Monday, November 9, 2015

The Crippling Prison

So there’s this bird in a cage, a beautifully made, realistically nature-like, expensive cage. It’s grand and spacious, but not quite large enough for her to fly around in and completely stretch out her wings. She has plenty of fresh water and delicious foods to eat. She’s got toys, plants, stunning living flowers, swings, and everything she needs to live a great life. It looks like a pretty perfect life. She sings gorgeously conducted haunting melodies and smiles every time someone passes by. From a distance, she looks happy and mighty content.
The problem is that she’s really not happy, nor content. If someone really took the time to look closely and thoroughly enough, they’d see this sorrow in her eyes. They’d see the build-up of a lifetime of pain and brokenness, hopelessness, and desperation. They'd see she's insufferably lonely, and so gravely depressed. Her cage is fantastic and can sustain her throughout her whole life in a more than comfortable manor, and she’d live well. So what’s her problem? She doesn’t really have anything to be sad about. What on earth could be wrong?
Well, she can see clearly outside the window by which her cage sits. She can’t see the whole world, but she can see other birds flying free. She watches with envy as they soar through air, flying from tree to tree, landing confidently on branches that comfortably support their delicate little bodies. Oh, how she wishes to be free. How she yearns to know what truly flying feels like. So day after day, all she can do is stare grimly out the window and watch those who are free do everything that she can’t.
Then one day she sees smoke writhing and inching its way towards her. Within seconds she hears the roaring crackle of flames that are engulfing the walls on the other side of the room. Her heart is aflutter! She feels fear like she’s never felt before. She is trapped inside of this beautiful cage with her world burning down around her. As the flames slowly get closer she feels more and more terror. The smoke is so thick now she can hardly see out the window, or even through the bars of her cage. Her lungs are heavy and burning with the thick, black smoke. She feels pain so horrifying that she cannot define it. Her mind is racing in every which way, but she cannot stop the tumultuous rollercoaster on a single thought. She’s frozen. Stupefied. Conclusively crippled. She can see the brightly colored ominous flames growing in size in a slothful, indolent motion. And all she can do is remain paralyzed in an inexplicable fear watching them idly creep towards her.
She turns her back to the flames, and stares vacantly through the inconsistently swaying smoke. As it dances around, almost ceremoniously, she gets brief glimpses of the world outside her window and of the birds who fly so freely. They look so lovely… so happy… so peaceful… and so free. Oh how she yearns to know how that peace feels. And freedom. What she would give to feel the refreshing bliss of real freedom and instead of the weight of her prison pressing down on her. What is she to do? Where is her master, her teacher? The one who taught her to sing? The one who cared so much to give her this beautiful life? She feels so utterly abandoned and trapped inside this prison. If only she could get beyond her cage. If she could just find a way out, all her troubles would be just a memory.
Still paralyzed in her fear, she ponders the many things in this life she never did, and will never do. She can feel the icy hand of Death, the barbarously callous entity that is physically extracting her very breath. He whispers softly that he can make it all better. He can take her misery away. He can save her from this life. She trusts Him, and slowly lets go. Her life force listlessly fading. She suddenly feels herself outside of her body, outside of her cage, like a gaper who is nonchalantly watching her very own life diminish. She can see her light fading, growing dimmer, being snuffed. But she can’t do a damn thing to stop it. She can feel Death’s grip on her, clenching tighter with each throb of her heart, hell bent on not letting her go.
As her breath escapes her tiny, weakened frame for the last time, her thrashing panicked heart slows to a stand still, faintly letting out one last beat. Her mind races no more. Her fear has overtaken her. Forsaken her. Death releases His appallingly deceptive grip on her as her tiny body falls down to the bottom of the cage, where the door lay opened. Her Master’s hand awaited on the other side of the door for her to meet Him. But she was so caught up in her fear and watching the world outside her window that she couldn’t look around and see the one thing she wanted and needed most: His outstretched hand.

