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!!!

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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😂

Here Comes Peter Cottontail

I’m not going to lie. We as parents can sometimes be cruel mother fuckers when it comes to our own selfish wants (a stupid picture) and our comedic entertainment (because y’all know good and damn well the harder and louder your kiddo screamed the funnier it got).

That’s not even mentioning that every one of our childhoods was predicated on a lie (trust issues much?). Yet we keep this bullshit up generation after generation. I’m sure once the millennials start having families, all of this aspect of familial trauma will stop dead in it’s tracks. Perhaps they can provide a kiddy safe space for snowflake children, that just can’t sit there and scream bloody murder for the 30 seconds it takes to snap the damn picture. Back in the day we did get a coloring book and a four pack of crayons (small consultation for literally having the shit scared out of us), but we survived it. My parents didn’t have baby proof outlet plug ins, cabinet latches, or leashes to keep up with the three of us at the mall. All we needed to stay close to mom was the threat of an imminent ass beating from dad. We were like ducklings in a row.

We rode our bikes without helmets, played until the street lights came on and drank piss hot water straight out of the garden hose and it appears all of us have made it through all of that “trauma” into adulthood.

The only thing I’m super pissed about is the big LIE. Santa, The Easter Bunny, The Tooth Fairy. Really?? Parents probably get the smallest amount of credit for anything in a child’s life. Looking back I should’ve told my kiddos, mommy and daddy worked our asses off to buy you ungrateful little shits all of this stuff. If you don’t get your act together, no more shit for you!!

“Santa is watching you.” No you little booger factory, ankle biting assholes, MOMMY is watching you and mommy is like the deep state, I watch you on your monitors, I listen in on your phone calls, I check your computer history AND have your text logs printed out through the cell phone company. Mommy IS Big Brother. That should scare you more than some drunk homeless dude or perv dressed up in a Santa or Bunny suit for twelve hour shifts so he can have enough money for his own Easter Basket filled with Booze, mind altering substances and some naked Whores wearing bunny ears, a tail stuck to their ass, platform shoes (try hopping in those bitches) and nothing else.

What can I say, I’m a realist.

Happy Easter, Y’all♥️

Teenagers: Living In The Wild

I used to think that animals eating their young soon after birth was icky and awful. In recent months I’ve totally reversed my opinion on such matters. As my husband and I went from happily peaceful empty nesters to having our 21 year old son, his pregnant fiancé and his sixteen year old daughter plopping down roots in our nest. Please don’t mistake what I’m saying, I adore ALL of our combined six children and their significant others but Jesus Christ on a Segway, these have got to be the 3 messiest people on the god damn planet. My being EXTREMELY OCD when it comes to order, cleanliness and germs does not help matters as I am currently hovering on the cusp of a complete nervous breakdown at any given moment. Some days they make such a mess as I run myself ragged constantly cleaning up after 3 grown ass kids, every once in a while I just wish we would have just eaten them at birth!!!

Oh and the noise, having Borderline Personality Disorder and being hypersensitive to the noise, activity and chaos keeps me in a nervous frenzy. Half the time I’m shaking so hard I look like I have a palsy of some sort.

Big brother yells at teenage sister (he’s 6’4, wears a size 13 shoe, is like having a bull in a china shop) with a big giant voice to match. Sixteen year old sister gets pissed off and ding, ding, ding Round 1!! Within no more than 45 seconds she’s shrieking like a cacophony of fucking tea kettles in Buckingham Palace at tea time and I’m headed for the Xanax. Good Times!!

Some may call this fucked up or cruel. Those same people have never raised teenagers😂

I love my bigs and littles more than a fat kid loves cake and they KNOW it♥️

Just Saying❣️

Peeing, Vagina Costumes and My Right To Bear Arms

I know I’m waaayyy out of line in my A-Z Challenge. I tried and I failed miserably at keeping up. Doing things on a “schedule” has never been a very strong personality trait of mine. On the other hand I’ve realized and accepted that I’m a flawed human being and I’m cool with that.

Aaahhh, P, not the letter. The urine variety. I recently noticed when some of you have me doubled over in fits of giggles with your posts and/or comments, I tell you I think I pee’d a little, I AM NOT speaking metaphorically.

I realized just how many times a day I say this and what normally causes it (for the record I change clothes in the event something like this happens. I don’t walk around pissy all day). The main causes seem to be laughing, sneezing, coughing, straining to hard when I yell FUUUCCCCKKK at the top of my lungs, hiccuping and God Forbid, I have Poot Wars: Legion of Doom with my teenagers (yes I’m the coolest mom EVER, although my kiddos would surely debate that) I might as well put on fucking Stage 47 Pampers Waddlers. If I’m straining that hard there’s DEFINITELY going to be pee involved.

