Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Abdicating the throne

Wait what? You can't do that.

Why not?

For starters you are not the Queen of anything, you have no throne to leave.

Well that small fact shouldn't be held against me.

I am leaving Thursday morning for a 4 day camping trip with my family.

Four days of being unplugged.



Mind you I get the bends when I have to re-boot and can't surf the net for 40 seconds.

I am horribly addicted.

I won't be able to stalk my blog to see what I am up to.

You are truly insane.

I thought we established that already?

You stalk your own blog?

LOL what part of horribly addicted are you not getting?

I am looking forward to camping, even though my back is messed up right now and the pain will limit my function. I look forward to making memories with my family.

When I started this blog it was to give me a focus and get my back into writing so that when school started I would have all the bucks out and I could get to work on my books. After getting sidelined by the accident for a bit,  I have found my rhythm and am starting to enjoy the daily writing again.

Now I have to take a break and my writer inside is pouting. She doesn't like being dethroned and made mortal again.

Relax, who reads your blog anyway?

Did you skip this line? I STALK MY OWN BLOG. At the very least I AM READING IT. LOL!
I am going to have to spend the next 4 days jotting down stuff to write about in my moleskin with archaic technology. I think I have some, oh what were they called? pencils?

I have made the decision that when Sept comes I will work on my book: The Bagman's Ball. Its time. It will Chronicle my 29 years in the nursing home field. I have tons of it scribbled on papers that I have in a box. Its time to tell this story. So many wonderful souls I have had the privilege to meet along the way.

Like the gentleman who each morning as I helped him off the toilet would exclaim."I am abdicating the throne for the good of my country men."

He always said starting the day with laughter was the best way to do it.

I agree with him, and its a shame he would abdicate each day, he would have been a fair and just King.

Monday, July 30, 2012

bleah, bleah, bleah....etc ad nauseum

I am totally insane.

We established that already right?

Good,  then this won't sound odd coming from me.

I feel like I am dying 90% of the time. (no worries, I have been dying since I was 7 years old)

Periodically the feeling gets so bad I go to the doctors....and for around 80 dollars they tell me I am fine. I can get a 1/2 year of peace in my head off those visits.

Do you have any idea how depressing that is? To have real physical symptoms and have all the labs come back 100% normal? I ignore it all now. Partly because I have no insurance and partly because I REALLY HATE TO HEAR THE DOC TELL ME I AM  IN GOOD SHAPE FOR FEELING SO SHEETY.

I have Graves disease. Its and very real thyroid condition that forced me to swallow 10.7 mci of radiation in June of 2008.

While this treatment killed off my thyroid and stopped the cardiac side effects it added another element into the dying issue. Now I worry about what the radiation exposure will do to the rest of me. If it can KILL my thyroid, what other fun side effects are there?

(One that was NEVER mentioned and all my prior googling failed to dig up was the loss of taste. About a week after the nuking my tongue felt funny and that was the end of my taste buds, they have never come back.)

Any way. I am not crying wolf. I do not like going to the doctors, I do not like medical bills.

I always feel like I have some terminal health issue, and it gets hard to cope with mentally.

One of the reasons people self injure is to transfer emotional pain to the surface where they can see it and they can bandage it and heal it.

That reasoning is very powerful.

Which is why tonight I want to burn the bleeping hell out of my arm.

I have had left groin pain going on 4 years now. (Yes I saw the nurse, who assured me she had no idea what it was, its was probably nothing to worry about) I never went back, what would be the point? It is slowly getting worse and sitting for long periods of time is painful.

A few weeks back I developed a severe pain when I bring my right leg inwards or try to cross my legs.  This I know is not in my head. (oh that is sooo sad. :( that I automatically have to defend my brain as the cause of any physical pain/discomfort I feel. Damn you doctors for doing that too me.)

oh wait some of you don't know my pelvis is as messed up as my mind. I had a horse rear up and flip over on me and it took 15,000 dollars worth of surgery to bolt me back together. So Mr Pelvis is already previously mangled.

I have no health insurance. No desire to go to the doctors. No desire to be told 'your fine" when I feel this bad. I have another issue that needs looked at too, another old old injury to my sternum that got aggravated in the car accident recently.

So instead of going to the doctor and paying them to tell me I am fine, I play Dr. House and come up with a 1/2 dozen or so terminal diagnoses. Scare myself silly and then tell my selves "Oh your fine."

I want that to be on my death certificate as cause of death.

Cause of Death: Don't know, she looked fine to me.

I have to go see the nurse in August for my yearly thyroid check up. I wonder if I should speak up or just write me off as lost cause. I have another fear too. That in all this not so good health care provided to me, that something really bad will get over looked and shorten down my life. I can't be dying right now, my children are still young and need me.

But as I said I feel like I am dying 90% of the time. Urg.


This is why we don't  have TV at my house. My brain provides enough entertainment for free.

Saturday, July 28, 2012

The Perfect Sister

I am not the sort of writer who can write on demand. Either I feel like writing or I don't. I have to work at training and "getting the bucks out" of the rebellious wild horse that is the talented writer inside of me.

Once I get her whipped into shape then its easier to ask her to write daily or even on demand.

This story is from my days in college. I had been bucked out and writing regularly. The assignment was an easy one....."write a love story."

Now I threw myself into the assignment and intended it to be a sickly sappy love story between two sisters...honestly I did. What it evolved into become, well...a dazzling story that brilliantly reflects that I was 26 and pre-therapy and quite a fooked up mess. But beyond that, a talented writer. It spooked my creative writing class. When I sprung this on them they were not prepared and it was wonderful. There reactions have forever sealed some small part of me that always doubted my talent and ability to make my readers react.

All writers should get the chance to read there stuff live and hear/see  their readers reactions. This story gave me that chance. And that unanimous verbal reaction to this story from the entire class is something I will never forget.

( I am getting multiple checks in my gut to add a trigger warning to this specifically for Blogzilly and Rax456 - this might hit a bit too close to home, please use caution if you choose to read it)

The Perfect Sister

I was eight years old the chaotic night Jeenie was taken away. Mother slumped over the table wailing into a white linen napkin. Father fidgeted on the porch anquishly awaiting the ambulance. Jeenie screamed hateful things while she chased me from room to room waving her bloody wrists at me. The viscous chase went on until father and the attendants subdued her. Wrapped in their burly arms, Jeenie calmed down and raised her hands, sending dark rivulets of blood racing down her arms.

"Let me say goodbye to my sister" she pleaded, "please."

Like a pale noodle she limply slithered from their grasp and lunged at me. Her bloody fingers pressed into my neck. Her dark eyes were and endless abyss of mayhem and madness.

"You are not really my sister!" she screamed, spraying flecks of saliva on my face. "The Dasuwahs sent you here to get me!"

She has always hated me. The demons that taunted her to the edges of her sanity, she called "Dasuwahs", and it seemed somehow I had gotten tangled up with them. I hated Jeenie and her Dasuwahs for what they had done to us...to me.

Jeenie had been four when I was born, and at first her dislike of me was taken as jealousy. It wasn't until she ran the potato peeler over my tiny legs and removed large strips of my flesh, that mother finally admitted there might be a problem.

I grew up hearing that Jeenie was different and gifted and that we had to be tolerant of her. The almost daily beatings form Jeenie began when I was five and mother just smiled and said that Jeenie was expressing her love for me. She nearly loved me to death.

