50 Shades of Cray In BR

Baton Rouge bridge traffic problems ranked 19th worst in U.S., research institute survey says | State Politics | theadvocate.com
— Read on www.google.com/amp/s/www.theadvocate.com/baton_rouge/news/politics/article_60c9c674-2f0d-11e9-b791-2b73ae48cab7.amp.html

Due to my severe social anxieties I’m pretty much an agoraphobic by nature. I only leave when I absolutely must (doctors appointments, food for the kiddos, etc). I don’t like getting out one fucking bit, but especially as a parent one sometimes MUST.

Yesterday was one of those days. I had an appointment with my Neurosurgeon at 10:30am. The ride from my little rural town right outside of Baton Rouge was mostly interstate and mercifully uneventful at that time of day. As I pulled into the parking lot of the medical complex where all of my specialists are located I noticed hundreds of people. Outside. “What in the fucking fuck,” I muttered to myself as I got parked, grabbed my purse and headed for the building. As I got closer I asked a super sweet, chatty, older African American lady what was going on. She replied with “Lord, child some stupid ass young ‘un done called in a bomb threat.” “To a medical facility?” I asked incredulously. This sent Miss Gladys (as I later learned her name was) into the most hilarious rant about the chirren these days didn’t get dat ass beat nearly enough. That’s why they ALL acted like assholes. I was so caught up in her story and doubled over in fits of giggles, I didn’t even notice or mind the medical complex officials herding us back into the building. I of course sat by Miss Gladys as she was there for Neurology as well. By this time it was 11:20am and those fuckchops at reception told me that I was late for my appointment. You fucking think?!? Perhaps it was because you had 300 of us sick and hurting patients milling about in the hundred degree scorching heat with ninety percent humidity. Want to know what that feels like. Go wet a wool blanket soaking wet, lay it over your entire body including your face and try to breath. I was so enraged I threw a full fledged, stiff armed bug stomping fit. Right there in the check in line. I was sweating, swearing and ranting to such a degree they had to call security to calm me down. I think the two twenty something rent-a-cop’s were a bit intimidated by me because all they did was bring me a glass of cold water, a cool rag for my livid, feverish brow and gave me a few soothing words and hand pats. I shit you not, I got a standing ovation led by my new BFF, Miss Gladys, cheering loudly, ” You tell ’em, baby!”

Good thing she and I were having such a grand ole time because it made the hours pass much more quickly. It was nearly 2:00pm before either of us was seen.

The real fun didn’t start until I finally got on the interstate to head back home.

This is what I drove into. Remember I’m a shithouse rat CRAZY BITCH who had already had an unsettling fucked up day (except for meeting Miss Gladys, with whom I exchanged numbers so we could keep in touch) and as MY luck would have it drove into one of the biggest traffic cluster fucks of all time. People with BPD don’t do well with aggressiveness. In any form, and Baton Rouge drivers are the biggest road assholes on the whole god damn planet and I am their Queen. Queen of the Motor Assholes. The more aggressive other drivers became with me, the more I lost my shit! I mean seriously, I was going fucking beserk. I tried to run a semi-trucker AND two little old ladies off the road in less than half a mile. After two hours of inching along at a snails pace (I could have literally parked my car in the middle of the interstate and walked briskly home and I would’ve gotten home far more quickly than from sitting in that shit). By the time I made it home I was beside myself with rage. When I saw the house (remember I’m an OCD neat freak as well) and saw my fucking house in shambles from teenagers being home for the summer, I briefly contemplated murder but quickly realized that horizontal stripes make my fat ass like doubly wide AND neither black or white is on my color wheel.

Soooooo I did the only thing a raging mother fucker can do without being arrested……I went at my heavy bag in the garage (with my ex-husbands picture secured in a clear pocket I had so thoughtfully attached to it) until I puked. Just another day of 50 shades of CRAY in BR!!!


The Art of Swearing

I remember being a young girl. Probably eleven or twelve years old when I urgently had to use the facilities at K-Mart as soon as mom had herded my brother, sister and I through the front doors. Back then there was no unisex bathroom where my mom, my sister, little brother and I could pile up into as I did my business because everyone knew what gender their fluid was back in those days. Being the eldest, mom decided to send me in alone as she and my sibs waited for me outside. As I hovered over the seat (no touching for me as I was a germophobe for as far back as I can remember) I noticed a word I had yet to read before. FUCK. It said other stuff too, it actually said for a GOOD FUCK call Lisa and there was a phone number. I hurriedly finished my business, got a fresh dry paper towel after washing my hands and copied what was written on the bathroom stall wall verbatim with my trusty red, blue and black clicker ink pen. I was on to something. This girl Lisa had a bunch of GOOD fucks, and since they were good and I didn’t think I owned any FUCKS AND we were at K-Mart, I decided to loudly proclaim my desire to have a GOOD FUCK from what I assumed was the toy department. All of the good stuff was in the toy department. Right?!? So I was convinced that was exactly where I could find the GOOD FUCKS at.

As I was not so quietly begging my mom for a whole bunch of GOOD FUCKS, she went white as freshly fallen snow, snatched her purse and my toddler sister out of the buggy and said “Let’s go. NOW!”

Neither my little brother nor eye could understand what the hell was going on as we sat in the back seat of mom’s station wagon staring at each other with wide eyes.

Once we got home mom sent my siblings into the backyard to play and tried to calmly explain to me that not only was that an ugly word…..it was the ugliest of words in the English language. Defensively I said “but those FUCKS were GOOD!!” So I got my mouth washed out with soap and grounded from going out to play with my neighborhood friends. In my tweenage rebellious mind I knew I had hit fucking paydirt. As soon as dad got home I got another lecture and a minor ass whipping (by minor I mean no belt was involved). By the time my punishment was up I was positively brimming with questions for my friends, two of which happened to be a couple of years older and boys. They told me ALL about those fucks and why I got my ass beat over giving one. From that day forward I have consciously incorporated that and a plethora of other equally shocking words into my vocabulary.

So that is the way my profanity story began, the rest is history, and I’m still wondering what poor ole Lisa did with all of those GOOD FUCKS she gave😂

Balance: The Yin and Yang of My Life

Yin and yang is a concept of dualism in ancient Chinese philosophy, describing how seemingly opposite or contrary forces may actually be complementary, interconnected, and interdependent in the natural world, and how they may give rise to each other as they interrelate to one another.

I’ve suffered in my life. Oh, how I’ve suffered. There was a time that I allowed myself to be buried so deeply in my own tragedy that all I knew was suffering.

One morning I woke up and said, “FUCK that”!! That was the day I took control of my own destiny. Yes, as adults, life tends to hand us a plethora of shit sandwiches. Instead of turning up our noses at said sandwiches, one needs to learn how to tie on an adult sized bib and dive right in to that bitch. Life gives us circumstances. Some are rich, some are poor. Some are happy, some are sad. Some are easy, some are hard. The only certainty is that life is only going to GIVE you back what you give to it.

I started being abused when I was four years old. Four. The lens of innocence that I viewed the world through was shattered into a million tiny splinters of the sharpest crystal.

Through poor self esteem and bad decisions due to the poor self esteem, I continually made poor choices throughout my adult life. I have been victimized in every way there is to victimize a person. My life was my misery and I wallowed in it.

Learning that you have a mental disorder is not on many people’s top ten list of best things that have ever happened to them, but alas I’m DIFFERENT. Being diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder changed my life. For the better. All of the odd and different things about me finally had a name. A royal title if you will. I mean I’m quirky as fuck anyway, but add a double scoop with sprinkles of BPD on top of that and you’ve got one misfit, looney tunes mother fucker😊

I used to let my suffering and craziness define me. It took me coming to the cusp of completing losing myself to the darkness for me to finally shatter again, but this time shatter to a rebirth where I could see the bright, beautiful prisms of light that bounced off all of those broken splinters of my own heart. I OWN my suffering and craziness now. I run this koo-koo ass shitshow that is sometimes my life.