This morning as I was mulling this over in my crazy mind, I had a revelation of sorts. That we woman, as a gender have so many more indignities (natural and otherwise) inflicted on our persons during the course of our lifetimes than our male counterparts.

There is menstruation, the blossoming of bosoms, Pap smears, annual gynecological visits, childbirth (hence the peeing).

Men try pushing something the same weight as a small bowling ball out of anywhere south of your belly button. Unmedicated. Then we can compare war stories.

After child bearing and rearing years comes the annual mammograms (bro’s stick your twig and berries between two flat plates and squeeze just a little to have a tiny inkling of what that’s like), because these people are not just putting a ladies breast in between those plates, those cruel fuckers are pulling back fat around front and everything.

Then comes the peeing every time you make a move and then the mother of ALL indignities, Menopause. Just because women of a certain age normally speak of this in hushed tones amongst ourselves does not mean it is to be taken lightly. Actually we huddle together and speak of it quietly because menopause is Lucifer, Māra or Iblis depending on ones beliefs. We do not want to bring this evil thing up from the fiery depths by speaking its name too loudly.

Hot flashes?!?! If you ever want to know what being roasted alive on a funeral pyre or spending at least 10-60 minutes in actual hell feels like, have one of these. Simply put, hot flashes are the devil. So by my age us women are having annual intrusions in our lady bits, boob squashings and hot flashes. If that is not enough indignities, around this time in life most women have to start having colonoscopies as well and if you are a gentleman that’s 40ish or older you are probably at least familiar with this one. So next time one of you guys is feeling icky about some “medical” procedure, just reread this blog post.

I should think that having another man softly cradling your balls and telling you to cough every so often for a physical or an after 40 occasional lubed, gloved finger gently inserted into your butthole qualifies you guys to bitch about ANYTHING ever again.

Disclaimer:

This excludes any of you fellows with legitimate medical complications or chronic health issues. I’m speaking in generalities about Mr. Everyday Joe (the ones that generally do the MOST bitching about anything medically related).

I’m not some raving, lunatic feminist as I’ve never marched in Washington, DC dressed as a giant vagina. As a matter of fact I thought that was the most idiotic shit I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Just think of the outcry if men wore hats with balls and a penis sticking off the top of them to protest something. Jesus Christ, it would be complete and utter anarchy.

Before any raving, lunatic feminists or anyone else that does not like my opinion try to attack me or mine by surrounding my home and trying to scare me by acting like a bunch of assholes let me warn you, if you are in my yard I will drop every one of you like a sack of of shit with my LTL “beanbag ammo” (don’t let the cute name fool you, anything coming out of a 12 gauge shotgun at 205 mph will make you rethink your position, quick, fast and in a hurry). For any slow learners that actually have the audacity and ignorance to break in and actually make it inside my home, it’s open season on you fuckers. My newest baby is a Smith & Wesson Model 500 X-frame revolver. For those of you that are unfamiliar with firearms this is one badass MoFo for one badass bitch that got knocked asshole over elbows the first few times at the range but has become quite accurate since. This gun is not for the faint of heart. I’m a southern girl from a long, long line of military and Law Enforcement Officers. I’ve been familiar with and shooting firearms since I was 10 years old. I’m an expert marksman and a FIRM believer in my 2nd Amendment rights as a US Citizen. So in closing for any nutjobs out there….PLEASE, PLEASE Come at me, bro!!

I apologize for straying so far from my original blog topic, but as I was voicing my opinion about the vagina costumes, I started thinking about all of the elected officials being run out of public establishments or having their homes surrounded (Tucker Carlson, with his wife and children inside) by ignorant assholes that think that there can be only one opinion. Theirs.

Hence the anger and tirade. I can assure you that no one is running my ass out of anywhere for having a fucking opinion. Corner me and my fight or flight instinct kicks in and since I weigh entirely too much to take flight, that’s ass if anyone actually makes an unauthorized entry INTO my dwelling intent on harming my family or myself.

*rant over*

Happy Thursday Y’all♥️

April 7, 1972: The Day Awesome Was Born

Obviously if you read my posts, you know that I’ve had a distressed, depressed past couple of days. I don’t know if it just worked out that way because of my BPD, or because since I turned forty I tend to get a bit melancholy around my birthday and I knew mine was imminent. Today is the big day and I’ve wrestled with how I should be feeling all morning.

