I’ll Give You Fish…

A few blogs back, I promised you a story about the day, fifteen years ago, when I caught my husband “cheating” on me.  We were taking care of my father, who was extremely ill; we moved him to a house out in the country, where he lived for a year-on his terms-no nursing homes, praise God.  I loved my dad more than I have ever loved another soul, or perhaps the love I have for my husband is equal-but completely different types of love.

Dad was my best friend and, quite honestly, the only person besides my husband who really got me.  We were extremely close.  We laughed at the same things, had the same interests, and thought hiking was the greatest thing next to grilled cheese sandwiches.  I take after daddy, in almost every way.  Mom was the writer in the family, and she was very talented.  It is no small wonder that my brother and I are the artsy, fartsy, poetic side of the family.  I think it rather neat that my brother is a musician who writes amazing songs-not unlike myself-who writes about music-daddy was the musician.  I can still hear him singing the Midnight Special, banjo in tow, at three a.m. after an argument with my mother.  Good times.  Good times.

I would do anything to have those times back.

So, between working evenings as a waitress in a busy diner (one of the biggest tourist spots in Lancaster County) and taking care of my family-well, I guess you could say I was just a tad stressed out.  If you saw me in passing, you would think me a demented Flakka head, on the verge of going off the deep end; at any given moment in time.  You would also be correct.  About the losing my shit, not the Flakka.  When my husband complains about the two cigarettes I smoke each day with my coffee?  I always say:

It could be worse.  You’re lucky I’m not on Flakka.  Or crack.  

Jiminy Cricket, I was wound so tightly, I actually pitied the fool who got in my way.  Back then?  I was anger personified.  I seethed with an all consuming rage that basically enveloped me-my mother abused me emotionally, and my memories were a big reason I drank to begin with.  I wanted to take care of dad, believe me, but the sad truth?  I was scared senseless.  My alcoholism had progressed, then eased after he died.  Eventually I came to a place of rewriting my story, and forgiving mother.  Years of my life, consumed with bitter ire-and a tragic notion that I needed to be punished, put in place-as mom had made it perfectly clear that I was undeserving.  Forgiveness is incredibly freeing, and you should do it often-not for them, but for you.

Finally, to the point of the story.  I was in the aforementioned condition while driving my Jeep Wrangler up Route 501 on a Friday afternoon, headed in the direction of the pharmacy in Myerstown-to get my father’s refills.  My hair is fried, not tended to; I can’t remember if I brushed my teeth.  I am breaking out-not only in zits but pimples as well-my first outbreak of acne, ever.  Stress pimples and blackheads.

I head North and see my husband’s baby blue Chevy pick up headed in my direction.  I believe I went into a fugue state the moment I saw the blonde.  I was a jealous madwoman back then-it wasn’t my husband I didn’t trust, let’s just say that.

“OMG, who the FAZUCK was in Dwain’s truck?  How long has this been going on?  I’m taking care of my invalid father and the bastard is cheating on me?  What the FUCK?”

I ran into the pharmacy, almost hyperventilating when I see the long line.  This is the most impatient moment of my life.  I fantasize about killing the man behind the counter.  I want to slap the woman who forgot her insurance card, and truth be told?  My thought cloud was rated RRR.  If not ZZZ.

I raced to the jeep and drove like a stunt car driver all the way to Dwain’s work.  I see him in the park, akin to his business.  I aim for him as I drive, he jumps out of the way.

“Oh my GOD honey, what is wrong with you?”  He looks more than mildly alarmed, but he knows on many levels what this is all about.  I jump from the vehicle, not thinking to put the jeep in “park.”  Dwain jumps into said car and saves it, saves it from going directly into the pond behind us.

I scream and holler.  He tells me he took her to drop off her car, to have it inspected.  I eyeball him from toe to head.  Calmer, yet not quite assured that all is well; I head for my car.  He gives  me a hug, chuckles and says these exact words:

“Honey, why do you have spaghetti sauce all over your face?”

