Unbridled Joy!

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This picture of my daughter and I was sent to me today out of the blue. It is from a photo shoot we did with a photographer friend titled 15/51. I’ve never seen this image, and it came to me as I was trying to tell someone how joyful I feel. The way it so perfectly illustrates the lightness of being I feel takes my breath away.

This past week I have experienced such miraculous synchronicities that have altered my consciousness. I’m still reeling. The rapid manifestation of blessings and the magnitude of their impact  is stunning.

The significance of coincidence is that it’s a serendipitous energy frequency, a means by which to wrap our heads around the connections between seemingly random occurrences. To me such happenings are Divinely ordered.

All my life I have struggled to feel worthy. Now, I know without a doubt that I AM. I absolutely deserve these amazing gifts that have been presented to me. I made a decision that I would combat all of my negative self-talk with love. I decided to reject the toxic energy of those who have no respect for my boundaries or themselves. I know that I have suffered long enough and I won’t let anything stand in the way of my happiness and success. I have dulled my spark and doubted myself for the last time. I’m not saying I am suddenly super-human and will never feel anxious or depressed again, or be triggered. I just refuse to give myself over to defeat. I will not make excuses anymore for anything I do or don’t do.

I know exactly where I’m headed and I don’t need anyone to tell me how or when I should arrive.

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Also un-bridled joy!

Totaled

PicsArt_05-16-02.28.42I have never not called my mother at midnight on New Years Eve to wish her a Happy New Year. It’s our ritual. To my recollection my teen daughter has never not sent a message or a snap chat since she has been spending this time away from me.

These days it’s nothing but time away. I have way too much time to allow her insistence that this has never felt like her home to settle into my heart and carve yet another reminder of my many shortcomings as her mother.

As full of chaos and abuse our previous home was, it was her home. Though the roof was literally caving in, and I was held prisoner there, believing the lie that I would have nothing but the door hitting me in the ass if I left, it was where she had been raised by two parents who loved her very much, but only in the way they knew best. It was chaos, abuse, loud yelling, name-calling, undermining, criticising, cheating, lying, bullying, and control by fear which lead to a complete mental breakdown for me. 

I remained a prisoner there for six years after the separation. I had no steady income, just the same part time job I’d had since giving birth and devoting most of my time to being a hands on mother. I was convinced by my ex that he did not have the money to pay for me to live on my own with, and that he would lose the house. I was always being worn down by some excuse as to why I could not leave, until finally I resigned myself to the fact. I was soon consoled by a new relationship full of promise, with someone I had known since high school, who my daughter already knew and loved.

It took him six years to be in a position to buy another home after his divorce. Prior to that I had put myself out on a limb and began looking at small apartments where just my daughter and I could live. I had no idea how I could pass the credit check, let alone pay for the application, but it was empowering, and it gave Bella hope for stability and a fresh new beginning for us both.

The home we were so desperate to leave was my very first home. It was over a hundred years old and needed many upgrades and some work, but the potential was great. My parents and I set to tearing down ugly wood paneling and painting all the walls, removing ugly wallpaper from the kitchen and eventually tearing up nasty carpeting, replacing some, and buffing the beautiful hardwood floors downstairs. It was me and my family that put any money into that home. For years it was a lovely home given a personal touch of style that is uniquely my own. As the years passed and the baby came, the house began to reflect the decay in my marriage, and so many broken things went untended to that I simply gave up. I was also repeatedly told that it was not my house, because I didn’t pay for it, so I started to make mine and Bella’s room our sanctuary. It was about survival, about pretending things weren’t really all that bad. Maybe that is what helped my child to adapt to such an unhealthy environment.

When the time came to start looking for a new home with my boyfriend, I was so full of joy. Even Bella was excited to think of a nice new home and a fresh start. She was with us when we visited the last house, which became our home with her absolute approval. I could not believe that not only was I finally divorced, but I would be moving into a beautiful new home with the love of my life. 

I assumed we would be married soon and I would have the  life I’d always dreamed of. I have neither of those things. The fresh start I’d longed for with my child only became a hellish nightmare as she was resentful at having to share me, and her mental health was exacerbated by trauma at school which instigated a downhill slide I have yet to recover from and am still seeking her help for. That window grows smaller every day.

I have my own very dysfunctional family, a sister who is off the rails Bipolar or Borderline, who can be so evil that she goes out of her way to hurt both my daughter and I, with empty threats, foul slander, and attempts at physical abuse, going so far as to threaten to throw my child through a glass door, prompting my therapist to have CPS investigate.

