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.

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.

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.

Checkpoint Charlie

 

 

I attended the funeral of a sister to a dear friend this morning.  The service was held in Kleinfeltersville, my home town.  As we entered the parking lot, we took note that it was a full house, and I smiled, sadly-remembering 15 years ago-when we buried my best friend, Barbie.  Today was about celebrating the life of Fran Compenhaver, who also happened to be Barbie’s sister.  I had never met her, but I am rather close to her family, in a myriad of ways.

Inspecting my latest tick bite, I shook my head, disgusted.   I cried out to God-what now?  I cannot continue on these antibiotics-they aren’t good for our kidneys and extended use can be extremely dangerous.  I had literally just finished the Doxycycline, and the fatigue, migraine and fever all screamed their bloody heads off-telling me that I had to do something different-after five years of going round and round with Lyme disease?  I knew I had to get truly serious and begin some research.

As I read, my mouth remained open to the point that saliva slid from the corner of my lips.  I couldn’t believe what I was reading:

From a Lyme disease specialist:  …so, antibiotics simply do not work in killing the spirochete that causes the disease itself.

“Craptastic,” I mutter, as my anxiety mounts to the point of near hysteria.

The article went on to say that even extended doses of doxy do not cure the disease: they kill the bacteria, yes, causing symptoms to recede, if not vanish completely.  Yet the spirochete remains, causing reoccurring and chronic Lyme.

ok, what the shit am I going to do?

I had made an appointment with a rheumatologist for October.  My physician may mean well, but he didn’t diagnose (let alone look  at my tender and swollen Lymph node) me.  I diagnosed myself six months later, when my husband and I burst into the practice the day after Christmas, 2013.  Luckily, I didn’t see my regular physician, this time a woman; a compassionate, understanding, well educated woman.

“I believe I have Lyme disease (I was drenching in sweat, wearing my tattered bathrobe-hadn’t even tried to comb my hair, and as the good doctor took note, was white as a ghost) please give me 30 days of Doxycycline and we’re done here.”  I ended up having to go for an ultrasound-the lymph node was now the size of a grapefruit; then a uterine biopsy, and then two years of normalcy, energy and strength.

Back to this morning.  My mouth was slack jaw because of the next few words:

In short, Stevia cures Lyme by killing the spirochete.  Here is the link to the article:

STEVIA?  Why, I had a Stevia plant in my garden.  I promptly ran out and picked the biggest leaf I could find, and swallowed the sweetness…and here’s where it gets good.  I had been feeling absolutely awful for a week.  As I sat in Dwain’s truck I did inventory.  I wasn’t stuffed up, my headache abated, lost energy returned and my mood improved dramatically…and the best part?  Seven days.  A leaf of Stevia for seven days.

This is how Jesus leads us, but we need to pray for ourselves as well.

Ask and you shall receive.

As we left the service, in which we reunited with dozens of friends we hadn’t seen since my recovery.  We were the partiers, the click, the druggies and the hippies.  We rocked Kleinfeltersville, shook it up a bit, got ourselves some reputations.  And here we were, together again-but this time complaining about aches and pains, sharing doctor’s numbers and hearing about other losses of which we had not a clue.

And as the crowd prepared to descend on the K-ville Hotel (our collective bar of choice) Dwain took my hand.  We walked in the other direction, somewhat stoic, older and wiser.

In loving memory

Barbie, you were with us today, and I know that with every fiber of my being~

418391_362398523771060_1847442995_n
Barbara Ann Shipper

Please don’t take one another for granted, not even for a second.

Only God knows for whom the bell tolls.

 

 

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.

Make Me an Angel…

 

This will be my last writing-at least until I finish up the Mystery Blogger Award, so it may be a few days.  Every time I sit down to complete my nominations, a strange wind blows in from the East, and I find myself frozen, unable to write; it becomes a virtual impossibility and I set my sights on something else.  This is the perfectionist/procrastinator’s way of doing things, and we all know what happened with the Liebster Award-as soon as I began writing, my access to my blog was cut off-another story for another day.

Today I went hiking for the first time in a few days.  It’s HOT and HUMID in the Northeast right now, not my kind of weather, even on a good day.  Luckily, Jesse and I have a plan on these days: a lovely trail called Deer Path, with plenty of shade and water; the lake adds to the cool atmosphere, and we are in business once again.  This is the trail I was stalked on, two years ago.  To this very day I walk protected, in prayer and armed-I walk like I mean it, own the trail and know what’s behind, aside of or ahead of me at all times.  I carry mace and a HUMONGOUS stick, my golden retriever leads the way.  After the incident, in which a  red haired, half naked lunatic was found masturbating (I saw him well into the hike, and I motioned to my dog-we ran for our lives.)  Jesse never forgot this, and if he senses a person on trail?  He literally turns around and blocks me from whatever lies ahead.  I always pray for Divine protection, and I can literally feel God’s comfort-I will not be a victim.  Fear will not rule my life:  not this time, anyway.

As we were packing up to leave, I saw a woman (who turned out to be a child) pull into the parking lot.  She sprayed herself with bug spray, then began her trek, until of course, I interrupted her.

Honey, do you have protection?”

She stared at me like I meant condoms, and I broke out laughing at the absurdity of the question.  How do you warn, but not terrorize?  The fact is that a month ago, I was heading out to Middlecreek for a hike, on a different trail-Spicebush.  We usually go first thing in the morning-to beat the heat, but it was 9:30-we were running late.  As I sat down in the jeep, a voice from deep within (aka, the Holy Spirit) said:

((Why are you skipping your exercise class???))

I turned around, and drove toward the church-where the ladies in waiting were warming up in the parking lot.  Later in the evening, my husband and I sat down for the evening news, and I felt as if I’d been shot from a cannon.  (I did look for the video, but they have since taken it down)

“This morning, at 10:00 a.m. a woman reported that a man attempted to grab her off of her bicycle, she shook him off and called 911.  This is the trail she was on, in broad daylight.  She is shaken, but okay.”

They panned to a detective who announced they were looking for him; then they shared the trail she was on.  Spicebush.  I was shaken, as I should have been there, not her.

So, back to this morning.  I clarified my question:  DO YOU CARRY ANY WEAPONS?

We spoke for a few more minutes, this precious child and myself.  She said no, that she would be just fine without a weapon.

I went into my backpack and retrieved my pink mace cannister.

I taught her how to use it, and instructed her to be careful not to mace herself.

And as she turned to leave, she thanked me profusely.

It wasn’t me.   She had her angels to thank…..

Divine protection?  Indeed.

 

 

 

 

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.