Orphans of Wealth- a powerful message from a fellow blogger

This is a message which needs to be heard, and more importantly, acted upon. I’m sure that 47 years ago, people envisioned the future as one with more promise than the present time offers. 

I encourage you all to read and pass this on. It’s 2017, and the world is in pain. Children are starving, people are dying in senseless wars, and this is unacceptable. The good news is that we outnumber those who profit from the suffering. The time to fix the world is long overdue. It starts with each of us. 

Thank you, Pete, for your words of kindness and compassion. 

https://thecelt58blog.wordpress.com/2017/04/22/orphans-of-wealth-our-societys-shame/

Can’t decide which is worse…

1) Catching your husband check someone out, and him lie about it.

http://gph.is/2cPpJs6
2) Catching your husband check someone out, and when you make a comment about that someone, he pretends to be oblivious about whom you’re referring. 

http://gph.is/2cWxgrK
Either way, it’s rude and insulting to a person’s intelligence and self esteem. How about if someone is nice enough to give your shady ass another chance, you don’t try to fuck that up and keep your eyes on who you don’t want to lose!

If I could paint my visions

I would see my soul ripping my body in half, trying to escape the pain. I would see the world in the palm of my hand. Like a flower, I’d be picking out the bad buds–the Rockefellers, the Goldman Sachs, and all who profit from war–and toss them into the universe. I envision myself taking all of their money and using it to heal the sick, feed the starving, and bring comfort to those in need. After all, they have enough money to solve world hunger at least ten times over. With the bad buds gone, the world could bloom. Nations could be prosperous without fighting each other. Innocent blood wouldn’t be shed for the sake of resources or money. 

What a wonderful world that would be.

Lumpy Throat

Today I did my makeup. I feel like I’m hitting my low point again but I feel it’s easier for the world to cope with a painted face and a fake smile instead of the truth. When my makeup is on nobody asks me if I’m OK and that’s how I want it to be. 

I’ve been walking around with this huge lump in my throat and if people could see how I feel inside I would collapse to the floor and break down in tears. 

This lump in my throat is so heavy and it’s taking every bit of strength I have not to cry. I can’t do anything about it but let it take its course. I’m not allowed to die because my kids and husband apparently need me. I’m already in therapy I’m already taking medications for depression, anxiety, and chronic pain. I don’t know what else to do. I’m sitting here suffering in silence trying not to mess up my makeup with pointless tears. 

Shit. The lump won. The floodgates have opened. 

Can’t we all just get along? 🤣

It’s so quiet. Even the dogs are asleep. I hear my husband softly breathing as he’s in dreamland after a long day of work. The kids have had their snacks, drinks, and stories. All questions about the mysteries of the universe are on hold until tomorrow,  and then there is me: stuck in this silent battle between my body and mind. 

Mind: We should sleep. You have to get up with the kids in the morning and then go to see your psychiatrist. 

Body: I will, once the medication kicks in. In the meantime,  it’s going to rain soon. Every joint needs to transmit pain signals to set the rain alarm. 

Mind:  Ouch! My toes, ankles, knees, hope, back, neck, jaw, and….sciata?! Really?!

Body: Don’t forget the wrists…

Mind: Fuck you. I hate my body. 

Body:  Like you’re any better? You make me feel worse by stressing me out all the time. Starving me, tensing me up…getting scared of strangers in public. Oh!  And let’s not forget your procrastination on your huge assignments! It’s your fault I’m messed up.”

Mind: Everything is my fault…time to take a few trips down traumatic memory lane. 

Body is tense and hurting,  and my heart is racing. My mind is so loud among the silence. I’m afraid that when my medicine kicks in, I will miss the sleep train because I can’t relax. 

Mind: Remember the YouTube video your overpaid therapist suggested on Guided Meditation…

I’m too tired to look that shit up right now.

Music is my true therapy

I love when I have the radio on shuffle because I often come across songs that describe the feelings which are often difficult to put into words. Today’s is called “Inner Demons”. I feel that many of us can relate. 