Two days after she was removed from our house, our family met with the psychiatrists of Damina Hills to discuss Jeenie. The doctors spoke of a long term treatment for her unspecified psychosis. They generally agreed that a possible cure lay in convincing her that all the Dasuwahs had been destroyed. It had never occurred to me that Jeenie could be cured. I suddenly became intrigued with the idea of having a real sister for the first time.

With all the technical language begin used, I did not fully comprehend what the doctors were saying. I heard my name mentioned several times, and when at last they all turned to me, I balled up in the maroon swivel chair, and listened patiently while it was explained to me that Jeenie would be told I was dead. Safe from her frequent physical attacks I suddenly found myself being exterminated along with the Dasuwahs. It seemed that the doctors mistakenly believed that Jeenie felt that I was a Dasuwah. Would the reign of her madness never cease?

After Jeenie's commitment was finalized, our family fell apart. Father spent endless hours in his dilapidated workshop, pounding and sawing, making nothing. Mother set sail on the sea of depression and drifted aimlessly on the rolling waves. Without Jeenie to weekly replenish the bruises on my skin they faded away. When all that covered me was pale flesh, I felt ghostly naked and took to hiding in my room. My nightmares lessened with the passage of time, and the realization grew that I was dead as far as Jeenie was concerned.

Each week a purple envelope from Damina Hills would arrive. At first they were eagerly opened and devoured in hopes of good news. But it was always the same jargon... resistant to treatment... unresponsive to drug therapy...no signs of improvement. After a while they were placed on fathers desk unopened and twice a year the faded stack would be tossed out unopened. This cycle went on uninterrupted, three years, five years, eight years, ten years...until the letter came addressed to me. I was warily annoyed to find myself ten years later being summons to Damina Hills like a dog.

I sat quietly in Dr Inuchi's office, cluttered with dusty trinkets and grotesquely mounted animals, awaiting his arrival. His blob of a secretary had barely paused in her chore of picking her teeth with a metal nail file to usher me to my seat.

His voice, tedious and dry almost dissolves in the gloomy atmosphere. "I'm Dr Inuchi, staff psychiatrist here at Damina Hills." the greasy black vinyl chair squeals as he settles his bulk into its lap. He eyes me like a disapproving adult. "Our primary concern is Jeenie's mental health, and quite frankly we're disappointed in the lack of family involvement. Often times the encouragement from family can be the influencing factor that helps a patient recover. We asked you here today because we feel your resistance to be involved in Jeenie's treatment greatly hinders her recovery."

I stare blankly at him as if I had not heard his ludicrous charge. My mind stagnant from years of this sort of mangled sanity debates slowly whether or not it feels compelled to answer. Perhaps Jeenie had been right years ago when she pinned me down on the withered brown lawn and hissed in my face that the Dasuwahs would come for me someday.

On my lap my hands form into the signs for O.K. I raise them slightly as mirrored images O to O, finger to finger. When his hazel eyes catch sight of them, I raise them higher. His eyebrows twitch with restrained excitement.

"Jeenie makes that same sign, what does it represent?"

My laughter sounds bitter in the silence which follows his question. I gather my purse and rise nimbly from my chair. "Jeenie has been under your care ten years and never shared the meaning with you? She HATED me...and still made sure I knew what it meant." Unable to force my lips into the smug smile I feel he deserves, I again make the sign to ward off Dasuwahs and leave the office.

It isn't hard to locate her. She sits alone on a ratty sofa combing her sunny hair. My insides tell me to run, but I'm compelled to stay by a voice in my head that is excitedly chanting, there is my sister - there is my sister!

It seems like two life times ago when she last struck me. The letter which brought me here said that Jeenie would soon be moving to a half-way house as she begins her readjustment back into society. Damina Hills and the the newly legalized medication AAtkin were after ten long years, presenting me with a sister. Like it or not.

She licks her woody lips. "They told me you died."

"They told me I died too, I didn't believe them though." I respond joining her on the couch.

Tears suddenly wash her face, "Oh sister...I'm so sorry! I don't hate you. I - I have a mental illness, I understand it now. There never where any demons after me. I'm taking a new medication and I'm okay now. Oh sis can you ever forgive me for all the hurt I caused you?"

My face softens into a smile, here is the perfect sister I have dreampt of. The sister I can love and be loved by. I don't want her. I want Jeenie, but I know what I must do. Gently I take up her hand.

"Of course I can forgive you Jeenie" I whisper leaning closer, my nails digging into her tender flesh, "Because that is what the Dasuwahs have told me to do."

Jeenie's frightened eyes dilate into liquid pools of madness, in which I see my own reflection and hear the sharp chattery laughter of the Dasuwahs.


(c) 1991 PR

Wednesday, July 25, 2012


I write "do or die" lists (DORDIE) all the time. They keep me focused and organized. I want to share this one with you. I found it while cleaning yesterday.


eat right
make sure everyone eats all three meals  (that should be an easy one aye? not for my house)
work on loosing 40 pounds - your back will thank you
Get on the soda wagon again
call and get thyroid labs set up next month
walk each evening - get Menfolk to come with you
clean the mess in the garage and rebox the stuff you shuffled through
clean the truck
on non-work nights GET TO BED BY 10:00!!! the lack of sleep is killing you!
destress each morning upon awakening
make sure JUR brushes his teeth in the morning too
make a grocery list
do something creative. illustrate the gorilla story/work on Stinker rough draft/draw anything!
get out of your rut
get out of debt
vacuum the house

You want to know the kicker in all this? This particular DORDIE list is dated 2009 and every thing on it - EVERYTHING ON IT - is still 100% up to date and current! ROTFLMAO. Guess this one I should call the never-gets-done-dordie list!

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Grandpa JUR

Long work night last night, not going to try to write with only a few hours of sleep. Have to spend my time today trying to find a flavorless toothpaste. Jur has such horrible oral issues with taste/textures its hard for him to brush his teeth each day the paste just gags him.

We are going fishing in a week and it reminded me of this funny email I sent out years ago in 2008. It still makes me laugh.

A while back older sister and I took Josh along as she shopped for her couch and TV. JUR ran though the furnature stores with wild abandon. He tired out all the furniture, examined all the appliances and loved every second of it.

Reminded me of how I was playing in my Grandparents two furniture stores.

When we stopped in GI Joes to get something he informed me he wanted to go fishing. I think he is slowing morphing into grandpa Gill.

We went out today and got him a pole and tackle box with all sort of fun doodads. (okay so I like to fish too)

It brought back many memories. JUR will be the 6th child I have taught to fish. It will be fun and give me many more memories to add to my heart collection.

I loved to fish with Grandpa Gill. he and I would wade out and cast and just stand there in silence and get lost in the water. I fished without a hook, for me the excitment was in standing in the water and watching the swirling water. Grandpa only asked me once if I wanted a hook. I told him, with a hook I just caught fish, but if I fished with a string and float I could catch the whole river. He understood.

When he died and I had a chance to pick something to remember him by I choose the strawberry container of wrapped pennies and his fishing liscence.

I fondly recall once when my farm son JEH and I were at the lake and he had found this HUGE bright colored fake fish with a tri-pod hook (looked like you would use it to catch krackens in the open sea) and he wanted to practice his double loop knot. He slaved over it for a while then anounced it was tied. It was an impressive knot for sure.
That knot was dubbed the mongolian-upright-double-grannie-bobannie-wookie-wa-ding-zing-triple-axle-loop knot.
He and I and KSS, LEH, Jwjs and Jk took the raft out to the floating dock and watched him get ready to cast it out.

