The Epic Fail of Liberal Ethics, or Antinomianism Doesn’t Negate the Law, Snowflake.

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The phrase “liberal ethics” is quite the oxymoron these days, unless one considers that there are good ethics and bad ethics.  I will quantify right away that my political and social opinions are generally just to the right of Reagan, so there will be no tree-hugging, mollycoddling, brainless touchy-feely nonsense from me. Good and bad are black and white, and this is the first point on which liberal nonsense fails.  Morality is not relative. It came from God in the form of the Ten Commandments.  Not the Ten Suggestions, or Ten Things that are Kinda Nice to Try.

This being said, I will give a disclaimer before I am shot down as some crazy Bible-worshiping hag belonging to a Westboro Baptist or worse type church.

I am conservative both socially and politically in regard to the left hand kingdom. My citizenship in the left hand kingdom is necessarily related to and informed by my citizenship the right hand kingdom.  If my personal assertions smack of confessional Lutheran theology, that’s completely correct and most intentional. Reader, be then forewarned.

If we remember that the Ten Commandments are God’s Laws- not options, not nice sentiments, we also know, if we are honest with ourselves, that every single one of us breaks every single one of these laws every single day.

Even though the best of us break these laws with impunity, the fact that they are laws doesn’t change.  Try to break the natural law of gravity and see how that works. That may help one understand why human beings earn the penalty of death if we are left solely to the judgment of the Law.  Save by the grace of God, humanity is completely corrupted and doomed.

pelosi

Crazy politicians are not helping anything.  And BTW, she’s anything but Roman Catholic.  Molech worshipper, maybe.

Liberal ethics openly defy God’s Law.  It is as if they have intentionally taken the Commandments and turned them around into hedonistic, self-serving bromides.

Instead of the First Commandment- You will have no other gods, the liberal command is: Myself, my god.  MY body, MY choice, MY entitlement-MY right to never be offended or challenged.  The demands of so many screaming, mollycoddled toddlers.

Instead of the Second Commandment- You will not take the Name of the Lord in vain, liberals preach all sorts of false gospels in the name of themselves, and to the cause of obtaining the Almighty Dollar.

Instead of the Third Commandment- Honor the Sabbath Day and keep it holy, we get “all praise to the Almighty Dollar.”

Instead of the Fourth Commandment – Honor your father and mother, legitimate authority that belongs to parents is usurped by the state.  Children are indoctrinated with all manner of subversive and dangerous ideologies via public education (that is, if they survive to be born) that turns their hearts and minds to despise their parents and reject sound authority.

Instead of the Fifth Commandment- You shall not kill- liberals celebrate the slaughter of unborn children in the name of “choice.”  Except that the individuals being slaughtered were never given a choice.

Instead of the Sixth Commandment- You shall not commit adultery- every sort of sick sexual deviance is celebrated, from serial monogamy, to sodomy, to polyamory, to even pedophilia and zoophilia.

Instead of the Seventh Commandment- You shall not steal- liberals work to “legalize” theft through excessive and oppressive taxation upon the working poor to give resources and money away to illegal immigrants, those unwilling to work, and “protected groups” such as “refugees” from terrorist harboring countries whose aim it is to destroy our nation.

Instead of the Eighth Commandment- You shall not bear false witness– the news networks are alive and corrupt with lies that seek to make deviant lifestyles come across as normal, to demonize those who try to live in an upright manner.

Instead of the Ninth Commandment- You shall not covet your neighbor’s property- the race to acquire property and to have the latest stuff is all the rage- whether it is gotten by legitimate means or not.

Instead of the Tenth Commandment- You shall not covet your neighbor’s spouse, livestock or employees, the media glorifies promiscuity and disloyalty to one’s spouse with TV shows such as  “Wife Swap,” and “Temptation Island.”  The tabloids are thick with the who’s who of “who is involved with so and so this week.”

