tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90482836454823967262024-03-08T13:03:18.933+00:00 STEPHANIE SPARKLES DAILYStephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-48215853480319347692020-08-03T16:01:00.000+00:002020-08-03T16:18:48.567+00:00I Call Bullshit <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You know the well-meaning phrase "you have to love yourself first"? I think it's bullshit. I think, like most cliches, it has some valid truth to it and applies to life and love at times. But, also like cliches, it is not a catch-all and sometimes can cause further unintended harm.<br />
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Before you disagree with me, please know that I think self love is extremely important and crucial. But I think it is extremely counter-productive to shame people that are trying to find love in this crazy, beautiful, lonely and connected but often extremely disconnected world. I know it isn't meant as shaming but I also know that is exactly how it feels.<br />
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Because what if you were taught to not love yourself from a very young age? Or even later in life when you got trapped in a toxic and/or abusive relationship? Bullies, abuse, family discord, abandonment, societal messages, and more can strip the self love and short circuit the pathways in the soul needed for this kind of development.<br />
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<a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61SDHsR6rjL._SX425_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="SmartSign "Caution - Area Under Construction" Sign | 7" x 10 ..." border="0" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61SDHsR6rjL._SX425_.jpg" /></a>So, what are these people to do, these victims and survivors of a life they never asked to inherit? Therapy, self reflection, ya da ya da ya da. I know. But I still think it's bullshit.<br />
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We can't always magic back to life what was taken away or what we never had.<br />
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And this is where the love from others is so desperately needed. Not even needed, it is required. Love from others breathes life back into our deflated sense of self and, like magic, has a way of healing and lifting up the person on the receiving end. With a bit of luck and a lot of time this allows the soul to rewire itself. Or at least that's the hope.<br />
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I think telling people that they must love themselves first has the unintended side effect of causing so many to feel like they are too broken or too unworthy of love and friendship. Like they are to blame for not loving themselves and should be shamed into solitude until they learn how. For so many, that feels nearly impossible. So they withdraw into themselves and become more isolated and more lonely and subsequently love themselves even less.<br />
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I should know.<br />
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Everyone and everything on this planet needs love to grow and flourish. Flowers and trees need the sun and rain, stars need the night sky, and baby animals need protection and nourishment until they can stand on their own. And all of that is a form of love.<br />
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So what happens to the ones born without that essential set of self love building blocks? Sure, you could argue that many find a way to flourish in spite of that like wildflowers growing in the cracks of concrete. But not all of us are that lucky. We struggle and struggle and struggle some more.<br />
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We all loathe something about ourselves and you'll never convince me otherwise. And what about those with mental health conditions that rob them of self love? Are they supposed to be condemned to a life of solitude? Of course not. What if we told people that they are worthy of love and they are lovable <b><i>right now</i></b>, exactly as they are?<br />
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I have failed and failed some more at this. I have loved myself enough to walk away from abusers after years of not loving myself enough to stop it from happening. I have battled with emotional eating and often lost. I have been gentle with myself during my health struggles with cancer and auto-immune problems and I have also been a complete asshole to myself. I have been standing in a mirror and picking myself and my soul apart since I was a kid.<br />
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I allowed the voices of the abusers to become my own in my mind, doing their dirty work long after they are gone.<br />
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I often feel too fat, too poor, too unsuccessful, too anxious, too depressed, too needy, too sensitive, too - well, you get the picture. Life has been, and still is, really fucking hard. I have tried therapy and everything in between. My wiring is still not how it should be but, you know what? It's not my fault, even on the days I can't remember that it's not.<br />
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So this post is just as much for me as it is for you. We deserve to be loved. I deserve to be loved. You deserve to be loved. And maybe, just maybe, we can learn to show up exactly as we are.<br />
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There is nothing better than having a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, and a heart that loves you to comfort and guide you along the way. Love yourself, love others, and allow yourself to be loved. Not one day in the future when you are deemed whole or are marinated in confidence. Now.<br />
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Keep the faith, dare to try, and go find your people. They will love you no matter where you are in your ongoing construction work on your soul. We should all strive for personal growth in our lives. It should be a lifelong process of unfolding and becoming, unlearning and reconstruction. You don't have to do it alone.<br />
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People don't build houses by themselves and neither should you. Strive to love yourself always. In all ways. And if you fall short? Don't let anyone or anything (especially yourself) convince you that your lack of self love is a fatal flaw and must be fixed before you can be loved by others. And, who knows. Maybe you have some building materials and strength to provide them in return.<br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;"><b>If you feel moved by this post, and are able to do so, please consider a donation to help me with living expenses while I recover from cancer treatment. Venmo: @SSparkles or Paypal: <a href="https://paypal.me/SSparklesDaily?locale.x=en_US" target="_blank">Paypal link</a></b></span></div>
Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-10640677882802803192020-05-19T13:57:00.000+00:002020-05-19T14:05:30.156+00:00Sometimes Suffering is Just Suffering (And that's okay)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
January was a month of struggle. So was February for that matter. On second thought, all of the months have been a struggle- and that was without the current pandemic turning all of our lives upside down. Call it the coronavirus blues, seasonal depression, lack of money induced anxiety, or chemo induced estrogen loss (thanks, Tamoxifen!). Call it all of that. Depression is depression. I know it has been said before, so I am hardly a trailblazer here, but I think sharing the hard times on social media and with the people in our lives is helpful for the one suffering and those out there suffering as well.<br />
