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.

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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.

FML😏😏😏

Bedlam, BPD and Me

It’s easy for people with Borderline Personality Disorder to feel like they are the victims of a very cruel curse. This personality disorder is often characterized by an intense fear of abandonment, unstable relationships, and impulsive behavior that ultimately drives people away. BPD makes me lash out, allowing some of the cruelest things to tumble from my mouth, and believe me, there are only so many times loved ones will forgive a lack of control. This is what it’s like to live with this horrific disorder which many uneducated on the subject suspect is “all in our minds”.

It is hard to offer a simple medical definition of BPD, but I’ve heard it brilliantly summed up as chronic irrationality. Think severe mood swings, impulsivity, instability, and a whole lot of explosive anger.

People with BPD may project symptoms that seem similar to other personality disorders, it is often confused with bipolar, depression, schizophrenia or anxiety disorders:

Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a serious mental disorder marked by a pattern of ongoing instability in moods, behavior, self-image, and functioning. These experiences often result in impulsive actions and unstable relationships. A person with BPD may experience intense episodes of anger, depression, and anxiety that may last from only a few hours to days.

BPD sufferers may experience extreme mood swings and can display uncertainty about who they are. As a result, their interests and feelings about any recent event can change rapidly.

According to NIMH, symptoms include:

  • Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment
  • A pattern of intense and unstable relationships with family, friends, and loved ones, often swinging from extreme closeness and love (idealization) to extreme dislike or anger (devaluation)
  • Distorted and unstable self-image or sense of self
  • Impulsive and often dangerous behaviors, such as spending sprees, unsafe sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, and binge eating
  • Recurring suicidal behaviors or threats or self-harming behavior, such as cutting
  • Intense and highly changeable moods, with each episode lasting from a few hours to a few days
  • Chronic feelings of emptiness
  • Inappropriate, intense anger or problems controlling anger
  • Having stress-related paranoid thoughts
  • Having severe dissociative symptoms, such as feeling cut off from oneself, observing oneself from outside the body, or losing touch with reality.

Ordinary events may trigger these symptoms. For example persons with BPD may feel angry and distressed over minor separations, such as vacations, trips, or sudden changes of plans, from people to whom they feel close. Research shows that people with this disorder may see anger in an emotionally neutral face and have a stronger reaction to words with negative meanings than people who do not have the disorder.

I personally think it’s this erratic oscillation that makes BPD so hard to communicate, particularly to those who are close. Because on the surface, it looks like I’m just being ornery. Like all mental illness, it’s best treated with patience and empathy, unfortunately, like depression or hypomania, it places the onus on people who are not necessarily in a position to help or understand, no matter how much they may care for you. In a relationship, BPD can leave both parties feeling isolated, angry and misunderstood.

Borderline Personality Disorder sends you into spirals of self-doubt and hatred. It makes you feel like a tangled slinky, forever bumping inelegantly down a flight of stairs. You know something within you is twisted, and even once you’re told what, you are left wondering why and more importantly HOW to deal with it.

Just living or being around someone with this personality disorder can be extremely difficult and exhausting. It especially brings out my mean streak, something that both terrifies and shocks me. I’ve always had an eloquently devilish way with words, particularly profane ones, and BPD is like I have Terminator vision that highlights the chinks in EVERYONES armor, unlike my mania, which tends to make me charismatic and for the most part, a pleasure to be around. A BPD ‘turn’ or ‘moment’ morphs me into the meanest, most evil, crudest version of myself.

Due to the impulsiveness associated with people who suffer from BPD, they tend to change jobs frequently and also abruptly cut ties to people with whom they are extremely close. We sufferers have intense and sudden mood changes, and we have severe difficulty regulating our emotions. Unintentionally, we tend to blame others when we make a mistake, which makes it seem to the ones that we care about the most that we are being manipulative and cruel.

BPD can make life feel unbearable most days. Ones “good days” seem so few and far between. I call it a mirage illness, as it makes you feel like someone with no fingerprints. No face. No identity. Onlookers may be tricked into viewing you as boldly transformative, in reality, you are someone with absolute zero sense of self.

It is very hard for those with BPD to have successful and healthy relationships and stable confidence levels. Our version of ‘logical thinking’ is more often than not, overthinking. We have a very hard time distinguishing between real issues or imaginary issues. BPD is considered to be one of the more serious mental disorders, as it causes a great deal of suffering and has one of the highest risks for suicide of all mental health patients.