If I Were the Devil…

 

I haven’t been writing on the subject of our reality in this day and age:  the fight of GOOD against EVIL, the thinning of the veil, pure evil being brought into the light-simply because the good news comes now, at warp speed.  The Good News meaning a myriad of things, but first and always foremost it is the story of Jesus.  He was born to Joseph and Mary (a virgin) in the little town of Bethlehem.  He grew to fulfill His purpose, which was to sacrifice himself, on that wretched cross, to pay the debt for our sins.  He died, but He rose again-bringing with him the Holy Spirit.  He now sits at the right hand of our Father, in heaven-with all of the Saints and Angels.

People.  If God could save a wretch like me?  He can, and will, save the likes of your sorry butts 🙂 All you need to do is ask Him to come into your life.  If you ask Him to, he will forgive all of your trespasses-and welcome you with open arms.  In my case, as bad as my life had become for so many reasons?  I needed to hit bottom-which ended up being my husband telling the social worker in the emergency room that I had pointed a knife at him, over a bottle of wine.

And then, he burst into tears.

I was accompanied to the bathroom by a police officer, who stood suicide watch on me through the night.  They gave me meds so strong, that I slept through the next day-as my husband emptied the house of any vestiges of booze.  The next few years were the absolute worst/best of my life.  But mostly worst.  I clung to Jesus for dear life!

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I want you to know a few things, such as I was not awake myself until two years ago.  The PTSD and Lyme had taken their toll on my mind and my immune system.  My anxiety and depression left me incapable of dealing with any stress whatsoever.  Ironically, the quest for truth God put me on has added to the trauma.

But yet when I am my weakest, only then am I strong.

This sentiment in this scripture  speaks to me, speaks to my very soul.  I have lived through a life that could not have been lived by the faint of heart.  From the time I was a young, chubby girl yearning to be loved to the anorexic fright of a waif, weighing in at 73 pounds, Jesus has been with me.  Even in my isolation, there was a solace and peace-I was never truly alone.  I desperately needed Him.  A  grueling battle with alcoholism and addiction to opioids left me feeling unworthy, unloved and unwanted.  I can honestly say I despised myself, and drifted away from the church.

This isn’t the story I want to be telling, but one day during the first year of my sobriety, I fell to my knees in eight inches of snow, and cried out to Jesus.  I wept and wept and prayed that He forgive me for my transgressions-it took me awhile to believe it, but he did, and I felt it.  To this day I literally take one moment at a time, one day at a time asking the Holy Spirit to guide my endeavors.  On paper?  God waking me up at such a time as this is objectionably hilarious.  Me?  The girl that screams bloody murder when she mistakes her slippers for a rodent?  The gal who can’t read Dean Kuntz at night, even with her husband right beside her?  The girl who has to light every candle in the house for aromatherapy, just to write a check?

I have really bad issues with money.  Oy vey.

Yes.  Apparently so.  The Great Awakening is about a movement of like minded people,  who begin to realize that the life they had been living was an absolute shit show.  We just didn’t know it at the time.  The treason and evil go deeper than a hundred blogs could cover.  We are at the inception of a mass awakening, as the Trump administration (through QAnon) begins the delicate unraveling of the truth.  The corruption.  The evil on a scale that “would put 99% of America in a hospital.”

I have news for the enemy.

President Trump wants to control the drop of information, so as not to alarm and cause mass hysteria.  I want this blog to be a place where you can come to get the absolute truth, in a loving and humble manner.  All glory goes to God, thousands of people have this information-and we are okay, for the most part.  There are support groups, those who will answer questions, and those that offer the truth in a safe, timely and responsible manner, that honors God and country.

Tomorrow we’ll take it from the beginning,

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I Choose Joy

 

Momma never told me there’s be days like this, and that’s because momma didn’t know.  I often wonder what my beloved parents in Heaven think, when they look down at all of the despair, the outright terror and searing pain.  And then I remember, there are no tears, no pain, not even a stubbed toe! in Abba’s Heaven.

My parents know that their children are living in the end days.  I often look up and say, “it’s alright, mom and dad, Jesus has this.”  And again, I remember that they have a totally different perspective in that realm.

