Saturday, January 1, 2022

The post at the top

Thank you for reading my work.  Seriously.

  Thank you.  

I've decided to tackle this post early on to think through how to handle things before they arise.

There are some rules - basic stuff. Please take the minute to read over them.

Friday, August 2, 2019

Dear America - you are genuinely fucking insane

Have you ever been so frustrated by what you see around you? I hit one of those points yesterday and just had to say something, anything.

Twitter thread below:

Ok. I have thirty minutes to get this done, so listen up.
#DearAmerica you are genuinely fucking insane.
In the course of 24 hours, I have seen an advertisement for bulletproof backpacks. And a group of county legislators

debating if they should make these things mandatory for all students in the county.

Think that one over.

#mandatory #bulletproof #backpacks for #children.

Go on, think. Really let that one roll around in your head. Do you see how horrifying that reality is?

Do you see what it says about us, our society?

Let me point some things out in case you don't see it.

It says that the US has so many #schoolshootings that there has developed an #economic market for #bulletproof #backpacks.

It says that there is someone out there willing to exploit that market to make money for themselves.

They aren't giving these things away. So don't try to sell me on the idea that this is some self-less act on the behalf of saving children from being shot. In their schools. BS.

Next - It says that the US is so damned blinded to even having a conversation

about #guns, gun ownership, and yes *gasp - #guncontrol that we would rather our children be sacrificed on the bloody altar of our 2nd Amendment rights and consumer capitalism.

Stew in that one a bit.

How grotesque have we become as a nation where the very idea of #bulletproof backpacks is not only palatable, but an entire county is thinking of making them mandatory.

What does that say?

It says that they are placing the onus of keeping our children safe on themselves. I'm waiting for the first pundit to be torn apart in the streets when they blame the next child who is killed, or their parents, because the child didn't have


a fucking #bulletproof backpack.

This is an entire county considering throwing their hands up in the air and saying - we can't handle the problem. We can't solve the problem - so we're going to walk away from it.


You're on your own kids.
Good luck.
We'll send our thoughts and prayers.

Do you see how ugly this is? Do you?
We, as a nation, would rather make a buck - all hail the dollar - rather than save lives. Innocent lives.


AND we would rather yell at, berate, intimidate and threaten one another than do one god-damned tangible measure to keep our children from dying.

#America you are Fucking #insane.

Thursday, June 27, 2019

Sowing a bitter future

I should be doing almost anything else. Instead, I am sitting at my desk, reading the spines of the books nearby and thinking about our future. When I say 'our future', I mean America, immigrants, children, citizens and yes, my family and myself.

I'll admit to being worried, or at least, well beyond concerned.

Because what I see unfolding at ICE detention centers, holding children is a valid source of concern. Not just for the immediate humanitarian failures of our nation, but for the future, their future, our future.
Almost every American likes the image that we as a nation have projected out to the world. The image that says: we are the 'white hats', we are 'the moral', we are the bootstrap pulling log cabin building rugged Americans. It's a pretty picture. Hell, it is tattooed on the American psyche along with baseball, mom, and apple pie. There's only one problem with it.

That picture of our superiority is an illusion.

There is nothing moral, or noble, or brave about stripping children from their parents. There is nothing good about incarcerating toddlers.

Land of the free. Home of the brave.  If you still believe that, you haven't been paying attention.

We lost that high-ground the minute the first screaming child was pulled from his parent's arms. But, I really feel that I shouldn't need to say any of that. I imagine that any sane, moral person is nodding along. I am, in essence, preaching to the choir.

And what does all of that have to do with the books on my desk? Five of the books within reach deal with the topics of trauma, childhood, and complex-PTSD.

I know the word 'trauma', has probably lost a third of the folks who made it this far. The word is overused, it's become a cliche, a punchline. But take a moment and forget all the pop-culture references and look at how a mental health specialist would look at the word.

Trauma: an event or events that involved actual or threatened death or serious injury, or a threat to the physical integrity of self or others, and which involved fear, helplessness, or horror. 

The definition above is derived from the American Psychiatric Association's current definition of posttraumatic stress disorder. How many of those do you think the children in ICE custody have experienced? 

What will this exposure do to them? To some of them, nothing. The human mind is a remarkable and resilient creation. To some of them, there will be stress from the events that they will need to process to overcome. But, there is a cross-section of these children who will be changed by these experiences.

