Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Melting Snow

Spending the holidays alone after leaving an abusive relationship can be a hard pill to swallow. So naturally I was expecting this year to follow the course of the past few and that I would spend them very sad. Scratch that. Very depressed. Yet, as the weather turned colder outside something in my heart and mind began to turn warmer on the inside. I was... happy. More than that, I was thankful.

I was thankful, and still am, that there was nobody here raging at me. I was thankful for the me I have rediscovered since I left. I was thankful that I have a home, that I am a survivor, and that I still believe in love and the goodness of people.

I was thankful for all of you reading this and following me on Twitter that found inspiration in my journey and gave me inspiration in return. I am still thankful that I have an unbroken spirit, hope in my heart, and the knowledge that no amount of darkness will ever take away my sparkles. Don't let it take yours away from you either. Ever.




  

Monday, December 21, 2015

Thank You: An Update



Image Credit flickr.com



I walked away from an abusive relationship the week before Christmas exactly four years ago. To say that a lot has changed since then would be an understatement. I went from being called Mamma to being single and on my own in the blink of an eye. My world was turned upside down and churned about like clothes on spin cycle.

At the time I was beyond devastated. And as I cycled through the stages of grief over the loss of my step-daughter, my relationship, and everything I had ever known I acted in ways that I am not proud of. Back then I used writing as my outlet, that much hasn’t changed, and in my fight to try and save my step-daughter at times I acted like an out of control idiot. Grief does strange things to people and I was certainly no exception.

When I began to heal and focus on the importance of putting my mental health first, I took inventory of my behavior and I was ashamed. This blog had become a place of bitterness and anger. Most would understand and forgive. Many would call it justified. But that didn’t make it right. I was not a me I recognized. I was not a me I wanted to recognize.

I spent the next two and a half years in a self-imposed writing silence. I deleted most of my social media accounts and took down this blog. I wasn’t sure if I would ever bring it back again. I wanted desperately to forget the pain and grief that plagued me. But this numb avoidance wasn’t me either. I am not an unfeeling or quiet person. I am someone that feels deeply and believes in the salvation of writing for both myself and others.

So I spent some time in silence. I spent a lot of time in silence. I became comfortable with it and learned to embrace being alone. I focused on self care and tried outlets like yoga. I drove to beautiful places and lost myself in nature. I allowed myself to remember and I allowed myself to let go. This was no easy task but it was necessary and worth every ounce of grueling effort.

After healing took its hold on my heart and soul, I felt ready to write again. I wanted to share my story(ies) with the world and help people who might be struggling with similar circumstances. I wanted to give hope to those lost in the depths of the suffering I had climbed out of. And so I resurrected this blog and began to write.

Writing again has been a blessing. I have found new outlets by guest posting on a variety of wonderful sites. One opportunity led me to being published on The Huffington Post a couple of times. I am proud of my evolution as a writer and as a human. This is a me I recognize and am proud of. This is a me I resurrected and glued back together with hope and perseverance.

For those that have followed my story over the years, I want you to know that I am doing extremely well. I am safe and happy and I have broken the cycle of domestic violence that plagued my past relationships. I still find myself wondering these words I found in this story about breaking cycles:

“I used to wonder ‘Why me? Why did I survive? But I don’t ask myself those things anymore. If anyone can be inspired or motivated by me or my story, that’s the beauty of everything”.

And while my journey has had it’s ugly moments, it’s gritty down on my knees lost in grief moments, it truly has been beautiful. I have come out on the other side of loss and sorrow a better person. A changed person.

I want to thank everyone that has followed my story, wondered about me, reached out to me, and shared with me their own struggles. You have held my hand throughout these past four years and your presence, no matter how brief, has comforted me and brought me light. Light that sparkles and shines across the distance and reminds me how far I’ve traveled with all of you by my side. Thank you for listening. Keep fighting the good fight.

Saturday, November 14, 2015

Hungry For Humanity (Original Article On HuffingtonPost.com)

I'll never forget the moment a few years ago when I left a store and a homeless man was sitting outside of the door.
He asked if I knew anyone that needed to have yard work done. I paused with my bags and told him I didn't. A woman walked up and handed him some change out of her pocket and he thanked her and said
"I'm so hungry, I haven't eaten in a really long time. I'm gonna' use this money to eat. Thank you"
I told him again I was sorry, glanced at the trash bag and rolled up sleeping bag he sat on. He had sharp blue eyes. Kind eyes. He told me it was okay and I began to walk away when something in my mind and heart told me "STOP". I can't explain it. I knew he wasn't dangerous. That I was okay but this man was not.
He needed someone to talk to... and God knows I know how that feels. Don't you?
So I sat down beside him and his kind eyes and asked him his name. He told me his name was Steve and began to tell me his story. I shared with him a little of mine, but mostly I listened. Steve came from a broken family, suffered from schizophrenia, was abused growing up, and fell through the holes in the mental health system. He said he felt haunted by his past, his heartache, and his life. He couldn't sleep. He felt like a failure. He wished he could be the son his Mom deserved.