Although I have suffered, my blessings are great and many. I have learned never to judge. We never know what kind of internal war our fellow man is waging just below the surface. These days kindness and empathy just seem like words from days long past. It doesn’t have to be that way. I’m living proof of the balance in the great equation that we call life.

Although my heart has been broken time and time again, the greatest of loves was practically dropped in my lap. I personally think it’s because I GIVE so much love. It’s good for ones heart to spread love in these times of chaos and hate. It did come back around to balance all of my previous suffering and pain.

I had a small little nest egg that I took an uncharacteristic chance on by investing into a few risky high yield stocks, because I’ve always had a generous, charitable nature and have ALWAYS gone out of my way to help those less fortunate than myself (even during my darkest days) my gamble paid off for me and grew my nest egg exponentially.

The common denominator is balance. I, as a practicing Buddhist try to incorporate balance in every aspect of my life. From how I live my life to how I arrange my furniture. If you feel like you are in a rut. Do something. Anything. Get those wheels spinning again, because I know for a fact that “It can’t rain all the time.” (The Crow, 1994).

I ♥️ My 500 Followers

I started my blog eighteen months ago to try to deal with my Borderline Personality Disorder diagnosis. I was at the time only hoping to connect with others with my condition so I could possibly get insight and advice on how to cope with the dramatic highs and lows of BPD. Little did I know what a life altering journey my blog would take me on.

I have made so many dear lifelong friends from all over the globe. I have found unconditional love and support from the unlikeliest of places. I have laughed, cried, ranted and raved with all of you and I wouldn’t change one single second of it!

You all have become my giant loving supportive family and I am so very grateful to have each and every one of you in my WP family. Thank you for 500 Follows. Here’s to many more years of our profanity laden (me), happy, sad, exciting, crazy journey♥️♥️

🙏🏼Namaste Y’all🙏🏼

♥️This Is Love♥️

If y’all want to know what my heart looks like here is a picture of it. My eight month old grandson with his Chuck Liddell hair and appetite for anything he can fit in his mouth. Today starfish was on the menu😊

I had a hard time fathoming how I could love anyone or anything more than my beloved kiddos. Then I became a MiMi and it has been the most amazing experience in my whole life. This little fella has me absolutely wrapped around his precious little fingers♥️

Sweet Dreams

Insomnia. It’s such an awful bitch. Nights are the absolute worst. Dark and endless. I’ve always hated nights. Bad things happen in the dark. I am saying so from personal experience. I crave sleep like someone who is lost in the desert craves water. They eventually hallucinate and see beautiful mirages consisting of glistening pools of water. I hallucinate deep, dreamless sleep. It’s bad enough that during the daylight hours my mind is in constant turmoil. The night only increases the battle within to a fever pitch. Occasionally I doze fitfully only to have vivid, violent nightmares of other dark nights long past. The abominations perpetrated upon my person flicker rapidly across the back of my eyelids like a horror movie on fast forward. Although I am at the cusp of the shadow lands, I can feel my body writhe and my breathe quicken as the shadow serpent starts coiling itself around my body as I look into its cold dead eyes and watch its forked tongue touching my skin like an evil whisper I suddenly realize I can hear it. Over and over again it names every sin I’ve ever committed. I shudder as I feel the BPD Monster come out to join the macabre party and wrestle with the Serpent of sins past.

As the serpent continually repeats each sin it’s voice gets louder. Not to be outdone, the BPD Monster starts a litany of all of the sins committed against me. It has to scream to be heard over the Serpent who in turn gets louder to be heard over the Monster until it becomes a shrieking cacophony that eventually turns into a silent scream that my dozing body can’t lend a voice to. I’m frozen in terror. I gasp as I feel the Monster start to rage and the Serpent tighten its coils. Mercifully the gasp startles me awake. I bolt upright in my bed drenched in sweat and my heart galloping in my chest. “Another fucking nightmare”, I whisper to myself for reassurance. Truth be told I did it to make sure I was really awake. Really alive.

Waging this internal battle day and night is exhausting. Most days it manifests itself into excruciating physical pain. What a loathsome life to NEVER have a moments peace. One can not say that I have not tried to do something about this internal conflict. I religiously go to therapy and take my psychiatric medications, I paint, write, continuously clean and organize. I’ve tried acupuncture. I do guided meditations several times a day. Absolutely nothing has worked to block the horrific memories. At this point I don’t think anything short of a lobotomy, a psychiatric ward or death will stop them. They have become as much a part of me as my own body and the organs that keep me in the land of the living. If I thought amputating a limb would work I would saw that fucking limb off with a dull handsaw myself. Alas this is only wishful thinking. My eyes are red and gritty. My jaw has been clenched all night which has given me colossal headache. I toss back four Tylenol’s like they are Tic Tac candies. I listlessly flip through the channels and realize that not even the news is on anymore. Only endless infomercials hawking their shitty wares. Everyone is so happy and energetic. I realize that I envy these anonymous people. In my mind they all sleep just fine. No nightmares for these exultant people. I don’t wish to trade places with them though. Not even for a second. I wouldn’t wish my walking wounded crazy mind on my worst enemy much less some gleeful strangers. So as usual, I will fight the good fight for another short day and another long night. I tell myself, “I am Sparta”, like an encouraging mantra.

At last the sun is slowly ascending the sky. I am finally able to unclench my jaw and reach for the eye drops that have taken up permanent residence on my night stand. Tonight was by far not my first rodeo. As I stand I hear every joint in my body screech in protest as they crackle and pop. I have a moment of vertigo that insists that I sit back down. I know exactly how this day is going to go by the way it has started.

Moral of this story?

The early bird does not get “the worm”. The early bird does not get shit except a lot less sleep than everyone else.

Sweet Dreams.

A Case Of Temporary Insanity

I’ve Been Told I Need To Be A Lot Less ME

— Read on ifyourehappyandyouknowitshakeyourmeds.wordpress.com/2019/03/29/ive-been-told-i-need-to-be-a-lot-less-me/

I’ve been rereading some of my older posts and came across this gem. Honestly….what in the fucking fuck was I thinking?!?

Changing and conforming to make someone else happy when most days I have a hard time finding something about myself that I like in the first damn place.

If I recollect correctly, both my father and husband had ferociously dressed me down over my profane mouth and unladylike actions the day I wrote that blog post.

I must have been feeling particularly meek during the time it took me to write that post. Being G-Rated lasted for less than two hours. What can I say, I’m ME. I’m perfectly fine with EVERYTHING that comes with being me AND I have an enormous, amazing group of “family by choice” via my blog that think I’m pretty awesome BECAUSE I’m proudly, realistically myself.

I’m glad that I could only maintain the change for a couple of hours. What a fucking boring, awful two hours it was. I revised my bio with a disclaimer so I DO at least warn unsuspecting new readers what they are about to get into.

To my wonderful, beautiful, loyal followers, thank you for making me see myself through your eyes. For someone who has terrible self esteem issues due to my BPD, your words of encouragement and support mean more to me than you’ll ever know!!

I’m Not Afraid of Going To Hell. I Already Live There

I have somewhat of a conundrum. I realize that by blogging my personal opinions, day to day life problems and sharing so much of myself that I’m potentially inviting debate and/or criticism.

Debate me all day long, just come at me with your own opinion the right way and I’ll respectfully listen and eventually we might just agree to disagree. Politely.

I have neither the temperament nor the restraint to be “told about myself” in what I deem as an aggressive manner. As a matter of fact it is one of my MAIN BPD triggers.

