B.O. and Bad Sushi…

I don’t know where to begin.  Ahem.  I don’t blame this on anyone but me, and I have come to the place of acceptance, and laughter-and a deeper understanding of my profound love for my husband.

The morning began with a decision.  Dwain had gone target shooting with his son, (thank you for your prayers, dear friends-that situation is healing) and I was left alone, looking at the darkened sky, hearing the rolling thunder.

“Should I risk driving to church with the jeep top down?”

I knew darn well that every time I stayed home because of the “weather” I missed out on relationships, the lunches, the shopping.  I decided then and there-I was going to chance it.  My friend Leeny awaited me.  A sinus infection had kept me away from the every other Sunday service (we are members of a church in Lititz, Hosanna A Fellowship of Christians) I had promised her, upon learning of her recent health scare.  I just wasn’t about to let her down, that’s what it came down to in the end.

At the service, just as the preacher began his sermon on the prodigal son, thunder shook the chapel-the congregation laughed.

“The Holy Spirit has joined me,” he chuckled, to the delight of the crowd.

All I could think, was crapstastic.  And oh, how tastic the crap became.  I left the church, in a light Summer frock, no jacket-to buckets and buckets of water.  On the way to my jeep, I see a poor woman fall-flat on her poor face-right down the backdoor stairs.  The EMT in me assesses the situation and kind men pick her up and set her on her feet.  Prognoses?  Possible broken nose.

I run as fast as I can in heels, on slick parking lot, without killing myself.  I open the door, the jeep has at least 2 inches of water puddled on the floor.  It’s pouring and I am chilled to the bone.  I see that traffic isn’t moving because a big, black truck is trying to come towards us-he is going the wrong way!  Son of a BITCH!!!  

Now I’m in full panic mode.  I reverse and try to go the other way.  It won’t work.  I see the car in front of me move, so I do a U-turn and try again.  This time the truck is coming alongside my vehicle.  The parishioner is asking if I want him to help me put the top on.  I just want to get the mojo out of there, and I brush him off.

“JUST GO!!!,” I scream.

And just then, it hits me.  The “parishioner” is my husband.  Later, he will tell me that when he hit the Pretzel Hut (a local ma and pa burger joint) he realizes that I am at church with the jeep top down and it is raining cats and dogs.  He says he drove 100 mph (frowny face indeed!) on slick roads to come to my rescue.  When I get home, he apologizes profusely, saying had he not gone away with his son, I wouldn’t be shivering and, well, drowned is the only word that comes to mind.

I tell him he’s ridiculous.  He needs to spend time with his son.  I am not a child, I am accountable for my own actions.  In the shower, I beam and my heart swells with love and gratitude.  I take my time in the shower, jump into warm clothes and my favorite bunny socks, take a little bit longer with my makeup.

I nuzzle up close to my man, and he is pleased.

“You smell like B.O. and bad sushi,” he gushes.

And he laughed and laughed and laughed, until I found the little piece of flesh, on his inner thigh, and twerked it-as hard as I could.

 

 

B.O. and Bad Sushi…

I don’t know where to begin.  Ahem.  I don’t blame this on anyone but me, and I have come to the place of acceptance, and laughter-and a deeper understanding of my profound love for my husband.

The morning began with a decision.  Dwain had gone target shooting with his son, (thank you for your prayers, dear friends-that situation is healing) and I was left alone, looking at the darkened sky, hearing the rolling thunder.

“Should I risk driving to church with the jeep top down?”

I knew darn well that every time I stayed home because of the “weather” I missed out on relationships, the lunches, the shopping.  I decided then and there-I was going to chance it.  My friend Leeny awaited me.  A sinus infection had kept me away from the every other Sunday service (we are members of a church in Lititz, Hosanna A Fellowship of Christians) I had promised her, upon learning of her recent health scare.  I just wasn’t about to let her down, that’s what it came down to in the end.