To Read More Click Here: www.huffingtonpost.com

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

The Little Things (Original Article On chewedupandspatout.blogspot.com)








While growing up we are often told that what matters in life the most are "the little things".  As kids we nod, have no clue what that truly means, and add a fifth page to our wish list for Santa.  As teenagers we roll our eyes, pretend to listen, and then ask for more money.  But at some point along the way, hopefully, the truth of that statement begins to take on some actual meaning.  


Some of us learn it earlier than others and some of us never learn.  Those that do learn the true reality of the little things lesson can learn it on a small or large scale.  I happen to have learned it on a scale of epic proportions.  


I did a fair share of volunteer work even as a teenager and often with my church.  One of the most memorable trips was to rebuild homes in one of the most poverty stricken areas in America.  I gave up a decent chunk of my much anticipated summer break to sleep on a non-air conditioned gym floor in sweltering heat.  Each day we worked tirelessly in our heavy jeans and work boots.  But that isn’t what stands out in my memory from that summer.


I remember the conditions of those homes, the kitchen appliances sinking down below eye level into what was supposed to be a floor.  The stories behind the houses and the families that lived there.  One house that I painted belonged to a single Mom recovering from domestic violence.  I can picture me, standing on that ladder, completely oblivious to all we would one day have in common.  But, most of all, I remember the looks of gratitude and humility we were given.



To Read More Click Here: chewedupandspatout.blogspot.com

Friday, September 25, 2015

PTSD And The Trauma Battlefield (Original Article On chewedupandspatout.blogspot.com)




When people hear the term PTSD one of the first thing that comes to mind is veterans of war and with good reason. However, there are different kinds of veterans of completely different kinds of wars that also suffer from the grips of this sometimes debilitating illness. I personally have never seen a commercial or awareness campaign aimed at trauma survivors that suffer from PTSD and there is something very wrong with that.

Simply finding research about the prevalence of PTSD in trauma survivors proves to be a challenge. Why is this not being funded when a woman is assaulted or beaten every 9 seconds?
Every 9 seconds is roughly the time it took for you to read the previous two paragraphs.

One article states that “The prevalence of PTSD in victims of IPV (Intimate Partner Violence) has been found to be as high as 63.8%”. This is higher than the average of people in general society with PTSD which is roughly, according to the same article, between 1 and 12%. When you consider that approximately 10 million people are victims of domestic violence in the United States in any given year… that’s a huge portion of society being ignored.

I have personally battled PTSD from a combination of childhood trauma and domestic violence I endured as an adult. I can assure you that my symptoms have rivaled, if not surpassed, those of veterans. Not that it is a competition, and there is certainly no prize, but the impact of this illness is felt every bit as much among survivors.



To Read More Click Here: chewedupandspatout.blogspot.com

Bringing Bella Back (Original Article On petsofthehomeless.org)


Bringing Bella Back

This is about a victim and survivor of domestic violence so tiny and so innocent that I have to tell his story for him.  This is about a cat named Bella and the amazing story of our reunion.  How one survivor saved another by refusing to give up on love and finding a new home.
Shortly after I met my ex we decided to adopt a kitten.  I love animals and was so excited the day we went to see the litter of kittens to decide which one to bring home.  My excitement surpassed all levels of normalcy once I saw the tiny kittens running around.  Bella stood out to me immediately.  I had seen his photo online and he was the reason I was there.  He was teeny tiny, had bright blue eyes, and all grey fluff.  Four pounds of love. 
I held and played with each kitten but it always came back to Bella.  He was the foster family's favorite too.  I felt guilty picking him but they assured me they were fine with it.  I offered to pay them but they refused and said they only wanted $1.00 because of a traditional Ukrainian belief about luck.  Little did they know how much luck this little guy would need.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

Desperado

How we recover from loss, heartbreak, and trauma differs greatly from person to person.  We might all share similar emotions but no two recoveries are ever the same.  Some of us never recover. Those that don't walk through this world in a blurry haze, drinking or drugging away their pasts and their pain. Or maybe they eat to numb the pain.  They stop cleaning their house.  They become shut-ins. They stop dating completely.