This is a lifelong battle that over the last couple of years I have prepared myself to fight.

I will never be cured of BPD, but I believe my disorder does not own me. This is my life, and I know it can be beautiful.

From the inside.

Chronic Pain is a PAIN

Much of the attention surrounding the opioid crisis has focused on the lives tragically lost to it. That focus is understandable, given the rapid climb in opioid-related fatalities in recent years, with nearly 50,000 deaths in the U.S. seen in 2017 alone. But rarely do we hear from those most personally affected by opioids—the people still regularly using these drugs.
— Read on gizmodo.com/chronic-pain-patients-describe-how-new-opioid-policies-1832444041

I am a sufferer of chronic pain. The times in my life that I remember not feeling any pain are fleeting and few and far in between.

Due to the ongoing opioid epidemic, legitimate pain sufferers have seen their medications for it dwindle from too little to nonexistent, forcing sufferers to resort to either illegal or untested remedies. My untested remedirs are Kratom and an EXCESSIVE amount of Goodys Extra Strength headache powders (I’m talking like 10-12 a day). If you are not sure what Kratom is, google it, I could explain about it in this post but it would take me all day.

The more I read about this FDA unregulated substance, the more frightened I become. Something that was born out of necessity for me is warranting a second look because of the tremendous amount of side effects that regular users are complaining of. I’ve experienced some of them myself. As if the abnormal amounts of Acetaminophen that is slowly destroying my liver is not enough to contend with.

My question is what does one do when one is suffering greatly but has absolutely no help from the medical community to alleviate said chronic pain and symptoms do?!?!

Nothing. We’re just fucked, fucked, fucked!

Yoga Pants: A Blessing or a Curse

Ahhhhh, the almighty yoga pants. What can I say, I’ve owned and worn hundreds of different pairs in hundreds of different sizes. I like to think of them as my pajama clothes, because most of the time my Fibromyalgia won’t allow any other material to get near my skin. EVERYONE loves a pair of yoga pants, therein lies the problem….as my dear old Gran used to say, “Just because it comes in your size doesn’t mean you should wear it.” Boy was that woman on fleek about that subject.

I’ve been small, I’ve been large and every size in between, and the most difficult decision a woman will ever have to make is deciding that her yoga pants are just NOT flattering anymore and that the time has come to move on to sweatpants.

Now I know you young hot bodied thangs think for the most part that yoga pants are God’s gift to mankind, but let me let you in on a little secret, sisters, camel toes are not flattering on anyone. Ever. Period.

For Pete’s sake will someone feed that thing, it’s so hungry it’s eating her yoga pants!!

Thank you my pretties for listening to my rant for the day😂

TTFN💕💕💕💕

Sticks and Stones Can Break My Bones. Words Can Sever Souls.

I like to say I fear no words but that’s a lie.

I have anxiety about my health because my mother would growl when I smiled: Your incisors are BROWN. Pinworms: Placing me, naked, face-down on the couch, parting my seven-year-old buttocks with her fingernails, summoning Dad: Come see these damn things crawling in and out!

She scolded me for inhaling their microscopic eggs off some shit-fingered kid.

The very air was dangerous. Wet grass, which gives girls colds in their panties, could kill.

I also fear words — any words, but telling you this gives you power over me — said loudly. Shouted. Yelled. The word “yell” itself scares me, because in my mind I hear “yell” yelled. My parents yelled at me. A lot. They screamed cusswords into my face, their hot saliva speckling my eyes. Now that sounds like a lie. Why would two highly educated intellectuals roar at a mild-mannered, obedient, anxious child? They said they had no choice, because I was a fucking slob. They said I drove them to it by using language they loathed: ain’t, for instance, and you guys

The main word I fear lately is the A-word. I can barely say or write it, here or anywhere. Which A-word? you demand. Australia? App?

Hint: It rhymes with Larousse. Vamoose. Abstruse.

I can’t type it. I can’t.

That’s why I came here today. To say this.

I had what witnesses would call an absolutely ordinary childhood. Sun-baked suburban home. Food. Clothes. No siblings. Never beaten, never sexually assaulted.