I spent the last week being red-pilled myself, and it wasn’t pretty.  I look back and think to myself, what the hell just happened?  Where am I?  Who am I?  And the answer is always the same:  I am in the arms of our Creator-no matter what the world is doing, saying or debating.  I need to remember from whence I came-and remind myself that I was born for such a time as this.

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For the last two years I have immersed myself in the real life battle between good and evil; played out in living technicolor on YouTube, Twitter and the evening news.  I have neglected my family, my husband and myself.  More disturbing, I set off on a journey I thought was imperative, only to find out that it was a drop in the ocean, an atom among molecules if you will.

I thought I was following the right Patriots, turns out I wasn’t.  I feel betrayed, but schooled as well.  What was I thinking?  Me, a puny human-and Jesus, THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD!  Don’t misunderstand me, I had the correct information alright-it was the PAYtriots who had me, and by the balls.  I don’t believe in coincidences, I never have.  And so it was, one day last week, when a man who plays a pretty important role in the NSA and current administration, happened to be tweeting about the same information that had me awake at night:  who was this Dustin Nemos (aka, Dustin Craig Krieger) who came out with the Amazon bestseller about QAnon?  And more importantly, why was he taking credit for the entire Great Awakening?  Why did it bother me, I mean, what do I care?  But here’s the thing:  my conscience couldn’t, wouldn’t let it go another minute.

I teamed up with this man Morpheus on Twitter.  I knew nothing of him, only that I had been following him for two years.  I asked him his opinion on the matter-what transpired between us was a friendship I could never have foreseen.  He knew things.  He knew things no one else seemed to know.  He was a bad ass for sure, and he set me straight on quite a few things.  We worked together for a week, had a good laugh or two, and shared our testimonies.  Actually, he shared his-turns out he had died at the hands of a vicious gang, as a young man.  The brawl began in a bar and ended in a playground across the street.  And as he lay there, his vision changed-he saw himself, on the ground, bleeding, dying, and alone.

Enter Jesus, stage left.

He did not go on to explain the private exchange, but suffice it to say?  I believe every word.  Morpheus had a near death experience, and it changed him in profound and intangible ways.  He left a mark on my soul, and for that I am grateful.  More importantly?  He reminded me of what is truly important, and that God will give you the strength you need to endure the plans He has made.

And so it was that Abba, Jesus and I made a new plan-one in which I get to live out loud, play in the woods, work in my garden, write at whim.  I no longer carry my pc from room to room.  I don’t watch videos, I don’t tweet my fool head off.

You see, if you have the faith of a minute mustard seed?  You can achieve good and great things-by praying, sharing and loving the God who created you with all of your heart and soul.

I did my job.

I planted the crap out of that seed.

Rally Round the Family…

Life goes along at warp speed until something stops you dead in your tracks: As was the case Sunday morning, after a full weekend of loving and socializing, the enemy came to take his due-you don’t think he isn’t out there trying to devour everything good in your life? Au contraire, mon amies! But here’s the good news-call out to Jesus, and you are free. He can’t hurt you if you are covered in the full armor of God.

But what about those times when evil does strike? Well, Abba will protect you in ways you couldn’t imagine, and that’s why I’m alive and writing this blog-my Lord and Savior sent His angels, and they protected me from a massive head injury and internal bleeding.

Just out of Dwain’s truck, exhausted from a weekend of frivolity, I could barely pick up my feet. I had promised my husband that I would pick up the myriad of dog toys that lay around our yard, at the whim of my golden retriever, who thinks he has to entertain the grasshoppers and blue jays with his cacophony of babies. It’s so sweet, until it isn’t.

I had my purse in one hand, my drink in the other, AND I was carrying six, that’s SIX dog toys to boot. We have concrete stairs, no railing, and the stairs are ridiculously dangerous. It did not escape my mind, while sitting in the ER, that I had traipsed up and down said steps while drunk, high on cocaine, and worse. Never once even tripped. But yesterday was different. My boots caught on Jesse’s blue elephant, and down I went. I had no hands to put out, and I landed on my noggin.