At the service, just as the preacher began his sermon on the prodigal son, thunder shook the chapel-the congregation laughed.

“The Holy Spirit has joined me,” he chuckled, to the delight of the crowd.

All I could think, was crapstastic.  And oh, how tastic the crap became.  I left the church, in a light Summer frock, no jacket-to buckets and buckets of water.  On the way to my jeep, I see a poor woman fall-flat on her poor face-right down the backdoor stairs.  The EMT in me assesses the situation and kind men pick her up and set her on her feet.  Prognoses?  Possible broken nose.

I run as fast as I can in heels, on slick parking lot, without killing myself.  I open the door, the jeep has at least 2 inches of water puddled on the floor.  It’s pouring and I am chilled to the bone.  I see that traffic isn’t moving because a big, black truck is trying to come towards us-he is going the wrong way!  Son of a BITCH!!!  

Now I’m in full panic mode.  I reverse and try to go the other way.  It won’t work.  I see the car in front of me move, so I do a U-turn and try again.  This time the truck is coming alongside my vehicle.  The parishioner is asking if I want him to help me put the top on.  I just want to get the mojo out of there, and I brush him off.

“JUST GO!!!,” I scream.

And just then, it hits me.  The “parishioner” is my husband.  Later, he will tell me that when he hit the Pretzel Hut (a local ma and pa burger joint) he realizes that I am at church with the jeep top down and it is raining cats and dogs.  He says he drove 100 mph (frowny face indeed!) on slick roads to come to my rescue.  When I get home, he apologizes profusely, saying had he not gone away with his son, I wouldn’t be shivering and, well, drowned is the only word that comes to mind.

I tell him he’s ridiculous.  He needs to spend time with his son.  I am not a child, I am accountable for my own actions.  In the shower, I beam and my heart swells with love and gratitude.  I take my time in the shower, jump into warm clothes and my favorite bunny socks, take a little bit longer with my makeup.

I nuzzle up close to my man, and he is pleased.

“You smell like B.O. and bad sushi,” he gushes.

And he laughed and laughed and laughed, until I found the little piece of flesh, on his inner thigh, and twerked it-as hard as I could.

 

 

My Analyst Told Me……..

About a week ago, my brother sent me an email with the information for a local therapist. I had given up therapy (God and I had this) and frankly, he was concerned. If I am going to face upheaval and pain, I call my bro, as I can emote at whim and he will not judge me. He gives great advice, so I looked so forward to meeting Nancy. The appointment was made for this morning.

I haven’t eaten in two days. I shake, from my feet on up to my hands. I have crying bouts-I cannot sleep through the night, never a problem before. This isn’t good for my Lyme recovery-let’s face it, what happened Wednesday afternoon wouldn’t be good for anyone. I drove in the wrong direction for 30 minutes, so distracted was moi. Finally, after driving miles on slick, rain drenched country roads. And I drove aggressively, fearlessly-which isn’t really me.

I spoke of the “incident” with my stepson in my last blog. How he has walked around in a state of rage for three months now, first depression-now red hot anger. He went on a verbal tirade about how I was a “blood sucking leach,” that I was a “joke” to the entire family. I was in fear of him punching me, and when I tried to go back inside, he blocked my way.

So here I am at Nancy’s pad. I fill out the paperwork and wait. An attractive and cheerful woman greets me with a hug. We sit down and I commence to lose my shit, and cry like a child. She proceeds to ask me a myriad of questions, mainly about brain fog and forgetfulness. By the time she gets to what she thinks I have? My mind is moving one hundred miles in seventy different directions.

“Dissociative Identity Disorder,” she says in a hushed tone.

She gave me the reasons behind her thinking, admitted that it was too early to be sure, gave me a tissue and rescheduled. As I drove to the pharmacy on the way home, it hit me pretty hard. I broke down and called my brother from said pharmacy. I wept through my interaction with the cashier. They know me well. They were concerned.