The Adverse Childhood Experience Study (ACES) found that survivors of childhood trauma are up to 5,000 percent more likely to attempt suicide, have eating disorders, or become IV drug users. These actions, that we as a nation are taking, are sowing the seeds of destruction. 

We are creating the next crop of children who will be vulnerable to becoming the very things that a cowering segment of the American population fears. Their boogeymen will become real because they created the conditions to impact the minds of the young in the first place.

The irony of that statement. Go ahead. Soak in it for a minute.
Then remember.
All of this is in our power to stop.

America, time to wake up.

Tuesday, May 14, 2019

Meme: Compassion is strength

I made this last night. The image is from fb/PlanetTiger.  It's a great cause to support.

Paradox #1

Since they never develop a sense of safety, they distrust others while simultaneously searching for a “rescuer” who can finally give them the unconditional positive regard they were robbed of in childhood.
     ~National Center for PTSD
My earliest fantasies were of a man, a Prince, who would rescue me. In my dreaming, I was always asleep, or sick, or injured before this magical person arrived. Their presence rewrote me. With them, I was well. With them I was alive. I physically ached for that person. The hole in my chest that remained exposed and empty hurt. Because I knew, I knew with all my heart and soul that this magical being would make me complete. And so I remained in my prison, waiting.

I was the dog that cringed in the back of the cage. I was the cat, injured and half-dead that would claw and bite anyone who attempted to rescue me. Why?

Because people were dangerous. They put me in this cage. People cut the hole in my chest. People taught me I was hollow, defective, broken. They - those outside - could not be trusted. In my cage, I was separate from them. I was so alone. I was broken. I was voiceless. I was forgotten.

Being forgotten by all the world made me safe.

No one ever came to my rescue.
There was no knight, no prince. There was no magic to make everything better. No touch to soothe away the fear. I was singular, alone, a broken thing that marked time pacing the limits of my cage. For decades. There is a track worn along the inside of my prison. I know it grain by grain. I could close my eyes and tell you where I stood in the gray nothingness of my life by the feel of the sand beneath my feet.

I have never lived. I have only paced my circles. Over and over and over. Waiting for a fantasy.

Tuesday, May 7, 2019

#Complex-PTSD : Dissecting my inaction

I have #cptsd and I want to save everyone.

When I read through the thoughts and questions posted here my heart breaks. I know the loneliness some of you are going through. I know that feeling of ‘not enough’. I know that place where laying down and just ending is the most appealing wish to ever infiltrate your heart and mind. Those places are engraved on my heart too.

When I see that pain I want to reach out. To tell the bruised and hurting soul that they are understood, valued and loved. All the truths that I need when I am trolling those depths of self-harm and self-hatred. I know the importance of a single word. How lives can turn on a phrase or gesture.

More times than I would ever want to admit I remain silent.

My fear makes me mute. The drumbeat of ‘what if’ plays over and over in my mind. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I give bad advice? What if I’m not enough? What if… That beat continues. It is the double echo of my own heart.
“What if? What if?”

I want to say it is the #CPTSD that robs me of my voice. Years of self-erasure have made me timid, frightened to even share my hope for another person. Or is it that I am not enough? I have no degree in helping people. I have no experience in helping others. Looking at my own life I have very little success at a personal level. Why should I reach out when I have nothing to offer except another heartbeat in the dark as confused and labored as their own? Isn’t that a gesture that would saddle someone with my own deficiencies?

If I was brave I would reach out. I would follow my heart into fire and ice to let people know that their voice is essential to this world. Essential.

But, I’m not brave. I’m an old woman as lost as those I would help, plagued with self-doubt, fear of doing the wrong thing, and the ever-present knowledge that I am ‘not enough’.

So I find myself limited to ‘thoughts and prayers’, snarling at my own inaction.

Perhaps, I could begin to be brave by admitting my fear.

Sunday, April 21, 2019

Super-secret project

For a long time, the joke around the house was that I was the professional writer. This was based on the fact that I have earned a total of 47 cents with my writing.

You might notice I vanished for a few weeks there. I was working on a super-secret ghostwriting project. Bwahaha. I have finally finished it. I can't reveal what it was - ghostwriter and all that. But I have finally earned something better than 47 cents.

The pay was low for the work I put in but it has demonstrated to me that I can make some significant money with my writing.

That is a tremendous encouragement.