Survivors Journey Part 5 – Subconscious Messages

I adore my father. Most girls do. The problem for me is I never felt he adored or delighted in me. I mean truly, effortlessly, or soulfully delighted in me. All I ever wanted was to be “daddy’s little girl,” but that would never be my reality. I’m not saying he didn’t love me, but I never truly felt it. To this day, I mourn for little Michelle. All I ever wanted was to experience my father’s love, to know I was a priority in his life, to feel like I mattered, or to be invested in. No matter how hard I tried to garner my father’s affection or approval, I seemed to be met with indifference or left feeling that I was not good enough.

For as long as I can remember, my father was emotionally disconnected. His primary goal in life was to become a successful  entrepreneur, an accomplishment he seemingly exceeded in obtaining. My father is the most driven man I know, but while his financial success is undeniable, the price paid for him to achieve it was not. That price was my brother and I and the paternal relationship we unsuccessfully received.

I was 11 years old when my parents divorced. What a tender and vulnerable age to go through such a traumatic experience. Not that any age is “good” to experience divorce, but pubescent years are so critical in defining one’s stability. I never saw or heard my parents argue…ever, so my father’s departure truly blindsided me and left me deeply confused. The events that follow are based on my recollection, my reality…my heartbreak. Though there are four individual realities as to what really took place during this period of time, I can only share mine. After all, this is my road to recovery, and mine alone.

As my brother and I got older, we began a tradition of opening our Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve following dinner. Truth be told, Mom and Dad probably preferred this to that of the 6:00 am Christmas morning! When you think of Christmas Eve, you probably envision yourself surrounded by family and friends; however, we never resided near any of our extended family so most of our holidays were just the four of us. I don’t know where my father was on December 24, 1977, but I don’t recall his presence during the daytime hours. Following dinner, I could feel a thickness in the air, an unsettling emotion that weighted down what should be a fun, family event. When you’re supposed to “feel” a certain way but the immediate circumstances prevent you from doing so, yet you don’t know why. Something just felt “off.” Mom was always so joyful this time of year, yet her brow was imbedded with lines and her tightly pursed lips displayed a noticeable, downward turn. I didn’t know how to act, nor was I oblivious to the fact that this was not a joyful day.

Within a few minutes, my father slowly entered through the front door. His posture was slumped, shoulders rolled forward, as his eyes stayed focused on the path before him. Where had he been all day? I found myself in an extreme state of emotional discomfort and anxiously anticipated the evening’s conclusion. Dad immediately parked his intoxicated stature in a metal folding chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. I had never seen my father like this before, under the influence or otherwise. It wasn’t long before he stood up and proceeded down the hall toward their bedroom leaving us dumbfounded in his emotional wake.

I don’t recall opening gifts that year. I assume we did, but the emotional trauma overshadows my ability to recall events other than what I’ve shared, including anything that occurred in the coming days. That is, until the cold, winter evening of January 2, 1978.

My brother and I were crouched down in a makeshift, backyard fort we had recently consructed. As the cool air continued to sink into the quiet night, we began to hear my mother’s screams coming from inside the house. I remember feeling confused and fearful as thoughts raced through my mind wondering what was happening. I had never heard this level of escalation in my mother’s voice before. She was yelling at my father. What had he done? Why was she yelling? In a state of shock, we cemented our feet into the leaf-covered floor and perked our intimidated ears in an attempt to overhear what was going on. Though we were unable to decipher what was being said, we could hear Mom’s voice continuing to intensify. Within an instant, a loud crashing sound rang through the night air, and we knew something was really wrong. The only words I ever understood that night were the ones that followed the sound of shattering glass, “Get out! Just get out! Get out of here, now!” I have never heard such pain, anger, and brokenness in a woman’s voice, not even my own.

Eventually, my brother and I quietly made our way into the house when we felt the conflict had ceased. There, on the living room floor, lay the evidence of crashing sound we heard in the form of a broken lamp. It seemed so surreal, so out of place. I immediately knew to proceed with caution.

The following day, my father briefly returned just long enough to gather some of his personal belongings. Immediately before he departed, he sat next to me on the side of my bed and said, “I’m sorry Shelly. I’ve got to go. I’ve just got to go.” It was the first time I ever witnessed tears streaming down my father’s face. Not abundant ones, but tears nonetheless. With that, he tossed the hanging bag of clothes over his right shoulder, and I watched him shuffle down the long hall toward the front door. Click was the only sound I heard, and he was gone.

You’re not worthy enough for me to stay.

You’re not worthy enough for me to fight for.

You’re not wanted.

You’re not important.

You’re not enough.

Those were the subconscious messages I received from him. This man that I adored was gone, and in his wake was a path of emotional destruction that continued to escalate in the months to come.

I witnessed my mother fall apart emotionally and physically to the point of contemplating suicide, a fact she shared with me many, many years later. If not for my brother and I, she may have flirted with the notion for more than one long and lonely night. Amid her brokenness and my witness of such depletion, I now recognize the effect this had on me.