We stood a safe distance as he set up and with a might fling cast that monster hook out. The string zziiiiiiiizzzed as the hook took flight. Then too our endless amusement the string fell slack and the gargantion-hook slipped free of its knot and continued to soar away on its own.

With its size and bright color we had no trouble following its flight. It made a heavy plop and sunk out of sight.

I of course wanted to ease his pain of loosing his prized lure and responded with a comforting BWAAHHAHAHAHAH!!!

So of all my fishing protogies the score is this:

Kss: 0 fish, lots of moss sticks and one magazine
Leh: 0 fish, and one cousin (you see Kss thats why you dont sit behind people who are casting), and she also caught herself.
Jeh: 0 fish, but did catch BIG AIR (see story above)
Jk: 0 fish
Jwjs: one chubb, who I swam out to the dock in COLD water to rescue and preform mouth-to-gill rescusitation while the kids stood around bawling the their eyes out screaming 'SAVE HIM!!' After cutting the hook and releasing him I looked up at them....Ummm did I forget to mention that the purpose of fishing is to catch fish?

So fish beware...we are once again out and about and will be looking to take you down.


Sunday, July 22, 2012

Crazy Quilt

Received a request to post this poem. I had to go searching for it because it was still under its working title and not easily found.  Someday if I have time I really need to go through all my writing and sort it out into categories.

This was written for a board member struggling with healing from CSA (childhood sexual abuse). She was at the beginning of her journey, and faltering, overwhelmed by the enormity of the task of healing. I wanted to illustrate the healing process without making it a boring list of steps.

**I don't think its triggering, but will toss a warning on here just in case, as it does deal with sexual abuse, and mentions self injury.**

Crazy Quilt

Her life was arranged in perfect patterns.
Every piece where it belonged
Every stitch in its place
a beautiful herloom quilt
he came and ripped through it with his flesh knife
leaving gapping holes and bits of stuffing every where
leaving her in darkness
the sun came up
the day arrived fresh and new
the world unchanged
she left in a strange wake
neither drowned or on shore
her quilt, her life torn and scattered about
Frozen porcilin face, tight frown held in the corners of her lips
no tears, oh no tears
silently she gets down on her knees
and with her hands
sweeps all the stuffing, all the bits of her life, her soul up, and the quilt
she stuffs it all in the closet
and shuts the door.
Just like that.
its hidden
its gone
it didnt happen.
Everyone like actors returning to a play, take their marks
curtain opens
and her life resumes
no one noticed
not even him
she faded from sight
the pain she wrote volumes and volumes about
chapter after chapter
written in blood
no eyes read her cries
the pale white scars helped her to fade from sight
stitches sometimes were all that held her together
She a crazy quilt of neurosis's
then just when she though the door was safetly buried under years of dust and decay
her therapist walked over and opened it.
her T fanned out the torn quilt and asked her "is this yours?"
She ran in her head, like a trapped animal
the past like a rope bitting into her as she fought it
holding her there in the present and threating to pull her back into the the past
"no its not" she truthfully lied. wishing her words to be true
Her T layed it in her lap and encourged her to claim it.
she couldn't even look at it
how can that life be hers?
how can that aweful reality be a part of her?
She shut her eyes and for a moment she was free of it
her T's words came like gently rain
"you can heal from this, you can repair the quilt
It won't be the same and it will look different,
but you can restore the beauty to it."
Finally she opened her eyes and tears dripped down
"how do I do that?"
"YOU dont do that, WE do that. We mend it together, it will take a long time."
she was right , it did take along time to slowly, painfully
go over every inch of the quilt
to restore the binding, the batting, the fabric, the stitching
the shattered trust
the inner light
the safety
the holes in her spirit
After a while she found a strange, unsettling feeling within herself
she set about searching to see when she last felt this way.
it was
...it was
once upon a time when her
life was arranged in perfect patterns.
Every piece where it belonged
Every stitch in its place
a beautiful herloom quilt.
She layed it out on the bed and weeped
oh the journey to get here
it was long and hard
she was greatful for the many who didn't let her off the hook
the ones who said
"stay in therapy"
the ones who said
"no you cant kill yourself"
the ones who said
"its worth it"
The ones who fought for her when she was too tired to shoulder the rifle and go into battle
She could see their stitching on her blanket
It took one to destroy it
and many to repair it.
She would never forget their kindness.
Their faith in her.
She smiled. He had failed in his mission to blow out her light.
She felt it burning bright.

(c) P R 3-27-08

Saturday, July 21, 2012


.***** triggery as all hell becareful ******

This one packs a punch

I have an Uncle who came home one day and gunned down his entire family, save for one boy who had snuck out and was not there. This child then grew up and got into trouble with the law and was actually shot several times by the police. EVERYONE seemed oblivious to the fact that he was attempting suicide. That he needed to be shot dead. He eventually succeeded in committing suicide by police. Gunned down in a hail of bullets like his family.

This not the only gun related episode that affected my family. The other more recent, a single shot that averted a planned school shooting.

There will be much talk about the recent theater shooters family and how he was raised and so on, as we all grapple with what happened and why it happened. You can raise a child 100% perfectly, and they can still turn/become/evolve into a killer. You can raise a child 100% wrong and fill there life with abusive hell and they can grown up and be a model citizen.

We as a society are missing something here. We are over looking something in this mix. Somewhere along the bike path one of the training wheels slipped off the pavement. We need a strong jerk of the handle bars to right us.

I was taught in history that civilizations are either in a state of incline or decline.

In my life I have seen, and rode the incline rise. Sadly, now I must also witness the decline.

************* again, very triggering - use caution if you are not safe ***************

I wreel back from the phone

receiver clatters on the hard cold tile



the floor rushed up to meet me

I lay there wishing my selves away

I hear the sobs of my inner selves

Yet the body doesn't offer a single tear

maybe if I lie here with my eyes clenched

the world will just go away

Slowly like an incomming morse code message

the words of the phone call

replay over in my head

"You cousin ______ was shot dead by the police"



Twisted emotions surge through me

Part of me wants to dance...he got what he wanted, no NEEDED.

part of me is so jelous its blinding me...hes dead and out of pain and yet I still linger here in so much pain.

part of me wants to weep for the little boy with dark hair I only met twice.

.....I always knew my father, sold to a barren woman when he was a small boy, had a large birth family out there

met them only once when I was a young child

Cousin _____ and his siblings came to visit us one summer.

They spent the afternoon with us and then after dinner they were gone.

Didnt think of them ever again....until the news came to us.

Uncle ____ had come home form work and gunned down his whole family.

save for one child who was supost to be home...but had snuck out.

Cousin _____

Uncle in jail life without parole

Cousin _____ in a hell he can never exscape from...the guilt of surviving.

......I met up with Cousin ____ again in my twenties, the same shiny black hair

we are really strangers...

he looks at my scarred arms and then into my eyes.

we spoke volumes without uttering a word

He shows me his tatoos.

We both carry our stories on our skin

"P" he says, "Im an artist too. I keep my work with me, so it doesnt get lost"

my gut twists and the empathy button gets stomped on

I think, what a wound soul I have standing before me.

Hes always running, fleeing ghosts from his past

I run my hands over his back and feel the scars from the bullet holes.

not put there from his father, no

shot two seperate time by the police

.....again my soul twists in agony

I get it. I understand his pain...he needs to be shot dead.

he beleives he wasnt supost to survive

that somehow he wronged his mama and siblings that day.

That he is  in a loop of desteny he cannot excape from.

I see myself reflected in his eyes.

The abuse I endured as a child felt like it killed me

yet I still linger on this planet

My suicidalness as a adult is that a direct reflection of the murder of my childhood?

