The good will always outweigh the bad

I remembered today some things that I really wish I never would have remembered. Why do I go for my mindful walks? Why do I go in search of the things that brighten my day and intrigue my mind? I have to balance the bad with the good. For me that may be like today searching for seeds and buds. New life. Today that was looking for raindrops, more raindrops from last night’s rain. Then I went to the prairie with no real intention other than getting out of my own head. I needed to get out of my mind. 
Do you know what the alternatives are?

Remembering that I was molested when I was 11. Remembering that man. Remembering that 2 years ago my entire family chose NOT ME. They chose denial. Remembering that I am battling a fight that I may not win when it comes to this physical body with this muscle disease and bone disease. Remembering the individuals who stood against me instead of with me. The realization that a little girl, me, had her childhood stolen and is STILL trying to recover from the gravity and reality of that. I don’t want to remember these things but I know they will keep coming. I noticed today that the quilt on my bed was not my own. Where was the one my mother gave me? I asked. I gave it away because it broke my heart to see it and know my mother had broken my heart. Where was my brother? I asked. He said many cruel things on his way out. Where are some of those friends that I had? Oh right. ” Your standards are too high,” I remembered her saying. Really? So, because I won’t compromise my own integrity? Because I won’t let you hurt me, blame me, deny my feelings then MY standards are too high? No honey. You HAVE NO STANDARDS. But I remember. Because I don’t compromise then I am the bad guy? No! I would rather have a few people in my life who respect me than tons of people who do not value me. These challenges. The little comments that fill my brain, “ Well I don’t like short hair on women but it looks good on you.” Really? Because I don’t remember asking what you FELT about the hair women should have. And I don’t like jerks and you just reminded me how ignorant and judgmental people are and how they just look for the chance to tear you down. This coming from a BALD MAN. It’s okay. I don’t judge you because you are bald. But you decided that I was ONE of the ones that could “pull off” short hair. So these thoughts run through my mind along with a thousand other thoughts. My daughter, me, oh and a million other thoughts. I could sit with these thoughts. This life. I am thrown right back into the depths and I could easily drown. I believe I was close to drowning before. So my lifeboat? My lifejacket? Looking for a rose bud today with a raindrop. 

What are the alternatives? Let the past rule me? Or try my hardest to live in the right now and embrace all the good I can find! I choose to at least try to fight for the good. 

Some things are out of my control. Far out of my control. I know I cannot change the flashbacks or the memories. I cannot fix my health right now. I cannot stop the pain in my legs, my dilated pupil, my toes from curling under, the ache in my shin bones. I cannot alter those things. 
BUT I can step outside. At least today I can. I can find a rose bud with a rain drop. So that is exactly what I did. The alternative? Being stuck with the trauma that I cannot seem to get away from. Thoughts that I have not quite learned to control. So raindrops it is. 

Later I felt this pull to go out on the prairie. I cannot tell you why. I stood in the middle of the road in the prairie. I looked at the storm coming. The sprinkles started falling and I watched the sun setting with the dark clouds surrounding it. I “felt” I needed to turn around. I did. There was a rainbow. I immediately called out “LAURA!!!!” Then my knees buckled and I sobbed and sobbed. Laura was my very best friend. We rode horses when we were in the 3rd grade, rode the bus together, ran from her mean bull together. And a number of years ago we embraced on my couch as she was dying of cancer and she was praying for ME to be strong and giving me the love only Laura seemed to know how to give. 

I remembered my sweet Laura was gone. The rainbow was hers. It always was. It was a way to remember her. And there she was in that rainbow. 

See I have had extreme challenges, and extreme loss. I have also had extreme love! The love of my friend Laura that has gone unmatched by anyone! The love of my dog that also passed away. The continuing love of my husband and daughter. The love is stronger than the loss. The love is stronger than the pain. The love is that rainbow. 

I’m going to upload all of the pictures I took. Normally I describe all of them for my visually impaired friends. I will try and go back and do that later but wordpress keeps locking up so I am quick pressing publish before it closes. 