Clothing advice for toddlers with AFO (shoes with twister cables)

Our 2.5 year old received his AFO yesterday, and this morning provided a struggle with dressing him. The doctor said that it can be worn under or over pants, which led me to believe that maybe the shoes can be detached from the twister cables. Nope. They are very much attached, and the shoes are too wide to fit in the pant legs. 

We don’t know how long he will need these, but in the meantime, I’m considering different ways in which I can use my sewing machine to make his clothes work for him. The AFO being visible doesn’t bother me, but I don’t want people to look at him any differently. The look on my husband’s face when I showed him the device, and our daughters’ response to him wearing it makes me question how others might respond. I don’t want people feeling sorry for him. He is a smart, active, strong, and capable little guy, and I don’t want him to ever think anything less than that because of how people respond to his “helping shoes”. 

Therefore, I’m considering cutting the inner seams of his jeans and sewing Velcro on the inside so the pant legs can go over the cables. I’ve never done clothing alterations aside from hemming, so this may be more challenging than it seems. 

If anyone has had any experience with this, or if there are any other options out there, I’m open to ideas and suggestions. 

Guided Meditation…

Yesterday my therapy appointment was a bit of a shit show. I spent most of the 45 minute time slot filling out paperwork so they can update their new system. 

When I finally got to sit down and talk to my therapist,  she asked how I was feeling. “So so.” She then asked if I was having thoughts of harming myself. The thoughts are always there. I said yes, but they weren’t strong enough to make me act on them. I told her the biggest problem at the forefront of my mind is my marriage, and how I’m struggling with insecurity and trust.

“What would your husband have to do for you to trust him again?”

I didn’t know how to answer this. I said he’d have to be consistently open, honest,  and respectful. How long it would take before I could feel safe and trust him is beyond me, though. 

“What happened after all of the rough patches that made you feel safe and secure?”

I told him about what his dad did to me,  and I don’t know what clicked in his mind,  but he started being the husband I needed all along. I told her about the time he threw my initial trauma in my face and blamed me for it.

“So he wasn’t loving and supportive of you when you told him about your first trauma,  but when you told him about what his dad did to you,  he was?”

Yes. 

We were almost out of time, and she told me to look up guided meditation on YouTube and practice it. 

I left the session feeling worse because her questions only added to my questions,  and the only answer was a fucking YouTube video. 

 I feel like therapy is pointless, but then again I’m feeling like everything I do is pointless. I need to swim back to the surface and find meaning in my life again. 

Has anyone tried guided meditation? If so, did you find it helpful? 

The Purge

I remember everything. My husband was blessed with a poor memory, so he doesn’t recall a lot of the damage, but I remember everything. We are working on rebuilding our marriage, but I feel that in order for that to happen, I need to get some things off of my chest and out of my mind. 

When we would go to take the trips to visit his family, I was the one who would do all the packing and ensure everything was ready to go. One of the times he was griping at me for not having everything done, and (this was before he knew about what his dad did to me) I came to a breaking point. I told him that it wasn’t worth it-going through all of that and listening to him bitch-and that I wouldn’t be going with him next time. He said something about what his family says about me, and I said “Fuck your family! All they ever do is talk behind my back!” He flicked me really hard on the side of the head, and then started yelling at me when I began to cry.

On the way back from one of the trips, we stopped at a hotel for the night. The kids and I weren’t moving fast enough for him, and he was bitching. Our daughter threw up in the backseat as we were loading things up and getting ready to go. He slapped me in the back of the head as I was cleaning up her vomit. I didn’t cry, but I was angry, and I began to emotionally detach from him.

Shortly after we returned, he started looking through my Facebook. He saw that I complimented a transgender woman on her makeup, and got mad at me for referring to her as a her. He started accusing me of wanting a gay man and looking for other things that he could accuse me of. When there was nothing else, he started talking about my initial trauma and not only minimized it, but started blaming me for it. 

Who was this monster ranting and raving before me? I didn’t recognize him. When the conversation went back to the transgender woman, I referred to her as a  her again, and this time he slapped me in the back of the neck. 