Cousin's tattoo of a child on his shoulder a depiction of our shared inner torment

I want to speak to Cousin...really speak to him.

but I am pre therapy and suicidal my selves

I stand on the curb and watch him till his car is out of sight.

I know I will never see him again.

that his visit to us was a quest

he was looking for something

like so many of us

looking for that lost piece of the interal puzzle that will hold the jigsaw together

and make the chaotic roar of life silent.

The coolness of the floor sooths my aching head.

I slowly sit up and put the phone back in its cradle

Cousin commited suicide by police.

died in a hail of gun fire....like the rest of his family.

Stand there wondering if self injury isnt a form of that...

the abuse made me feel like I was dying....so each injury I inflict is a little death?

or is it each injury I inflict is a little life?

at last the body relents to the internal flood of emotions and the tears spill

I head to my room and get my art pad.

There I draw all of cousins tattoos

as I ponder what gives some of us the strength to endure

and others to not.

(c) P. R 1-5-2009

Friday, July 20, 2012

Dream therapy

You know you are fooked up when your old therapist has to come into your dreams to make a house call.

Not that I don't mind seeing my old T, but its a bit unsettling to be therapetized while dreaming.

I have certain dreams that set my alarm bells to ringing and are HUGE red flags that the breaks are failing and I am about to go careening over the edge. Those I listen to and take steps to prevent further decline.

But I have never been able to figure out the therapy dreams.

I always awake with a peaceful feeling that borders on ??? Something I can't quite grasp.

This week I have disconnected from the planet and just focused on my family. It felt good to just be in the moment. To do things because I wanted to vs cause I had too.

They injected cortisone into my elbow on the 13th and I have been pain free since. I can't tell you how WONDERFUL that feels after 2 months of constant pain. That has helped tremendously with my anxiety.

For those of you without anxiety, let me give you a brief idea how the game is played:

arm hurts

stomach aches


pimple on skin

Get the picture?

Its gets exhausting having to convince yourself  that every ache, pain, rash, bump isn't life threatening.

I used to give myself a half dozen or so "terminal days" (vs sick days) each year in my 20/30's.

Days I just woke up and my depression/anxiety would grumbled..."gaahh, I feel like I'm dying..."

I would counter back with: "That is because you are."

My mood would perk up instantly and I lived that day like it was my last. No worries or concerns, just peaceful bliss that everything no longer mattered cause I was checking out. Everything lifted from me. Responsible for just breathing and nothing else.

"Dying" somehow eased the anxiety, to a point it left.

Living with chronic anxiety and PTSD my whole life has left me with a strange side effect that I have termed...Pre-traumatic stress disorder (PreTSD)

I am so used to the rug getting pulled out from under me that I start to anticipate it before it happens.  When it doesn't come I get anxious. I am walking around flinching the hit that never comes.

I wish I could do serious research on this subject.

I have seen a correlation between a history of abuse and the healing process and learning to live with PreTSD. That abused kids minds get so accustom to living in a chaotic violent world that when the abuse ends they fumble a bit in the new unfamiliar head space.

Case in point:

My T got a frantic call from me one night and the conversation when like this:

Me: something isn't right. I don't like this, it's frightening. I DON'T LIKE IT!!
Richard: Take a deep breath and tell me what is going on.
Me: (deep breath) *launched into a long spiel of what is going on*
Richard: (cutting in) P. P, whoa.
Me: I'm going crazy arn't I? What is it? What does it sound like?
Richard: Its sounds like...you are happy.
me: whaa!!?? Well I don't like it ...it feels weird!

Literally I had never had that level of contentment and non-chaos in my lifetime. I had to learn to be comfortable with the simple task of being happy.

I used this knowledge in my work with Alzheimer's patients.  Rather then force their damaged brains to conform to the normal rules of life, I learned the normal rules of their brains. There was a lot less confrontations and behavior issues when they were comfortable in what made sense for their brains.

What is normal for one is hell for another. And visa versa.

Which is totally why Richard still has to come therapitize me in my dreams. I wonder if I should mail him a check for last nights marathon session?

Monday, July 16, 2012

No cheese today , I'm serving crab

Ever just wake up and hate everything? Look at your kids and wish you were babysitting them, and could take them home to their parents?

I am having an awful mental decompensation day today, made worse by my off-ling waking up with a chip on her shoulder the size of Kentucky, and taking it out on me because I had to work and she spent the previous day/eve with all testosterone.

My Crab's went from minor to MAJOR really fast.

I am not sure if I should even be blogging today or just keep you in the mystery of the how and whys I go mad.

Took all I had not to tell my physical therapist off, cause I am mad and frustrated with my arm and he keeps cheerfully reminding me it will get better. I don't want it to GET BETTER, I want it to BE BETTER RIGHT NOW!

I F"N NEED MY ARM IN NOVEMBER. I spend a lot of the winter months cane walking. My injured elbow is my cane arm.

Frustrated howlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am trying to be positive (no not really, I am too far gone for that today.) but I am just so angry. That driver didn't have permission to come in and injure me and leave me with ANOTHER chronic injury that hurts me FORFREAKINEVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!

oops, should have put a warning on this blog today, "temper tantrum in process"

I'm just in a mood today and I can't get out of it. Its like I wanna go out and punch kittens, or kick puppies.

Bleah, I need a spanking and sent back to bed.

I need to just sit down and cry and grieve for my elbow and face the fact that YET ANOTHER PERSON HAS HURT ME AND WALKED AWAY. BUT BOY IT PISSES THE HELL OUTTA ME.

I want to disappear with a 2 liter of Pepsi and drown my sorrows.

I want to get online and kill stuff with my DragonAge party.

I want to hurt everything in my sight until everyone is as crabby and bitter as I am.


Save your smiles and pats on the head today unless you want your arm ripped off. I'm okay despite how bad I may sound. Actually ranting and venting like this keeps me safe. (and probably the rest of the planet as well)

Sunday, July 15, 2012

The Bus

***** Trigger warning - subject of the post today is self injury and healing *****

(and yes I am going to cheese you today. This is an oldie but a goodie. Its been used in SIV symposiums to help educate others. This is the legacy I want to leave (am leaving?). THIS is the writing that will out live me and speak long after I am gone. This is me using my talent to ease others pain, shame etc etc.)

The Bus

Once upon a time...

The bus driver didnt even wait for her to find a seat before he reckless careened from the curb back into traffic. She lurched and fell to her knees.

Momentarily frozen by embarassment she closed her eyes and escaped. This was her life, get up , get knocked down. Somedays she wondered why bother.

Then a hand reached out and touched her shoulder.

Startled she looked up.

Carbonated brown eyes met hers. "Let me help you" He said.

Swiftly she was assisted to a seat and her things neatly placed in her lap. She blanched as she realized her scarred arms were visable. Hastily she covered them.

Momentarily frozen by embarassment she closed her eyes and escaped. This was her life, get up , get knocked down. Somedays she wondered why bother.

Brown eyes leaned across the isle and smiled. "Going on a long trip?"

"huh?" she said her vision focusing again.

He gently reached over and touched the scars on her hand. "Thats a lot of bagage your carrying"

"huh?" she inquired again, then suddenly noticed the seemingly endless ghoastly patterns on his exstended arm.

She twisted inside out and fled within her head. Maybe if she played possum he would go away and she could continue on unnoticed.

She kept her eyes closed for several stops. She listened as the riders got off an on. Maybe it was safe and he had left. At last she opened her eyes and stared at the floor. What a familair place that was. After all she was safe there, you can't fall off the floor.