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I don’t claim to have the answers for sinful humanity, and I freely admit that I am part of the problem.  I don’t follow God’s Law 100%.  No one does.  No one can. The only thing that knowing the Law can teach me is just how sinful and wicked I really am, and that I desperately need Jesus.

But just because no one can be 100% perfect does not mean that society loses its obligation to maintain order and standards.

Antinomianism- behaving as though there is an absence of law- does not negate the reality of the law.  One can deny the law of gravity until one is blue in the face but the reality is that if one jumps off a cliff, no matter one’s view on the law of gravity, the bottom still comes quickly and very hard.

This is the fail of liberalism and the fail of liberal ethics.  Denying a that there are consequences for breaking a natural law does not make those consequences go away. And I can say that without invoking my faith.  Natural laws- and the consequences for breaking them- can be proven by science and logic.

That sort of denial, that there are absolutes and laws that cannot be broken without consequences, only breeds more of the irrational self-glorifying navel gazing that is so prevalent today.  The false concept of “multiple genders,” the acceptance of all sorts of mental disorders as being “diversity” and the straight up denial of history are just the beginning.  John Calvin had it right about the total depravity of man.  It’s too bad that in these days we are seeing it played out.

 

All That Really Matters…

It’s that time of year again. Most of my life I have approached the holidays with a combination of dread and loathing. From my earliest memory I still can feel the disappointment and fear that comes from being a child in tough economic times – money, or more rightly the lack thereof- was guaranteed to get Mom and Dad at each other’s throats.

Christmas time was always a really turbulent time of the year. Dad, especially, always wanted to do the large and lavish holiday things but the money wasn’t there. So he would get bitter and depressed. If only he would have known that a quiet and frugal observance of the Incarnation and birth of Christ with sharing and love would have been so much better than just another series of money fights.

It was better to put up simple decorations and lights and to make homemade candy with Grandma than to dance around the tension at home.

I have gotten to the point where I can barely tolerate the retail bonanza that accompanies the holiday season. I love Advent and the religious observance of Christmas. I can even get into the decorations and baking, but no, I am not into buying tons of crap for people who (like me) do not need tons of crap.  Meaningful, needful and useful gifts are one thing, especially for someone you know is in need, but simply procuring a piece of vapid kitsch to wrap up so you can say you gave someone a gift is just not my thing.

Maybe that sounds sort of Scroogish but there’s no need to get me anything either. I do not need any bath sets, Walmart knockoffs of colognes that give me migraines, or socks and granny panties.  I don’t mind a good gag gift, a raunchy calendar or good theological books (that I would have to choose…)   The only things I really want are intangible anyway.

And off to the intangibles. I really want that one thing I have found to be so elusive- to be loved, to belong, to be accepted the way I am even though I wasn’t made for this world.

That’s a lot to ask, and maybe even wrong to ask, but who knows?

But “He Said He Loves Me,” Lies from the Pit of Hell, and Boiling Frogs

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I’m not into telling people how to live their lives.  If I had the cash to buy myself a remote mountain retreat with an indoor pool, hot tub and Internet access to have everything I need delivered to me, believe me, the only people I would communicate with or see face to face would be people I want around.  That would be less than 3 people on most days, up to a maximum of maybe 10.  Quality matters a lot more than quantity as far as humans with whom I choose to share physical space.

I think that sometimes my outlook has to do with the fact that I am still recovering from and will always probably be recovering from the effects of toxic relationships.  I have been bitten enough times to be a lot more than twice shy.

My default in relating to other humans, if you are familiar with the first stage of Erickson’s theory of psychosocial development, is mistrust. As far as being in my inner circle, you are guilty until you prove yourself innocent.  It’s practical and it’s pragmatic on my part to be wary, especially if you have endured what I have endured at the hands and whims of others.

I don’t share this to troll for pity.  I don’t want anyone’s pity.  For the first time in my life (and that’s 50 years, folks) I am thankful for where my life is right now, and for what I am NOT putting up with.  I am not getting the hell beaten out of me by older siblings and by the kids at school.  I am not working for psychotic, coke-head bosses, nor am I working 80+ hours a week for a pathetically inadequate salary.