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Social media is packed with filtered faces and lives. Even at my age I feel the temptation to compare the curated words and images with my own life. So the last thing the internet needs is another unrealistic post that doesn't share the thorns with the roses.<br />
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Sometimes suffering is just suffering. </div>
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It's not always beautiful or inspiring or poetic to the one experiencing it. And that's okay! You don't have to feel like a warrior when life throws a bunch of crap your way. Well meaning comments from strangers and those close to you don't have to resonate when you are down and struggling to get back up.<br />
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You do not always have to be positive or productive. These are crazy times we are living in and how you cope doesn't have to look like anyone else's version of what they do to stay sane (or appear happy and perfect on the internet).</div>
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I have had an unwanted intimate relationship with depression most of my life, circumstantial and otherwise. And I wanted to tell you, to remind you, that the other side of sadness and grief exists. Even if you don't believe in it, it exists. You will have better days. </div>
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Maybe you're facing cancer or other chronic illnesses like I am. What was already a difficult existence of ups and downs is now complicated further with quarantines and a dangerous virus. Maybe someone you loved more than life passed away and your heart is so broken it physically hurts. Maybe you're down on yourself for where you are in life and nothing looks like you thought it would. Maybe you're just tired of it all. I don't know your struggle... but I do know your struggle. </div>
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You're not alone (even if it feels like it and you are telling me to shut up while reading this) and you're not less of a person for being sad or scared or overwhelmed. If emotions weren't supposed to exist we wouldn't have them. </div>
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So maybe allow the sadness. Observe it, feel it, and know that tomorrow could be a better day. I can't promise you that it will be. Life is crazy and wild and anything can happen. But I think that's the point- if anything bad can happen, anything good can happen as well. </div>
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It's all annoying when you are deep in the trenches but I hope something I said reaches you like a hug through the screen. Take care of yourself, even if it is one small thing you do today and build on tomorrow or next week. Wash your face, take a shower, relax your shoulders from your ears and unclench your jaw. Breathe.</div>
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Some of the things that help me: </div>
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- Make a list of things to be grateful for, even if all you can write down is your bed or favorite food.</div>
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- Listen to songs that are upbeat and make you wiggle. Create a playlist.</div>
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- Go outside, look at the sky, breathe the fresh air.</div>
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- Get on the floor and play with your pets.</div>
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- Take a long hot shower or bath.</div>
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- Watch some stand up or a stupid funny movie/show.</div>
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- Call someone. Like, actually call them.</div>
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- Read quotes or a book that speaks to your heart.</div>
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- Text a friend.<br />
- Write, color, paint.</div>
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- Put down your phone for a while.<br />
- Exercise, stretch, find some free fitness videos online.</div>
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None of these are a cure-all and I have had many days when I would give myself the middle finger for this post. I understand depression can make everything feel impossible and sometimes even getting out of bed is like trying to walk in quicksand. Everything feels pointless. I get it. And I have no doubt that when I get down again I'll read this and roll my eyes. But it will be a good self reminder, like breadcrumbs I put out there to find my way back again</div>
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Your suffering is just as important as the suffering of others. It's not a weakness and you are not unlovable. </div>
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Every day is a chance to start over. Progress doesn't have to be perfect to still be progress. Shitty people that hurt you will one day fade in your memory. Losses will be less painful. You will laugh and love again. Yes, you really will. Hang in there and know, for what it's worth, that I'm out here rooting for you.<br />
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You can do this.<br />
You can do this.<br />
You can do this.</div>
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Find the sunshine my friends.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">To help me cover treatment/living expenses if you feel moved to do so:</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://paypal.me/SSparklesDaily">paypal.me/SSparklesDaily</a> or Venmo: @SSparkles.</span></b></div>
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-78298997767248589452019-12-28T19:14:00.001+00:002019-12-31T17:50:26.176+00:00Dear 2019<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dear 2019,<br />
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Consider this a formal notice that I am done with you.<br />
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I've given this a lot of thought over the past few months. I mean... let's be honest... we didn't exactly get off to a great start.<br />
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We both had good intentions but sometimes good intentions are not enough to make something work when life gets in the way. And who would've predicted that we would meet cancer? I know I sure didn't.<br />
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Please know that I feel we were meant to meet for a reason and I have learned so very much from you. I'm not entirely sure that I would have chosen this relationship but, alas, such is fate.<br />
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Thank you for the life lessons you have given me. As trite as it sounds, you taught me that I am so much stronger than I give myself credit for.<br />
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It's funny that facing my mortality with you has left me feeling so... fearless. Exhausted. Invincible. Somber. Alive.<br />
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I realize now that perhaps most of my life is behind me instead of ahead. That I can, in fact, go through several rounds of chemotherapy and thirty rounds of radiation without anyone here to hold my hand. That when the going gets tough- tougher than I ever imagined- I will pick up the clippers and shave my head my damn self and stand back, proud as fuck at the woman in the mirror.<br />
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That letting go is far more difficult once the adrenaline of survival has receded.<br />
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December is always a month of reflection. A month where I can't help but take inventory of all that has happened, good and bad.<br />