I immediately called for Dwain, who could hear me, but couldn’t find me. Pain so severe I thought I would vomit, I remained perfectly still until my husband arrived on the scene. I am an EMT, and a CNA-I have volunteered in the Emergency Room, with hospice and prison ministries-I have seen it all and maintained my composure. This is the precise reason I am prone to freaking out when I get hurt-I simply know too much.

Head injury? I was out of my mind hysterical. It didn’t help when my husband picked up my head and his eyes bulged out of his-

“My GOD, is it THAT bad?,” I wail. He didn’t answer, he was too busy putting my ample white behind in his truck, grabbing ice and driving like a bat out of hell, towards the ER I had recently walked out of-after calling out the employees no less. As I walked in, I immediately placed my eyes on Dawn, who calmed me as she directed me towards the door. I knew where to go all right. I just didn’t know if they would help me, or hurt me. They had so much power at that moment.

A friend of mine, Katie, was the charge nurse, praise God. She gave me a hug and an ice pack, told me the doctor would soon be in. As Dwain sat on the bed, this came over the PA System:

ATTENTION: SEPSIS ALERT IN THE ER. SEPSIS ALERT IN THE ER.

“Fabulous,” I murmured. And then it hit me, we were the only people there, aside from an 83 year old man with a dizzy spell. What the Harry???? They were talking about me for crying out loud! I couldn’t figure this out as the knot on my head was the size of a peach, but the wound wasn’t bad, it bled very little.

Dr. Ammons didn’t waste any time checking me over. I was told it would hurt like hell for a few days, but that I was extremely fortunate as if I had hit one inch below, I could have had serious eye trauma. If my cranium had hit a few inches lower? I could have knocked out my front teeth. But I knew about head trauma, and I was frightened. I kept what I knew to myself, forgetting that my man is a first responder.

And so it was, that I woke this morning with a shiner the size of Texas, and a headache to beat the band.

And because of His love? I’ll be strutting my stuff, sooner than you can say the words accident prone.

Haunted by Sheeple

 

I am mildly disturbed.  Some would say deranged with rage, and I am surrounded by Sheeple at each and every turn.  How does a girl, who suffers from PTSD, get to the bottom of it all without terrorizing herself, her dog and even, yes-even the mail lady?  Poor Tammy.  She slid into our mailbox yesterday, and I wouldn’t have even noticed if my pup hadn’t sounded the alarm.  Does that ever happen to you?  You’re in the middle of deep concentration and the dog barks you out of your stupor?  Scares the red blood cells right out of me, I swear.

The poor girl was traumatized, as her truck was hanging on the very precipice of an embankment.  As I leaned in to see if she was okay, it was clear to me that she was in shock.  Once I had her in the house, we needed to wait for my husband to arrive and pull her vehicle out.

“Did you know that President Trump is saving the world as we speak?”

“JFK, Jr. is alive and well, and I think he’s Q, and Trump is Q+.”

I stopped talking when I saw the fear mounting in her eyes.  She had absolutely no idea what I was speaking about.   I’m quite sure she went home to her husband and bitched about the “crazy lady” that bent her ear with nonsense-and that is the point of this blog:  Q is 100% real.  The Great Awakening is 100% real.  I live in a town of 300 people, and aside from my friends Sherry and Scott?  Not one of them believes a word I say.

No more redpilling for this girl.  I try to understand and practice patience, but I have to say I am frustrated more than not.  And with so very much at stake, I remind myself that day by day (maybe not in the sleepy town of Kleinfeltersville)  the masses are truly awakening.

Recently, I have had a hard time keeping up with the news; an even harder time at making the distinction between truth and crapola-so, I cancelled most of my YouTube subscriptions and now get my news from the horses mouth, on 8 chan, of course. The SGT Report is real news, and Q has confirmed this.   I have to be honest, I am not quite sure what to think of the new QAnon book:  we were warned a while back-be careful who you follow.  You see, there are Patriots and Paytriots-those that are trying to profit from the Great Awakening and Q movements.  As it turns out, the people who wrote the book are the very same who helped me to make sense of it all-and I am torn between supporting and condemning. 