Thomas said to Him, "Lord, we do not know where You are going, how do we know the way?" Jesus said to him, "I AM the way, the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father but through Me."

Thursday, March 19, 2015

I Still Miss You...

Dad, it's been ten years now and it still hurts to remember this day. I play through those early morning hours from so many years ago over and over in my head. I remember too much. And it still hurts. It still hurts to remember you're gone. It's sad when I look around and see all you're missing. Your beautiful grandchildren most of all. But they know you. Thanks to Jesus I can finally listen to your music, I can look at your pictures, I can talk about you without going into hysterics... most days. The pain is still there, I am convinced that it will never fully be gone until after the end times and the great Resurrection when I can see you again. God has comforted me and reassures me that it's alright. He's brought me a little peace. It's alright to miss you like I do. But most of all, it's alright to keep your memory alive. And I do.
Draven looks just like you did when you were his age. I wish I knew what you were like back then. The kids know your voice, they know when your songs come on our playlist mix. They wish they could've met you. Me too. I know they would've loved you.
In the spirit of keeping your memory alive, I want to recount the days prior to your passing. You had only been home a few days from the hospital, still wearing the neck brace and bandages from the spinal fusion, and quite out of it because of the new medication the doc gave you. So I'd come to check on you and spend some time with you and Linda. I recall one night in particular...

We were all three sitting in the living room kinda watching TV. Dad had glanced out sliding glass door right next to his chair. And then he looked at me and asked why that truck was still in the jacuzzi. I chuckled and got up to go look out back and in the Florida Room. Obviously, I didn't see what he was seeing. Those were some pretty strong meds!! So I went back over and sat down and said, "You don't remember Dad?"
"Remember what, baby?"
"Last night, the concert, the bands, bringing them all back home?"
He ponders for a moment shaking his head, fiercely searching for the memory.
"Dad, how can you not remember that?? There were 5 bands at that concert. Do you remember the girls?"
He ponders again, "Well... yeah... I guess I kinda remember."
So now I'm holding in my intense urge to laugh. He shouldn't be remember anything, because NONE of this happened. So I continue.
"Daaaaadd!!! You got to actually MEET all the bands. And during the show you had like 8 lap dances from those beautiful girls."
Linda is losing it now, trying so hard to keep a straight face, and failing horribly to hold in her laughter. But Dad doesn't notice. He is desperately looking for a memory, any memory of why he sees this enormous truck crashed into his Florida Room jacuzzi.
"Okay... yeah... I kind of remember some of that. What happened?"
So I, being the loving, supportive daughter that I am, fabricate this enormous memory for my father, who had been continually hallucinating from this new medication since he came home from the hospital.
"Alright Dad, this is what happened. We went to a show last night, you, Linda, Todd, and me. There were tons of people there, five rock bands, a pretty outrageous bar, and gogo dancers. We listened to the bands, ate food, drank a lot, and then got to party with the band members. You even played some music with them! Well, closing time came and we all had to leave, so YOU invited everyone who was still there to come over here to the house to continue the party. The bands brought their instruments to play, and their gogo dancers because you seemed to really enjoy all the lap dances they were giving you. You really don't remember all this??"
Steam was coming off the top of his head, I could see the wheels were turning. I'm sure by now he's seeing in his head what I've described.
"Yeah, that... sounds... right. Lap dances huh?"
"Oh those girls were all over you Dad! I can't believe you wouldn't remember them. They seemed pretty into you. You even got a few phone numbers handed to you."
He looks out the sliding glass door and asks, "So that's why the back yard is wrecked and why that car is flipped over in the grass?"
"Yeah, there were a lot of people here and it got pretty wild."
"That must be why I'm feeling so hungover."
I chuckled, "Yep, probably. Do you remember getting all the bands' autographs?"
"Well... I... kinda remember. Wow!"
"It was great Dad. Nice of you to bring them all home with you."
He's still searching, really hard, for these false memories. I'm cracking up.
"Yeah, I  kinda remember that."
"We should really do it again sometime."