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There is something about the glow of Christmas lights that has the power to spark both hope and a bittersweet ache in my chest.<br />
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I want you to know I am walking away from our relationship a changed woman. There will never be a time when I won't remember what we have shared. I feel that what time we are given in life is sacred and love alone should always be the priority. Love for others, for life, for nature, for whatever makes your heart sing like a 6 year old kid listening to their favorite song before they've learned to be self-conscious.<br />
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In short, I know I don't have time to waste and there is so much I haven't done that I know I will never do unless I let you go.<br />
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There is nothing but uncertainty up ahead and I'd be lying to you if I said I wasn't scared. I really don't know how I am going to do this. I'm broke. I'm alone. And I am so very tired.<br />
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But there is more awareness of what matters to me and I will do my best not to dwell on the things I'm afraid of. I will trust that there is a reason behind all of this and that it will be revealed to me one day.<br />
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You gave me my first real Christmas tree in nearly a decade. You gave me my first Christmas since my cancer diagnosis. You gave me a new best friend in the form of a fluffy little rescue kitten. She's curled up in my lap while I write this for you.<br />
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What I'm trying to say is... thank you. It hasn't all been bad. I know you tried your best. We tried, we really did.<br />
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Goodbye.<br />
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Love,<br />
Stephanie<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">You can help me here: <a href="https://venmo.com/code?user_id=2865819461615616625" target="_blank">Venmo</a> or here: <a href="https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/my/profile" target="_blank">Paypal</a></span></b><br />
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-74560413287587780812019-11-03T21:33:00.004+00:002019-11-04T02:22:35.367+00:00Radiant <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Three weeks ago I began the next phase of treatment for the unwelcome invader in my body known as breast cancer: daily radiation. To prepare myself for what would be the latest assault on my body I did what any good soldier would do when faced with unknown terrain. I read and read and gathered experiences from warrior sisters that have already been where I was going. I asked questions, gathered supplies, cleaned, and prepared as much as I could.<br />
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I wasn't scared really. I'm not sure that I would go as far as to say that I was calm... but I was far too tired and weary from months of complicated chemotherapy to feel more than a begrudging acknowledgment of what must be done.<br />
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So, off I drove that Monday for the first round. I felt the tightness of tense muscles in my back, forming knots up and down my spine, as I blinked out of my car window at the bright October <br />
sun. The sunlight lifted my spirits and I turned the music up as loud as I could. Before long I was dancing down the road in my seat, once again thankful for the beautiful landscape that has become my home away from home. When I pulled into the parking lot, I turned the music down and leaned my head back for a few breaths.<br />
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It's a funny thing to feel strong and weak and loved and alone all at once.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4Bj2dPwGnxs/Xb9AbxxSqwI/AAAAAAAABf4/eJRUVMkMkt8PLlkipNPpyJPHTBqA47gpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/20191015_141718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="771" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4Bj2dPwGnxs/Xb9AbxxSqwI/AAAAAAAABf4/eJRUVMkMkt8PLlkipNPpyJPHTBqA47gpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/20191015_141718.jpg" width="192" /></a>A few minutes later I was in a room, awkwardly clutching at the provided giant and decidedly unsexy hospital bathrobe they give each patient to wear. The radiation ladies escorted me towards the multi-million dollar machine that<br />
would send high dose radiation into my chest. The ladies helped remove my bathrobe, and got me into position on the narrow table. Arms above my head, head tilted just so to avoid radiation from hitting my esophagus, the lasers lining up with the temporary markers and permanent tattoos they put on my body to map out the treatment field. They slid my body back and forth until it was where they wanted it to be. Like a slab of meat at the butcher shop, I thought to myself and suppressed a chuckle.<br />
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The nurses and techs left the room and went to watch me on a monitor. The machine began to hum loudly, attacking the cells and tissue where a tumor had been found in March. I felt nothing, and in 5 minutes or so it was over. Just like that. I drove home and then returned the next day, and the next, and the next, and the next, and again the next. I have had 15 sessions so far.<br />
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Some days I dance in the car and sing-scream like a carefree college kid driving down the highway on the way to Spring Break. Other days my body hurts and I'm tired and sad. And sometimes I am both.<br />
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Laying there, hands above my head, chest and heart exposed and vulnerable to the world, to the burning bright beams of radiation in an empty room can really make someone feel... small. Alone. Wishing someone was waiting for me on the other side of the door with a knowing smile and a hug. Someone that insists on driving me home. Someone to help carry the cancer and the worry and the questions. Someone.<br />
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I get home and walk in the door, a greeting from my sweet loyal cat. I smile. I pick his chubby little meatball of a body up and listen to his loud purr in my ear and thank him for being here. I look at my phone and see dozens of encouraging and uplifting messages from friends on social media. I make tea and feel the warmth of the oversized mug in my hands, comforting my soul and my weary bones.<br />
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Three more weeks of this stretch out before me. Three more weeks of doing this five days a week. The side effects from chemo aren't over and my autoimmune conditions roar louder as time goes on with them left unchecked by the injections I had to halt while undergoing cancer treatment. I lost yet another fingernail today. It didn't hurt a bit, just flew right off my finger like the others did. I laughed when it happened. Because, what else is there? Tired, hurting all over, but I laughed.<br />
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And that right there is the sweet spot that tells me I'm still in here, still in this body that is simultaneously attacking me and being attacked. The one that is a bit worse for the wear at the moment, changed by surgery and bald as a newborn babe. Underneath it all, I'm still in here, following the light of laughter and thanking the stars to have friends out there in the world that laugh and cry with me, even if we've never met. Because that's the good stuff that makes the lonely days and nights worthwhile even when they seem anything but.<br />