I am not married to an idiot who didn’t want his own son and proved it by signing off his parental rights for the low, low price of $7500.00 in back support.  I am not married to a drunken sot (who admittedly was a slight improvement over idiot #1) who put on a good show in front of people, but behind closed doors engaged in more than enough verbal, emotional, financial, and yes, even physical abuse at times over twenty years to last many lifetimes.

boiling frog

I’ve seen the metaphor of a frog in boiling water- the hotter the water gets the more of a tolerance the frog has, until he just boils to death.  I didn’t know what normal was, so as the heat got hotter I blamed myself.  I tried harder. If I could just do more, earn more, if I could be something other than a frumpy klutzy nearsighted scared puppy…

It wasn’t normal to have to sleep in the car because of the loud music and tirades in the middle of the night.  But he claimed to love me. So I slept in the car many nights.

It wasn’t normal to be tossed around by the hair.  But he claimed to love me. So I cut my hair super short, so he wouldn’t be able to get a grip on it.

It wasn’t normal to make excuses for Jerry’s drunken behavior or to try to mediate between him and his drunken friends.  But even through his drunken stupidity- he claimed to love me. So I kept making excuses.

It wasn’t normal to clean up after a 40 or 50 something year old man with the toileting skills of a toddler and a supreme ability to trash an entire house in minutes. But he claimed to love me. So I kept cleaning up after him.

It wasn’t normal to be ordered to do laundry, cook and clean right after coming home from major surgery. But he claimed to love me.  So I tried to do what he wanted even when it was against medical advice.

I didn’t have the clarity of mind or the sense of outrage I should have had to simply get out of the boiling water and to jump out of the pot.

Nothing was ever enough. By the time Jerry died I finally understood that there was nothing I could have done that would have been good enough to keep him from abusing me. Whatever was in his psyche that caused his behavior didn’t mean I had to stand and take it.

It’s easy to see the best course of action from the outside of the hot pot- get the hell out- but when you’re on the inside of it, it’s normal, it’s familiar, it is reality, even if it’s killing you.

I made excuses with the best of them.  I was afraid of losing my housing- which was a very real fear because the house we lived in was provided by Jerry’s employer.  I was afraid of being alone.  I felt worthless because he kept telling me how nobody else would want a weird and physically “damaged” person like me and that I should be grateful for him.

He mocked me because of my surgical scars and reminded me constantly how physically unattractive I am.

The longer he’s been gone, the more I can see the bullshit and lies more clearly.

I can look into the boiling pot from the outside and say no way in hell am I going to land in there again.

If anything I would want to teach by example, even if the example is of what NOT to do.

Don’t stand for being degraded and controlled.

Fight for your child(ren) to the death no matter what that might look like.

Remember that you have the right not to be abused.

 

 

 

 

Wisdom of an Ancient, If I Could Revise the Past, and Hyperlexic Hazards

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This can’t be real. She has lipstick on. And mascara. I was in maternity clothes for the following 4 months after my son was born because of my poorly done C-section incision….and looked like a complete train wreck for months after that!

Sometimes I read the garbage on various newsfeeds when I’m bored. I shouldn’t do that for many reasons. Hyperlexic people like me speed read, and are compelled to read anything and everything that’s in print (even though I have become more discerning in later years) which means I still take in a lot more unsavory stuff than most people.

I’m pretty good most of the time at scrolling past fake news and garden variety bullshit that I find offensive, or assorted drivel that just pushes the wrong buttons.

Media consumption is much like food consumption. Some stuff is good for you, but difficult to wade through. Some stuff just plain tastes nasty and will make you sick. Other stuff is ok in moderation. Then there is just plain poison.