I know many of you that follow me know that I’m quirky, self deprecating and can find some sort of obscene humor in just about any given situation. Many of you know the funny, tough, cursing, genuine, giant hearted traits that make me…well me. You laugh with me and give me words of support and encouragement when I need them the most.

I know EXACTLY who I am….I don’t need to be “told” who I am or how I should feel. I battle the rage, insecurity and worthlessness of Borderline Personality Disorder every second of every day. The BPD also brings a much darker, much more cruel aspect of my personality front and center when I’m going through a rough patch, or when I feel overwhelmed by life as I currently do.

To those of you who love me and/or read my blog because I’m sincere, raw and absolutely real, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Your comments, advice and encouragement keep me grinding. Even on the days I can barely drag myself into an upright position. Y’all are my family. Perhaps not by blood, but more importantly by choice.

For those who read a blog post or two and think they KNOW me and have the the audacity to tell me why and how I should change, to you I say the biggest and most heartfelt FUCK YOU and the horse you rode in on.

One doesn’t KNOW me by reading a couple of posts or even by comments on other bloggers posts whom I follow. My advice to you fucking fuckfaces that do not like what I have to say or how I say it and just can not help but direct a snide shitty comment my way, is quite simple. Keep scrolling and keep your dicksucker shut. When you get done scrolling, judging and commenting about me or my life, might I suggest taking your keyboard and shoving it straight up your ass. Sideways (just in case you decide to be a cowardly keyboard warrior to someone else) at least it will be in the correct position to type.

If one continues to want to verbally spar with me in an assholey way, I’m sorry. I refuse to engage in a battle of wits with an UNARMED person. That just leaves me with one option. Violence. Something I’m VERY familiar with.

You see if I’m backed into a corner to the point of having to respond with violence, rest assured I’ll bury my foot so far up your ass, you’ll need a root canal to have it removed.

To the rest of my beloved blogging family, happy Monday, Y’all♥️

Anastasia’s Truths

Anastasia awoke slowly, she can always count on her anti-psychotic medications to take her deep into the shadow lands. That place between dark and light. Living and dead. Last night was like all of the others. Restless and filled with horrific nightmares.

Although her life has been filled with misery, violence and pain, she really has a kind, sincere heart. Even towards those who have hurt her. She understands that leaves her open and vulnerable to further pain but the pain just doesn’t hurt quite so bad when it becomes ones normal. Truth be told, it makes her feel alive.

Last week Anastasia had an appointment with her neurologist. She had been experiencing some physical symptoms that did not seem normal and she wanted some reassurance that everything was fine and it was just her extremely vivid imagination.

Many tests and many days later, she had a diagnosis. Multiple Sclerosis. The primary-progressive kind. If this autoimmune disease was a cancer, hers would probably be considered a Stage III 1/2.

Her neurologist was aghast that he and so many others had missed the telltale signs for so many years.

Another long, painful battle for Anastasia. This one being for the rest of her life. She had been on the cusp of the most beautiful happily ever after but this diagnosis dealt her a blow that even she was having trouble coming to terms with.

When the realization came to her, it hit her like a ton of bricks. People like her, NEVER achieved happily ever after. She considered herself foolish for entertaining such a notion.

There are winners in this life and there are those of us who fight monsters she thought as she sighed and laid her head down on her folded arms…..

The Breaking of Anastasia

Anastasia craved love and acceptance from the time she was a little girl. No matter how nice she was or how well she behaved those two things both eluded her like wisps of smoke in the air. If she tried to grab onto them, they disappeared into her tiny fist. The one man that should have loved and accepted her no matter what was her father. He did neither.

Anastasia grew into a rebellious teen. In her mind if Daddy was going to savagely beat her again and again to vent his own anger and frustration within his own life, she was going to at least “have fun” and give him some good reason. The rebellion was the kind of vanilla sort that many teenagers fall prey to. Sneaking out to hang out with friends from the neighborhood, occasional underage drinking and a very small partaking of the weed, when one of the older, more bold teens could smuggle a pinch of it out of their parent’s sack without them noticing. Anastasia didn’t know very much about the stinky, feel good cigarettes but she was pretty sure what she later learned was called a pinner by cannabis smokers, didn’t go very far with 12 people hitting it.

Anastasia was REALLY glad that she made sure to have fun even if she had to sneak out to do it, one “normal” teenage night with her friends became the night that her daddy caught her and beat her within an inch of her life. Except this time he took it up a notch and wrapped an electrical cord around her throat and started pulling. Daddy was not a small man, it wouldn’t have taken long…..just as her vision began swimming in front of her eyes and she was convinced that her short life had come to its pre-ordained conclusion, her meek and scared mother, for the first and only time that she could ever remember intervened. Daddy loosened his grip, stood up, spat on her as he called her a whore and stomped out of her room. Her mother just looked at her blankly and scurried quickly after her father as she silently closed the door.

That night something died within her. That something was her innocence. In its place something dark and evil was born (Borderline Personality Disorder a/k/a the monster within). Prior to that particular beating she was a sweet, loving, compassionate, empathetic, naive girl. After that episode she viewed the world through a completely different much darker, more sinister lens.

As soon as she graduated from high school, she found out she was pregnant with her first child who turned out being a gorgeous baby girl, and shortly thereafter married the infant’s father, her high school sweetheart, that same year.

For a while things were at least as normal as she had ever known, as the precious dark haired little girl was the center of her universe. Being a mother gave her immense peace and joy, of which she’d never known.

After about a year of marriage her husband started staying later and later after work. Their tiny budget became tighter. As it turned out, he wasn’t sharing a six pack with his buddies around the corner like he had implied. He and some guys from work had been going to a strip club near their job after work and his paycheck that paid their rent, grocery and utility bills was ending up in a strippers thong.

She and her family started getting evicted and having various utilities cut off month after month due to his extracurricular activities. By this time her high school sweetheart had turned into a mean drunk, and the cycle of abuse that she thought she had finally escaped from started anew. Her husband turned into a replica of her abusive father. He used his fists, his words and her own fragile psyche as fodder for his cruel abusive games. There were times that the monster inside of her, the one that her father created with those very same actions, sprang back to life and she would fight back. She let loose with all of the worthlessness, sadness and fury that she tried so hard to keep bottled up inside to “keep the peace”. The beatings were much worse when she fought back, but she didn’t care, she was indifferent to physical pain. Truth be told, she didn’t even feel it because the psychological and emotional pain hurt far worse than any physical pain ever could.

Around the time that the abuse became too much to bear, she found out that she was pregnant again and that they were having a son. The abuse completely stopped for the entire pregnancy, as her husband was so delighted and proud to be having a boy child to carry on his family name. By the time their son was born, their daughter was four years old and when after about a month postpartum the abuse began again. Her husband beat her for everything and also for nothing at all. The difference was their daughter started to notice. She started throwing up and having stomach aches every day. At five her pediatrician said she just had a “nervous stomach” and put her on a mild sedative. Anastasia knew the cause even if her five year old couldn’t or wouldn’t verbalize it. Nonetheless, she stayed in the abusive marriage for another two years.

One day as she was putting up the folded laundry, she happened to pass by one of the kids’ rooms where they had been happily playing just a few minutes earlier. As she was passing the door her daughter slapped her two year old brother across the face and he started screaming. Anastasia immediately dropped the laundry and sternly asked her daughter, “Why did you slap your helpless baby brother? We don’t do those things in our house. It’s very ugly and not nice at all.” Through her tears her gorgeous little girl said, ” but Mommy, Daddy does it to you all of the time when he gets angry.” At that moment another piece of Anastasia’s battered heart broke into a million pieces.

She went to her room and had herself a good cry, packed the kids and herself up, left her wedding rings on the counter and went “home” to her Mom and Dads. Her Father had quit hitting her the night he almost took her life as a teenager. He also NEVER raised his voice in front of the children, but continued the verbal and psychological torture when they were out of earshot like the last ten years not living under the same roof had never happened.