I suppose we all need to understand that false information is necessary-there are bad people, even our enemies, on this board.

I agree with Sean; ask those questions of God himself.  He is the author of our reality, our past and our precious future.

He is the Alpha and Omega.  Abba won’t censor, ridicule or abandon you.

This is a war that is gaining momentum, good vs. evil, a shift in consciousness, a new world-God wins in the end, and that, my friends, is all I need to know.

For now.

I’ll Give You Fish…

A few blogs back, I promised you a story about the day, fifteen years ago, when I caught my husband “cheating” on me.  We were taking care of my father, who was extremely ill; we moved him to a house out in the country, where he lived for a year-on his terms-no nursing homes, praise God.  I loved my dad more than I have ever loved another soul, or perhaps the love I have for my husband is equal-but completely different types of love.

Dad was my best friend and, quite honestly, the only person besides my husband who really got me.  We were extremely close.  We laughed at the same things, had the same interests, and thought hiking was the greatest thing next to grilled cheese sandwiches.  I take after daddy, in almost every way.  Mom was the writer in the family, and she was very talented.  It is no small wonder that my brother and I are the artsy, fartsy, poetic side of the family.  I think it rather neat that my brother is a musician who writes amazing songs-not unlike myself-who writes about music-daddy was the musician.  I can still hear him singing the Midnight Special, banjo in tow, at three a.m. after an argument with my mother.  Good times.  Good times.

I would do anything to have those times back.

So, between working evenings as a waitress in a busy diner (one of the biggest tourist spots in Lancaster County) and taking care of my family-well, I guess you could say I was just a tad stressed out.  If you saw me in passing, you would think me a demented Flakka head, on the verge of going off the deep end; at any given moment in time.  You would also be correct.  About the losing my shit, not the Flakka.  When my husband complains about the two cigarettes I smoke each day with my coffee?  I always say:

It could be worse.  You’re lucky I’m not on Flakka.  Or crack.  

Jiminy Cricket, I was wound so tightly, I actually pitied the fool who got in my way.  Back then?  I was anger personified.  I seethed with an all consuming rage that basically enveloped me-my mother abused me emotionally, and my memories were a big reason I drank to begin with.  I wanted to take care of dad, believe me, but the sad truth?  I was scared senseless.  My alcoholism had progressed, then eased after he died.  Eventually I came to a place of rewriting my story, and forgiving mother.  Years of my life, consumed with bitter ire-and a tragic notion that I needed to be punished, put in place-as mom had made it perfectly clear that I was undeserving.  Forgiveness is incredibly freeing, and you should do it often-not for them, but for you.

Finally, to the point of the story.  I was in the aforementioned condition while driving my Jeep Wrangler up Route 501 on a Friday afternoon, headed in the direction of the pharmacy in Myerstown-to get my father’s refills.  My hair is fried, not tended to; I can’t remember if I brushed my teeth.  I am breaking out-not only in zits but pimples as well-my first outbreak of acne, ever.  Stress pimples and blackheads.

I head North and see my husband’s baby blue Chevy pick up headed in my direction.  I believe I went into a fugue state the moment I saw the blonde.  I was a jealous madwoman back then-it wasn’t my husband I didn’t trust, let’s just say that.

“OMG, who the FAZUCK was in Dwain’s truck?  How long has this been going on?  I’m taking care of my invalid father and the bastard is cheating on me?  What the FUCK?”

I ran into the pharmacy, almost hyperventilating when I see the long line.  This is the most impatient moment of my life.  I fantasize about killing the man behind the counter.  I want to slap the woman who forgot her insurance card, and truth be told?  My thought cloud was rated RRR.  If not ZZZ.

I raced to the jeep and drove like a stunt car driver all the way to Dwain’s work.  I see him in the park, akin to his business.  I aim for him as I drive, he jumps out of the way.