Normally I don’t read mushy tales of devoted spouses (mostly because I am pissed at myself for tolerating 20+ years of drunk-n-stupid abusive bullshit from mine) or stories involving joyful motherhood. The birth of my only child was many things, none of them pleasant, with the exception of the fact that somehow by some miracle he came out of it healthy, in one piece and blissfully unscathed. Otherwise my “birth experience” was an exemplary display of Murphy’s law in childbirth, a harrowingly narrow avoidance of maternal mortality due to medical ineptitude, and being brought to the realization that my then husband and male genetic contributor of said offspring is a worthless, contemptuous ass.

Being reminded of that experience is painful.  I should have been able to enjoy my son when he was first born, but instead I was sick, browbeaten and powerless.  It was a horrible feeling. Especially wondering why I survived all the medical errors when technically I should have died- and I survived for what?

For many years I wondered why I didn’t die- my parents would have gotten the son they wanted but never got. One can question God and wonder about His decisions and ponder the moral question of why expendable and broken people with deep scars and missing pieces who still linger about suffering and dying a little more every day, suffering slowly while children and young people with lives worth living just die.  I’m still sucking up valuable oxygen for what it’s worth. I really wonder why.

These things disturb me.

Hindsight is 20/20, and with this in mind, I realize that after all these years it shouldn’t bother me. But it does.

I will freely admit I am jealous of women who have men who support them, men who actually love them and their children.

It pisses me off that when I had the one child I could have that his entire birth and infancy was made a nightmare first by my own health complications and the poor medical care I received, then by my worthless ex and his selfishness and hostility.

I’m sorry but I can’t forget being completely at the end of my strength, barely able to stand, being held together with way too many stitches, crying endlessly, holding my newborn while my ex rages, “How dare you bring that thing in MY house…what the hell are you going to do with it…” and so on.

All I could do was sob uncontrollably, helpless and mired in the deepest despair I’ve ever known. It’s hard to find words to describe this even now after a lifetime of space and time in between. Forgiveness, yes, but healing from such a vicious wound, probably not this side of eternity.

And it still took me two years after that to leave the son of a bitch. He would put up a good front in front of my family. He played the game when people were looking, but behind closed doors I was afraid. And he was downright hostile.

There’s something about being hit when you’re down that sticks with you. There’s also something about reading about perfect husbands who love their wives and kids and actually help with the nightmare during and after childbirth that fans the flames of that resentment, sharpens the sting of that pain, and even stirs up my jealousy toward the “perfect people,” even after almost 30 years.

I have a thick skin and am not easily rattled over most things at my age, but I still should not read those kinds of sickeningly sweet stories. Maybe there are guys like that, and more power to the women who find such gems. I just never personally experienced such bliss.

I should have held out for one of those even had that meant I would have lived alone as a “mother” of only dogs and cats. Then again, the axiom: “hindsight is 20/20” applies.

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Cats don’t drink beer, smoke cigarettes, or yank me out of bed by the hair at 11PM so I can prepare food for an ungrateful sot who will pass out before he can eat it, just sayin.

I don’t regret my son’s existence or my granddaughter’s for that matter, but if I had things to do over I would have followed my gut on that hot, hot, stinkingly humid hot day in August of 1990 and said hell no, a million times NO to my ex.  Something in the back of my head was telling me I was insane to marry such a self-absorbed basket case mommy’s boy, and Something was right.

Should have said the same thing to Jerry five years later too, but that is another story.

The wisdom I have to pass along on this front is that it’s probably better to hold out for the highly improbable than to settle for the unacceptable.

Some young women- me included, long ago- fall for a man just because he’s vertical and breathing. That’s not enough. It’s not worth it if he has nothing to bring to the table.

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Granted, I have my sensory, emotional and relational issues, and I am not physically beautiful by any standard, but I still deserve better than moochers, drunks and narcissistic ne’er-do-wells.

And I am better off to hold my standards high, even though it’s too late for me to have a positive experience becoming a mother and raising a child.  Said child is 28 years old with a child of his own.

I have no tolerance for drunk-n-stupid, or of being berated, devalued and used. It took me over 25 years to figure that out, or more accurately, to decide they were wrong and I deserved better.

If anything mine is a cautionary tale. I can’t change the past but I can move forward.