That was her life after all, get up , get knocked down. Somedays she wondered why bother.
She sighed heavily and at last looked up.

Brown eyes met hers.

She stared him down, suddenly angery that he had invaded her mental landscape. That he knew her secret.

She felt the heat of the rage-mode flash as it unleashed within her. Her eyes narrowed and she felt the mercery switch click.

There was a strange calmness as the eye of the storm opened up.

He took that fraction of a second to comment. "lots of baggage".

Her scarred skin suddenly felt tight as it screamed.


She didn't utter a word.

He spoke again, "Dont you get tired of keeping the past present and fresh in your mind?"

"huh?" she said the flames dying down. Her will to fight like a huge dog all bark and no bite.

"You wear that antient pain like a badge of honor. Its like as long as you remember it freshly in your mind you have proof it happened. The scars show where you have been not where you are going. "

At last she found her voice.

"and who are you to give me advice?" she gestured to the fresh bandage on his arm.

He peeled it back and exstended his arm towards her. There written were the words:


She pondered that for a second. "Why do you hide that under a bandage?"

As he retaped it he said quietly. " I still get urges and want to inflict violence upon myself."
Before she could even form the next thought in her head he stood up and addressed the bus.


She scrunched down in the seat and dropped her gaze.

He continued like a lawyer addressing a jury. "PEOPLE, we are all the same. Only thing that seperates us is life experiences. Some people numb their pain with drinking or doing drugs, others stuff it down and smother it under layers of fat, what it boils down to is they are trying to silence it. We who self injure wear our pain."

He raises his arms. "each of my scars is screaming SEE MY PAIN... SEE MY (deleted) PAIN,"

He naturally had the attention of the bus. all eyes were on him but hers.

"The scars are our proof...our evidence, of the damage done to us by the flesh knife, and all the other things that wounds childrens souls. The scars are our proof and our prison bars. They both hold us is and let us out."

" I refuse to be ashamed of what I had to do to survive. I refuse to be ashamed that in order to survive I had to pick sides and fight my own skin."

The bus suddenly dipped and swerved and then stopped.

A voice inquired, "you going to toss him off?"

"No" replied the driver, "I want to hear him out."

Brown eyes lowered and suddenly changed. She reconized the look of getting biffed of the stool of life and smacking face first onto the floor. After all that  was her life, get up , get knocked down. Somedays she wondered why bother. Why any of us bother.

His shoulders melted and he walked defeatedly back to his seat. As if he was suddenly visable and vulerable.

She watched as he slipped on his coat concealing his scars.

Someone snurked under their breath, "weirdo."

She felt the heat of the rage-mode flash as it unleashed within her. Her eyes narrowed and she felt the mercery switch click.

There was a strange calmness as the eye of the storm opened up.

And then she stood up. Her coat sliding to the floor. She doubled up her fists and began to stare down the many eyes watching the events unfolding.

"HE HAS BEEN HURT ENOUGH" She screamed at last, finding her voice to be powerful and strong. "we...WE have been hurt enough."

She yanked up her sleeves. "LOOK AT MY PAIN." she said and walked down the isle offering up a close glimps to everyone.

His clapping halted her just as she reached the driver.

She turned.

"Hard to carry all that baggage in fight mode isn't it." His eyes once again bubbling. He skipped up the isle and gently took her arm and wrote on it, and then pushed open the doors and left the bus.

She turned to face the other passengers. Suddenly very very visable.

The drivers arm surrounded her shoulders and then the other one exstended a finger toward the taunting passenger.

"You git off my bus" the driver growled, "I dont take "weirdos" with me"

The bus was filled with applause as he walked her back to her seat.

As she gathered up her things she felt the bus swing back into traffic. Her shoulders felt higher, her sense of self, lifted some how.

She smiled and caught sight of his message on her arm. She twisted it to read it.

'you have cut yourself free, now fly'

and so she did.


Saturday, July 14, 2012

A show of hands for S'more

Years ago when my truck was new...it was too new. I had never owned a vehicle without some sort of cosmetic flaw. So i decided to paint it.

I choose bright yellow to really pop on the shiny black.  My intention was to dip my butt in the paint and lean against the tail gate. Hey if people can hang balls off their trucks why not have a butt print back there?

Thankfully the farm kids caught me before I got that far and we decided to do hand prints. After a few of those we got one of the farm dogs to.

Those are the lighter yellow prints. Only four of them survived, the others long ago blistered and flaked off.

I got mixed reactions from people, some where "that's so cool!" and some where "your graffiti will lower the trade in value of the truck."

I plan to always have this truck. I would tell them, when I get rid of it, it will be dead and undriveable.

We have now painted it three times.

In case you missed the Star Trek mural here it is with its painters.

That paint job made it VERY easy to find in crowded parking lots!  And even may have saved my life...

I was at the store after midnight and loading groceries when I saw two men shirking in the shadows then approach me.

I set down my bag and addressed them. "Do I LOOK like someone safe to approach in a dimly lit parking lot?" I looked crazy eyed at the truck, "Does it look like I am taking my medications like I am suppose to??"

They backed up and disappeared.

I did notice while that paint job was up that not a heck of a lot of people asked to borrow my truck.

There are lots of Star Trek stuff in the mural. front bumper (we are venting Theta radiation),
under antena (Borg cube), Shotgun door (Temporal distortion, and Crystaline entity), shotgun passenger panel (fleet of Cardasion cruisers and Federation starships - check out JUR's force feild!), bed panel a bloody battle feild of ships and other stuff blown up in space.

My favorite reaction was the day after we painted it. I came out of the market to find a man staring at it shaking his head in a disaproving mannor. As I unlocked the door he commented.

"your kids do this?"

"yeah" I sighed playing it to the fullest.

"where were you while all this was happening?" another disaproving shake of his head.

"up here painting the flames!" 

His look was priceless.

This new paint job we did cause of the accident, my inner gamer couldn't resist doing this:

and well...heck ...there was extra paint so we also did this....

and this....

And you can bet if I ever have to part with the truck against my will, I will plaster that baby with bright yellow butt prints inside and out.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

petrified eunuch testicles in the medicine cabinet

Yes you read that right.

Did I mention I come from an unusual family?  I grew up with no cable, and extended periods of no TV. We read a lot. There was a huge set of encyclopedias that we poured over investigating "things."  I got my first library card at 4 years old.

I knew more stuff then the average child. My mama read the Iliad and the Odyssey to us. She read us just tons of stuff, feeding our growing minds with all sorts of interesting stuff.

Which is probably why we ended up with petrified eunuch testicles in the medicine cabinet.

They didn't start out as balls, in fact they were my fathers tonsils. Shriveled up and floating in some mysterious murky fluid.

We loved to look at them. This was better then finding two sticks of gum in your baseball cards. Our family had body parts in the bathroom!!

I don't remember who first christened them testicles. But it made for good sport to terrorize our friends who asked to use our bathroom.

"Don't look in the medicine cabinet..." We would whisper.

"Why?" our friends would ask.

"There are petrified eunuch testicles in there!"

Oh the fun! I once even made a whole dollar by showing them to the neighbor girl's out of town company.

At some point my mother insisted they go.

I'm not sure why. They were so creepy and wonderfully macabre and I totally wanted them left to me in their will.

Can you imagine the look on the lawyers face at the reading of the will??

"and to my beloved daughter P I leave, the encyclopedias, all the agates and obsidian and the petrified eunuch test...what the hell!!??"