Shortly after that, I went home. I never told him it wasn't true. So one of my very last memories of Dad was laughing with him about this wild party with music, booze, and lap dances that never happened. The next day I came back to sit with him while Linda ran some errands. He saw Indians hiding out in his back yard as if they were about to ambush the house, walked into the kitchen to grab a knife, and then headed for the sliding door because he was going to kill them. But he couldn't figure out how to open the door. I don't recall what other strange things he did that day while I was there. Late that night he fell asleep in his favorite chair, permanently.
The next morning, I refused to walk into that house and allow my father's empty shell to be the last memory I had of him. I couldn't do it. I'm glad that I didn't see, because the last memory I have of him is a great one. Cheering him up and convincing him that he had a wild party with happy people, music, and lap dances. I sure do miss him.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Most Days

Most days, I just want to die. Most days, I swear I can feel my life force fading from the weakened grips of my wavering soul. Most days, it just hurts too much to want to breathe. And most days, there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
It seems entirely impossible to describe to someone how it feels when the extreme range of pains and horrid sensations emanate from my skin through my bones, and from the top of my head to the bottoms of my feet. Literally. I’ve never been more aware of just how many body parts I have until now. There are so many places in my body that it doesn’t even make any sense to hurt. But it hurts nonetheless. There are places I didn’t even know could hurt. And trying to describe it to someone who gets rid of a headache with an Advil is like whispering into the wind. I would swear that the pain is this entirely whole living and breathing entity of its own. And that whenever it decides to change course, it literally points at my body saying, “Eenie, meenie, mynie, MO!”
People think I am weak, too sensitive, and just crazy. I’ve been told it’s all in my head, that I’ve created it, and that I can just think it away, pray it away, and happy-thought the pain to death. Yeah. Like I said, whispers in the wind.
So many times I’ve felt the need to describe to someone why I cannot stand, why I cannot sit, why I cannot walk, lay, stand to be touched, or even speak fluent coherent thoughts. My memory is worn out, I seriously don't remember something that happened 2 hours ago! I’ve tried to brief them only to get that half-crazy, half-sympathetic glance that says everything except what I need to hear.  I can’t understand why I feel the need to make them understand, it’s not like my healing is dependent upon their understanding. I guess in a way, I want them to believe I’m not just another hypochondriac seeking pity. What does pity get me, besides pissed off? And what does a human’s approval get me, besides further from God?
I know God has something planned for me, some greater reason as to why I must go through this. Something grand. I just can't see it. I know I need to put my trust in Him wholeheartedly: all my faith in His basket. But I don’t know how. Can anyone else tell me how? I’m missing a puzzle piece: the very one that connects my pain to Him. Because, God is love right? He is just. Jesus spent His time on this earth curing people who 'heard' Him of plagues and a whole plethora of ailments, didn’t He? So it doesn’t seem so easy to believe that this fantastic and wonderful loving Father is just sitting back watching me and millions of others suffer in our own personal agonies just waiting for us to have that “A-Ha” moment that suddenly tears down the veil and fully opens our hearts to Him and all His glory. It seems nearly impossible. Perhaps that is why Jesus said, “Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leads to life, and few will find it.”
Most days, I feel quite certain that I am not one of those few. Most days I find it difficult to try, and impossible to care. Most days I feel so raw, cynical, bruised, and broken that I simply roam from room to room just searching for anything that will make me feel anything else. Anything at all. Most days the very thought of life is just too tiresome to handle. I plead with God daily to just let me go already. I’m certainly not doing anyone any good here, so it seems. I feel like a ghost in my own body. I can’t control it, I can’t stop the pain, and I sure as hell cannot understand it. Each night I lay in bed with the hopes that tomorrow morning I will feel better. And most mornings, I don’t. I have good days, well good moments in days. But they seem too few and far between. And this pain is a literal plague overtaking all of me, every sense we humans possess. And most days, there’s nothing I can do about that.
But there are some days when I wake and feel very little pain. But, I’m afraid to move because it’s probably just a dream that I don’t want to wake from. Some days, I remember what happy is. Some days, I actually laugh, instead of cry. And some days, I can actually look up to Heaven and thank God for my pain, because as bitter as it is, it reminds me that I am alive and have purpose. Those days are a treasure, because they are so very rare.
Most days I forget purpose, I forget why I am here to begin with, and I forget what ‘good’ feels like. Most days I spend having an internal dialogue with God, disputing so many things with Him and just begging for relief. Most days, all I want is to just feel better.