And I can stop reading cheesy clickbait pieces especially when someone is gushing about their perfect man, children, family, etc.

Humor and sarcasm are more appropriate domains for me when I have a hankering for the trite or mundane.

I should try to keep my reading confined to higher pursuits such as Scripture (always timeless,) scientific and historical non-fiction, and selected classics. I gave up the bodice rippers and various other sleazy tomes that would be porn if they were illustrated in high school.

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Sadly, I had quite a collection of said bawdy literature during my freshman year of high school.

The occupational hazards of the hyperlexic…

Maybe I should go and read some Stephen King.  His politics may be dreadful, but his stories are great this time of year.

Uh, Hell No. Truth is Still Truth. Just Ask the Prophets of B’aal.

Imagine my surprise upon receiving this e-mail:

Pakistan

In a perverse way it is pleasantly refreshing to discover that someone was paying attention to what someone from fly-over country BFE has to say about the abomination that is Islam.  That my obscure, though pithy, observations would arouse the scrutiny and the ire of the Islamic Internet patrol is sort of flattering in a way.  Truth-telling has a way of pissing people off.  I get it.  But it’s still the truth, and still my right and obligation to point it out.

So let’s just pick this attempt at censorship apart with facts.

  1. I am an American, which means the First Amendment applies to me. Pakistani law does NOT apply to me.  I still have the freedom to speak the truth, especially the truth that is Christianity, because that is the one truth that really matters.  If the three Internet subscribers from a third world hole who are sadly deceived into believing in a false god want to attempt to block my free speech, frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass.  I am sad for those in Pakistan who need to hear the truth about Islam that their nanny state sees fit to cut them off from the One True God in favor of their idol that cannot save and their governmental system that brings death and destruction to everything it touches. History proves the utter failure and moral bankruptcy of Islamic governance as well as the failure of other fascist states.
  2. My only question regarding that excessive defensiveness, is that if your false god is really true, then why are you so butt-hurt?  I am reminded of when Elijah confronted the false prophets of B’aal. This account is found in 1 Kings 18:20-40, which can be found in the Bible, which is the inerrant word of God.  If your god is real, then he should be able to defend himself against “blasphemy” by “infidels.” Hint: The fate of the prophets of B’aal should stand as a warning.
  3. Everything I said in my post from March 2016 about the false religion of Islam, and how it is really fascism hiding behind an idol, is still 100% true, whether or not someone in Pakistan doesn’t like it. Truth doesn’t change just because it may be unpopular.
  4. Truth is not relative.  Obfuscating, legislating against, or actively opposing the truth does not make it any less true.  Case in point: Even if I would choose to “identify” as Shaquille O’Neal does not make me Shaquille O’Neal, nor does it equip me to substitute for Shaquille O’Neal.  The reality (which is factual and not relative) is, I am 5’4″, female, horribly nearsighted, deathly clumsy, a breathing definition of a WASP (as in White Anglo-Saxon Protestant), and I have absolutely no aptitude or ability to play basketball.

AP SHAQ RETIRES S BKN FILE USA PA

No, I am clearly NOT Shaq.  I like his Icy-Hot commercials though.

It would be nice if verifying truth claims were as simple as observing the clear fact that I am not Shaq, and could not be Shaq even if I claimed to “identify” as Shaq.

I find it most interesting that the “prophet” of Islam advocated spreading that abomination at the end of a sword.  By contrast, the real God-Man, Jesus, taught:

“Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves.  You will recognize them by their fruits. Are grapes gathered from thorn bushes, or figs from thistles?  So, every healthy tree bears good fruit, but the diseased tree bears bad fruit. A healthy tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a diseased tree bear good fruit.  Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Thus you will recognize them by their fruits.”- Matthew 7:15-20 (ESV)

What are the fruits of Islam?  Death, destruction, slavery and oppression.