See? I evaded using the A-word there. Instead, I wrote “assaulted,” because horrible as assault is, it remains alien to me, thus oddly anodyne.

I had an absolutely ordinary childhood during which, day after day, I was humiliated, shamed, deprived of privacy and terrified.

My parents said they loved me.  They had anger issues. They had no previous experience with kids. They suffered too, but both were adults when they screamed at me.

A name exists for this. It is not physical maltreatment of the Mommie Dearest kind but emotional, verbal … the A-word. Vamoose.

And don’t I wish I wasn’t writing this? Don’t I wish I was lilting about dragonflies, kabuki or one of my other interests instead of chanting childhood anecdotes like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner who collared helpless passersby to rant, froth-lipped, eternally, about an albatross?

I’m writing this to tell the world of not just me but way too many of us: We who were traumatized with words and looks by toxic parents who believed they were doing their best, when we were too young to know otherwise, too young to believe this was anything but universal, normal, justified. Too young for any form of self-defense.

Society might call our type of touchless trauma tiny. So it seems, compared to war and sex crimes, but new studies show that childhood verbal and emotional … Larousse … can damage its victims as lastingly and harshly as any physical assault can.

This is because, according to developmental psychologists, the human brain acquires self-awareness at age three, then remains in hyper-absorbent learning mode for twenty years. Terrify someone so young that his or her sense of self is larva-soft, someone whose only god is you. Tell him or her that he or she is ugly, stupid, boring, bad, a fag, a pig. Do this early and often. Do it in the comfortable closed-circuit crucible called home. Do it authoritatively. Never apologize. Abracadabra: You, making no mark upon the flesh, have slashed a soul and tossed aside its disconnected, twitching bits.

As a random example, I am living proof. I wish I wasn’t. I want out. I want to stop repeating myself, want to walk out of my childhood free and clear and start thinking of other things — kabuki, ravens — but cannot until I stop using these anecdotes as standup-comic shtik whose practiced, memorized rimshot delivery anesthetizes me.

We the toxically parented, we the emotionally and verbally vamoosed either silence ourselves as we were silenced or tell our tales endlessly as if this telling will itself release us. But it won’t. Silence and logorrhea can both become empty la-la-la-la-I-can’t-hear-you rituals.

Which we repeat because we cannot bear to hate those who meant well. We must seek some spell in between: some way to sanctify our stories, in silence or sound, as scathing epic Iliad-esque tragedies which we somehow survived. (At least one friend of mine has not.)

But criticizing incisors and calling someone the F-word are miniscule, you say. Maybe between adults. (Maybe.) But, inflicted on children during those developmental years, such interchanges become retroviruses. Depth charges. Time bombs tick-tick-ticking in our heads.

Did your parents insult you? Did they mock, humiliate, reject and/or neglect you? Steep you in their addictions and other adult pain? Were they too self-absorbed to even see you? Did they demand worship, trample boundaries and damn your dreams? Consistently?

That was … abstruse.

I’m not saying let’s wave our pain around like Pity Me flags. I’m saying almost the opposite: We who were emotionally/verbally toxically parented want to feel normal and live in the adult world. We don’t want to blame ourselves anymore. We don’t want to be numb, dissociated, frozen, sleepless, hypervigilant, incapable of giving or receiving love and trust.

We want to know why we are this way.

Because trauma can do this. Trauma is why.

Because society decrees that only body-involved violence “counts,” that we are lucky by comparison, we call ourselves ungrateful, spoiled, selfish and childish. Staggering like zombies, we refuse to name our suffering.

So I will. We were traumatized.

Sticks and stones break bones. Words can sever souls.

I wish I’d had a somewhat different childhood. I wish I could drop this topic, but I can’t. I wish I had another song. I don’t: not yet, but maybe if I sing this one with meaning now … ? What happened in that hot-roofed house decades ago is why I’m stuck. It’s why I often hate myself. I need not pretend anymore to wonder why. This hurts like murder, but whom have I spent a lifetime trying to protect? And it happened by accident, with perfume and marshmallow Peeps. It happened in sunshine, with love.

Thank You Australia For Making This Word Socially Acceptable AND Endearing

Because of this random, newly acquired reason, I do believe instead of moving into our brand new home, I will instead head “down under” because, well obviously I take sick perverse pleasure in using profanity and for a WHOLE country of people to accept one of the most socially unacceptable words in the English language as a fucking endearment, is my kind of place!! I’d fit right in with those crazy cunts!!