Anastasia’s parents were her jailers and her cruel tormentors. Her father was the abuser, her mother by proxy was just as guilty for standing silently by and doing nothing at all, not even nurturing her afterwards with any words of affection or validation whatsoever. She grew up understanding that she would NEVER be worthy of love.

Despite the way they treated her, they absolutely adored their grandchildren and were completely different people with them. After a few months of her fathers abuse about not being able to find a day job, Anastasia got her liquor license and started bartending to make money to at least help provide for her children. Her father called her a white trash whore and told her to get the fuck out of his house. “The children can stay but you’ve got to go,” he growled menacingly. She packed her meager belongings in her raggedy old car and left after explaining as gently as she could to the children what was going on. She had no qualms about leaving them with her parents because she KNEW that they were adored, perhaps even a bit spoiled by the very people that had traumatized her for as long as she could remember.

She knew as a bartender that she’d be gone at night for long stretches at a time and that she would be living from pillar to post, sleeping on this or that friends couch, wherever she could crash. No matter how much it broke her heart, she knew that her parents could give the children stability and schooling (private school for their precious grandchildren) that she could not. At this point in her life, Anastasia knew that she was financially, psychologically and physically broken. She knew that whether she liked it or not that the best place for her children WAS with her parents. She kept reassuring herself that it would only be for a few months. Just until she could get a regular day job, get back on her feet and get her own place, to be settled enough to give the children what they deserved and needed.

As life tends to do, things did not go as planned. She learned that it was hard to save money when you were making less than minimum wage plus tips. The bar was somewhat of a dive so tippers were few and far between. So after six months, she still didn’t have enough money for a place of her own with all of the various deposits and things she would need to buy in order to make it a home. Obstacles seemed to mount at every turn. At some point she started drinking heavily to numb herself from her new reality. That’s when she met husband number two. He owned a car painting business down the street from the bar he told her. They got along like gangbusters (probably because they both stayed shitfaced) and on a whim one night he proposed. They went to the justice of the peace the following day and got married. Six months later he left town with a stripper.

Anastasia was beyond crushed. Not so much because she was deeply or madly in love with him, but more so because here was another man in her life that had let her down. As she was about to hit bottom and start living out of her car, her uncle called her mother and suggested that she live in their deceased parents (Anastasia’s maternal grandparents) house until and while it was on the market. That way the house would be looked after and also he figured a criminal would be less likely to rob an occupied home. Her mother reluctantly agreed.

Living in her grandparents home, surrounded by all of the familiar and beloved things was like a soothing salve on her wounded soul. That same year her best friend Missy moved in. They were thick as thieves, two peas in a pod, practically conjoined twins separated at birth. Truth be told they wanted to be reattached at the hip because they were constantly together. The acceptance and love that Missy showed towards her was a wonderful new feeling for Anastasia, but alas like everyone else in her life, Missy would leave her too. Not like the others though…..Missy was involved in a horrific, fatal car crash, were she was almost decapitated. Anastasia knew because she had to identify the body. As she was still deeply grieving the loss of her best friend her grandparents house sold. She had 30 days to go through their belongings, pack, sell, donate their things and look for a new place that she still couldn’t afford.

She finally found a small two bedroom townhouse where the rental amount was determined by ones income. She went to a rent to own store, got a table a small sofa and a bedroom set for the kids, her bedroom furniture could wait, she would sleep on hot coals if it meant her children had what they needed and were with her again. She was so excited at the prospect of having her babies back. That excitement was short lived though. A phone call from her Father informed her that they would be raising the children to adulthood because she was so worthless and that he knew that she was broke and couldn’t afford an attorney so if she tried to fight him in regards to this that he’d personally see to it that one of his law enforcement buddies got her on a charge so big that they would throw her under the jail.

She was totally and utterly defeated. She withdrew from society and disassociated within to not feel the excruciating pain of her life anymore as it was a living hell. She searched endlessly on non-painful ways to just end her life. In this deepest darkest time in her life, she considered suicide but then realized if she committed suicide that she would NEVER have a voice. The children would believe every awful thing her parents ever said about her because no one would debate it. She was no quitter, and no matter what else her children ultimately thought of her, it would not be in that way.

Days turned into months that turned into years. Anastasia’s children were doing wonderfully under her parents (tormentors) tutelage. She was not so lucky, as she went from one abusive relationship to another. She finally truly hit rock bottom and was snorting heroin (no needles for her as she was terrified of them) and partially living with an old neighborhood friend who also happened to be her drug dealer. They had meet at summer camp when she was a young teen. He bullied and abused her in every way possible. He wanted her sexually and she was not interested, mainly because of his occupation and long term drug abuse via needles.

One night he was in an especially violent mood when she came to pick up her “candy” and as they were casually talking he snatched her out of her car with her pony tail wrapped around his fist and drug her into his house with no electricity brutally beating her all the while. By the time he got her to his room she was barely conscious. She saw him raise his fist again, covered in her blood then everything went black. When she came to, he was on top of her sexually assaulting her. He had both of his huge hands wrapped around her throat and growled, “If you make a sound, I’ll fucking kill you, if you call the cops or tell anyone, I’ll fucking kill you.” Mercifully she fell unconscious again. When she awoke the second time it was dark outside and dark inside, but he was gone. She tried to wrap the clothes that weren’t ripped to shreds, he had obviously cut them off of her with the switchblade he was so fond of always toying with. She went to her lifelong friend Deb’s apartment (which Deb insisted she keep a key to) thankfully Deb was working late and didn’t get a chance to see her condition. She quickly threw on some clothes that covered her, wiped the blood off of her face and went for her .38 special that she kept in a small safe because it was loaded at all times. She had bought it for herself several years prior due to an abusive ex-boyfriend that had convinced her that he would kill her with his bare hands if she ever left him.

Something died in her for the third time in her life that day, or perhaps something ugly and awful died (her victimization) and something new was reborn. She headed back to Jack’s house and as she got out of her car he laughed at the damage he had inflicted on her face, both of her eyes were nearly swollen shut, her nose was broke and a tooth was knocked out. She raised the pistol and suddenly he wasn’t so smug. She must have stood there silently for at least 60 seconds with her finger practically trembling on the trigger. Not from fear this time, but from rage. Finally she pulled the trigger and the sound filled the otherwise quiet night air. She didn’t kill him. She didn’t even hit him, but the bullet came within mere centimeters of his temple. She missed on purpose. The summer camp they had initially met at was a camp about Gun and Skeet shooting. Even at 13 years old she won the top prize at camp of 13-18 year olds. She was an expert marksman and he knew she could have put that bullet dead center between his eyes if she had indeed wanted. Anastasia said, “If you make a sound I’ll kill you, if you tell anyone or go to the cops I’ll kill you. I’m done with your fucking drugs and trashy lifestyle. Don’t ever contact me again or it will be the last call you will ever make.”

She then went to the hospital had a rape kit done and had her worse injuries treated, she had a bone cracked in her ocular cavity as well. Fortunately for Anastasia, that piece of drug dealing shit had the foresight to use a condom because he knew she would press charges even though he had threatened her. Once she knew that he hadn’t given her any STD’s, hepatitis or worse, she decided to forego pressing charges because she had in fact went BACK to his house with every intention of killing him.

To Be Continued…..

June 2019
« May    

It’s Not Supposed To Hurt When You Love

The simplest definition of emotionally abusive behavior is anything that intentionally hurts the feelings of another person. Since almost everyone in intimate relationships does that at some time or other in the heat of an argument, emotionally abusive behavior must be distinguished from an emotionally abusive relationship, which is more than the sum of emotionally abusive behaviors.