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One day at a time, one tear at a time, one laugh at a time. Broken, reborn, hunting the invader and hoping like hell it won't come back again. Wondering how to explain to people that I am not a warrior or an inspiration or as strong as they think. I am just another person out here fighting through the darkness and following orders I don't always understand but am too tired to question. But as small and as insignificant as my life may feel in the great scheme of things, I am now fully aware of the years I wasted and how fast time disappears. I feel it all and I see the love and kindness that so many of us carry for humanity.<br />
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I know you're out there, reading this and feeling something. Apprehension, anxiety, empathy, fear. Perhaps for me, or someone else, maybe even for yourself. Maybe you'll say something kind to someone in hopes of making them feel less alone or because you yourself need to feel less alone. Maybe you'll see that life is fragile and ugly and does what it wants when it wants. That there are people out there just as alone as you going through things. Rooting for you and caring more than you can even comprehend.<br />
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It won't always be okay. My skin will likely burn and change colors by the end of this. I'll probably get more and more exhausted. Lupus and other conditions will continue to make themselves known in my body. But I get up and I show up every day. The future is unknown and slightly overwhelming to think about. Doing this where I am, isolated and alone and away from family after leaving an abuser with the help of police and safe houses adds a lot of complications and loneliness to the battle.<br />
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But I'm doing it, even when it really sucks, even when I wonder if I'll have gas money to get to treatments or to keep a roof over my head.<br />
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People have often remarked they don't know how I do it. I have no answer for them, because I'm not sure how I do it either or if I really have a choice in the matter. I just do it. I plunge into the darkness time after time with the hope that the light at the end will arrive, and savoring every bit of it I see along the way. I believe that the future won't be all darkness. And I dare to hope that it will be full of love and laughter and that this will all become something I look back on proudly and with relief at it being over. Most of all, I have to hold on to that twinkle of hope that whispers one day it might even be... radiant.<br />
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Keep fighting, my friends.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">To help me cover cancer treatment expenses:</span></b><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://venmo.com/code?user_id=2865819461615616625" target="_blank">My venmo: https://venmo.com/</a></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">Or</span><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;"><a href="https://paypal.me/SSparklesDaily?locale.x=en_US" target="_blank"><b>https://paypal.me/SSparklesDaily</b></a></span></div>
Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-79046095148908431592019-09-28T21:29:00.001+00:002019-10-30T00:35:59.934+00:00Life, Lyrics, and Letting Go<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As September comes to a close, I find myself wondering where this year went. Time speeds up more and more every year. It's downright frightening when you think about it. But this year was a different kind of blur for me. One minute it was spring, full of promise and dreams of road trips and adventures yet to be written. The next minute it was cancer. And before I knew it, I woke up in September. I stand here now without my hair, my eyelashes, or my former ignorance about cancer.<br />
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This upcoming week I'll break my two week doctor free bliss and meet with my radiation oncologist. I've got the little tattoos that map out the radiation field on my body, done before we realized chemotherapy would be part of my all inclusive deluxe cancer treatment package. This week we'll check my blood counts and see if those little suckers are back to a safe enough level to begin radiation and a schedule will be made for me to be there every single day for the next 6 weeks. Then the burn, the infection risk, the side effects, and the crippling fatigue will hang out with me until nearly Thanksgiving. But, oh, what a Thanksgiving it will be when this part is done.<br />
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I will be driving myself back and forth on my own, just as I did for chemo. I will be running errands, cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry on my own. There will be nobody to bring me soup or give me a hug or run out for more aloe lotion and ice cream. But after completing chemo I feel confident I can complete this too. I have my four legged little dude. I have a roof over my head. I have food to eat. I have people like you out there reading this and cheering me on.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GiXSm06joRk/XY_OaZ05RMI/AAAAAAAABfE/x5Xs-W9lrBEHyjJ5cmvy2jThpfEE-655gCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_20160904_213421.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="640" height="315" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GiXSm06joRk/XY_OaZ05RMI/AAAAAAAABfE/x5Xs-W9lrBEHyjJ5cmvy2jThpfEE-655gCEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_20160904_213421.jpg" width="320" /></a>And, most of all, I have the privilege to keep going.<br />
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So I gaze out over this last twinkle of September and know that there will inevitably be more loss. The trees will lose their leaves and be bald along with me. There will be more complications and unexpected side effects. There will be bad days and even worse nights. But there will be mornings and hot coffee. There will be laughter and music with lyrics I love and lyrics I have yet to learn. There will be quilts, fuzzy socks, and an impossibly bossy cat. There will be me.<br />
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I don't know what next year will bring but I know it's right around the corner like a newborn baby, full of promise and new beginnings. I'll begin the third phase of treatment and begin my first year of monitoring for any resurgence or spread of cancer. I'll restart low dose chemotherapy to treat my autoimmune disorders. I'll work on losing the annoying extra pounds brought to me courtesy of steroids. I'll work on getting my strength back and dream about road trips. I'll tweet too much. And I'll carry on.<br />
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As much as we want to control and plan for the future, there's no way to know what is yet to be survived and celebrated for any of us. The best we can do is salute September, turn up the music, and dance.<br />
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Keep fighting, my friends.<br />
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-56618791020428579262019-09-24T02:09:00.000+00:002019-09-24T02:37:05.706+00:00Privilege <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
They say that life is a privilege and, if this year has taught me anything, it's that this is undeniably true. It's easy in the dark times to find these kinds of sentiments trite or laughable. To tell the well meaning proverbs and inspirational quotes to fuck off. Then one day you find yourself lying exposed on an exam table after a routine screening, staring into the very serious eyes of a doctor you just met. You make a joke or two (or twenty) to try and ease the tension in the room and perhaps to try and shield yourself from the news that he is trying to convey.<br />