I have a few questions for sure. I am not going to go head over heels into this without ensuring that she can help me with my PTSD and Narcissistic Abuse syndrome. The only time lapse I remember was two weeks ago, albeit a four hour lapse. I was reading my bible on the couch in the living room, the clock read 8:00 a.m. When I traipsed into the kitchen for a glass of water (I had just received a very upsetting email from my sister)and the stove read 12:30 p.m.

I would poo poo the whole thing if it weren’t for the dichotomy between my mellow self, and my ‘I will cut a bitch” self. But doesn’t everyone have another side to them? DID happens for a few reasons, but in my case she believes that I suffered such devastating trauma from emotional abuse in my childhood, that I created another persona if you will.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, I made an appointment with Nancy for next week. I won’t let this ruin my weekend, as God has the final say on what I am suffering from, and He alone has the cure. Be blessed family.

My Analyst Told Me……..

About a week ago, my brother sent me an email with the information for a local therapist. I had given up therapy (God and I had this) and frankly, he was concerned. If I am going to face upheaval and pain, I call my bro, as I can emote at whim and he will not judge me. He gives great advice, so I looked so forward to meeting Nancy. The appointment was made for this morning.

I haven’t eaten in two days. I shake, from my feet on up to my hands. I have crying bouts-I cannot sleep through the night, never a problem before. This isn’t good for my Lyme recovery-let’s face it, what happened Wednesday afternoon wouldn’t be good for anyone. I drove in the wrong direction for 30 minutes, so distracted was moi. Finally, after driving miles on slick, rain drenched country roads. And I drove aggressively, fearlessly-which isn’t really me.

I spoke of the “incident” with my stepson in my last blog. How he has walked around in a state of rage for three months now, first depression-now red hot anger. He went on a verbal tirade about how I was a “blood sucking leach,” that I was a “joke” to the entire family. I was in fear of him punching me, and when I tried to go back inside, he blocked my way.

So here I am at Nancy’s pad. I fill out the paperwork and wait. An attractive and cheerful woman greets me with a hug. We sit down and I commence to lose my shit, and cry like a child. She proceeds to ask me a myriad of questions, mainly about brain fog and forgetfulness. By the time she gets to what she thinks I have? My mind is moving one hundred miles in seventy different directions.

“Dissociative Identity Disorder,” she says in a hushed tone.

She gave me the reasons behind her thinking, admitted that it was too early to be sure, gave me a tissue and rescheduled. As I drove to the pharmacy on the way home, it hit me pretty hard. I broke down and called my brother from said pharmacy. I wept through my interaction with the cashier. They know me well. They were concerned.

I have a few questions for sure. I am not going to go head over heels into this without ensuring that she can help me with my PTSD and Narcissistic Abuse syndrome. The only time lapse I remember was two weeks ago, albeit a four hour lapse. I was reading my bible on the couch in the living room, the clock read 8:00 a.m. When I traipsed into the kitchen for a glass of water (I had just received a very upsetting email from my sister)and the stove read 12:30 p.m.

I would poo poo the whole thing if it weren’t for the dichotomy between my mellow self, and my ‘I will cut a bitch” self. But doesn’t everyone have another side to them? DID happens for a few reasons, but in my case she believes that I suffered such devastating trauma from emotional abuse in my childhood, that I created another persona if you will.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, I made an appointment with Nancy for next week. I won’t let this ruin my weekend, as God has the final say on what I am suffering from, and He alone has the cure. Be blessed family.

Don’t Kill My Vibe

There is a change in the direction of the wind-and I am not sure if I am thrilled, or in hyperventilation mode.  For the last, say, twenty years I have had the house to myself in the mornings.  Here’s a dirty little secret:  I have a really hard time waking up.  While I am much better than just a few years ago, I remain sullen, stumbling and incoherent-a literal sloth moving at invisible increments to what is most important in life at this hour of the day-coffee, and as much of it as I can get until my eyes begin to focus, the joe melts the icy cobwebs of brain matter away and I am free once more.