Of all of the swear words, any use of the word fuck or cunt is at the top of my “sassy” hierarchy. Finding this out just made this the best day EVER!

So to all my lovely “cunts”, Happy Tuesday, mates💕💕💕

Army Ranger dog named Maiko died in Afghanistan saving US Soldiers

Army Ranger dog named Maiko died in Afghanistan saving US soldiers | TheHill
— Read on www.google.com/amp/s/thehill.com/blogs/blog-briefing-room/news/419837-army-ranger-dog-named-maiko-died-in-afghanistan-saving-us?amp

This post is for the bitch that blasted Sully from the Slate.

Read this and please educate your ass before you opine and spread your ignorance about humanity’s best friends.

For You Fuckers That Don’t Think America is “That Great”

www.youtube.com/watch

If you feel that way, by all means GET THE FUCK OUT!!

Seriously, you pieces of shit, get out and let some of the legitimate, legal immigrants and asylum seekers take your place, because obviously THEY still think America’s the greatest nation in the world to the degree that they are literally fucking dying to get in!

To America’s soldiers, law enforcement, firefighters and first responders, you are the heart of this country and the glue that holds our society together with no regards to your own comfort and safety, thank each and every one of you from the most humble and grateful place in my heart. YOU ALL ARE HEROES!!

This My Friends Are Why I’m Still Proud To Be An American

Former Senate Majority Leader Bob Dole was helped out of his wheelchair Tuesday afternoon to salute the American flag-draped casket of former President George Herbert Walker Bush.

Dole, 95, arrived at the Capitol Rotunda — where Bush will lie in state until Wednesday — pushed in his wheelchair by an aide. Once at the casket’s side, the aide helped Dole stand. And as he was steadied, Dole raised his left arm and saluted.

No matter what political affiliation one is, no matter what side of the aisle your core beliefs lie, this life being celebrated by family, former colleagues, friends and everyday “Joes” was the life of a GOOD man. A kind man. A patriot.

As I reflect on his character and the way he treated the common person just the same as he treated heads of state is a testament of the kind of man “41” was. Faith, family and America were his priorities. His entire life. His unconditional, amazing love for his beautiful “Bar” is the kind of love story of which many little girls dream.

His was a life well lived and I would be willing to bet that Mr. Bush “went home” with few regrets as he lived his life with laughter, love and a zest for adventure. He was an amazing man to which all men (and women) should measure themselves against….although he would have never seen it that way because he was far to humble. Godspeed, Mr. President, you are gone but history will NEVER forget you.

Leave Sully Alone, You Heartless Bitch

George H.W. Bush’s service dog ‘Sully’ isn’t a Democrat or Republican — It’s doggone crazy to attack him

https://www.foxnews.com/opinion/george-h-w-bushs-service-dog-sully-isnt-a-democrat-or-republican-its-doggone-crazy-to-attack-him

Explore the Fox News apps that are right for you at http://www.foxnews.com/apps-products/index.html.

Fur babies are more loyal, loving, and genuine than most people are. Any dumb bitch that thinks otherwise has no soul and probably doesn’t own a pet because it would sense her evil and bite her a new asshole. What an idiot and heartless snowflake. Nothing is sacred anymore and it pisses me off more than I could EVER verbalize, even with my enormous repertoire of swear words.

7 Things To Lookout For Before Following A Blog

7 Things To Lookout For Before Following A Blog

7 Things To Lookout For Before Following A Blog
— Read on hughsviewsandnews.com/2018/09/20/7-things-to-lookout-for-before-following-a-blog/

Great post! I am following waaaaaaay to many blogs just because they followed me first. I appreciate and am grateful to each and every follower, the thing is, I may not necessarily be interested in certain blog topics. It is nothing personal at all as I’m sure that even if I don’t agree with another bloggers views it does not mean that said blogger is not a lovely person. Following too many people is problematic in regards to the fact that the blogs that I do follow closely because I LOVE their content get lost somewhere in the rest. Thank you again to my precious followers for reading about my crazy, topsy turvy life AND for putting up with my excessive profanity, because well that’s just how I roll.