You want to help them.  You try to help them.  You might even love them.  But you sit by, helpless, and watch them walk down the road of self-destruction while pushing you away. Whatever their scars are they have chosen to shut out the world, shut out love, and live in a prison of loneliness.


The irony is that the last thing most people truly want is to be left utterly alone.  So the paradox of their fears and their scars and their numbing and their pushing away leaves them doing to their own heart exactly what they worry you will do to it.  Essentially they are breaking it themselves, over and over again. only they don't realize it. Or maybe they do and feel helpless to stop it.  Or they do it before others would presumably have the chance to. You can fight for them.  And you should. But at some point, by holding on, you're damaging you as much as they're damaging themselves.


People give me advice about how I should handle my heart all the time.  I should not be so open.  I should stay open.  Having a giant heart gets you hurt.  Having a giant heart is an amazing thing. Don't be so trusting.  Trust people.  And, admittedly, I have had enough happen to me ten times over to be one of the most bitter, angry, jaded, man hating, walled off people on the face of the earth. Nobody would even question me.  Yet instead I remain... hopeful.  Open.  And I don't believe all men are abusive.  Far from it actually.  Most of all I am willing to still try.  To still put my heart out there and take the chance that it will get smacked down.  Risky?  Very.  But I'd rather come to the end of my life with a heart covered in scars instead of one preserved perfectly out of fear. I want to look back and know that I fought for all that mattered to me in this world.


I have known quite a few desperados in my life.  Their circumstances varied greatly.  So did their scars.  Each one of them I tried my hardest to convince that they shouldn't give up on humans, on love.  None of them would listen.  They all had their reasons.  And even though none of them probably thought I understood, I did.  I just have a different kind of heart.  If only we could reach into the hearts of those we care about and heal them and open them back up.  I know my way means I will accumulate more scars but I'm not getting any younger... and neither are you, desperado.











             

The Land of The What If's

There's a place that all of us have traveled to in our lives regardless of age, race, religious beliefs, or economic status.  Some of us go there often and stay a long time, often too long, and forget what reality is like back home.  These people are the perma-vactioners that set up residence and refuse to book a return flight.


Others go back on weekends, holidays, and lonely nights.  These people are more like the regular tourists....  they visit, see the familiar sites, and then either eagerly or begrudgingly get back to their day to day lives.  The regular tourists know that this place isn't going anywhere.  It will always be there, waiting to run up debt on over-priced souvenirs and hangover-inducing beverages that aren't good for your health.  Yes, The Land Of The What If's is a popular place that will never go out of style, but it will destroy a lot more than just your wallet if you go there too often and stay too long.


I have met several perma-vacationers that live in The Land Of The What If's.  They go there at first after a tragedy of some sort and try to figure out what when wrong.  What if that person had never left them, what if they had done things differently, what if they had never even met them?  Most of us have visited on at least one of these occasions ourselves.


But the perma-vacationer doesn't just visit. They buy a house and refuse to leave.  Hurricanes and tornadoes couldn't drive them away.  They simply board up their windows and stand there stubbornly in the doorway, arms crossed, telling you to stop warning them about the impending natural disaster. Their homes can be demolished and the perma-vacationer will still not leave The Land Of The What If's.  To them, this place...  this place meant for tourists... is somewhere that has a grip on them similar to the strongest of addictions.  Any attempts to point out their unpaid bills, failing relationships, or missed years back in reality will be met with denial and usually contempt.


We can voice our concern for the perma-vacationers.  We can love them, even though it is often very painful to do so.  So far off the road, so far astray from what once was their normal lives, the perma-vacationer simply doesn't know how to function without that camera in their hand and daily window shopping trips past the same shops they've seen for years and years.  They've forgotten that happiness can be found down the road if they would only leave The Land Of The What If's and head towards other destinations.


The Land Of The What If's is alluring, I'll admit.  I've been there several times myself.  The shiny promises of what could have been, the bittersweet taste of not knowing is enough to make you want to go back just one more time.  The problem is, it's never just one more time.  Each visit gets a little bit longer in length and, if you're not careful, you can end up looking at real estate and admiring the views from what could be your next home.  The real estate agents are the best in the business.


And it will always be there, like Vegas, ready for the next person to come spend their retirement fund in one weekend.  So the next time you visit and a real estate agent hands you their card rip it up, hand it back, and tell them they won't be making any commission off of you in this lifetime.










      

Please consider helping me cover expenses while fighting cancer. Anything helps. Thank you!