They were eventually cremated with one of my brothers and sprinkled into the ocean.

Which is a shame. I could have made a fortune selling them on eBay.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

A reason is needed, I demand it.

I believe people come in and out of your life for a reason. That it's no accident and there is a purpose for them to be there.

Maybe to teach, give, show you something.

Or for you to teach, give, show them something.

Some people the gift is quick and they are gone. Others walk with you for long periods on your lives journey.

I have marveled at this quirky state of things in my life. How interesting it is to meet new people and await the surprise in the equation. More often or not the giving, teaching, showing you something is mutual and both parties become richer.

I have puzzled over the car accident that occurred two months ago.

How does this play into this philosophy of mine?

Today I deciphered it.

She came into my life in this explosive way so I could write this blog and show off a skill I learned when I was under 12 years old and have never had the opportunity to show off publicly before.

I can write with all four of my limbs.

And why do I possess this skill? Well cause I have 8 siblings, five of whom are boys. We didn't exactly play normal games. A favorite was called "hostage." (oh the joys of a large family, the mischief was abundant.)

The gist of it was you tied up your hostage and they had a certain amount of time to escape.

I was the most difficult hostage. If you left any limb untied I could write a note. Most hostages you took their shoes so they couldn't walk away. Me you had to shoe to keep me from sending notes.

I was working on learning to get the pen to my ear so I could write my note when my bros refused to play with me anymore.

Its been  20+ years since I last had an opportunity to show off this skill. Cause its not really the sort of thing you put on your resume.

So that is why she ran the red light and crashed into me. To injure my right elbow and remind me I possess this great ability.

And why am I in her life?

To make peace with all the madness in my head and heart this has caused I will think of it this way.

She needed to be stopped. Perhaps down the road there were children she might have injured. That in the great scheme of things I was the best thing to hit that day.

 Maybe she needed to meet me and there was no time to do it any other way. Maybe her life's puzzle wasn't complete without getting out of her car and seeing the yellow hand prints on my tail gate. Maybe that is all she needed.

Now aren't you all glad you met me without having to smash up the front end of your car?

I don't know what to title this. Not often that I am a loss for words.

June 30th my husbands Grandfather died. We traveled up to his funeral July 6th.

I lost all my grands years ago.

I was so excited when I got married and got a new set.

Grandpa Wally was something else. You don't find men like that much anymore.

He lived to see 5 generations.

Family was so important to him. Didn't matter if you were his blood or married in or just collected along the way. Everyone was greeted with loving arms and care.

He made a point to know you. Not just your surface but all of you.

He happened to be passing though my neck of the woods the day my son was born and he stopped in to meet his newest grandson.

He leaned over the incubator for a long time absorbing this new life, with a huge smile on his face.

There is something so different about the clan of people he leads. I am blessed to be apart of  the chain.

His funeral was like no other I have attended.

It was a day filled with family and love. No tears for me just gratefully enjoying the company of all those wonderful souls.

We drove home and had to wait 30 min before we could go into the house (we had bug bombed it before we left...take that spiders!)

We set off left over fireworks. Then Core and Hansolo layed on the cushions and stargazed.

After a while I joined them.

Then our son joined us.

We laid there in the darkness for less than 30 seconds.

Then the four of us were treated to a spectaular meteor blazing across the heavens .

It took our breath with it.

For the first time that day tears welled up.

Thank you Grandpa for checking in with us and telling my little family pod goodbye is such a beautiful way.

Friday, July 6, 2012

Glass Tear

Glass tear

Her heart a dark forge

slow burning

deep burning

The taffy glass she is melting undulates in the flames.



never falling.

quick turn of the wrist brings it round

it retains its form.

The heat warms her cold surface

snuggling up like a spooning lover.

Somedays she wishes....

she wishes...



She withdraws the glowing orb and set it on the edge

constantly rolling it as she waits for the glass to speak

to declair its true form.


she reheats it and removes it again.

"oh I know what you are" she says aloud.

she hold the stick out like a septar and freezes.





the taffy glass

drops downward

its roundness giving way to a pregnate belly







hangs from a spiders silk

for a heart beat


breaks sending the moltan tear to the floor

to impact yet not shatter.

She stares at her creation.

marveling at the beauty and the symbolisum

and all the unspoken truths.

A smile slowly melts the icy mask

she hides behind.

She ponders how to capture that in a completed sculpture.

"ARRR WHAT A MESS" he growls "stop day dreaming and clean it up!"

she doesn't jump at his words, but rather withers inside.

Her face once again icy reflecting no emotion.

she stoops to the floor and sets to scape the glass tear up

when she notices the core is still shiney and glistening

refecting all that is magical

a childhood of laughter


and dreams

she scraps with the putty knife and the tear comes loose.

She holds it up to the light and the captured moment inside


glosses over


becomes dull.

the light exstinguished.

she reluctanly sets it in the scrap bin

to awaits its rebirth in the flames.

How so like her life.

just so casually set aside.

honed to a delecate sculpture which relected no light

she kept the light hidden


away from those theiving eyes who

steal with a flesh knife.

But a light did burn in her

deep down


Her heart a dark forge

slow burning

deep burning

a place where she stuffed all her emotions

and hopes

and dreams

hidden in the white embers of her nova.

Where they all melted and warped and became liquid.

When she stuffed too much into the forge

It grew hot and the metal creaked and bucked at the seems.

wanting to burst

and spew its contents.

She let off pressure the only way that made sence

( how can you make sence of madness?)

The stuffed and stiffled wails of pain

got lost in translation and when she opened her mouth to scream

only vomit poured out.

She stopped trying to look up

the weight in her head to heavy.

She was living on air and exsisting in shadows.

Yet each day she arose

put the rod into the kiln and waved it and made hauntingly beautiful works of art.

Her pain made her work more beautiful.

Everyone applauded her choices of arching and bowing pitchers.

how they held the liquid yet didnt touch it.

and her colors...

no one would ever guess that her own blood tinted her works.

They only sensed the presence of something profound in her work...

some untangale thing that called to them,

moved them to collect her peices.

She worried that her work would suffer if she no longer walked with the madness.

It made her resistive to the many hands who reached to help her.

The many hands who sought to steady her,

not hold her.

She set her rod down and rolled it slowly

watching the hypnotic jelly fishing of the glass.

Her mind drifting back to the glass tear.

From her apron she took her rake and sliced the glass

marveling at how it healed

how it simple melted back inwards.

why couldn't her flesh do the same?

"Your so talented"

The voice was so soft that for a moment she though it had originated in her head.

"Your work is so incredibley sad and lonely."

She turned to see a woman with a twisted cane and a foot in a brace.

"your work is very transparant, your soul shines in it."

she froze trying to blend in with the air.

the sound of a glass tear falling

broke the silence.

"Each tear you cry is heard" she spoke again, shifting her weight off her bad foot.

"no matter if it spills from your eyes, or weeps from your skin."

She blanched and looked around for some place to put her hands

which felt ackward and huge all of a sudden.

The womans gaze didn't waver.

At last she found her voice. "who are you?"

The lady again shifted her weight, her face revealing the pain. "doesnt matter. I was assigned to you to help you get out of the darkness."

she made a annoyed noise. "how can you help me?"

She pointed her cane at her, "cause I know the way out."

"I am going to fight you and not give up my hold on madness so easily. Its comforting. The pain is comforting and all I know."

The lady knodded. "no one is asking you to do that...well except you...funny isnt it? you want help but you fight it when its offered.

Her face iced over conceling the conflicting emotions beneath it.