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Cancer. I have cancer? I can't possibly have cancer.<br />
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The doctor and nurse laugh at your jokes and your unimaginable calmness and unblinking positivity. They tell you your humor will serve you well with what's to come and you nod, wanting to tell them just how well and with how much it has already served you in the past. You ask the doctor, who is now putting needles into your body to numb your breast and armpit for biopsies, how sure he is that this is likely cancer. "So... like... 50% sure?" and without a beat he replies "Like 98% sure". "Well... shit" you say, blinking up at the stained ceiling on an obnoxiously gorgeous sunny day in March.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fbHlSjYEppI/XYlqhh-DoCI/AAAAAAAABes/iQ1Wobck4g4oDqsRMrcvS1EyCxPDEU0_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/e34a81062313fdec69cb65414e354c7e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="570" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fbHlSjYEppI/XYlqhh-DoCI/AAAAAAAABes/iQ1Wobck4g4oDqsRMrcvS1EyCxPDEU0_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/e34a81062313fdec69cb65414e354c7e.jpg" width="320" /></a>The emotions that a cancer diagnosis unearths are vast and varied. I was giddy at first, yes giddy, and that one I can't explain. Maybe with the sliver of hope that the doctor could still be wrong and the biopsies would come back benign. They didn't. And then there was disbelief and sadness, quickly followed by anger. I was mad. I was really mad. How much of that anger was fear I can't really say.<br />
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I told family, friends, and my primary doctor I wasn't going to do it. Do what, you ask? Do cancer. Nope. No way. Not doing it. I had been through way too much already. I had survived and climbed my way back too many times. I was tired. I had worked hard on my health the past two years after nearly dying from undiagnosed autoimmune diseases that resulted in a terrifying bout of kidney failure.<br />
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And now I needed to go through this? Probably lose my hair? Lose a body part? Be sick and alone with chemo? Radiation? Nope. Fuck off, cancer.<br />
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Luckily, I have the great fortune to have a primary doctor that is more like an angel in a white coat. And I don't say that lightly after my many, many bad experiences with doctors. She told me I didn't want to die from metastatic breast cancer. And that I had so very much life ahead of me with possibilities that I can't even begin to fathom. Who knows what would come along in the next year or twenty. She said my story wasn't hopeless or over. And, through tears, I knew she was right. Or I hoped like hell she was.<br />
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So I quickly met with a surgeon, a plastic surgeon in case he was needed, an oncologist, a radiation oncologist, a patient navigator/social worker, a geneticist, and my rheumatologist. All the ologists. I like to collect them all. Then came hard conversations, endless medical researching and learning, and the realization that I was about to have a lot of things taken from me in order to make me well. So the grieving began. There is so very much to grieve with a cancer diagnosis.<br />
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I'd like to tell you that I was stoic and handled every moment with grace, but that would be utter bullshit. My life was put into a blender on high speed and shit got messy. I had to choose between several options for surgery. Due to life circumstances that I won't bore you with right now, that meant having only a couple people to go over it with - none of whom are here in person. It meant having no Mom to lean on or come take care of me. It meant knowing I was going to do this alone. Like... alone alone.<br />
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I wanted to say no to it all again. Then my primary doctor/angel told me she would drive me to and from surgery. I was speechless. As anyone that has spent time with doctors knows, this is not a common thing. It is pretty unheard of. And she stayed true to her word. Her and her husband were there to drive me and give me a much needed hug. When I went home the next day I walked into a kitchen with groceries and a gift they had waiting for me. I will never, ever forget that kindness.<br />
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Next up was the decision I had to make about chemo or no chemo. Here again, I wish I could say I was brave and totally zen about losing my hair because "it's just hair". I was not at all zen about it. I'm single, and relatively young to have developed invasive cancer. Call it vanity if you want, but I disagree. It is so so much more for a lot of women. And never in my life have I loved my hair more than the moment I found myself on that table being told it was likely cancer. But I said yes.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u5_lkDLwaSU/XYliltaReiI/AAAAAAAABds/IPlT9QyuQ9ov2GZZjPYw8daMPWfdIJdswCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_20190923_182540.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1120" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u5_lkDLwaSU/XYliltaReiI/AAAAAAAABds/IPlT9QyuQ9ov2GZZjPYw8daMPWfdIJdswCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_20190923_182540.jpg" width="224" /></a>The day my long and very thick dark (dare I say glorious) hair began to fall out it was in handfuls. I was told it wouldn't happen all at once by the oncologist but, well, she was wrong. I had an appointment at the end of that week to see a hair stylist to have it shaved off, but once I saw the bald spots a surge of strength I never expected flooded my veins. I looked in the mirror and said "Fuck this", grabbed a pair of clippers, and shaved my head bald. I didn't cry. I wasn't hysterical or even upset. I was... proud.<br />
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Crushing self-esteem issues be damned, I did it.</div>
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During chemotherapy I had a lot of complications that maybe some people wouldn't ever have to deal with due to my other health problems. I was neutropenic two times (when white blood cells crash to nearly 0 making any tiny infection something that could kill me). I had fevers, was constantly needing fluids for dehydration, had blood coming out of my nose for weeks, and ended up in a neutropenic hospital room (think of an isolation room) that only 1 person could enter at a time and I could not so much as step out into the hallway. But I made it.<br />
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Two weeks ago today I had my last round of chemo and steroids. It took a week or so before I was well enough and had enough of my brain back to realize what had just happened. I looked back on what I had just done, had just survived, with awe. I did that? Holy shit, yes, I did that.<br />
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I'm not through with cancer yet, as anyone who has lived through it knows. I still have 30 rounds of radiation to attend and pills to take for the next decade to try and suppress the hormones my cancer feeds off of, tests to have done, things I need to come to terms with losing. Adjusting to being immediately thrown into a medically induced early menopause.<br />