I stood sobbing in the middle of the dirt road looking at that rainbow and I knew that I was not alone and I never would be. The good. The Laura’s, will always outweigh the bad. Always. 

The rainbow!


I’m not afraid of you.

Your words

Hiding behind the glass

With your idle threat

Wearing today’s mask.

Men like you

Cause me no fret

I’ve had real monsters

Lying in my bed.

I’ve been used

By others

Just like you

Who love to throw out hostility

I’ve been abused 

By those like you

Who think you can 

Tap into my fragility.

I’m not afraid of you.

Although I know you’d love me to

You are afraid

Because I know  you. 

You are afraid 

Because others will too.

Did you think I’d keep your secret?

Oh I don’t keep those anymore.

I stopped keeping other’s secrets

When my face was stomped to the floor.

So no, 

I’m not afraid of you.

I met so many of you before. 

Now turn and walk away

I don’t keep score

But I’ve no time for pathetic

So please

Don’t forget

As you leave

Close that fuckin door.


Photograph taken by me of two feathers I found yesterday. Both were under leaves and unnoticed, dirty, and ragged. Both were smoothed out by me and appreciated. Then a poem was written:

Left alone, 

in society’s judgment.

Left alone, 

in society’s stigma.

Left alone, 

hidden not in the word  “society” but each person’s CHOICE.

Left alone,

 in other’s choices to hurt, to abandon, to wound, to minimize, to criticize, to inflict harm.

Left alone,

 in one’s own mind, created by others.

Left alone,

 to find one’s self deep beneath the layers of tattered and torn.

It only takes one, 

to soften the edges of a body and mind that has been brutally worn, 

One to listen. 

One to soothe.

One to gently nurture.

It only takes one, 


you are not alone anymore.

It only takes one,

To lift the weight of the tormentor. 

Be that one.







So I write: Victoria’s Secret Pink bra

I am grateful for the outpouring of love that my friends here on wordpress have given me. I have saved the words and I cherish my tribe more than you could ever imagine. 

I have taken the advice of those who have loved and supported me on wordpress and decided to continue to write, just apply some safety nets for myself. I will have comments disabled until I feel strong enough to fight the evil that may come by way of comment. It is unfortunate because what I love most is the conversations that we have on my blog but for my own safety I have to, for now, disable comments. I hope you stay on my journey with me until I feel strong enough to handle the “trolls”. 

So I write. 

On my blog I have always written with extreme vulnerability and truth. Every part of myself I have shared. Each emotion I have felt, I have shared. Each moment of beauty, I have shared. I cannot and I will not allow my voice to be shut down again. I had it shut down by my family and by those who supported the abuse/hid the abuse of me for my entire life. 

I will continue to share all parts of who I am. I have never claimed to be perfect. I have infact admitted to be flawed in many ways. 

I am walking this path trying the best I can to face the challenges. 

Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, and physically, I am in the hardest struggle yet. I will never have another person silence me again. Even if it means disabling comments on my blog. 

So I write. I share my life good and bad in hopes that one person out there in this big bad world will feel like they’ve got ONE person who “gets” what they are going through with absolutely NO judgment or shame. 

I was watching Demi Lovato videos. I was reading Demi Lovato lyrics. 

She writes without apology for her emotions, her anger, her fight, her passion, and her pain. I just listened to Kelly Clarkson’s song she wrote for her father. These artists write without apology but with honest passion. 

So I write. 

I write without apology. I will not apologize for feeling. I will not apologize for my emotions, for my passion, or for my truth. I made the mistake of momentarily trying to justify and clarify to someone who questioned me. I will not do that again. I write from my heart and soul. I write from where I am that day, that moment, that instant. I may remember more details than previously written. I may remember less or with more vengeance, anger, or even joy. Memories come. More and more each day. Nightmares come more and more each day. Adding to my story, elaborating to my truth does not mean the previous words were not true. I will continue to write the memories as they come. I will not apologize for my timeline, my life line, my words, not fitting into a perfect square. My truth will always come. 