This relationship between my boyfriend and I has been my saving grace. (although using the term”boyfriend” is profoundly unnerving after 8 years together) Each year I fantasize about the proposal and imagine us dancing in our beautiful back yard, surrounded by all our friends, with the moonlight making everything glow. The Harvest Moon. We’ve been in this house for two years now. For Christmas his mother gave us monogrammed napkins. They are lovely, but I am not a Fulcher.

I am just his Betsy.

I still feel like a wanderer, not tethered to anywhere or anyone. I wrecked my car the other day, about a mile from home. I had been very tired, emotionally and physically after a long but invigorating horse ride, and I had to keep myself from dozing off all the way home. I don’t know what happened, but I awoke to the sound of my car crashing into another then being struck from behind. I felt my neck move forward and then back as if in slow motion, then I remember accidentally hitting the gas pedal instead of the brake. I was out of it. A man came to check on me and said his car was fine, barely a scratch, nothing he’d want to file a report on. He asked if I wanted to get checked out, but said I seemed fine. I asked him about calling the police to get a report for my insurance company but that is when he disappeared. I just drove myself home in a daze with my front bumper and passenger headlight dangling.

I feel trapped in such a state of depression and hopelesness ever since. Prior to this I’d had my PTSD AND Depression under control and had even been socializing and enjoying friends over the holiday. It has been two days since this happened and I have not wanted to talk to anyone and I hide under my covers crying, and feeling very lost. Somethimg happened to me that has me feeling totaled, like my car that I cannot afford to replace. 

“No Thanks”Giving

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Happy Horn o’ plenty to ya. Thanksgiving they call it, alleged to be a day of gratitude for life’s abundance. Family comes together and blessings are spoken over tables filled with food that will have you over-stuffed or near comatose within the hour.

Wanna know how I feel about this day? I HATE IT. I hate the obligation to cook, the lack of any involvement from my snarky, selfish, and oppositional child, the guilt trip over not inviting her father, the pressure to bake. I could go on.

Currently my rageful teen, who just threw a bunch of newspapers at me before telling me to “f” off, is upset because I don’t have money to give her to buy gifts for her friends, and somehow it is my fault that she lost her job. (As you can well imagine, EVERYTHING is my fault!) She is mouthing off to my 87 yr old mother who is trying to gently calm her by sweetly reminding her how very much she is loved, in spite of her behavior.

The kid proclaims ” I HATE HOLIDAYS” ! and storms off while I continue to baste, whisk, mix, re-heat, and cook. I got to thinking and realized that I was the one responsible for setting the tone of this day.

It began with a trigger that happened on Monday and snowballed into Wednesday evening, culminating in an almost child-like meltdown complete with running to my room, shouting and crying about how “over it” (parenting a child who triggers me the same way her Dad does) I am, and dramatically throwing myself on the bed, pounding my fists in complete frustration. It was my first Anxiety attack in a month or so, and it blew in like a summer storm.

Fortunately my boyfriend (a term I hate using for my partner of eight yrs; my soulmate, my lover, my best-friend, my handler etc. ) is at the ready, and follows me to lay beside me and in his sweet, soothing voice, whisper reassuring and comforting words of love, while rubbing my back and shoulders. I was a snotty mess, so he left to bring me a tissue. I wiped my nose, put my head back in the pillows and my devoted cat took her place on me, like I am her egg to hatch. I love them both so much for this.

I wake up a bit dazed, not knowing what day or time it is, as if I’d been Rip Van Winkle-ing for days. I had drifted off to a much needed recovery nap as if tended to by angels (and unicorns!) and woke up feeling a renewed sense of patience and determination.

Then it was over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house I went, successfully compartmentalizing my anger with my ex, who had stoked the fires with his suggestion that “Maybe I could get a holiday job”. A sore subject as, A) after giving birth and embarking upon full time motherhood as we had agreed, I was constantly bombarded with the suggestion that I get off my ass and contribute, and B) I was doing the same thing then as now, working as a freelance Makeup Artist, a known feast or famine pursuit, but one that enables me to take care of my child’s needs as well as my own mental health. So…

In giving my teen wolf some space and keeping it together, I was rewarded with a hand-written note from her, declaring that she was sorry and she did not want to fight, but enjoy a happy day as a family, which we did. Glad we pulled it off. Glad that day was last week.

The end.

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(I’m hoping the duck lips and bird flips will mortify her as an adult.)