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Then there are the autoimmune diseases that have been running rampant since my diagnosis. I had to stop my immune system suppressing medications that were working so well in order to go through cancer treatment. The irony? After radiation when they deem me safe to restart them I will likely be on a chemotherapy drug for the rest of my life or until something better comes along.<br />
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But two very big parts of this nightmare are over. Surgery and chemo. It's a weird thing to have the blender you've been surviving in come to a halt. You walk away a bit unsure of your surroundings, your changed internal and external environments, and a bit too dizzy to make any sense of what just happened to you the last six months. But today? Today I woke up feeling a little less dizzy and full of gratitude for the chance to begin again. The sun is bright, the grass is green, and the sky is so damn blue I could easily get drunk on it for hours. </div>
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I know there is much more up ahead to live through and dark days when I won't feel like my life is anything remotely close to a privilege. But I've been given today and I've been given the presence of mind to look back on what I just did and take a moment to appreciate the gravity of what I've gone through and be thankful. So many end up with more advanced cancer and spend years in treatment with no end in sight. I think of them and am humbled by the strength they possess to keep going. Others can't afford treatment or have little access to treatment and medication, let alone comfort items to help make the experience slightly more manageable.<br />
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I am unlucky in so many ways but right now I realize all the ways that I am so incredibly fortunate. And it is in this place, holding my pieces and standing at the precipice of this new beginning, that I now know without a doubt that life- in all of its messy fucked up beautiful heartbreaking glory- is indeed a privilege. Even when it feels like it is anything but.<br />
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Keep fighting, my friends.<br />
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(If you feel moved to help me in this journey, click to view this page's web version and look for the donate button. Anything helps!)</div>
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-61758605812763101122016-05-25T16:45:00.000+00:002019-09-25T16:58:12.965+00:00Beauty Marks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I see a lot of social media about scars- literal and metaphorical. Photos, quotes, tweets, posts, you name it. And there are all kinds of scars, ones we inflict on ourselves, ones that others inflict upon us, and ones that happen from accidents. But the ones that are the hardest to heal are on the inside where we can't see them. We know they are there, aching and trying to heal, but nobody but us can feel them. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's hard to feel like you are scarred permanently and nobody can feel it but you. It's isolating, it's depressing, and it makes us feel damaged. But we are not damaged because of these scars. We are different and unique because of them. We are stronger for surviving them. We are part of a worldwide club of survivors that have been through unspeakable things. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My challenge to you today is to accept those scars, inside and out. Learn to love them like you do your eyes or your hair. Learn to accept them like you do your fingers and toes. They are a part of you and without them your story would be so very different. Maybe it would be less painful, you would feel less broken, but you would still not be the wonderful version of YOU that you are today. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe we need to think of a different word for scars, like they do for birthmarks. They often call birthmarks beauty marks and I don't see why we can't start calling our scars the same thing. Because that's exactly what they are- beauty marks left by life on someone strong enough to carry them. </span></div>
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Keep fighting, my friends.<br />
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Love,<br />
Stephanie </div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #333333; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-89809147941291639402016-01-20T20:19:00.000+00:002019-09-24T01:14:22.070+00:00Survivor Superheroes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Survivors of trauma often develop pretty amazing abilities and traits as a result of what they have endured. We tend to be more compassionate, less judgmental, extremely self-aware and mindful, and incredibly strong. If we were superheroes our capes would likely be made of steel and be embossed with a brilliant shining heart. I am proud to be among these superheroes, though I am quick to denounce that I am one myself, and proud to know that an entire army of victors over trauma exists in a world that continues to dish out more.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We tend to be more compassionate than those that have never stared into the dark abyss that is recovering from trauma. We know firsthand how harsh life can be and we are the first ones to extend a helping hand to those struggling to stand. We are quick to be caretakers of the sick and ailing, which at times can become too overwhelming and exhausting. Our desire to save the world from suffering is a powerful driving force in our lives. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>We want justice for ourselves, for those that walk beside us in survival hood, and for those that will eventually join us as fellow survivors. </b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is important to remember that </span><a href="http://onlinenursingdegrees.maryville.edu/preventing-compassion-fatigue/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">compassion fatigue</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> can happen to caregivers of any type and survivors are among the most at risk. Remember to pause and take time for yourself. Practice good </span><a href="http://onlinesocialwork.case.edu/resources/infographics/social-work-and-self-care/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">self-care</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and recognize when you are doing too much. Learn to say no. Learn to set boundaries. Listen to your own mind and body when they tell you that you are over fatigued. Take care of you first and your ability to care for others will triple as a result. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because we know that life isn’t simply black and white, we are not as quick to judge others that have struggled in life. We all make mistakes, fall victim to circumstance, and have </span><a href="http://tinybuddha.com/blog/surviving-lifes-storms-let-hope-give-you-the-will-to-carry-on/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">life events</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> happen that are out of our control. A survivor knows this and recognizes the pain in another person’s eyes long before they notice what others would judge about their current life situation. We know that life changes in an instant and that it can take years, decades even, to bounce back and heal from what we experience. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Survivors are extremely </span><a href="http://www.pathwaytohappiness.com/self-awareness.htm" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">self-aware</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and mindful of other people and their surroundings. Part of this is from PTSD which can create hyper alertness. But mainly it is a side-effect of recovering from trauma. As we heal, we are forced to look inward and reflect on so much in our lives at ages when other people are carefree. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Self-awareness hopefully leads to learning to love and accept ourselves while being mindful of our role in society and society in general. We pick up on the vibes of others and are usually the first ones to notice when someone else is giving subtle clues that they are hurting or experiencing trauma. This makes us great caretakers, first responders, therapists, friends, significant others, teachers, parents… anything that involves caring for and being sensitive to the feelings of others. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last but far from least, survivors are incredibly strong. We have survived what others didn’t, what others couldn’t. We have bounced back from depths only we understand- some of us time and time again. We are filled with compassion, empathy, self-awareness, and a strength that could rival the toughest of metals. You see, surviving trauma isn’t all about the bad- the scars, the side effects, the lost years. Surviving trauma is also about the good, the amazing, the loving person it has helped you become. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>So wear that cape with your big shining heart and go out there and show the world what kind of superhero you truly are. </b></span></span></div>
Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-46253635555718311952015-12-30T18:58:00.000+00:002019-09-24T01:15:07.895+00:00Melting Snow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-6894784663493294572015-12-21T17:01:00.000+00:002015-12-21T17:01:11.714+00:00Thank You: An Update<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><br /><br /></b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span><br />
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At the time I was beyond devastated. And as I cycled through </span><a href="http://grief.com/the-five-stages-of-grief/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the stages of grief</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> 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. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I began to heal and focus on the importance of </span><a href="http://counseling.online.wfu.edu/resources/articles/why-we-should-tackle-mental-health-first/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">putting my mental health first</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, 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 </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">wanted</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to recognize. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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 </span><a href="http://bigvoicepictures.com/blog/2015/11/20/the-power-of-creativity-for-abuse-survivors/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the salvation of writing</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> for both myself and others. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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 </span><a href="http://movingpastdivorce.com/2015/11/the-beauty-in-letting-go/" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">to let go</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. This was no easy task but it was necessary and worth every ounce of grueling effort.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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 </span><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kindness-blog/hungry-for-humanity-by-st_b_8553826.html" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Huffington Post</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> 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.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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 </span><a href="http://asuonline.asu.edu/story-breaking-cycles" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">this story about breaking cycles</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 18.666666666666664px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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”. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></div>
Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-21441776808495332982015-11-14T15:08:00.002+00:002015-11-14T15:08:25.543+00:00Hungry For Humanity (Original Article On HuffingtonPost.com)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<strong style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">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.</strong></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">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</span><br />
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"I'm so hungry, I haven't eaten in a really long time. I'm gonna' use this money to eat. Thank you"</div>
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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.</div>
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<strong style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He needed someone to talk to... and God knows I know how that feels. Don't you?</strong></div>
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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.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: purple;">To Read More Click Here: </span><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kindness-blog/hungry-for-humanity-by-st_b_8553826.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">www.huffingtonpost.com</span></a></b></span></div>
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-22308431070044725472015-10-14T18:08:00.000+00:002019-09-24T01:17:05.482+00:00The Little Things (Original Article On chewedupandspatout.blogspot.com)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-large;"><span style="line-height: 20.24px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: purple;">To Read More Click Here:</span><span style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><a href="http://chewedupandspatout.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-little-things.html" style="color: #cc0000;" target="_blank">chewedupandspatout.blogspot.com</a></b></span></span></div>
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-57256636376092575482015-09-25T19:05:00.000+00:002019-09-24T01:19:53.724+00:00PTSD And The Trauma Battlefield (Original Article On chewedupandspatout.blogspot.com)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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 </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">very</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> wrong with that.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Simply finding research about the prevalence of PTSD in trauma survivors proves to be a challenge. Why is this not being funded when<a href="http://www.ncadv.org/learn/statistics" style="color: #2b256f; display: inline; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: color 0.3s;" target="_blank"> </a></span><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://www.ncadv.org/learn/statistics" style="color: #2b256f; display: inline; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: color 0.3s;" target="_blank">a woman is assaulted or beaten every 9 seconds</a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">? </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every 9 seconds is roughly the time it took for you to read the previous two paragraphs.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://www.psychiatrictimes.com/articles/considering-ptsd-treatment-female-victims-intimate-partner-violence" style="color: #2b256f; display: inline; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: color 0.3s;" target="_blank">One article states that</a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “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 </span><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://www.ncadv.org/learn/statistics" style="color: #2b256f; display: inline; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: color 0.3s;" target="_blank">10 million people are victims of domestic violence</a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in the United States in any given year… that’s a huge portion of society being ignored. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="color: purple;">To Read More Click Here: </span><a href="http://chewedupandspatout.blogspot.com/2015/09/ptsd-and-trauma-battlefield-by.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #cc0000;">chewedupandspatout.blogspot.com</span></a></b></span></span></div>