I am not saying that the history of Christianity has been spotless.  We have had our share of apostasy, exploitation and abuses committed by those claiming the name of Christ.  Yet true Christianity does not teach conversion at the end of a sword.  True Christianity does teach that faith in the One True God comes by hearing (Romans 10:17)- ironically the very thing that the Islamofascists are trying to prevent- and not by force.

If Islam is so great and true, then why is the sword necessary?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scantily Clad Large People, Strange Affections, and Assorted Moral Decrepitude

 

eat assThe things I see while driving to work on US23…

I have been many things in my life, but “prude” is generally not one of them.  I may be modest according to today’s standards, where apparently it’s OK for drag queens to read stories to children while wearing wigs, makeup and a little more than a strip of Saran Wrap over their bits, but I grew up in automotive shops around technicians.  Salty language and plenty of sexual innuendo, I get.  Gender bending, not so much.

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Having pervs hang out with kids…again not so much. I probably would have been terrified by Drag Queen Story Hour as a child.  I was terrified of everyone- with the exception of a precious few blood relatives- when I was a child. Then again, I could read for myself.

I sought out quiet corners of the library to read on my own at my own pace, and if anyone even thought of touching me at all, in any kind of way, I would have screamed like a banchee. It was my only defense.  The library was a safe place because it was public, (so my sisters and other kids couldn’t torment me there) quiet, and people left me alone.  As far as I was concerned when I was a child, all touching was bad touching.  I realize not all kids are hypersensitive to physical touch, but any pedophile who would have dared to try anything with me – and they probably would not have been able to get close enough- would have either slit my throat quickly, or dropped and ran quickly because there would have been blood curdling screams.

I know not everyone who likes to do drag is necessarily a perv,  but why confuse kids?  Maybe I am speaking from my own childhood, which was a hot mess to put it mildly- more like the seventh circle of hell from Dante’s Inferno to be more accurate, but I think it’s on the adults to make sure kids have some sort of reason and stability.  It would also be helpful to teach kids critical thinking and logic skills, but maybe that’s too much to ask from the Tide Pod eating generation.

As a parent, it’s not always prudent to trust your kids with other adults. I played hell trusting my son with anyone. My son made it a lot easier in some ways as he was always very outspoken and he is very good at reading people. If he was creeped out by someone then I could be confident that he was usually right.  My default is distrust.  I am not a trusting soul by any stretch.

I am glad that the hottest month of the year is behind me.  July in Ohio brings out the Scantily Clad Large People.

fat man in speedoI don’t know what is worse, fat dudes in Speedos or the Daisy Duke crowd.

I have neighbors around me with pools.  It’s scary.

 

 

 

 

 

Unpredictable Grief, Hopelessly Whitebread, and Only by the Grace of God

It’s probably a sad commentary on my current mental state that I really miss my dogs today. I’m ashamed to admit it but my heart aches so much more for these guys than for my late husband (hard to say, and sad- but true.)

It’s been almost three years since Jerry died and mostly when I think of him I guilt trip because I really don’t feel sad about it. It’s like I should…but I don’t. It feels like when Mom dragged us to Confession and I knew I should confess all the unforgiveness I held on to for all the shit my sisters and their friends did to me, but I just didn’t feel the remorse. I was going through the motions because I knew I was supposed to.

This condition of knowing- you- should- feel- bad- but- you- really- don’t caused me a lot of theological cognitive dissonance, (i.e. Catholic guilt…) until I realized that it is God who grants the gift of repentance, and it is God alone in Christ who forgives my sins. This is fantastic news, because in and of myself I just can’t do it. I can’t force myself to regret or feel sorry or to forgive. Back to Lutheran theology and Christ Alone. I get the sufficiency of Christ alone, if only because I am so pathetically weak and emotionally and spiritually impaired. Luther’s explanation of the Third Article of the Creed states it pretty clearly:

I believe that I cannot by my own reason or strength believe in Jesus Christ, my Lord, or come to Him; but the Holy Spirit has called me by the Gospel, enlightened me with His gifts, sanctified and kept me in the true faith. – Martin Luther

Most of humanity, quite honestly I can do without, which may not be right, but I freely admit it. Clara and Lilo, I miss them both, and painfully at times. Even though they were dogs. I love the dogs I have now (Brutus and Lucy) and I am incredibly thankful for them, but there are days. Clara, especially, was my heart.