TTFN my pretties💕💕

Be Respectful To All Bloggers

Be Respectful To All Bloggers

https://renardsworld.wordpress.com/2018/10/29/be-respectful-to-all-bloggers/
— Read on renardsworld.wordpress.com/2018/10/29/be-respectful-to-all-bloggers/

Awesome post!! Very much worth a read although I’ve never encountered any ugliness, trolling or negativity whatsoever on WP!! In my humble opinion WP bloggers are the absolute best. Everyone is considerate of our differences, very kind and give great advice! I’ve met MANY new friends through WP and I am so very grateful for them all♥️. Spread the love y’all♥️

Getting Blasted for Cultural Appropriation Has Gone Mainstream

I’ve recently read numerous articles of racial and/or cultural appropriation. I’m a bit confused why certain people are whipped into a frenzy because Kevin Hart had a cowboys and Indian themed birthday party for his ONE year old son. Same thing goes for the notorious Kar-Jenner’s wearing braids, etc.

If Kevin Hart’s one year old or even the dreaded Kartrashians were doing it to be racially insensitive, I could totally understand the outrage, but at 46 years old I have played cowboys and Indians more times than I can remember, and as a small child it was based on what I saw on cartoons or on TV, not historical accuracy.

Cue the Kar-Jenner’s. Even though there is no love lost between myself and these attention whores, I personally think that it’s a lot less racially insensitive of them as some tend to believe because almost all of them are either married to or dating an African American man. Could they perhaps be copying these styles to appreciate their significant others heritage?!?

Caucasian American women have been getting spray tans, perms and more recently butt implants for years……..to look more like whom????

African American woman have been straightening their hair and using skin lighteners for about the same amount of time……to look like whom?!?

I don’t think the practice of these things in general have gotten offensive, I think that society as a whole has turned into a bunch of cry baby bitches, that use EVERY fucking thing possible to be offended about. It’s absolutely fucking ridiculous to me. If I call all millennials a blizzard of damn snowflakes am I being racist, bigoted, homophobic or culturally insensitive?!?

Guess what? I don’t give a shit what you “snowflakes” think!

One more thing before I go, to all of my African American lady friends, I am so so jelly of you being able to grow and wear an Afro. As far as I’m concerned they are fucking GLORIOUS. From a generation of the higher the hair, the closer to Jesus generation, they really speak to me!! Hallelujah!!

TTFN y’all!! Happy Friday!!💕💕

15 Things People with OCD Want You to Know

The truth about what it’s like to have obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Smith, now 37, says his obsessions began in youth with fears of choking. At his lowest point, he would only eat chicken broth and mashed potatoes. As an adult, he developed a fear of harming himself, so he would toss away food he had just prepared because he feared he may have poisoned it. At one point, he recalls lying on his hands in bed “literally as debilitated as somebody with stage IV cancer.”

The Panic Attack Symptoms Nobody Talks About

I’ve lived with panic attacks for five years now. I’ve had so many panic attacks, I’ve stopped counting. Memories of my worst attacks stick in my mind like bad nightmares. The time I was house-sitting for my friend. The countless attacks in my college dorm room. I will never forget them.

When I have panic attacks, I have the symptoms everyone always mentions. These are the symptoms you can quickly find with a Google search of “What is a panic attack?” The rapid, pounding heartbeat that feels like a giant bird is stuck in my chest, the sweaty palms, the nausea and the trembling. These are terrifying physical symptoms of panic attacks, and chances are most people can say they’ve experienced something close to this at least once in their life.

Panic attacks are more than a sudden feeling ofanxiety. They’re much more than the feeling you get when someone scares you and you say without thinking, “You almost gave me a panic attack!” Panic attacks can be incredibly traumatic experiences that happen over and over.

What people don’t realize is the physical experience of panic attacks isn’t always the worst part. There are some pretty terrifying things that can go on inside your head. Some of my worst panic attacks involve two symptoms no one really talks about when they talk about panic disorder: derealization and depersonalization.

Derealization is a fancy word for feeling like you are detached from your surroundings. When I experience this during panic attacks, everything around me feels unfamiliar. I could be in my bedroom, surrounded by things I’ve seen many times, like my cat, my bed or my clothes. Yet, I feel like I’m in a strange world. I feel like an alien who was beamed down into a random house.