So I write. 

I will never apologize or justify my truth again. 

I AM a victim. I do not LIVE as a victim every day. PTSD makes me BECOME a victim again. It is how it FEELS. Some days I feel like a survivor. Some days I feel like a victim. Most days I am just a wife and a mother who is finding joy wherever I can. 
How do I feel today? To be in my mind and my body you’d feel like you were on a rollercoaster. My finger joints are stiff and painful due to the lyme disease that just REFUSES to die. My shoulder has triggered a trigeminal neuralgia response in my face due to my muscle disease. I have extreme pain and cannot feel half of my face. I smell EVERYTHING. Maybe because a seizure is in my near future? Maybe because my husband has left and I am on guard for my daughter and me? The bones in my shins and spine hurt due to my bone disease I suppose. Emotionally, I have manically organized photos, cried, felt despondent, felt abandoned, felt alone, felt, damaged, felt like there is no way I can mentally cope with my OWN MIND! 

So I write. 

I would like to leave you with what I always like to leave my blogs with and my days with, a little bit of good:

I heard my owl hoot. It was like an orchestra was playing the most beautiful music ever composed. I immediately got into my scooter and went out to see if I could see her ( I didnt). I got into the neighborhood behind us when it started dumping rain! DUMPING. I zipped into someone’s open garage and said a silent prayer they didn’t come out and shoot me!

I knew it would take 5 minutes to get home. The rain was not letting up. My scooter is my transportation. Normally I have an umbrella in my scooter pouch but SOMEONE removed it (I won’t name any names). So I did what a girl has to do…took off my shirt, covered my scooter gears, and sped home as fast as I could. All I can say is thank heaven’s I put on my pretty Victorias secret pink bra! I was infact still in my PJs from the night before! High five to me for thinking to throw on a bra. So I sped home with my shirt over my handle bars in the pouring rain. Many neighbors were out doing lawn work also caught off guard by the rain and as they continued pressure washing and mowing I zipped past them drenched wet, hair dripping, in my very nice pink bra. I have no idea why but I just started laughing! I gave them each a wave and in a terrible British accent told them “ Carry on and ignore the girl in the rain in her scooter and her pink bra.” The couldn’t hear me and for all they knew I was wearing a bathing suit. Yeah, they know me well enough to not be surprised. 

I laughed at my fake British accent and drove into my driveway with every part of me and my scooter wet but the handle bars protected by my shirt. My daughter casually calls out from the kitchen, “ So did you get wet?” Gotta love her. 

*photograph of my wet scooter with dry handle bars 🙂

If I could only stop dreaming!

I used to love dreaming. I used to dream of my Nana and picnics. I used to dream that I lived with Native American Indians every night. I used to dream that I could see and visit loved ones that passed away. I don’t dream those dreams anymore. My dreams have turned to nightmares. Reminders. I don’t want reminders. I don’t know why they come. Are they being purged? If so then why do I need repeaters? Something I need to face? Well frankly I am tired of facing new old things. Really, my plate overfloweth with garbage from that past that is being sifted through and discarded. New things really upset me. Last night I had a dream that I was in the hospital and desperately needed a ride home. Everyone from my past, my family, my friends, were all playing football in the hospital waiting room as if I wasn’t even there needing to be taken home after surgery. That stupid seemingly meaningless dream morphed into the truth about my past. I was so in need of help and everyone was just acting out their lives around me oblivious. Completely oblivious. This dream took me to the truth that I really am quite tired of remembering. One event that was especially bothersome.