Emotions are just so damned complicated. Then again no dog ever did anything to hurt me, and I can’t say that about any relationship I have ever had with other humans. Especially Jerry or my sisters, because, well because. The wounds are deep and the scars profound. Can I forgive anyone by my own choice? I can only forgive by the grace and intervention of God, and it’s a long, hard process. The old Adam fights that one with a pernicious tenacity.

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I know part of the human condition is that no one gets out of life alive, but knowing my vulnerabilities and blind spots it is almost impossible for me to be open with anyone because I don’t know what weapon they are going to use against me. I don’t read people well at all. I’m fine with keeping everything on a superficial level but the deep dark secrets? I don’t mind letting others confide in me, but the converse is most certainly not true. I don’t want to rely on anyone because people use me and let me down.

I can’t say I understand what “normal” people think or feel. I’ve never been “normal” or anything close to it. All I know about “normal” is what I can see and script for navigational purposes. I put up a good front, but that’s exactly what it is, a front- a stressful and draining, but necessary, front.

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I don’t think I would have done well with the 1950s housewife gig.

I can only see where I have been and I can only navigate through the mechanics of my own wiring, which has got to be skewed. I am sure that a psychologist would have a field day with me at this point in my life. It’s been over 15 years since I’ve seen a counselor (that probably would be a good idea, but I don’t have the scratch to afford it, nor can I take time off work.) There’s been a ton of crazy shit that has gone down in my life since then.

Oh, yes, crazy shit. Living with an alcoholic and the insanity and crazy-making that goes with that for 20+ years does wear one thin. Then he gets a terminal disease on top of that…which makes him even meaner and more irrational, even though at first he does try to do the right things to a degree. Add having to watch your best friend die, then having to dig her grave, (and I am referring to Clara, who was a dog, so don’t get any macabre ideas) then having to move in a fire sale, desperate sort of way, all while my terminally ill, alcoholic husband is screaming and raging as much against me as he is his inevitable death.

It’s hard to write that. Maybe the delayed reaction is kicking in after all. PTSD – the gift that keeps on giving. We can add in all the other right psychological terms too- learned helplessness, chronic anxiety, and our miserable old companion major depression, who is always camping out on the door mat waiting for the slightest opportunity to slip in the door and come in to stay for a good long time. It doesn’t help that anxiety and depression go hand and hand with autism, and there is mental illness galore in my family history. I even took one of those genetic screening tests for shits and grins (as if I didn’t already know my ethnic ancestry…oh yeah, living advertisement for the Most Whitest Anglo Saxon Ever…)

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The ethnic info was no surprise. It also showed I carry specific genes that increase one’s chances of being bi-polar, and of suffering from major depression and schizophrenia. That explains Mom’s family…and her to an extent, which is scary as hell because there are days when I seriously doubt my mental stability.

Sometimes I want to scream, cry, sleep, run or stage a twisted combination of all of the preceding. I’m afraid to even mention some of the good things happening in my life (and there are a few, and I thank God for everything with everything I can) because I’m not convinced it’s really real…and I’m afraid I’ll jinx it if it is.

There is something deeply sweet and undeserved about being able to be safe and loved in one’s home, and that is both majestic and terrifying because I have never been in such a place before.

There’s still a LOT of pain- emotional, spiritual and always, physical, and I don’t know where that’s going to go. I think it wants to translate into fear. I don’t want to give in to fear. The panic attacks are thankfully getting less frequent and less severe but they still happen. As for the arthritis flares, medication usually keeps it down to a dull roar, but when the fire is on, it’s on, and not much will touch it.

I spend a lot of time in sacred music and Bible reading these days even though I know that forgiveness and healing are not things I can do- but what God does for me.

Kyrie Eleison…