"gotta bite all the hands that reach for you. aye?"

"broken trust is hard to revive" she spat and turned back to the forge and melted into the embrace of the heat. "again, who are you?"

"just a lamp post dear."

her brow wrinkled as she pondered the words.

The lady smiled and explained. "there are those of us who blaze trails. Those souls who hit the ground running living like their hair is on fire. They go so fast that they miss all the sublte beauty on the planet. Then there are walkers, casual stollers, meandering through life on the safe well exstablished trails. Then there are those of us who simply "get it". Their journey isnt one of forward motion but inward searching."

"so lampost is which one?" she asked.

"the fourth kind, the old damn fools who dont give a (deleted) and understand the true treasures / wealth / is the gems of the unique souls you meet on the journey...not the journey itself." She smiled as her eyes reved and danced.

her frozen face thawed for a second and she smiled at the spark the lady put off.

"We walk the paths looking for souls who lanterns have gone out, re-light them and watch them journey on"

"How do you do that?" her heart asked suddenly interested.

"listen to them, hear the silent screams, hear them ....see them...find them, let them know they don't stuggle alone."

She turned deep in thought, pondering the words as she scrapped the glass tear off the floor. She for a moment studied the hot core and its light stuggling to radiate outewards against the cooling glass that was slowly smothering it.

So much a reflection of her life. The constant smothering feeling of fighting againts the hardening shell, threatening to freeze her into an inanimate object, her life and beauty shatterable and fragile...waiting in anticipation of the blow that would smash it, reducing it to scrap.

She whirled at the realization, "I'm putting my own light out, to hide myself!"

The lady listened.

"I burn inwards to protect myself and in the process I am walling off, shelling myself away from everthing including myself. Glass cannot shine without the light to dance off its surface, I cannot life within the darkness in a world filled with light."

"the struggle must be be exhausting" the old woman said with eyes filed with compassion. "to have to keep both hands on the dampers so snuff the flames of your heart and keep your eyes clenched tight so no light shines in to warm you."

In silent agreement her hand crept to the tightness in her neck that choked her into submission around the clock.

For her heart was a dark forge

slow burning

deep burning

a place where she stuffed all her emotions

and hopes

and dreams

hidden in the white embers of her nova.

The old womans words gently called to her, "stop reflecting the darkness. You are a lamppost, you are ment to light the way, turn your inner mirror around and shine."

She jerked to attention and dropped everything in her hands. "what?"

"do you not spend your days locked in motal combat with your yourself?"

Her thoat withered as the truth assalted her.

The woman stepped closer and gently touched her cane to the girls shoulder. "this is who you should fight FOR, not with. She is not your enemy, she is someone of great value and worth the effort to reach."

The girl considered the words.

The woman continued... "you could not create such beautiful works of art if you were not reflecting the beauty of your soul."

"do not think me impolite old woman, but please go." she turned back to the forge and threw herself into her work.

in short order the glass she is heating undulates in the flames

and this time it cries with new tears

fresh born

refecting all that is magical

new found laughter


and dreams

of hope


Wednesday, July 4, 2012

No carbonation

I am 25 hours with no pepsi as of 11 pm.

After seeing recent pictures of me I realized just how unhealthy I look. Prior to the accident I was soda free and had been on an exercise program for a week trying to get healthy again. Loosing weight with thyroid issues is so much fun do-dah, do-dah (sing it with me!)

The pepsi and I have a long on/off again relationship.  When the fatigue of thyroid issues overwhelm me I turn back to it. I know I can go years without it. But I can't quite kick it for good.

The accident was like some evil thing that entered my life and sat down and said, drink pepsi and stop working out, you are a victim, you know this role, sit stay.

On my other boards I mentioned that being in the car accident was a lot like being raped. It brought up the same damaging PTSD symptoms. The same helplessness straight jacket that fits oh so well, and cinched it on me. The same someone else is in control and I have no power. Someone came in physically hurt me and left and I am being treated like dirt by the insurance company. I felt violated.

I took my power back the other night.

I drew a line in the sand and turned around.

I will not allow this to shove me back and hold me from walking on.

I did so by returning to where I was in my life before the accident. Focused on eating and living better.



In a curt motion I drag the match across the striker. It does not light.

*heavy sigh*

no magic words here today my friend.  I am unable to conjure up the magical world of words to dance at my beck an call. My lantern remains dark.

In the darkness I reach for your hand.  We will have to do this the old fashion way. I squeeze tightly. Ready?.

I feel you draw back, nestling into the familiar darkness and hidden fear.

The suction of the mind, soul numbing muck adds its resistance to the equation.

I lean back until the tension is vibrating between us. Then I leap backwards over your head and catapult us both over the edge of the nest.

We land with a thud on the ground.

You don't say anything but your eyes are angry...'why have you taken me backwards?' they ask.

Sometimes to go forward one must get a little momentum

I help you to your feet and we trudge on forward hand in hand. "You know what my friend? can I tell you a secret?"

Since you know I'm going to tell you anyways, you don't interrupt me with a response.

"I am 45 years old and I am still not sold on this life. I reserve the right to hold out to the very end. I will give you my review of life when I'm about to loose it."

For years I lived in a perfect Paradise and was too blind to see it.

I was always holding out for .....for what I don't know.

Something so crazily nuts that it blew my socks off? Light sirens? cymbal crashes? the world to stop spinning?

it has never come.

yet my soul is lite with the most brilliant light.

In sixth grade our class went on an overnight camp out. I knew my friend still struggled with bed wetting.

I awoke to her teeth chattering in the dark of the night. Her sleeping bag soaked. I woke her and unzipped by bag and we wrapped up the best we could in it.

She fell asleep on my shoulder, her secret safe with me.

I've been thinking about that night a lot lately. Wondering what gave me the strength to give, when at that time in my life everything was being taken from me.

When I was injured, in my twenties,  in a horse riding accident, my four year old niece gave me a small heart pillow and said "I gave it 1000 kisses for you, and 1000 hugs too"

that little cherub was in the middle of a nasty divorce.

I was floored.

how did she have the strength to give, when so much was being taken from her little life?

I expect a LOT from life, it has a lot to atone for! A lot to mend.

I AM BLAZINGLY ANGRY that I have to work for every blasted smile and scrap of happiness in my life.


I feel like everything tarnishes in my hands....that my internal darkness is too great to ever allow me to be happy and at peace.

yet here I am happy and at peace.

"wait...what?" You interject as I toss that Rubik cube at you. "stop tossing contradictory gobble gook at me!"


In a curt motion I drag the match across the striker. Its tiny flame reveals my blue eyes.

Some of us drag around a weight behind us. It anchors us and holds us back. Its protects us from leaping ahead and cartwheeling through life.

It stops us from wishing, dreaming, hoping and accepting the glorious mysteries of this journey we are all on.

It adds a sense of heavy caution, makes us afraid to take chances and try stuff.

Just before the match goes out I light my lantern.

it greats you with its warm familiar light.

I ratchet back the giant wooden lever next to us.

You tense and remind me your wings are broken and tangled and bent. Then you ask where we are going.

We are going no where. I say. I want to show you how I move forwards when I am stuck.

"PULL" I say in my fake British accent.

The lever releases with a jerking powerful motion.

My lantern goes zipping off into the darkness in a giant arc.


In a curt motion I drag the match across the striker. In the dim light you look at me puzzledly.

My lantern light isn't something that I carry with me.

Sometimes I am struggling in the dark and tripping over stuff. Sometimes I have the lantern to light the way. Sometimes I close my eyes and just say (delete) IT and just jump.
Sometimes the path is smooth and well lite.