Not only this, but things around me appear foggy and fake. Becoming detached like this is terrifying. My brain is doing something incredibly strange I don’t understand and I’m stuck in my body, trying to make sense of it. During panic attacks, I need something to hold onto that I can rely on. The familiar is what I crave, but my mind makes seeing the familiar difficult.

The people I love feel like strangers to me during panic attacks. It’s because of derealization that I worry about traveling to unfamiliar places. I love traveling, but the fear of unraveling can be enough to hold me back.

Depersonalization is a completely different sensation than derealization. Sometimes, the two happen at the same time. Depersonalization is the “out of body” experience. I feel detached from myself, like I’m looking at myself from afar. It’s tough to remember what’s important to me during this experience. I’m just going through the motions with no purpose.

Panic attacks leave me exhausted and searching for reminders of who I am and what makes me feel comfortable in my skin. A panic attack like this is a journey to find myself again. When I have them frequently, it’s like I’m constantly having to affirm who I am.

For me, depersonalization and derealization are the most terrifying sensations because I know they are coming from my brain instead of my body. They’re the symptoms no one else can see and this makes them even scarier. Both sensations are met with this overwhelming feeling of going “crazy” and losing control over everything.

Sometimes, I have a strange feeling that the entirety of the world’s problems, the news stories I hear daily, are on my shoulders. My panic attacks have themes like this. This feeling and the fear of going “crazy” make the panicking worse. I fall into a terrible cycle of panic that makes it hard to stop.

I wish people understood panic attacks aren’t always just a pounding heart. They aren’t always a prolonging of that startled feeling when someone spooks you. The solution isn’t always to relax and breathe slowly. Sometimes, it is to hold on for dear life to what you know is real and remind yourself the people and things around you are familiar. It means trying not to freak out even more and wait patiently until the sensations pass, even though you want to scream and cry.

During panic attacks, the body is doing what it knows to do when afraid and this can mean disconnecting from the world for a little while. I like to remind myself of this because it makes the panic attacks feel controllable. The body is doing what it needs to do.

Panic attacks are a delicate dance between reality and fantasy. Although depersonalization and derealization are terrifying, I know they will pass. I know I will eventually get back to who I am and the people I love.

My panic attacks can feel like a long and treacherous journey back to normalcy. Although I might feel “crazy” and out of control for a little while, the journey has a finish line. I try to remind myself of this when my heart starts pounding.

Disassociation in Complex PTSD Childhood Abuse Survivors

The effects of childhood sexual and physical abuse last a lifetime. Abused children end up being adults prone to depression, anxiety, substance abuse and psychiatric disorders. They are more prone to suicide. However, in recent years we have learned that abuse does more than wound self-esteem and break the spirit. It can damage the very substance of the brain and how it functions.

A major way by which childhood abuse can disrupt normal brain activity is by diminishing its capacity to handle stress. Stress is more than the worry and distress we experience when the circumstances of life push us beyond our limits. The body’s response to stress is a complex biological mechanism. When the brain senses that the body is being taxed beyond its usual capacity, it initiates the stress response by releasing a substance called corticotrophin releasing hormone, or CRH. CRH stimulates the pituitary gland to release ACTH that, in turn, triggers the release of the stress hormone, cortisol, from the adrenal glands. Cortisol marshals the body’s resources to provide the extra energy and endurance to meet the demands being placed upon it. Once, this might have been escaping an angry mastodon. Today, it would more likely be getting used to a new job, a nasty divorce, or recovering from surgery.

The stress-induced switch into physiological overdrive is designed to be brief. In fact, among the many things that cortisol does in the body, one of the most important is to feed back to the brain and start to shut the stress response down. Cortisol does this by binding to specific receptors in the brain. Cortisol fits the receptor, like a key in a lock, and turns the response off. One of the problems with those that have suffered severe childhood abuse is that the brains turn off switch has been turned off for the stress response to be disabled.

A study published in 2009 in the prestigious journal Nature Neuroscience revealed part of the reason why adults who were abused as children have abnormal stress responses. The grim details of the study included comparisons of the brains of individuals who had committed suicide vs. those who had died natural deaths. Among those who had committed suicide were some who had suffered severe childhood abuse and others who had not. It was found that among those who had suffered abuse, there were fewer of the special cortisol receptors in the brain that allow cortisol to turn off the stress response. It was further found that the section of DNA responsible for maintaining adequate numbers of these receptors had been methylated. They were no longer in full operation.

