why would she text me this news?  How could she be so cruel?  Was she not capable of figuring this out on her own.  And then it hit me.  THERE WERE NO FLEAS IN THE KITCHEN.  I KNOW THIS BECAUSE IT WAS ONE OF THE ONLY ROOMS THAT THE DOG AND CAT WERE COMFORTABLE IN.   There was nary a flea in my abode when we left for New York. My husband took me in his arms, shush honey, it’s okay, I’ll call my father, we will get through this, shhhush baby…….he was in touch with his dad immediately, and Tom was to set off a bomb in the kitchen.  Relief warmed my muscles, the blood returned to my face.

I phoned my brother and told him I would call him when we returned.  I wanted him to know that I was turning said phone off and would not even look at it until our return.  When we were unpacking, the phone must have fallen out of my purse, and there it remained for three days.  I had bought my “friend” a lovely gift for tending to my feline.  I flicked on my phone to call her to see if she was home, but was immediately stopped dead in my tracks.  She had left three voicemails and a text.  She had called each night of our stay, and then left another text:

“If you EVER get around to checking your messages, there are still a number of fleas in the kitchen.  THANK YOU.”

Appalled, I thought back to the many times I had given her the benefit of the doubt when she belittled me.  Because of low self esteem I had clung to her advice, and many times I felt her to be intentionally cruel and callous.  One Summer I had given her a pair of earrings.  I took great care in picking them out, lovely avocado halves, expensive but worth it.  Days went by and I finally called her to ask if she liked the gift:

“Please give them to one of your nieces.  I will put them on the porch.”

Many, many times I had asked myself if it were possible that she was a narcissist.  That is not a term I use lightly, and I pushed the thoughts out of my head immediately.  I thought back to the day I called her, the day my sister sent me the email that would end our relationship.  I had told my sister my feelings, for the first time in, well, ever.  I was hysterical, crushed at the idea of losing my blood, my world upside down, I cried out to her.

“You fucked up Michele.  You fucked up.”  The harder I cried in protest, the louder and meaner her words.

Jesus has taken the scales off of my peepers.  I have learned that highly sensitive and empathetic, albeit broken people are subject to being surrounded by the Jezebel Spirit.  But I am stronger and wiser now.  She is a part of my past, and there will be no confrontation, because at the end of the day, that is exactly what she wants.


cropped-15095550_1812089809073862_3374301090125037312_n.jpgWe are finally here.  Up in the Adirondack Mountains, near lake Pleasant, in the sleepy little town of Wells, New York.  If there are two people who need a vacation, it is my husband and myself.   We began the trip with an argument, which stemmed from my hysteria about leaving my home.  I like to take my time and make sure I have everything.  Dwain likes to leave in such a hurry, that I fear he may spontaneously combust.

Aside from the fact that we were pulled over for a speeding (my weed was right there, in the front seat, my pipe in my purse.  I don’t think I took a breath for ten minutes straight- and after reviewing my husband’s driver’s license, the state trooper asked us this question:

“Can you two tell me what that white powdery substance is in that bag?”

I kid you not.  We looked at one another, completely oblivious to what he possibly could have meant, and we both turned our gaze to the silverware, wrapped in a white napkin, that my husband mistakenly took from a restaurant and has planned on returning since.

After receiving a $250 fine, plus points, we were told to have a great vacation.  The trooper followed us for twenty miles, and it wasn’t until he took an exit ramp that we both screamed- OH MY GOD IN HEAVEN HOW SCARY WAS THAT?????????

I am not a pot head by any stretch of the imagination, I only use it for my CPTSD, but because my career in donating to the Columbian drug cartels only began a few years ago.  I am patiently awaiting availability, as it has been legal in the state for a year, but very little progress has been made.  Hey, it’s Pennsylvania…

So I am sitting here, underneath the amazing pines, on a deck in the forest.  I was born in New York, and I have had the distinct feeling that I am home again, for the first time in way too long.  I brought my father’s ashes, as I couldn’t spread them when my siblings did; fifteen years ago in nearby Lake George.  I knew if I had gone on that trip that my drinking would have led to a very tense, if not tragic melee.  I feel grounded and at peace, and today I saw my very first waterfall-I cried for twenty minutes, the beauty too much for me to contain in my heart.

I won’t be on social media.  I refuse to look at my phone.  No checking of emails.  God is speaking to me and this is what he wants: for me to start concentrating on the good, the pure, the lovely, the laughter-no more tears for now.  I feel as if I am at the precipice of hope, and I know more clearly than ever that Jesus takes such great care to give us these incomprehensible blessings~and I want you to know, He loves you more than you could ever dream, or imagine.

My husband told me this morning that our neighbors were gone for the day.  He has been cavorting whilst naked, fell off the deck (long story) and thrown caution to the wind.  He just approached me with the news that the women have, in fact, been home the entire day.  I have to go, I’m in hysterics……….chow.