Perhaps it’s because I never achieved the success I dreamed of when I was younger, or the fact my littles have grown into bigs that have had littles themselves, or any number of vain, vapid things….I have finally decided that this year I choose to be grateful. Although I’m not rich and/or famous, I have a rather large blended family that loves me for me despite my craziness. My littles have grown into amazing bigs that are already and also in the near future making a difference in this world. I have four happy, healthy, gorgeous grandsons and another sweet little on the way that are my heart and soul. My husband is not perfect and sometimes I feel like he doesn’t treat me like I should be treated but guess what?? The same thing could be said for me. He fucked up early in our relationship. So did I, perhaps not in the same way but equally as seriously. When it comes right down to it, he puts up with me and my tumultuous, unpredictable illness like a pro, he works his ass off to make sure that I don’t have to because the Borderline Personality Disorder makes that damn near impossible. All in all I’d have to say I’m truly very blessed in all of the ways that matter. Today was a good day to be born forty seven years ago♥️

My Son: Future Dr. Superstar M.D.

Student leaders at Louisiana Tech are making sure no-hazing policies and attitudes are enforced.

During my sons undergraduate studies, hazing became a national problem seen on University campuses across the nation. It seemed for a while that every time we turned on the news at night we would hear about another fraternity hazing event that would ultimately cost a young person their life, before it had ever begun.

My son, Payton, during his time at Louisiana Tech University was President of his fraternity, Delta Chi, and during that same time frame was also elected President of the entire Greek Council which oversaw all fraternity and sorority activities on campus.

This is a local news report dedicated to the ongoing hazing crisis and what local campus Greek leaders are saying and doing about it.

This mamma considers her baby boy an absolute celebrity due to his appearance and opinions.

www.knoe.com/content/news/Louisiana-Tech-is-cracking-down-on-hazing-447826083.html

The following is my brilliant sons (no I’m not biased😊) acceptance letter into medical school at Louisiana State University Shreveport. He has wanted to be a cardiac surgeon since he could utter that phrase. He maintained a 4.2 or above throughout elementary, middle and high school then went on to college on a full academic scholarship. There he was on the Presidents list all four years, was Mr. Louisiana Tech, a member of the Homecoming Court, volunteered every summer for four weeks with MedCamps (a special camp for children and adolescents with severe disabilities), held down not one, not two but three jobs and stayed on top of his many extracurricular activities all while keeping his grades up. He graduated with his degree in Pre-Med, Summa Cum Laude, in May 2018. Since then he has been working as a medical intern at TIRR Memorial Hermann hospital in Houston. Needless to say, I am one blessed Mom!

My son will only be twenty three years old on Valentines Day of this year. He has accomplished so very much in those 23 short years that I am absolutely in awe of his dedication, determination and work ethic.

I could not be any prouder if I tried!

Congratulations, my handsome son! Keep your feet on the ground but never keep reaching for the stars!

MiMi’s Angel Is Getting Christened

It’s 3:30am here and I can’t sleep a wink. I’m thinking that it’s because MiMi’s precious angel baby, grandson, Louis, is getting christened in less than six hours. Although I am personally not Catholic (my daughter converted the year prior to marrying my amazing son-in-law, who is a devout Catholic) I am wide awake with excitement of this momentous day for my sweetest cutie patootie!!

MiMi loves you big big my handsome little chunky monkey!!

Too my soft spoken, kind, compassionate, gentle souled baby girl……you were born to be a mother. As I watch my baby with her own baby, it makes my heart burst with pride and joy. You are so absolutely beautiful inside and out and are the most amazing first time mommy I’ve ever seen. I adore you and your sweet little family❣️

Year of The Hot Mess Express

Sooooooo, I started a list of New Years Resolutions, after two and a half pages (front and back) I decided what in the monkey fuck am I thinking?!?! The reason why this list is so long is because I’m carrying shit over from the past twenty five years. If I haven’t kept said resolutions in that amount of time, I’ve decided that being me is fucking awesome/just awful (depending on which of my “personalities” you happen to grab bag at that particular moment) and that I don’t need any improvement, therefore this year the only resolution I have is to keep being fucking awesome/just awful. Keeping just this ONE will be a piece of cake. My List?? In the circular file where it should have been stored twenty five years ago😂😂

New Years Eve at our new house was perfect and the fireworks show from our own backyard was amazing! I love, love, love being back in the country and I especially love a bunch of rednecks hopped up on Budweiser on New Years Eve who happen to have cornered the market on ALL fireworks in Livingston Parish where we now reside.

Here hold my beer and watch this!! ‘Merica!😂😂😂

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.

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.

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💕💕

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!!

When I try and take a picture…

When I try and take a picture…
— Read on m.facebook.com/story.php

These precious angels are my daughter and son-in-laws twin nephews. You have to watch it a few times to take it all in. This is so funny to me on so many different levels…..the first twin waiting for mom to count to three, the second twin taking a minute to realize he just got smacked and decide oh hell to the no and smacks the first one. The first twin being the instigator is not having it so he tees up for one more hit, then you see the second twin who got the last lick in hunkering down and making a face waiting for his payback clobber!! As an oldest sibling this tickles my evil little black sister heart! Why didn’t I think of this shit?!?!