I screamed because I was already having neck pain, and then I fell to the floor and sat balled up with my arms around my legs. This is the position I get into when my anxiety attacks begin. I was sobbing uncontrollably and he was still yelling and trying to justify his actions and words. I kept begging him to stop and to just go away. 

I remained detached from him for a long time after that. I began looking into divorce lawyers and apartments. I didn’t want to be with him anymore. 

Then, a while later, I told him about what his dad did to me. We grew closer,  and I thought for sure we’d be okay. That is until he told me about his infidelity which happened during the time he was treating me like dogshit. 

Now,  he doesn’t want to be the person he was. Now, I’m supposed to try to forget it all and take him at his word that he won’t hurt me anymore. I feel like the stupid woman I vowed I’d never be. I’m afraid to make him mad. I’m afraid I’m not measuring up. I wonder if he’s afraid at all. 

Maybe the fact I’ve stuck around through it all will make him think that I will stick around after he has one more episode because “it hasn’t happened in a long time.” I want to believe him. I want to give him a fair chance, but I have so much hurt and my heart is too guarded to let him in completely. 

Maybe this purge will help to get it out of my mind. One can only hope. 

The most callous response to a tragedy I’ve ever read.

Mental health advocate and founder of Project Semicolon, Amy Bleuel, has been tragically lost to suicide. Even though I never knew her,I still mourn for her and her family. We need more heroes in this world, and Amy will always be one. 
Those of us with mental illness know that, even with the good days, we are never cured. I know I can’t speak for everyone, but I’m certain that most people who have found themselves in that dark place would see where I’m coming from. 

If you recall my reference to social media as “anti-social” media in a former blog, you’ll gain a deeper understanding of why I make such a reference by the time I’m finished writing this one. 

One of my favorite parenting bloggers shared the story about the loss of Amy, along with his story about his own personal struggle with depression and suicide. Many people shared their experiences, as well as pictures of their semicolon tattoos. Most of these comments were inspiring, and I almost felt safe enough to open up about my own experiences–almost. 

That feeling of communal bliss came shattering down when I came across this comment: 

Really???? You start a positive movement and then kill yourself??? The exact opposite of what your trying to bring awareness to…… I’m not being rude or hateful, I’ve suffered from anxiety for 30yrs & I’ve been on meds all.izt as long. This just sucks all around…..

Not being rude or hateful until…this (in response to a person who was one of many to respond with a massive  WTF):

Too bad, Satan will be waiting for you and those that committed suicide

See, I won’t bother naming this person, and if you-the perfect one who spewed this bullshit while mounted on your high horse- happen to stumble across my words, I hope they clutch you by the soul and give you a change of heart, or at least make you think twice about saying that shit again. 

Regardless of her being overwhelmed by the darkness and taken from this world too soon, Amy Beuel will always be a hero. She never claimed to be cured, but aimed to provide hope to others who suffer just as she did. 

The semicolon that people were sharing pictures of were inspired by Amy as a reminder to themselves that their story isn’t over. It also helped to break the stigma surrounding mental illness that ignorant self-righteous people like you helped to create in the first place.  

You suffered from anxiety for 30 years, so that gives you a pass to say that shit? No. Your Christianity gives you a pass to assume that people we lose to suicide are in hell?  Absolutely not.  As a Christian and suicide survivor, your words made my heart so heavy. It made me wonder if you would have the audacity to say that to Amy’s family, or any family who has lost a loved one to suicide. I doubt you would. 

That is why I refer to social media as anti-social media. There is this disconnect in humanity which has created opinionated keyboard warriors.

 In honor of Amy’s work and memory, I challenge everyone to pick up their phone to call someone and see how they’re doing. Go outside. Meet people. Smile at strangers. Make the world seem less cruel. I stand by my original statement when I said that compassion and support to prevent suicide begins with each of us being  present in each other’s lives. 

Rest in paradise, Amy. You will always be an inspiration to us. Thank you.

PHOTO CREDIT: American Foundation for Suicide Prevention