We are all baby birds tossed from the nest.

just keep trudging along.

and know in your heart that weight that follows you around like an anchor, you know the one, that one that feels like all of lives burdens. Yeah that one....You get to choose if its your wings...or an undeployed parachute.

I enjoy immensely sharing this lives journey with you. Watching it unfold and cheering for you on the sidelines. Catching glimpses of your lantern light and how you choose to shine.

For years I lived in a perfect Paradise and was too blind to see it.

I was always holding out for .....for what I don't know.

Something so crazily nuts that it blew my socks off? Light sirens? cymbal crashes? the world to stop spinning?

don't need that any longer. My heart is content with the love of a wonderful man and the quiet gently smiles life slides in to make my heart sing.

I ratchet back the giant wooden lever next to us.

My parting words are barely audible over the lever recoil that sends me sailing out head over heals into life.

peace be the journey....

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

By Fives

****warning: massive pity party ahead - read on at your own risk****

By Fives

I was born on the kitchen table

tumbled down sixteen stairs

attempted suicide

and placed second in a beauty pageant

all before I turned five.

I've eaten yellow snow on a dare

snorted grape soda up my nose

melted army men on the stove

learned the secret to catching lightning

got lost in Disney Land

watched three of my brothers die

and froze my tongue to a stop sign pole

all before I turned ten.

I danced naked as snow fell in the redwoods

felt dirt shoveled down upon me

as Ro____ buried me alive

wore the jewels of the Princess of Lippy Germany

held seances in the dark

Disfigured Ri___'s face with a pickaxe

eaten fire and grazed like a cow

and completed a novel

all before I turned fifteen.

I've felt the hand of a demented man cuff me across the face

flunked English 121

discovered Halloween candy I hid when I was seven

stared deep into the emerald green eyes of a panther

her warm breath on mine

and held the hands of countless people as they have died

all before I turned twenty

I've delivered puppies in the backseat

while parked at Shop n' Kart

journeyed into the dreamtime

got lost again in Disney Land

grew hair on my neck

crushed myself in my car

kisses a hog

and hung candycanes in the forest

all before I turned twenty-five

I've danced sacred dances

with eagle feathers in my hair and doe's skin on mine

began dreaming in Japanese

taught my son the secret to catching lightning

felt the bay mare rear and flip....

caught her in my lap

and fell in love with my friend John

all before I turned thirty

I've nursed piglets

watched three friends die of brain tumors

pieced my nipple

castled kingside and opened a door to a whole new world

accepted a proposal in the park

joined the Russell clan

all before I turned thirty-five

I've switched my mind off and hybernated

got lost in cyberspace

sold my childhood on Ebay

gave birth to a son who almost died

got out of debt

and then right back in

all before I turned forty

I've been kissed by a sea lion

fought with my daughter

before she even left my uterous

swallowed radiation

got lost in Norrath

got lost in my own head again.

set sail on the seas of depression

all before I turned forty-five

Threw away my novel

Started a blog


all before I turned fifty

(c) Jan 9, 1992

Since I wrote this in 1992 I have filled in each set of five as I reach that age.  I filled in the two for the current set yesterday. This "block" of five hasn't been very exciting. Its seemed like endless work-worry-parenting-struggling to survive.

"life goes on long after the thrill of living has gone" that quote by John Mellencamp is very relavant in my life.  There is not much left for me to experience or do. That feeds my depression and amplifies the suisidal/wanna give up feelings. When you add in the physical disabilities and the dwindling mobility, it leads to a sadness and helplessness.

I need to dream new dreams. New goals to set out for me to chase and obtain.

I would love to be out of debt and be able to afford Everquest subscriptions again. My monk was a kick ass killing machine and I enjoyed playing her. We played as a family. All of us having toons. Life in a virtual world somehow more platitable then reality. There I could run fast, kick, explore....be free. A place where death ment only a wait for a battle rez if the cleric survived.

I would love to take my kids and drive up and down the coast line and do all the touristy things there are too do.

Put memories in there hearts so that when I am gone there will something for them to hold onto.

We are going to my husbands grandfathers memorial on Friday. Oh the chance to see and hold family that lives too far away. To celebrate a good mans life. That will be such a blessing.

yeah I am blabbering today.

Depression is a fragement grenade in ones mind. A sucking muck that hold you back, pulls you down. Boohoo pity party.

The long hours, and strange sleep patterns wearing on me this week.

The anxiety and fear that my arm has worsed and is no longer healable.....you know if I had been allowed to handle my own treatment, I beleive I wouldn't be this f-ed up mess right now. We are nearing 8 weeks in.

My mind wants to classify this as a total loss, to match the trucks final report. To just accept that my arm is now much like the rest of me. That hence forth life will be even more physically painful.

Just accept it. Reset the "normal for P" to include a painful partially functional elbow. Then do what I do with the rest of my injuries. Just shut the hell up and keep on living.

********after thought.....Some of my greatest writing comes from this head space. Being "here" somehow opens my heart and I put to paper some of the most amazing things. Maybe that is what I need to do to channel this submerged headspace back to the surface. Tommorrow I will try it. To defect this mood through the aray and turn it to a strength.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

Beyond the surface

It was 1981, I was 15 years old and a sophmore in highschool. Cross country season was in full swing. I was where I always was during school. Hidden under a baggy T-shirt and sweat shirt. Trying to be invisable and get through the day unnoticed and unharrassed by my classmates. I was an island unto my self. No one knew me or liked me. I was not a nice person and people didn't mess with me. I was a tormented soul, lost and adrift in life with out even a life perserver to hold my head above water.

I was in art class, pencil poised over the stark white paper preparing to unleash the creative beast with me when he came into the class room.

I have forgotten his name. He was a teacher who dabbled in photography and worked with the yearbook staff.

He spoke to the art teacher and then came my way.

I didn't look up.

He stopped next to me leaned in resting his weight on the edge of the table with his palm. He said softly, "this one is just too revealing to go into the yearbook"
He slid a sealed envelope under the corner of my sketch pad and left.

My inner core chilled and the cold beads of adrenaline trickled with a sickly ooze within me.

I shot murderous glances at those around me and tucked the envelope into my lap.

I knew he had recently shot a cross country meet at the local park. I knew our uniforms were, as the team called them, "invisable white" All I could think was great! a semi nudy picture of myself, grrrrr. Just what all teenage freaks what given to them.

I open it expecting the worse.

What I found shocked me. I found a picture that has become the single best portrait of me ever snapped. It indeed was revealing. It revealed me all the way down to the depth of my soul.

There flying above the grass was a beautiful young woman, poised confident, strong, healthy and free. None of what I felt at that time (at any time?).

I recall the second that shot was taken. I was on the stretch of the course that ran parallel to the Rouge River. I didn't wear my glasses while running, fuzzing  the world to an unfocused state. I was relaxed and in my own world, I ran with my eyes down watching the ground three feet infront of me, I never looked up. I wan't thinking about the race. I ran simply to ...run. It was a time that I could be alone with my thoughts. Where I could be transported to a blurry quiet place that filled me with peace. Where my only focus on the planet was to put one foot infront of the other.

My serenity was interupted by my intruder alarm going off and I glanced up just as he snapped the shot.

He caught in a single frame of film the illusive "P". Only slightly more difficult to capture then bigfoot. Most photos of me I'm guarded and walled off. Not this one. That is me...all of me, unposed, unguarded and exsposed.

A rare glimps of an unveiled me.