I became sick when I was 18 years old. It was when my doctors now think that I contracted Lyme disease because I had also Rocky Mountain spotted fever. At that time I had quit working as a professional waterskiier and moved in with my boyfriend to get away from the lake and the memories of the childmolester ski coach. When I got sick I was very much alone. I was very very sick. I had extreme weakness and vertigo. That spring break my brother had come home from college with his college friend and my dad wanted us to go to the beach. Or maybe it was senior spring break. Funny, I don’t recall. I missed my senior year of highschool being in a mental hosptial and all. So my time frame, much to my family’s dismay is always a little off. My facts are always correct. But the year and the exact time is sometimes off. Abuse and PTSD can affect time. They don’t know that because they are selfish pricks. Anyway, I was so sick but dad didn’t really acknowledge that. He insisted I go to the beach with them and so I did. I remember two things about that trip. My dad asking me to go down to the beach where he and my brother and his friend were playing football. That was the first. It took all the strength I had to walk down to that beach. I sat down and almost immediately my dad and brother and friend tossed the football in my direction, one of them caught it and fell on top of me and hurt me. I started to cry but no one cared. They were so into what they were doing they were oblivious to me. Just like in my dream. I walked up to the hotel. I didn’t matter. The second thing I remember is the hot tub. I didn’t bring a bathing suit because I knew I was too sick to get in the water. They all wanted me to get in the hot tub. I did. I was so obedient to every one else’s wishes. I got into the hot tub. I felt immediately sick. They had been drinking alcohol. I stood up and my dad immediately drug his finger down the front of my shirt and in between my breasts and commented that I was not wearing a bra. They were all drunk. I am sure if you asked any of them they won’t remember. I do. I didn’t matter. At 18 years old, not even living at home, I was repeatedly brought back in and shown that I did not matter. 

My dad, brother, entire family are all gone now. Not dead. Just no longer in my life all of their own choosing except my father. I ended my relationship with my father. The family just chose to side with him. But I ended it with him. I couldn’t let him disappointment me anymore and I couldn’t go on with these lies about the past eating at me. The truth had to be told . They don’t like the truth. Never have. I told the truth at 43 years of age and poof they were gone. My dreams just remind me that I should have been the one to poof them out of my life long long ago. I was unable to though. I didn’t see them for who they were. I was molded, brainwashed, and weak. 

I don’t want to remember them. I don’t want to fall asleep and be reminded of how many people let me fall and stepped on me when I was down there. I don’t want to dream anymore. 

I do have a plan though. I plan to discuss these dreams in therapy. Perhaps, if I go back to that time while I am awake, and choosing, I can create a new image. Perhaps I can save myself, punch my father in the face, choose not to go to the beach at all, had a voice. Perhaps in doing that I can give my body and mind what it never got before, validation, love, respect, and I will stop dreaming. It’s worth a shot. I don’t have much control over what happens in my dreams. It is helpless there. Which seems so unfair! I’m going to try and change that. I can only hope that facing each thing that comes up in my dreams head on will make them disappear. 

Arguments with myself 

Me: It’s 1am my stomach is rumbling. I think I need to eat.

Me: You don’t need to eat at 1am. Ignore it and go to bed.

Me: But I’m pit of my stomach starving.

Me: Be strong. Don’t go eat. You don’t need it. Be strong.

Me: But I’m nauseous I’m so hungry.

Me: You’re weak if you go in there. “Tighten up that ass. Stop eating so much.”

Me: Wait! That voice in my head is not me! It doesn’t make me weak to eat! It doesn’t make me strong to starve myself! That is that asshole at Seaworld who said I was fat at 105lbs. That asshole is in my head still!!! So many assholes in my life made me hyperfocus on my body by bullying. Oh my gosh!!!! I hate that they did that to me! I hate that their words are still in my mind!

Me: Yep, you are listening to the enemy who has set up camp in your brain with memories and chains and control. You are no longer 18. You are in control. You are strong. You can go get food and listen to your body’s needs. You are 45 years old. Go get some fucking food. You have a muscle disease. Your body needs constant nourishment. Love that body. Feed that body. 
I promptly go to the kitchen and eat an entire meal and feel satisfied. I will not let the past control me. I will not let the words from someone from my past control me. I AM 45 years old and I will overcome ALL of them!!!
*Photo taken while in kitchen of the black spider that tried to bite me last week that I could not manage to catch. Another spider finally caught him and killed him. Seemed appropriate for this current subject matter.