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-30631814650052220742015-09-25T18:56:00.004+00:002019-09-24T01:24:14.563+00:00Bringing Bella Back (Original Article On petsofthehomeless.org)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="color: purple;">To Read More Click Here: </span></b></span><a href="https://www.petsofthehomeless.org/news-blog/bring-bella-back/"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b>https://www.petsofthehomeless.org/news-blog/bring-bella-back/</b></span></a></div>
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-78628425350722892082015-08-16T19:02:00.000+00:002019-09-24T01:21:37.429+00:00Desperado<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-29454017414704228392015-08-16T02:22:00.001+00:002019-09-24T01:25:56.458+00:00The Land of The What If's<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-58705641081255921402012-01-14T21:40:00.001+00:002019-09-24T01:38:14.363+00:00The Strongest Person You Know<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have had the misfortune of knowing <a href="http://stephaniesparklesdaily.blogspot.com/2015/08/when-i-left-toxic-relationship-several.html" target="_blank">a lot of abusive people</a> in my life. And, because of that, people have asked some of the most ignorant and insensitive questions when I confided in them about my past relationships: "Do you enjoy drama?" "Do you like being beaten up?". Or they would just turn those questions into blunt rude statements. <br />
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Let me set the record straight for anyone reading this that has ever wondered or ever been stupid enough to ask a victim of abuse these questions. NOBODY enjoys being abused. Nobody. That includes males, females, gay people, straight people, every race, and children. Often the victim grew up being abused and that is what is familiar to them. They were taught that love and tears go hand in hand. They were taught that they were not worthy of being treated any better. <br />
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They want to be loved, they want to escape, they want to not be abused but they don't know how to leave and are often scared to leave due to a variety of circumstances. And if you can't figure this out on your own, then take a class or get a library card and educate yourself before you go around spouting off ignorance and hurting people that are already hurting.<br />
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I left those relationships. It took me many years... but <a href="http://stephaniesparklesdaily.blogspot.com/2015/08/walk-on.html" target="_blank">the important thing is that I left</a>. And in a big way. I put so much distance between us that I insured we would never see each other in this lifetime again. Sure, I wish I could have those years I wasted on him/them back. But sitting around and being angry with myself won't get me anywhere except stuck back in the past, and the past is what I left behind. It took a while to get over them and it was miles away from easy. Many days I thought I would die from the heartbreak. But slowly the pain eased. Now those people are just a lesson I learned in this wild adventure called my life.<br />
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Not everyone is rude when I share with them this part of my life and past. Many people have told me that I'm the strongest person they've ever known.And my usual reaction is to blush, shake my head, and awkwardly thank them. For so long I thought I was very weak. I had to be to end up with abusive people, right? But I've come to realize that I was so very wrong. <br />
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The abusers are the weak people in this world. Their minds, their hearts, and their souls are so weak and so fragile they are like cracked glass. It takes amazing amounts of strength to endure, walk away from, and succeed after abusers have tried their best to break you down. <a href="http://stephaniesparklesdaily.blogspot.com/2011/12/survivor.html" target="_blank">I am a fighter</a> with a voice and a strength inside of me that nobody can ever take away. And that's exactly what you are and what you have as well, dear reader. <br />
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For any of you reading this that are in abusive situations or that know people in them... you are not weak. Your abuser is weak. You are strong or you wouldn't be alive and reading this right now. Leaving is a brave and scary thing to do. I know because I've done it several times. Forgive yourself and recognize that YOU are the strongest person you know.<br />
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Need help or someone to talk to? Please don't hesitate to call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 or <a href="http://www.thehotline.org/" target="_blank">visit their site</a>.</div>
Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9048283645482396726.post-68454824831030683972011-12-19T15:26:00.001+00:002015-08-14T13:35:38.364+00:00Survivor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>I am a survivor</b>.</div>
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I have been told to-</div>
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<b><i>keep quiet</i></b>,</div>
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<b><i>be sweet</i></b>,</div>
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<b><i>be a good girl</i></b>.</div>
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<b><i>Never talk about the past</i></b>…</div>
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as if the silence</div>
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would make it disappear.</div>
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<b>You can’t stop me </b></div>
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from speaking the truth-</div>
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<b>it is mine to tell</b>.</div>
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After all these years,</div>
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after all this pain,</div>
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after all that has changed,</div>
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<b>I refuse to be quiet</b>,</div>
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refuse to be sweet-</div>
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I can handle the truth.</div>
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<b>It makes me who I am today-</b></div>
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<b>stronger, wiser, kinder and</b></div>
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<b>a good girl turned into</b></div>
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<b>a fighter.</b></div>
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Stephanie Sparkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07079877545087989171noreply@blogger.com