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Not Good Enough


1. the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma. 
Please take note that the definition of addiction does not mention the word "games" nor "alternate reality." Please notice also that the definition does not describe what literally happens to the addict, everything the family goes through trying to get their loved one through said addiction, or even just to get their attention. But, hopefully with God's Grace I can put it into words.
These are the literal definition sets of the following words:

verb (used with object)
1. to separate (a part) from the whole, as by cutting or the like.
2. to divide into parts, especially forcibly; cleave.
3. to break off or dissolve (ties, relations, etc.).
4. Law. to divide into parts; disunite (an estate, titles of a statute, etc.).
5. to distinguish; discriminate between.
verb (used without object)
6. to become separated from each other; become divided into parts.
1. emotional pain or distress; sorrow; grief; anguish.
adjective, sadder, saddest.
1. affected by unhappiness or grief; sorrowful or mournful: to feel sad because a close friend has moved away.
2. expressive of or characterized by sorrow: sad looks; a sad song.
3. causing sorrow: a sad disappointment; sad news.
4. (of color) somber, dark, or dull; drab.
5. deplorably bad; sorry: a sad attempt.
6. Obsolete. firm or steadfast.
verb (used with object)
1. to sever or interrupt the connection of or between; detach:
They disconnected the telephone. We were disconnected.
verb (used without object)
2. to sever or terminate a connection, as of a telephone; hang up:
State your business and disconnect.
3. to withdraw into one's private world:
When social pressures become too great, she simply disconnects.
    adjective, lonelier, loneliest.
   1.affected with, characterized by, or causing a depressing feeling of being alone; lonesome.
   2.destitute of sympathetic or friendly companionship, intercourse, support, etc.: a lonely exile.
   3.lone; solitary; without company; companionless.
   4.remote from places of human habitation; desolate; unfrequented; bleak: a lonely road.
    5.standing apart; isolated: a lonely tower.

Now, with those simple definitions given, I must confess... I currently feel every one of them and a plethora more, for the umpteenth time... close beneath the skin... closer than i am comfortable with... scraping the empty cavity of my chest like a dull razor blade, and weighing down my mind and body mentally and physically with sickness and exhaustion so intense there's probably only a handful of people who could possibly comprehend or even survive it. I've been with this man for 16 long years. I've chosen HIM time and time again over other roads, roads I was sure would be better and happier, and still ponder to this day. We've been through hell together, and somehow come out together. But as soon as he is certain that I am not on my way out, he rushes right back into his sole happiness. And the second he turns on that digital world where his mind is enveloped within the folds of fantasy, fiction, and unrealistic behaviors, I can admit... never before or after in my life have I ever felt so severed, so desperately stricken with heartache, so bitterly saddened, severely disconnected, or immensely lonely. Not ever!!!! And what makes it even more unbearable is... he doesn't know. He doesn't KNOW that he is addicted. He doesn't KNOW that his repeated choices have crushed his children and left his wife empty, yet AGAIN. HE, the addict, will justify his playing time, will argue anyone who questions it, and will dispute any case you could possibly bring against him as to WHY he should be allowed to choose to LIVE his free life WITHIN a digital reality, a place where he holds the weapons, and every loved one in close range will feel the bullets piercing our already broken hearts.
In his mind, it was just an hour ago that he turned the game on. In reality, It was 2 days ago. 
In his mind, he's just gonna play a couple rounds with "the guys"... In reality, the first round began 16 hours ago.
In his mind, He "worked" hard all week (3-4 days) and DESERVES to just relax and let loose with what HE desires for a few hours... in reality, that was 3 days ago when he came home "tired" from a long grave-yard shift at work. Sooooo tired, in fact, that he blew off his son's cupcake party and family birthday dinner so he could sleep.... I WISH... he played his game for 10 more hours of that "tired" after a 13-hour shift.
This unhappy, bitter wife has been thru 16-years of promises, of "i will Quits," of new beginnings, or shallow and empty words. I cannot believe it any longer.