In an emotionally abusive relationship, one party systematically controls the other by:

  • Undermining his or her confidence, worthiness, growth, or trust 
  • “Gaslighting” – making him/her feel crazy or unstable
  • Manipulating him/her with fear or shame. 

Here are examples:

“You shouldn’t spend so much on clothes, you don’t look good anyway.”
“Don’t complain about how bad you have it, no one else could love you.”
“Working and taking courses is too much for you; you can’t handle what you need to do now.”
“Your friends and family just want something from you.”
“I have to drink to be able to stand you.”
“One of these days you’ll wake up, and I’ll be gone.”
“You don’t know the first thing about raising kids.”

It’s important to note that most emotional abuse is not as direct and verbal as these examples. All the above can be implied with sarcasm, irony, or mumblings and can be communicated with body language, rolling eyes, sighs, grimaces, tones of voice, disgusted looks, cold shoulders, slamming doors, banging dishes, stonewalling, cold shoulders, etc. There are a myriad of ways to be emotionally abusive.

Gender Distinctions

An emotionally abusive man controls his partner by manipulating her fear of harm, isolation, and deprivation; he threatens or implies that he might hurt her, leave her, or keep her apart from the things she loves. An emotionally abusive woman controls her partner by manipulating his dread of failure as a provider, protector, lover, or parent: “I could have married a man who made more money, I had more orgasms with my last boyfriend, you’re not a real man, and you don’t know the first thing about raising kids.”

This difference in vulnerability to fear and shame is why the gender symmetry present in emotionally abusive behaviors vanishes in emotionally abusive relationships. In other words, women engage in as much emotionally abusive behavior as men, but the systematic use of emotional abuse to control another person is usually the domain of men, simply because it is easier to control someone with fear than shame.

A typical defense against shame is to tune out the person provoking it. Although we never forget humiliation, it is relatively easy not to think about things that cause shame. The root of the word, “shame” means to cover or hide. That’s one reason we tend to make the same mistakes over and over, by the way. The cliché of the numb husband ignoring the nagging or shrewish wife isn’t far from the truth. The abuse, though inexcusable, is not as painful for him. He is more likely to describe himself as adaptively following the path of least resistance than as a victim living under the thumb of someone more powerful.

In contrast, fear is an alarm system whose threshold of activation is designed to adapt to a dangerous environment. In other words, the more you experience fear, the more sensitized to possible danger you become. That’s why you might be unnerved by a moving shadow after seeing a horror movie. The usual reaction to fear is hypervigilence. Women notice more of what the abusive partner is doing and are more likely to have their thoughts, feelings, and behavior controlled by the abusive partner. Indeed, it is almost impossible not to think about things that make you afraid when they are in close proximity.


In many ways, emotional abuse is more psychologically harmful than physical abuse. There are a couple of reasons for this. Even in the most violent families, the incidents tend to be cyclical. Early in the abuse cycle, a violent outburst is followed by a honeymoon period of remorse, attention, affection, and generosity, but not genuine compassion. The honeymoon stage eventually ends, as the victim begins to say, “Never mind the damn flowers, just stop hitting me!” Emotional abuse, on the other hand, tends to happen every day. The effects are more harmful because they’re so frequent.

The other factor that makes emotional abuse so devastating is the greater likelihood that victims will blame themselves. If someone hits you, it’s easier to see that he or she is the problem, but if the abuse is subtle by saying or implying that you’re ugly, a bad parent, stupid, incompetent, not worth attention, or that no one could love you – you are more likely to think it’s your problem. Emotional abuse seems more personal than physical abuse, more about you as a person, more about your spirit. It makes love hurt.

Eliminate Abuse by Increasing Compassion

Although occasional instances of abusive behavior do not constitute an abusive relationship, they certainly raise the risk of ruining health and happiness. Unconstrained by compassion, they can lead quickly to chronic resentment and, eventually, to contempt. That’s because we tend to form emotional bonds with an expectation that those we love will care about how we feel. When loved ones fail to care that we are hurt, let alone inflict hurt upon us, it feels like betrayal. Failure of compassion in a love relationship feels like abuse.

Neither anger nor compassion solves problems in love relationships. But compassion puts you in a position where you are more likely to solve the problem to everyone’s satisfaction. At the very least, you will never be emotionally abusive with compassion.

Shame Due To Physical, Emotional Or Psychological Trauma

If you were a victim of childhood abuse or neglect, you know about shame. You have likely been plagued by it all your life without identifying it as shame. You may feel shame because you blame yourself for the abuse itself “My father wouldn’t have hit me if I had minded him”, or because you felt such humiliation at having been abused “I feel like such a wimp for not defending myself”? While those who were sexually abused tend to suffer from the most shame, those who suffered from physical, verbal, or emotional abuse blame themselves as well. In the case of child sexual abuse, no matter how many times you have heard the words “It’s not your fault,” the chances are high that you still blame yourself in some way for being submissive, for not telling someone and having the abuse continue, or for telling someone and not being believed.

In the case of physical, verbal, and emotional abuse, you may blame yourself for “not listening” and thus making your parent or other caretaker so angry that he or she yelled at you or hit you. Children tend to blame the neglect and abuse they experience on themselves, in essence saying to themselves, “My mother is treating me like this because I’ve been bad,” or, “I am being neglected because I am unlovable.” As an adult you may have continued this kind of rationalization, putting up with poor treatment by others because you believe you brought it on yourself. When good things happen to you, you may actually become uncomfortable, because you feel so unworthy.

Former victims of child abuse are typically changed by the experience, not only because they were traumatized, but because they feel a loss of innocence and dignity and they carry forward a heavy burden of shame. Emotional, physical, and sexual child abuse can so overwhelm a victim with shame that it actually comes to define the person, keeping her from her full potential. It can cause a victim both to remain fixed at the age he was at the time of his victimization and to repeat the abuse over and over in his lifetime.

You may also have a great deal of shame due to the exposure of the abuse. If you reported the abuse to someone, you may blame yourself for the consequences of your outcry, Your parents divorcing, a parent not believing you and beating you into believing it did not really happen, or your molester going to jail.

There is the shame you may feel about your behavior that was a consequence of the abuse. Former victims of childhood abuse tend to feel a great deal of shame for things they did as children as a result of the abuse. For example, perhaps unable to express their anger at an abuser, they may have taken their hurt and anger out on those who were smaller or weaker than themselves, such as younger siblings. They may have become bullies at school, been belligerent toward authority figures, or started stealing, taking drugs, or otherwise acting out against society.

You may also feel shame because of things you have done as an adult to hurt yourself and others, such as abusing alcohol or drugs, becoming sexually promiscuous, or breaking the law, not realizing that these types of behavior were a result of the abuse you suffered.

Unbeknownst to them, adults who were abused as children often express the overwhelming shame they feel by pushing away those who try to be good to them by sabotaging their success by becoming emotionally or physically abusive to their partners or by continuing a pattern of being abused or subjecting their own children to witnessing abuse. Former abuse victims may repeat the cycle of abuse by emotionally, physically, or sexually abusing their own children, or may abandon their children because they can’t take care of them.

Shame can affect literally every aspect of a former victim’s life, from your self confidence, self esteem, and body image to your ability to relate to others, navigate intimate relationships, be a good parent, to your work performance, ability to be learn new things, and ability to care for yourself. Shame is responsible for myriads of personal problems, including self criticism and self blame, self neglect, self-destructive behaviors such as abusing your body with food, alcohol, drugs, or self mutilation, or by being accident prone, perfectionism, based on fear of being caught in a mistake, believing you don’t deserve good things, believing if others really knew you they would dislike or be disgusted by you (commonly known as the “imposter syndrome”), people pleasing and co-dependent behavior, tending to be critical of others, trying to give shame away, intense rage, frequent physical fights or road rage, and acting out against society like breaking rules or laws.

