Blood. Red. Moon.

 

Man, I must move the litter boxes, which are situated under a settee in my dining room.  I sit in my living room to write, and no matter what time of day, which way the winds blow, or even if I have just finished putting fresh litter in the boxes-the Elkins nose is both a blessing and a curse-the stank finds me and today?  It makes me want to vomit profane.

I fell into a funk during a sinus infection.  With lightning speed my joy plummeted, and I was left looking for answers, once more.  The progression of a CPTSD trigger usually takes months-it was only a matter of days before I was sinking.  I hadn’t worked in the Emergency Room in weeks, wasn’t writing, didn’t feel well.  I succumbed to the lull of my lonesome demons, and day by day it became one big freaking festival of fear.  I had rather thought I’d put this behind me, as the grace and mercy God has shown me how to not fear, so why was I so anxious?  I was anxious because I had fallen into a pattern of avoidance.  My addictive personality is swayed towards habit and the need to find comfort in routine, repetition and familiarity.

I was praying last night.  I told Jesus that I wasn’t the girl for the job, not any longer.  I knew he would understand-I needed a break, I had burned out-the world was on my shoulders.  I hadn’t felt moved to go to the ER, but could not, for the life of me, figure out why.  I mean, I dreaded the idea of even pondering driving in the direction of the hospital.  Then it hit me, like a ton of golden bricks!  I wasn’t placing my faith in God.  The enemy had woven its smarmy way into my thought process, and convinced me that I had nothing to offer the world.

And finally, Jesus took over the conversation.  I felt the Holy Spirit move me to actually want to go back to the trenches, and I was gung ho last evening-even anticipating seeing my crew again.  I almost talked myself out of going in this morning.  I could go back to sleep, have a lazy day, take Jesse for a hike…as if I had no choice, I went through the motions of getting dressed, driving to work-my stomach felt a little flighty-I was feeling led by the Holy Spirit again, it seemed, so I took heed.

I immediately noticed the attempted suicide room was occupied; because of a past that includes an attempt at slitting my wrists, I am always drawn to those who know emotional pain, and have been so strong, against all odds, for so long that there begins a crack in the façade.  Some don’t crack, but those that do are crying out for help, and I have felt the burden of isolation in my own journey with mental health issues.

I went in as the psychiatrist walked out.

“Hey, girl,” I all but whispered.

She said nothing.  As I inched closer to the bed she held her arms out, and I held her as hard as I could, with as much love as I could possibly convey.  It didn’t take me long to see that one of her tatts was the Illuminati pyramid with the all seeing eye.  My heart sank.  After a few moments, I blurted it out:

“Hey, can I ask you what this is,” I traced my fingers up and down the area, as if my touch could burn it away, this evil, this epidemic of brain washing.

“You know, the Illuminati, money is all powerful, the most important thing.”

I sat at her side, she scooched over for me.  She began telling me, almost as if she were apologizing, about what drove her over the brink.  Her story ripped my heart from its chamber:

My brother was 14.  He was the first person killed in Lancaster this year.”

And then she sobbed, and told me the rest.  I left the room to clear my head, and instead, I heard His words, loud and clear.

GIVE HER YOUR CROSS.

I have worn two gold crosses around my neck for some time now.  I break chains often, and I buy crosses at thrift stores as I can’t afford the real deal.  My favorite?  An old, rugged cross-paid a buck, and treasured it until I gave it to a frightened autistic man, who sang me the Gospel in an angel’s falsetto.

I walked boldly into the room, and promptly got the necklace caught in my hair, so much for a tender moment.  I finally put the cross around her neck, and told her that God loved her.  As I left the room I heard her small voice:

I know.

 

Blood. Red. Moon.

 

Man, I must move the litter boxes, which are situated under a settee in my dining room.  I sit in my living room to write, and no matter what time of day, which way the winds blow, or even if I have just finished putting fresh litter in the boxes-the Elkins nose is both a blessing and a curse-the stank finds me and today?  It makes me want to vomit profane.

I fell into a funk during a sinus infection.  With lightning speed my joy plummeted, and I was left looking for answers, once more.  The progression of a CPTSD trigger usually takes months-it was only a matter of days before I was sinking.  I hadn’t worked in the Emergency Room in weeks, wasn’t writing, didn’t feel well.  I succumbed to the lull of my lonesome demons, and day by day it became one big freaking festival of fear.  I had rather thought I’d put this behind me, as the grace and mercy God has shown me how to not fear, so why was I so anxious?  I was anxious because I had fallen into a pattern of avoidance.  My addictive personality is swayed towards habit and the need to find comfort in routine, repetition and familiarity.

I was praying last night.  I told Jesus that I wasn’t the girl for the job, not any longer.  I knew he would understand-I needed a break, I had burned out-the world was on my shoulders.  I hadn’t felt moved to go to the ER, but could not, for the life of me, figure out why.  I mean, I dreaded the idea of even pondering driving in the direction of the hospital.  Then it hit me, like a ton of golden bricks!  I wasn’t placing my faith in God.  The enemy had woven its smarmy way into my thought process, and convinced me that I had nothing to offer the world.

And finally, Jesus took over the conversation.  I felt the Holy Spirit move me to actually want to go back to the trenches, and I was gung ho last evening-even anticipating seeing my crew again.  I almost talked myself out of going in this morning.  I could go back to sleep, have a lazy day, take Jesse for a hike…as if I had no choice, I went through the motions of getting dressed, driving to work-my stomach felt a little flighty-I was feeling led by the Holy Spirit again, it seemed, so I took heed.