This is SPARTA

I’m honored and delighted at this milestone!

Thank y’all so, so much for joining me on this crazy adventure that is my life.

MiMi’s World

Hi my friends and fellow bloggers, sorry I’ve been so quiet (for me anyway) the last few days. As you all know from my previous blog post, I became a MiMi to the cutest, sweetest, smartest grandson in the whole wide world and I AM SMITTEN.

I can barely take a second away from him…..I begged my daughter to let me stay the first few days at home with them and she sweetly turned me down and said they had to learn, that I couldn’t stay with them forever….the thing is I call BULLSHIT on that because I don’t care if I had to pitch a tent in their back yard….I would totally do it to be close to my grandbaby. I taught my kids to be self reliant and independent but if I knew it was going to jump up and bite me in the ass like this, I’d rather them still living with me at 40! Ha!

Having a new innocent life to worry about has my BPD anxiety in overdrive. I feel like I have an elephant sitting on my chest but in a good way if that’s not an oxymoron. Thanks to all for the kind words and well wishes!! They mean the world to me❤️

Rotten to the Core

Splitting. If you have BPD, you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about. If you do not have BPD, imagine having a Category 5 hurricane leaving a path of destruction in every cell, nerve ending and emotion in your entire body. Imagine being a walking hand grenade with the pin pulled waiting with gut churning dread because you know what’s coming and there’s not a damn thing you can do to delay, restrain or stop the explosion or at times implosion.

I suppose that’s why the suicide rate among Borderline Personality Disorder sufferers is so much higher than many other mental disorders. It doesn’t mean as a whole we are weak. Sometimes the pain of it all just becomes too much to bear. During these triggers nothingness seems like a small piece of Heaven. I pray for the lost souls who felt this was their only option for just peace and relief from the never ending struggle that is our cross to bear. For some it might have been their only option. God rest their souls and if you are a merciful God like they say…..please, please give these lost souls the peace they never had here on earth.

Today I split. Ive been feeling it coming for a couple of days, I’ve been fighting it for those same couple of days. I’m disgusted with myself because I was starting to get a handle on my angry triggers. This was a grief trigger. As some of you know my husbands ex-wife who is also the mother of his two youngest children (20 and 15), who also over the years and after a handful of skirmishes became a dear friend to me passed away unexpectedly. She had no brain activity upon arrival at the hospital and was technically pronounced dead on Tuesday morning, because she was an organ donor she was kept on life support the entire week to keep her viable. Watching her children, her husband and even my husband shatter into a million pieces broke the fragile grasp I had on my own emotions.

There is a horrific coincidence to this story…..she died in the same ICU room in the same hospital as my beloved grandmother did sixteen years ago. I never lost it in front of the friends or family but this morning I lost control…

My husband like many men is very stoic in his grief. He’s devastated and worried about his children. I’m sure he’s been hurting inside himself….they had been married for seventeen years and shared two children, of course he’s hurt. His way of dealing with grief is being left alone with his thoughts. I’m Italian and a hoverer. He asked kindly for some space to deal with this trauma and tragedy and instead of sweetly understanding like a normał person, my BPD screamed REJECTION, REJECTION, REJECTION so of course I lost my shit on him this morning and saddled him with my crazy when he is dealing with so much already. I really am a worthless, wretched human being when I think about what I put him through in a time like this. He may or may not forgive me, but I will NEVER, EVER forgive myself. Who does this shit?!?!

To my husband, I am truly and utterly ashamed of myself. I am more sorry for hurting you worse than you already were. I watched as you couldn’t eat or sleep for days and still I didn’t have enough control to stop the carnage of my words in their tracks. You will NEVER no how wretched I feel or how very sorry I am.

Having BPD is no excuse. Some people are just rotten to the core. I am one of them.

Big Girl Undies On

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I know this shouldn’t be a cause for alarm.  It wouldn’t be for a normal.

Today is my precious, only baby girls baby shower.  Please don’t misunderstand, I’m elated at becoming a MiMi.  My anxiety inducing issue is with the fact that my baby is having a baby.  I am so FREAKED THE FUCK out, that I don’t know which way is up.  Where did all the time go.  It seems like just yesterday she was a tiny little toddler in her Barney nightgown and would flip out if she didn’t have her trusty sidekick  “Sal Nu-Nu” (apparently her pacifier was part of the Gambino crime syndicate😉) until she was nearly in kindergarten.  Time just flashes by with the speed of lightening, I don’t think many of us realize just how fast it goes by.  So in closing mammas hug your littles AND your bigs.  They’ll be flying the coop and forging their own path in this crazy world waaaaay before you’re ready for it❤️