Shame from childhood abuse almost always manifests itself in one or more of these ways:

•It causes former abuse victims to abuse themselves with critical self-talk, alcohol or drug abuse, destructive eating patterns, and/or other forms of self-harm. Two-thirds of people in treatment for drug abuse reported being abused or neglected as children

•It causes former abuse victims to develop victim-like behavior, whereby they expect and accept unacceptable, abusive behavior from others.

•It causes abuse victims to become abusive.

The truth is that for most former victims of childhood abuse, shame is likely one of the worst effects of the abuse. Unless you heal this pervasive shame you will likely continue to suffer from its effects throughout your lifetime.

Facing the problems that shame has created in your life can be daunting. You may be overwhelmed with the problem of how to heal the shame caused by the childhood abuse you experienced. The good news is that there is a way to heal your shame so that you can begin to see the world through different eyes, eyes not clouded by the perception that you are less than, inadequate, damaged, worthless, or unlovable.

The Healing Power of Self-Compassion

Like a poison, toxic shame needs to be neutralized by another substance, an antidote. Compassion is the only thing that can counteract the isolating, stigmatizing, debilitating poison of shame.

Victims of childhood abuse need most is what is called a “compassionate witness” to validate their experiences and support them through their pain. me.

Debilitating Shame

“Shame is sickness of the soul.”

-Silvan Tomkins-

While many people suffer from shame, not everyone suffers from what is referred to as debilitating shame. Debilitating shame is shame that is so all consuming that it negatively affects every aspect of a person’s lif. His perceptions of himself, his relationship with others, her ability to be intimate with a romantic partner, her ability to raise children in a healthy manner, his ability to risk and achieve success in his career, and her overall physical and emotional health.

Shame is Not a Singular Experience

Just as the source of shame can be all forms of abuse or neglect, shame is not just one feeling but many. It is a cluster of feelings and experiences. These can include:

Feelings of being humiliated. Abuse is always humiliating to the victim, but some types are more humiliating than others. Certainly, sexual abuse almost always has an element of humiliation to it, since it is a violation of very private body parts and since there is a knowing on the child’s part that incest and/or sex between a child and an adult is taboo. These taboos hold true in nearly every culture in the world. If the abuse involves public exposure for example, being chastised or physically punished in front of others, particularly peers the element of humiliation can be very profound.

Feelings of impotence. When a child realizes there is nothing he can do to stop the abuse, he feels powerless, helpless. This can also lead to his always feeling unsafe, even long after the abuse has stopped.

Feelings of being exposed. Abuse and the accompanying feelings of vulnerability and helplessness cause the child to feel self-conscious and exposed,seen in a painfully diminished way. The fact that he could not stop the abuse makes him feel weak and exposed both to himself and to anyone present.

Feelings of being defective or less-than. Most victims of abuse report feeling defective, damaged, or corrupted following the experience of being abused.

Feelings of alienation and isolation. What follows the trauma of abuse is the feeling of suddenly being different, less-than, damaged, or cast out. While victims may long to talk to someone about their inner pain, they often feel immobilized, trapped, and alone in their shame.

Feelings of self-blame. Victims almost always blame themselves for being abused and being shamed. This is particularly true when abuse happens or begins in childhood.

Feelings of rage. Rage almost always follows having been shamed. It serves a much needed self protective function of both insulating the self against further exposure and actively keeping others away.

Fear, hurt, distress, or rage can also accompany or follow shame experiences as secondary reactions. For example, feeling exposed is often followed by fear of further exposure and further occurrences of shame. Rage protects the self against further exposure. And along with shame, a victim can feel intense hurt and distress from having been abused.

Further Defining Self-Compassion

If compassion is the ability to feel and connect with the suffering of another human being, self compassion is the ability to feel and connect with one’s own suffering. More specifically for our purposes, self compassion is the act of extending compassion to one’s self in instances of perceived inadequacy, failure, or general suffering. If we are to be self compassionate, we need to give ourselves the recognition, validation, and support we would offer a loved one who is suffering.

Self compassion encourages us to begin to treat ourselves and talk to ourselves with the same kindness, caring, and compassion we would show a good friend, family member or a beloved child. Just as connecting with the suffering of others has been shown to comfort and heal, connecting with our own suffering will do the same. If you are able to feel compassion toward others, you can learn to feel it for yourself.

The Benefits of Practicing Self-Compassion

By learning to practice self-compassion you will also be able to begin doing the following:

•Truly acknowledge the pain you suffered and in so doing, begin to heal

•Take in compassion from others

•Reconnect with yourself, including reconnecting with your emotions

•Gain an understanding as to why you have acted out in negative and/or unhealthy ways

•Stop blaming yourself for your victimization

•Forgive yourself for the ways you attempted to cope with the abuse

•Learn to be deeply kind toward yourself

•Create a nurturing inner voice to replace your critical inner voice

•Reconnect with others and become less isolated

As you continue to practice self compassion, you will grow to more fully understand what a powerful healer compassion can be.

So in closing, no matter how horrific your past, love yourself, my beautiful followers. It truly allows others to love you as you should be loved💕💕💕💕

Those Who Fight Monsters

Those who fight monsters inevitably change. Because of all that I feel and have done, I’ve lost my innocence, and sometimes a tiny piece of my humanity with it. If I want to survive, sometimes I begin to adopt some of the same characteristics as the monster I fight but whatever it takes I will never allow this monster to win. My monster is Borderline Personality Disorder. It’s changed me to my very core on so many different levels and in so many different ways. It’s made me delight in rage and violence that I never knew I was capable of. Like a malignant tumor, this BPD grows inside of me. Not with the cells of cancer, but with the cells of the unknown, the emptiness, the rage, the worthlessness and the most soul searing emotional and psychological pain that a human being could possibly endure. In equating it to physical pain, some professionals compare it to having third degree burns over ninety percent of ones body.

I try and keep the monster tendencies locked in a cage, deep inside. The monster only comes out for self preservation and only then. I can no more contain it when it becomes ready to burst forth any more than a runaway train. I just hang on for dear life and pray that I’m the only casualty. It is not for the perverse pleasure that the monster feels when it harms others. In fact, the monsterous tendencies cause more damage to the Borderline than the Non Borderline could ever fathom. Guilt, isolation, depression, PTSD. There is a cost for visiting violence on others when it is the antithesis of your very nature. I am not a monster, the disorder is. The cost inflicted upon the ones we love the most and hold deepest inside of our hearts is far greater than anything I could ever imagine in my worst nightmares. That is why I try to stand against those BPD impulses lurking inside with every ounce of fight I have within my soul. It is so difficult and lonely when I have no support network to speak of. I spend all of my days and many, many sleepless nights trying to deal with this ferocious monster alone. In my own heart. In my own mind.

I don’t always succeed but I do give every fiber of my being within myself to keep the evilness inside of me caged. That is what BPD is to me…pure unadulterated evil. Evil that I never asked for, or deserved, but was given at the age most toddlers are learning to love, trust others and to believe in themselves.

While trying to minimalize the damage I do with my venomous words and unfettered rage, I am eviscerated psychologically and emotionally a bit more each time I am unable to contain it. Being left exhausted and numb for days on end from the savage battle that I have just waged inside.

I witness things in my nightmares that any sane human is not programmed to see and ever be normal again. Alas, I try to never burden a single soul with the horrific recollections of them. I bury them deep, deep down inside so the ones I love the most (my spouse, my family, my children) who are on the front lines of this disorder whether they want to be or not, never really know the scope and depth of the psychological pain I never asked for or wanted but carry around like Atlas, with the constant weight of the world on my shoulders.

For those I love, I will always run head first toward the Borderline monster and fight it with savagery of a woman possessed.