“Oh my GOD honey, what is wrong with you?”  He looks more than mildly alarmed, but he knows on many levels what this is all about.  I jump from the vehicle, not thinking to put the jeep in “park.”  Dwain jumps into said car and saves it, saves it from going directly into the pond behind us.

I scream and holler.  He tells me he took her to drop off her car, to have it inspected.  I eyeball him from toe to head.  Calmer, yet not quite assured that all is well; I head for my car.  He gives  me a hug, chuckles and says these exact words:

“Honey, why do you have spaghetti sauce all over your face?”

MoJo Rising

 

Good Friday afternoon to y’all.  I write to you on this dreary, but freakishly exciting Winter’s day from my sick bed.  It takes a lot to get me into bed, especially because of the years and years I spent in bed because of depression.  The common flu or virus, the catch o’ the day, so to speak.

Yesterday was ROUGH on my husband, poor Dwain.  I get really, really, really mean right before I get sick.  I remember two years ago, when I was going through a bout of Lyme: I was standing my the trash can, picking up clutter, when my husband spilled the brand new bag of French kitty litter all over the driveway.  When I say it’s French, I mean it’s from Paris-I get it at the local bent and dent, for $5.99 and it’s the best cat litter I have ever used in my 51 years of cats.

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Yep.  I can be the biggest beatch  this side of the Pacos.  So, getting back to the story-I was filled-not only with rage but superhuman strength.

“I.  Could.  KILL.  You.”

I ran at him full force and scared the shit out of both of us.  Well, yesterday can be likened to that scenario.  I had to go for a Suboxone pee test.  I had put this appointment off approximately 5. 457 times.  Between the shady weather (sleet, snow, jackasses) and my current bug du jour?  I didn’t feel like driving 30 minutes to have someone irritate me-and, sadly for her, that is exactly what happened when my doctor’s receptionist screamed:

“You have to CHECK OUT!!!!!!!”

First off, her name is Rocky, I kid you not.   Short for Raquel (?), this woman earned the nickname:  two hundred pounds of Hispanic attitude on crack, having a bad day.  (No, I am not prejudice against Hispanics.  Pleasssssssssssseeee.  The politically correct can go blow their horn, this is my blog.

Okay, I admit I try to escape the time consumption of checking out of my physician’s office.  I do it, almost every time I go-but you should have seen her face!  Honestly, she looked like she had just swallowed glass.  And,  she looked like she could cut a bitch.  She messed with the wrong altar ego, I can tell you that.  Right there, in front of everyone, I retaliated:

“Jesus Rocky, do you have to be irritable 150% of the time????”

I don’t know what happened next, as the other receptionist was having such a hard time unlocking the door, for me to CHECK OUT, that I got caught up in the drama, and hey-she kind of deserved it.

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That’s what I wanted to say. “BITCH, PLEASE!!”

Prior to that, the doctor declared my “weight was up a few pounds.”  The very same doctor who threatened to hospitalize me if I didn’t gain weight ten years prior.  I can’t begin to tell you how badly that pissed me off.

“What’s up with that blood pressure, anyway?,” he laughed.

Wrong.  Move.

First of all, I have my period.  Secondly, my clothes fit just fine, thank you very much, and C.  why do I still go to this Douchebag, anyay?

Hours later, after shelling out $100 on prescriptions, I find myself beginning to relax, whilst shed hunting with my main dog, Jesse.  I revel in the fresh air, the snow covered inlets and bubbling brooks…my phone rings, it is my husband.  What fresh hell appears on the horizon?

“Please deposit my check today, you already spent 175 bucks!”

You poked the bear, Mister.

I drove to the bank, leaving all thoughts of hiking behind.  I cried at said bank, then drove home to write my husband a hate-mail.  I went on about rolling pennies when we first met, to not having a vacation for the last two years, and only God knows what else.

See what I did there?  You can ignore an email.  And I had no desire to see the results-I was too busy crawling under the sheets, and turning the people off.

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I’ll have a new blog written for tomorrow, about QAnon, the global agenda that is Q, and the news keeps getting better and better.

Now, back to bed.