I immediately noticed the attempted suicide room was occupied; because of a past that includes an attempt at slitting my wrists, I am always drawn to those who know emotional pain, and have been so strong, against all odds, for so long that there begins a crack in the façade.  Some don’t crack, but those that do are crying out for help, and I have felt the burden of isolation in my own journey with mental health issues.

I went in as the psychiatrist walked out.

“Hey, girl,” I all but whispered.

She said nothing.  As I inched closer to the bed she held her arms out, and I held her as hard as I could, with as much love as I could possibly convey.  It didn’t take me long to see that one of her tatts was the Illuminati pyramid with the all seeing eye.  My heart sank.  After a few moments, I blurted it out:

“Hey, can I ask you what this is,” I traced my fingers up and down the area, as if my touch could burn it away, this evil, this epidemic of brain washing.

“You know, the Illuminati, money is all powerful, the most important thing.”

I sat at her side, she scooched over for me.  She began telling me, almost as if she were apologizing, about what drove her over the brink.  Her story ripped my heart from its chamber:

My brother was 14.  He was the first person killed in Lancaster this year.”

And then she sobbed, and told me the rest.  I left the room to clear my head, and instead, I heard His words, loud and clear.

GIVE HER YOUR CROSS.

I have worn two gold crosses around my neck for some time now.  I break chains often, and I buy crosses at thrift stores as I can’t afford the real deal.  My favorite?  An old, rugged cross-paid a buck, and treasured it until I gave it to a frightened autistic man, who sang me the Gospel in an angel’s falsetto.

I walked boldly into the room, and promptly got the necklace caught in my hair, so much for a tender moment.  I finally put the cross around her neck, and told her that God loved her.  As I left the room I heard her small voice:

I know.

 

Blood. Red. Moon.

 

Man, I must move the litter boxes, which are situated under a settee in my dining room.  I sit in my living room to write, and no matter what time of day, which way the winds blow, or even if I have just finished putting fresh litter in the boxes-the Elkins nose is both a blessing and a curse-the stank finds me and today?  It makes me want to vomit profane.

I fell into a funk during a sinus infection.  With lightning speed my joy plummeted, and I was left looking for answers, once more.  The progression of a CPTSD trigger usually takes months-it was only a matter of days before I was sinking.  I hadn’t worked in the Emergency Room in weeks, wasn’t writing, didn’t feel well.  I succumbed to the lull of my lonesome demons, and day by day it became one big freaking festival of fear.  I had rather thought I’d put this behind me, as the grace and mercy God has shown me how to not fear, so why was I so anxious?  I was anxious because I had fallen into a pattern of avoidance.  My addictive personality is swayed towards habit and the need to find comfort in routine, repetition and familiarity.

I was praying last night.  I told Jesus that I wasn’t the girl for the job, not any longer.  I knew he would understand-I needed a break, I had burned out-the world was on my shoulders.  I hadn’t felt moved to go to the ER, but could not, for the life of me, figure out why.  I mean, I dreaded the idea of even pondering driving in the direction of the hospital.  Then it hit me, like a ton of golden bricks!  I wasn’t placing my faith in God.  The enemy had woven its smarmy way into my thought process, and convinced me that I had nothing to offer the world.

And finally, Jesus took over the conversation.  I felt the Holy Spirit move me to actually want to go back to the trenches, and I was gung ho last evening-even anticipating seeing my crew again.  I almost talked myself out of going in this morning.  I could go back to sleep, have a lazy day, take Jesse for a hike…as if I had no choice, I went through the motions of getting dressed, driving to work-my stomach felt a little flighty-I was feeling led by the Holy Spirit again, it seemed, so I took heed.

I immediately noticed the attempted suicide room was occupied; because of a past that includes an attempt at slitting my wrists, I am always drawn to those who know emotional pain, and have been so strong, against all odds, for so long that there begins a crack in the façade.  Some don’t crack, but those that do are crying out for help, and I have felt the burden of isolation in my own journey with mental health issues.

I went in as the psychiatrist walked out.

“Hey, girl,” I all but whispered.

She said nothing.  As I inched closer to the bed she held her arms out, and I held her as hard as I could, with as much love as I could possibly convey.  It didn’t take me long to see that one of her tatts was the Illuminati pyramid with the all seeing eye.  My heart sank.  After a few moments, I blurted it out:

“Hey, can I ask you what this is,” I traced my fingers up and down the area, as if my touch could burn it away, this evil, this epidemic of brain washing.

“You know, the Illuminati, money is all powerful, the most important thing.”

I sat at her side, she scooched over for me.  She began telling me, almost as if she were apologizing, about what drove her over the brink.  Her story ripped my heart from its chamber:

My brother was 14.  He was the first person killed in Lancaster this year.”

And then she sobbed, and told me the rest.  I left the room to clear my head, and instead, I heard His words, loud and clear.

GIVE HER YOUR CROSS.

I have worn two gold crosses around my neck for some time now.  I break chains often, and I buy crosses at thrift stores as I can’t afford the real deal.  My favorite?  An old, rugged cross-paid a buck, and treasured it until I gave it to a frightened autistic man, who sang me the Gospel in an angel’s falsetto.

I walked boldly into the room, and promptly got the necklace caught in my hair, so much for a tender moment.  I finally put the cross around her neck, and told her that God loved her.  As I left the room I heard her small voice:

I know.