Just to walk a very thin tightrope on the opposite side of what society deems normal is a delicate and brutal dance that I spin to in tune to music that no one else hears, because it plays only in my head.

“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”

-Friedrich Nietzsche-

I will always fight for what I truly fear. The battle for my sanity. I will always stand between my loved ones and this cruel disorder to the best of my abilities through which the Borderline monster wants to hurt, damage and create chaos with it’s horrible words and behavior against my closest allies. The ones who love me no matter what. Believe it or not, I acknowledge the thing that the vast majority are too soft, too weak or too cowardly to even address. The stigma of mental illness and the toll it takes on those who not only rage a daily battle with it and suffer from it, but also deal with the judgments, cruel words and hurtful comments, complete disdain and/or utter contempt and doubt that there is anything wrong with one at all. “It’s all for attention.” “It’s all in your head (of course it’s all in my head because I wage a daily exhausting war to keep it contained as much as humanly possible to minimize the fallout to the very ones who speak those exact words to me)”. These are the same people who would NEVER ever be able to wrap their condescending, small, judgmental minds around what a day in the life of anyone who has the misfortune to suffer from mental illness, which one has no control over, is like.

To my fellow sufferers of ANY and ALL types of psychological disorders, we are the beautiful ones though. The ones that battle mind numbing psychological pain that more times than not manifests itself into mind numbing physical pain who still find enough beauty in this world to smile at a stranger or offer a kind word to those that we can inherently feel may need them.

The current political climate in this country and on a much greater scale this whole world holds very little near and dear, that is except the almighty dollar and ones personal smartphones, iPads, PC’s and other technologies that lessen the interaction and the necessary skills it takes to navigate this life in the midst of one another. This age of technology and vitriol is robbing mankind of its humanity just as BPD tries to rob me of mine. It is there, that we the ones that suffer the burden of mental illness, in the time of our darkest hours, feel every bit of our humanity, because our pain at least let’s us know we are still able to feel anything at all in the times that we must totally mentally disconnect to keep us sane. The pain. It lets us know we are still alive.

Submission is the popular mantra of the times. I will NEVER submit to my illness or the stigma attached to it.

Warriors are decried, denigrated, and cast as morally inferior in the world today. Warriors come from many walks of life, genders, faiths and occupations, but let’s not forget us, the warriors of illnesses. Physical and mental. The ones who fight through the fear, trauma, pain, exhaustion and for some, ridicule. These warriors fight monsters too. Theirs may not be made of flesh and blood but are nonetheless just as real.

We know how childish, how asinine, and how cowardly the mindset of most of society is today. They would rather look the other way and pretend such ugly things do not exist rather than speak of something which my be unpleasant to their “delicate” sensibilities as the most vulnerable suffer alone. Today I realize that it is a duty, my duty, our duty as the warriors that some are and that many of us will have to become, because we must, in order to bring out into the light what society would prefer to keep in the dark. We must stand up and change the mindset of how people view mental illness. We must start uncomfortable conversations.

As a person who personally suffers from severe social anxiety as well as BPD and PTSD, something of this nature is much easier said than done, but the spark to light the fire of understanding and acceptance MUST be lit. If I can start one difficult conversation, one open dialogue that needs to be opened because I “raised my voice” for one beautiful and freeing moment and brought this normally taboo subject out into the bright glaring light, then for someone whose illness is characterized by self worthlessness, today in my own eyes, I became worthy of being a warrior for my cause. If only for that moment, perhaps, I was even a voice for another who suffers the same battle, who is still working on finding their own voice and needs someone to speak up for them as well. I am not “recovered” nor will I ever be because there is no cure for my kind of crazy. I am no hero for speaking up. I will be battling this monster for as long as I live but I realized just this day that until I viewed it and treated it as something visceral and tangible that my fight would be so much more difficult.

I DO know this…..There ARE things in this life worth fighting for.

Faith, love, liberty, family, friends and standing up for those who are too afraid, weak or ashamed to stand alone as I have been for so very long.

I woke up changed yet again by this disorder but this time I’m fighting back.

There are some of us that believe that fighting what others disagree with, turn a blind eye to, or battle the physical and/or psychologically real monsters in our midst are honorable, noble, and just….and are willing to pay the price for that deeply held belief. Why? For us, today I discovered that there is no choice.

I have to speak out and hold on as tightly as I can to these beliefs, the reason being is that today is NOT a good day. I feel like I am being sucked deeper and deeper into the bottomless abyss. That being said I will continue the good fight against this “THING” that has destroyed my whole life AND practically everyone and everything I’ve ever loved. I may go down, but MY “monsters” know I will go down fighting until the sweet, bitter end.

I Hear Banjos

Has the whole fucking world gone mad?!?

Racism, Sexism, Sadism, Homophobia, mass murders, genocide, Necrophilia……the political mud slinging has turned into politicians slinging their own shit….we are fighting other countries, we are fighting amongst ourselves!! Has EVERYONE forgotten that we are but one race??? The HUMAN fucking race! Climate change, an errant asteroid strike or Alien life is not going to destroy us. We are doing a mighty fine job of that shit ourselves!! Much more quickly than any of the above ever could.

I’ve studied many, many different religions and ethnicities and at the very core of each and EVERY belief system, they are the same. Love your God, whomever that may be and be kind, generous and do right by your “neighbor”! None of these religions say only do so if your neighbor looks, acts or worships the exact same way as you. WTF is the matter with most of society?!? Try a little love instead of hate. Empathy instead of judgement. Acceptance instead of fear. I’m no great mind or brilliant philosopher, yet I understand this with crystal clarity. If others can not do the same, I suggest we start paddling faster….I hear banjos!

10 Reasons It Takes a VERY Special Person To Handle An Empath

The empath: the person who understands your pain, your joy and everything in between. 

Their big heart gives too much, even though they receive too little.

They’ll love you unconditionally and protect your emotions at all costs.

Sounds like the perfect person, right? So, why are so many empaths single?

Simple. Most people simply can’t handle an empath’s complexity, depth and powerful capacity for love.

If you didn’t know, an Empath is someone who is highly sensitive to the energy/moods/emotions of people and situations to the point where they can take on those emotions as their own.

And even though their superpowers come with a range of strengths, most people, especially insecure ones, simply can’t handle them. Here’s why:

1) Empaths Ask Too Many Questions

People, in general, don’t like to contemplate the hard questions in life and it can lead to a relationship breakdown before it even gets started.

If an empathic person is looking for someone to share their hopes and dreams with, they might be disappointed to find that most people are creatures of habit and automation.

2) Empaths are Honest

They can’t hold anything back, even when they know it will cost them a relationship. People who are strongly rooted in their beliefs are clear about what they want in life, which can cause problems for a person who just wants to settle down with the status quo.

3) Empaths Know What They Want

Are you still wondering what you want to be when you grow up? Empaths aren’t.

They have a clear vision of where they are going and how they are going to get there and often times, when people get in their way, it can lead to a road of singledom.

Getting where they want to go is important and a priority for an empath. 

4) Empaths Want Empathic Partners

Good luck with that. They want meaningful relationshipthat have many levels of complexity. It’s hard for the average person to buy into that and adopt it as their mantra.

If a person is looking for a one night stand, empathic people should not be their target. 

5) Intimacy is a Given

Empaths are not afraid to let you see her in a vulnerable state. This is hard for most people to deal with sometimes and it can cause them to spend more time alone than they might have anticipated; but when they find the person who gets them, it will click instantly. 

6) Empaths See Through the Crap

People who suffer from self-esteem issues and confidence issues don’t hold their own well with empathic women. 

Because they are so in touch with their own feelings and state of being in the world, they can pick out the people who are imposters and struggling to find their way. 