My better half has a new work schedule in which he works from home in the wee hours of daylight.  I would be lying if I said it not comforting to have my man around the house every day, yet there are issues and I will address them forthright. 

The first morning didn’t go well, no, not well at all.  We have one, yes that’s correct, one bathroom in the entire house.  I have been known to pee my britches while awaiting my voiding privileges, and have actually been in mid-pee when Dwain’s baritone voice yells, “HURRY UP, I’VE GOTTA GET IN THERE!!!!”  Seriously?  For the love of Harry, don’t my intestines count?  At all?

The other issue is the feline community.  My husband can not stop himself from terrorizing my cat community.  What began as a small prank here and there has turned into a full blown assault campaign on what were at one time, perfectly normal cats.  I bought my dog a life size Easter bunny at Walmart.  Okay, I risked my life for that dog (Walmart is scary, even on a good day-why, I could have been kidnapped by alien reptilians, or worse!!!!) and he loves that stuffed pink monstrosity more than life itself.  Dwain waits until I am out of earshot, and then he pounces.  Poor Reign, my indoor/outdoor kitty, came to the door while I was in the kitchen.  He meowed his little head off and my husband opened the inside door.  He proceeded to stick the big, pink behemoth right in Reign’s face, which caused the cat to back flip over my porch plants and run like his hair was on fire.  You guessed it, Dwain collapsed on the floor in tears, laughing so hard I feared he would dehydrate.  And now?  I am left with a cat who thinks he’s tripping every time the bunny enters the picture.  Reign actually almost climbed the ceiling to avoid Bonnie the bunny, his ears back, tail puffed out.  For crying out loud, it’s MORNING-I can’t abide by these antics, and he can take the cat to the vet for Ativan, not my circus, not my monkeys.

Actually, there isn’t a third thing.  But haven’t I been tortured enough?   🙂

My Analyst Told Me……..

About a week ago, my brother sent me an email with the information for a local therapist. I had given up therapy (God and I had this) and frankly, he was concerned. If I am going to face upheaval and pain, I call my bro, as I can emote at whim and he will not judge me. He gives great advice, so I looked so forward to meeting Nancy. The appointment was made for this morning.

I haven’t eaten in two days. I shake, from my feet on up to my hands. I have crying bouts-I cannot sleep through the night, never a problem before. This isn’t good for my Lyme recovery-let’s face it, what happened Wednesday afternoon wouldn’t be good for anyone. I drove in the wrong direction for 30 minutes, so distracted was moi. Finally, after driving miles on slick, rain drenched country roads. And I drove aggressively, fearlessly-which isn’t really me.

I spoke of the “incident” with my stepson in my last blog. How he has walked around in a state of rage for three months now, first depression-now red hot anger. He went on a verbal tirade about how I was a “blood sucking leach,” that I was a “joke” to the entire family. I was in fear of him punching me, and when I tried to go back inside, he blocked my way.

So here I am at Nancy’s pad. I fill out the paperwork and wait. An attractive and cheerful woman greets me with a hug. We sit down and I commence to lose my shit, and cry like a child. She proceeds to ask me a myriad of questions, mainly about brain fog and forgetfulness. By the time she gets to what she thinks I have? My mind is moving one hundred miles in seventy different directions.

“Dissociative Identity Disorder,” she says in a hushed tone.

She gave me the reasons behind her thinking, admitted that it was too early to be sure, gave me a tissue and rescheduled. As I drove to the pharmacy on the way home, it hit me pretty hard. I broke down and called my brother from said pharmacy. I wept through my interaction with the cashier. They know me well. They were concerned.

I have a few questions for sure. I am not going to go head over heels into this without ensuring that she can help me with my PTSD and Narcissistic Abuse syndrome. The only time lapse I remember was two weeks ago, albeit a four hour lapse. I was reading my bible on the couch in the living room, the clock read 8:00 a.m. When I traipsed into the kitchen for a glass of water (I had just received a very upsetting email from my sister)and the stove read 12:30 p.m.