When the stress response won’t shut off and cortisol levels remain high in the brain, bad things can happen. Whereas bursts of cortisol help bolster the brain’s supply of glucose and chemical messengers, sustained high levels of cortisol can cause damage. Cortisol diminishes the brain’s response to the chemical messenger, serotonin, while it enhances the response to norepinephrine. Persisting high levels of cortisol also decrease levels of Brain-derived Neurotrophic factor, a substance that is necessary to maintain and replenish neurons in the brain. These and other changes alter mood, disturb sleep, heighten anxiety, and cause irritability. Consequently, the individual becomes more prone to Major Depression, PTSD, Generalized Anxiety, and other psychiatric disorders.

The More The Merrier??

We are moving into our new home on January 1st. Currently we are living in an 800 square foot condominium, it’s a one bedroom loft. My stepson and his fiancé are in between apartments, their new one won’t be available until the first, so they moved in with us……Don’t get me wrong, I love these kids like my very own. They are great “kids” but Lord have mercy, try squeezing four adults into 800 square feet. My stepson is 6’4 and has size thirteen shoes lying around. I’m clumsy AF, our home is like an obstacle course, there is constant laundry or dishes being done or food being cooked. With my OCD and anxiety, I’m about to have a fucking heart attack. If I do pass away I may as well look on the bright side knowing that at least I’ll be surrounded by loved ones in our tiny condo because we are practically on frigging top of each other!! I suppose I’ll look upon this as another grand adventure with my precious husband. We feel like teenagers again rather often. I love this new side of him…he’s so much FUN! We laugh with each other, at other people behind their backs and at each other. It’s blissful♥️

We always heard from other empty nesters not to be sad for long because kiddos always come back and they always bring more. If that isn’t spot on advice/sage warning🥰, I don’t know what is. It’s close enough to five o’ clock in my book to start drinking!!

🥃Cheers y’all!!

The Liquor Train Is Pulling Into The Station: Booze, Booze

I’m not sure where I want to go with this post. I didn’t get out of bed until 2:00pm as I was THAT emotionally exhausted from the emotional “festivities” from yesterday, I feel like shit from the weight I’ve gained due to my koo koo meds recently and the gluttonous carbfest I went on yesterday. FUCKING BLAH!!

I suppose I’ve disassociated a bit for my own sanity. I don’t feel bad, I don’t feel good. Neither happy nor sad. Just blah.

I’m dreading the rest of the holidays and our upcoming move. My OCD ignites my anxiety into a fiery frenzy when I think of all of my meticulously placed “stuff” being boxed up and in disarray until I can meticulously put it back somewhere else.

I had an MRI on my back and neck last Tuesday. I got the results back today. Degenerative Disc Disease. Just fucking Jim Dandy. As if I don’t have enough mental and physical disorders and ailments. Just something else to deal with. I would just like to be emotionally normal and totally pain (physically, emotionally and psychologically) free for one week. JUST ONE WEEK! It would be utter bliss.

Well I suppose I’ll get started early this afternoon with a little holiday cheer (Evan Williams Eggnog) and try to drown my shitty mood in booze. As my darling fellow blogger @helentastic always so eloquently puts it, xxCHEERSxx!

My Family Puts The Dysfunction In Dysfunctional Family

I made it through a nerve racking holiday with my dysfunctional family with a minimum of hiding in my old closet in the fetal position, having a panic attack. Jesus Christ, all of those fuckers get worse every year. I wanted to claw my own eyes out of my face……but my son came in from Houston, my daughter, son-in-law and my brand spanking new grandbaby gathered there so it wasn’t all bad. I love all of their faces so much♥️My Husband has been being totes awesome because he knows holidays are a trigger for me. I’m also DEFCON-5 with anxiety about the move. Delighted about the house but the mere notion of packing up and do the act of moving. It makes me shudder.

I saw my mother-in-law, my stepbabies and my other three grandsons, so at the end of the day, I do have many blessings and plenty to be thankful for.

I’m thankful for this picture of my “baby” holding his baby nephew💕💕My heart is just bursting with love!!