Empaths like to build themselves up with people who are like-minded, not take on a project.

7) Empaths Like Consistency

Don’t try to pick up an empathic person if you aren’t going to call them the next day. Empaths like routine and consistent behavior to develop deep and meaningful relationships. They hate people who bail and don’t follow through on their promises. 

8) Empaths are Intense

There’s no way around it: empaths have a lot of intensity. And they aren’t making any apologies about it; you either get on board with what they’ve got going on, or you move on. It’s plain and simple for an empath. 

9) Empaths Go All In

When you find yourself being loved by an empath, you better return the feelings mutually. They don’t know how to turn it off and on. They set their sights on what they want and need and hold on tight once it becomes theirs.

This can scare a lot of people away before a relationship even gets going. 

10) Empaths are Independent

You should know that an empathic woman won’t wait around for a person to get their business together so they can be together. 

Empaths don’t need a person to solidify their place in the world and while that might mean they’re single for much longer than they had hoped, they are okay with their choices and stand by them so they can have the love they’ve always wanted.

Trigger. Not Just The Lone Rangers Horse

Well I knew that it was going to happen sooner rather than later. I just didn’t know when. Living with Borderline Personality Disorder, one is ALWAYS waiting for the other shoe to drop. Right on our fucking heads. The good times are amazing, the bad times I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy (well maybe that bitch that fucked my husband six weeks before we were married), I wish that shit squared on that whore. Along with Ebola, SARS, Malaria, Meningitis, Equine Encephalitis, Mad Cow Disease, Chronic Wasting Disease, Swine Flu, Bubonic Plague, HPV, HIV, Chlamydia, Gonorrhea, Syphilis, UTI, Renal Failure, blindness, deafness, muteness, Leprosy, Legionnaires Disease and the absolute worst case of dysentery there ever was. I pray for this vile creature to come down with EVERY single one of them EVERY night. I’m already going to hell for my own shitty past so at this point praying for someone like this slut to suffer so greatly will not impact my immortal soul any more than it’s already impacted. Go big or go home is my motto.

Obviously I’ve triggered. No matter what I trigger over this horrific part of my life ALWAYS gets thrown in for good measure by myself.

I’m not sure if my trigger was the upcoming holidays, having two extra “guests” in our 800 square foot condo, or if it was the fact that my husband was exhausted from work, in a shitty mood and said some (in my opinion) awful shit that Daddy Dearest used to say to me. I completely fucking lost it though. Every single time, I think I’m making progress, that giant shoe drops and shows me who’s boss…..and my boss is BPD.


The Sheeple Apocalypse

As I was channel surfing through what seemed like an obscene amount of cable TV channels (I’m a reader, TV blows), I could not help but notice the horrific number of IQ lowering reality shows. In my opinion, the absolute worst of the worst celebrates some slut who’s only original claim to fame was fucking a semi-celebrity’s wannabe singers brother and videotaping it for posterity and having…….wait for it……her money and fame hungry whore of a mother leak it to the press for publicity. Eeeeeeewwwww much?!? No wonder your husband had his dick chopped off and started wearing your panties, Kris.
As stomach churning as this is, it’s not even the thing that makes the vomit creep up to the tip top of the back of my throat. The thing that makes the vomit come so perilously close to projectiling like pea soup as my head spins ALL 360 degrees around atop my shoulders is that enough mindless, soulless, impressionable minions and brainwashed keyboard soldiers have bought into this shit to keep this family of fancy gutter sluts on television for 15 seasons. Yes, you read that correctly. Now excuse me while I go eat a Tide Pod, smoke some fucking potpourri, snort some bath salt and wait for the Sheeple Apocalypse.

Meltdown Mania

I had a meltdown last weekend. The very worst one ever. This particular meltdown sucked me pretty far down the rabbit hole, much deeper than I’ve ever been. I had thoughts about self harm, which has NEVER even crossed my crazy, conflicted mind. One can only be so crazy and be called so many ugly names until one snaps. My father called me a crack whore at 12. A bull dyke at 16. A worthless piece of human shit last month. He is by far not the only one to use the weapon of words against me…..trust me, I have a strong chin and would prefer a physical altercation, where I at least have a small chance of fighting back….I’d even rather take a physical ass beating than to get beaten down with words, physical scars heal eventually….words that eviscerate your soul…..that shit rings around ones already crazy mind forever.

My savior came in a form that I never expected. Not only were my self harm thoughts totally erased, there are certain abilities I have as a Empath that became more apparent than anything ever has the more I spoke to this person. Thank you for saving me from my own tormented mind. You know who you are. I’ll never be able to repay the enormous debt of gratitude I feel I owe you.

Happy “Butter’s” Day

My oldest child, my sweet daughter, Ashlyn, is celebrating her first Mother’s Day this year. I am ecstatic for her because that precious soul was born to be a mommy, it’s also a bittersweet time for me because I can still clearly see her 3 year old face pressed nose to nose with mine, waking me up from a dead sleep by screaming HAPPY BUTTERS DAY in her squeaky little helium voice.

Then there is my brilliant, handsome, loving son, who has been very emotionally stoic since the day he was born, but shows his love in many different other ways. His passion is medicine and he just received his 1st year med student class schedule….he has worked towards this goal his entire life, and I am so proud.

So on this upcoming “Butter’s Day” I’d have to say that I created the two best gifts in the world who in turn have given me the gift of a grandchild, unconditional love and generosity, empathy and compassion towards their fellow man. My children. My two greatest blessings.

Remember, Mommy’s of littles, those babies grow up in the blink of an eye, enjoy every precious poo diaper, every blouse full of baby spit up and every problem that they have no matter how big it seems to them that can be fixed with a kiss and a band aid ♥️

Accountability Is Now An Obscenity

Today it just dawned on me that during this generation of Black, White, Brown, Yellow, Red, Gay and Straight Lives Matter, that the above mentioned racial and sexual undertone of such slogans are absolutely not the problem at all. As ALL lives matter. Period. EVEN the lives of unborn babies who did not start as eggs and ask to be fertilized by sperm in the womb. It was the (in most not all cases) choice of two consenting adults to have sex and forego any necessary precautions as to not create a life that either could not be afforded or just basically not wanted. Therein lies the realization that I’ve come to. Whether it’s being “harassed” by the police WHILE perpetuating a crime, deciding one does not want the baby that they’ve been carrying inside their bodies for six to even nine months (late term abortions) or extremists and radicals of every race, gender, faith, ethnicity or sexual orientation: the way society views things has far less to do with any of the above mentioned things and EVERYTHING to do with the fact that NO ONE seems to understand the absolute NEED and RESPONSIBILITY to take accountability for their actions. Above and beyond all of these things, including political affiliations or whether one is pro-life or pro-choice lies the fact that finger pointing and deflection of responsibility is the common denominator and root of most all of the problems facing humanity today. The BIGGEST problem of all is the lack of HUMANITY. We all bleed red. We all lay side by side in the nursery when we are born and lie side by side in the grave once this life’s journey is over. It is the kind of person you are and what you do in between the two that define whether mankind is going to succeed or descend into utter and total chaos. Between the maternity ward and the grave try being a good example, a kind neighbor a generous soul to those less fortunate. Be an asset to humanity not a problem. Stop putting fucking hashtags on everything and sit back and watch how much better our nation and our world can truly be.

Lefties Have Lost Their Minds

Liberal student arrested for punching pro-lifer on UNC campus, triggered by images of aborted children


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I imagine it is “triggering” to see a picture of an aborted fetus (exactly what this bitch fights FOR). The young man with the pro-life group must have had Jesus Christ himself with him that day, because if that pyscho commie whore came at my ass “with fists flying” she would have gotten the god damn brakes beaten off of her!! I’m just fucking impressed and flabbergasted at the pro-life groups restraint.