So in the meantime, back on 'ole Good Planet Earth where reality is harsh and unforgiving and there are NO re-spawns for a failed attempt, Mommy is left alone to deal with her degenerative disc disease, split and tilted pelvis, bulging c-spine discs, damaged sacrum, chronic migraines thanks to Uncle Joey's headbutt at age 17, and the fabulous fibromyalgia that poisons every fiber of my being with pain so excruciating that a normal person couldn't possibly live 5 minutes with... OH ... AND the precocious 8-year-old girl who is excelling in all her classes but tends to lean a little too close to the social butterfly stage; AND the amazing 7-year-old who is an exact replica of my father, GOD Rest His Soul, and just cares quite too much what others think of him and still to this day has a weak bond with daddy; AND the little miracle of 1 lb. 6 oz. who is 4-YEARS-OLD now and too advanced in his thinking, but too repressed in his speech. Mom's got this. Right? Mom should have this, right? IF Mom was HEALTHY, Mom would have this with a scoop of ice cream and pie. Apple, thank you. But THIS mom ISN'T healthy. She's quite broken indeed. LIFE happened to her. To borrow, for just a brief moment, Lemony Snicket's term, a Series of Unfortunate Events happened to THIS mommy to make her exactly what she is today: not healthy, not pain-free, not whole, not okay, not sane, and not capable of doing ALL this on her own. 
But, Far be it from the Man to see or notice. Seems when something unfortunate happens to mommy, his words are, and I quote, without the NEEDED HUG, "You need to Give it to God," as he walks away from me quickly to turn on HIS world. All he sees is that he has more men to Kill and "this" person from some random part of the world NEEDS his assistance. His wife or kids needing HIM is substantially irrellevent, because, afterall, WE have his PAYCHECK. AND that makes it ALL okay, right? 
I think you'll find quite a different idea of what a Daddy and Husband is from THIS family. I've been broker than broke. And now we have a great, beautiful home with stuff. And barely a Daddy to share it with because this daddy can't seem to handle real life, and he clearly cannot handle this broken mommy... and it's not because he's WORKING a lot. It's because He cannot seem to function in THIS world as it is. And I'm gonna say it. I no longer care what others think. Ask me of I care!!! I KNOW this problem is because his REAL father, the DNA one, a father of "GOD" who cheated on and left his mother for a YOUTH in the ministry group couldn't possibly care less about his own 3 offspring. HIS concern went to some lucky lottery winner, an adopted daughter. So what do you think THAT would do to a son?? or three? Think there's a relation between all 3 boys being addicts of some kind for 20+ years now? I'm sure that douche never even thinks twice about his sons. And then the mighty "step-father" who taught them John Wayne Love: that REAL men never talk, never show emotions, never cry, never make eye-contact at the dinner table... wtfever!!! All around he's screwed. Not much backbone of support from anywhere. Clearly my support is irrelevant. Figures, the one who wants to spend the rest of his life with him gets the aftermath of 2 douchebag fathers. Whatever. He does work long hours, but that seems to fill his mental capacity. So regardless of the quantity of days off this daddy has, be it 10 or be it 2, his choice of time well spent is currently in a ps4 game called Destiny. I sure hope she's beautiful.



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