I would poo poo the whole thing if it weren’t for the dichotomy between my mellow self, and my ‘I will cut a bitch” self. But doesn’t everyone have another side to them? DID happens for a few reasons, but in my case she believes that I suffered such devastating trauma from emotional abuse in my childhood, that I created another persona if you will.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, I made an appointment with Nancy for next week. I won’t let this ruin my weekend, as God has the final say on what I am suffering from, and He alone has the cure. Be blessed family.

She (Part II)

“Jesus, Christ, Mary and Joseph!!!! Turn that song off, I hate it,” screamed my mother.

My mother knew me better than I knew myself. And I need to preface this story by saying that we had our battles, she suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder, and she was indeed Narcissistic at times, but we loved one another, and we spoke every single day prior to her death.

She was angry with me alright. Good and angry. But why did Carole King piss her off? Because I played it at top volume, and I sang along with her-my mother knew my mood was not induced by Karl, but by Dwain. How she knew this was a mystery, but she knew.

We were preparing for a neighborhood party, and I was swooning. The next day was to be a meeting between star crossed lovers-Dwain and myself. An indoor picnic, planned by me, but solicited by he.

In the Fall of 1989, our wedding not seven months away, I was diagnosed with cervical cancer. There was a biopsy and surgery scheduled for the week we came home from our honeymoon, as I had put it off for reasons not entirely clear to me, even to this day. Prior to the wedding of weddings (a Victorian setting in Lititz, at the General Sutter-a very swanky place for Lancaster County)I had spent time with my best friend, Mel, and we were out for brunch on the Main Line. I was heading for home that day, but Mel snapped me out of my stupor by asking me this:

“Why? Why are you going through with this charade?,” she was dead serious, and I avoided her steely gaze until I couldn’t.

And I told her this:

“Listen to me. I have talked to therapists, a priest, my family, Karl, his family-every one of them knows I am in love with another man. I haven’t lied to anyone. I just feel that Dwain is a fairy tale, something I’ve made up in my head, he won’t even be at the wedding.”

No. Dwain wouldn’t be coming to the wedding, but Karl knew none of the reasons why. We had decided to stay away from one another, and after the Bridal Brunch, we took off for Cape Cod, a dream vacation I was looking forward to.

The entire way up I busied myself with reading wedding cards, drinking beer and missing Dwain.

“I feel as if I am ruining your life,” Karl said to me.

And so it was, the second evening of our honeymoon, that he tried to strangle me over a bottle of champagne. I didn’t know it at the time, but he had a terrible gambling problem, and spending $20 on a bottle of bubbly seemed like a pretty minor thing, considering his income…considering we were gifted thousands of dollars…the next night he left me in a restaurant thirty miles from our cottage, with no money, no phone, nothing.

“A glass of white wine please,” I asked the bartender.

“Well, what are you going to do? Why did he leave you here like that?,” and to tell you the truth, there were no good reasons. By the end of that vacation I knew I was facing two hurdles: cancer surgery and a divorce. I couldn’t/wouldn’t be with a man who beat me, and the cancer did nothing if not teach me that life is short…way too short to be with a man I didn’t know…not anymore.

The day we came home, I rushed upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom.

“What have I done? What have I done?,” I cried, steaming hot tears-my surgery days away, I was interrupted by my mother and sister, who made the drive up so mom could stay with me during and after my biopsy. I was thrilled, just on top of the world to see them standing at my door.

What happened next would change my future, completely. There was a knock on my door. I had heard the muffler of his beat down Chevy pickup for miles. And there he stood, flowers in his hand, smiling at me.

“Oh my God, don’t let my mother see you! I thought we had an understanding, Dwain.” He stared at me, longingly, and said-“Good luck tomorrow. Just wanted you to know I was thinking of you….”

To be continued.