“As God as my witness, I will never love anyone as much as she loved him. I will never love anyone to the point that they can break me as my father seemingly destroyed my mother. Never.”

From that day forward, I began to stuff my emotions. Fear and insecurity would not rule me, or at least I would not allow anyone to perceive they ruled me. My emotions were like a light switch. I could turn them off or on depending on circumstance. You see, I am not worthy; therefore, I must not feel. I must stay in control of myself at all times. Mom loved Dad with all her heart and was thrashed by succumbing to vulnerability; therefore I must not be vulnerable. I must not love.

I was headed for a life of mere survival, self-protection, doubt, insecurity, and severely lacking in self-worth. That’s not living; rather, it’s merely going through the motions. The only thing more tragic than living this kind of life would be to continue to do so when you intellectually recognize you are and do nothing to overcome it.

I ask you this: What emotionally toxic baggage are you knowingly not addressing? What counterproductive, subconscious messages have you received in your past that continue to plague your forward motion?

As an adult woman, I have to wonder what was so broken in my father’s heart leading up to that Christmas Eve in 1977 that prevented him from facing the night head-on. What was it that tormented him so much that he had to seek courage and comfort from a bottle? I am thankful beyond words that in recent years I have received the “I delight in you” validation from him that I so longed for. It was a HUGE “ah-ha” moment for me that initiated the path which allowed he and I to get to that point in our relationship. It is a part of my journey that will surely be shared when the time is right.

Survivors Journey Part 4 – Enema Anyone?

Enema. Even the word makes your cringe, doesn’t it? Regardless of knowing the positive outcome, no one in their right mind holds a bottle of enema solution and says, “Yeah! I get to do an enema! Won’t this be fun?” Not likely. If you’ve ever had the privilege to experience such a delightful event, you no doubt know the level of discomfort that goes along with the process.

You start out in a state of misery because you’re full of crap. After all, that is the purpose of performing such a task, to rid yourself of all your crap, right? So you insert the comfort tip and proceed to gently squeeeeeze nearly two quarts of the mild solution into your intestinal tract. Soon, you’re met with the delightful feelings of severe bloating and cramping, wondering if you’ll be able to successfully clamp your butt cheeks together for the suggested 10 – 15 minutes as the solution takes effect.

As you lay on your left side, relaxing in bed, cheerful thoughts dance in your head with great anticipation for the ejection process to commence. That’s when the real fun begins, right? Uh, no. At some point you find yourself shuffling toward the toilet just in time for the initial “mega-blast” followed by several short, yet decisive “mini-blasts.” Just when you think the process is complete and you’ve taken the necessary steps to cleanse your ignited backside, your body says, “Ooops! Not so fast Cowboy!” So you sit back down and wait for the swan song to conclude. At this point your legs are beginning to go to sleep from being in the seated position for too long as you enjoy the delightful sounds of your intestinal orchestra gurgling with such voracity. Wishing you had remembered to bring along your iPhone as a distraction, you begin to wonder if it will ever end. The good news is, yes! …but there’s no turning back. Once you squeeze that bottle, you’re committed. If you want to rid yourself of all your crap, you have to see it through, even if it takes more than one application.

By now, you’re probably wondering what on Earth an enema has to do with the Survivors Journey, right? The way I look at it, true life transformation is like having a giant enema or several of them if necessary. The process itself is anything but comfortable, but when it’s complete, the emotional freedom will be like nothing experienced before. Am I willing to commit to the process knowing there is no turning back? Yes.

This afternoon I am diving into my emotionally flawed origin, the time in my life when the safety net was ripped out from under me and everything began to fall apart. I was 11 years old when my father left. I’m 44 now. I have 33 years of crap that has been backing up in my emotional memory bank. Hurt, confusion, pain, rejection, insecurity, isolation, just to name a few. I have been stuffing these emotions for so long that they are now manifesting themselves in a physical form. On October 4, 2010 I began experiencing motor seizures in which the entire left side of my body, face, and neck became violently distorted and in a locked position. Unable to control these episodes has landed me in the emergency room via ambulance on five occasions. During my fourth trip to the hospital in March 2011, extensive testing determined that the seizures are not originating from my brain; rather, they are an involuntary, physical manifestation of an internal trauma, aka Psychogenic Non-Epileptic Seizures (PNES). I’ve tried to hide, mask, and/or deny my emotions for so long that my body is literally rejecting that notion. I realize that if I don’t commit to the enema process, I will forever be imprisoned by 33 years of emotional constipation.

Ready. Set. Squeeze. Let the enema begin…

Survivors Journey Part 3 – Proceed with Caution

Yesterday, I decided to spend a couple hours doing some yard work in our north Texas, suburbia home. Second to writing, gardening is extremely therapeutic for me. It was a beautiful, overcast morning with a just enough breeze to tickle my senses and keep my brow from abundantly sweating. I love those kinds of days. After completing the mowing, edging, and blowing, I took a few minutes to water the rose bushes and tomato plants nestled against the back porch as a sense of accomplishment, and order swept over me. With hose in hand, I looked down at my grass covered shoes, took two steps into the yard to rinse them off before calling it done, when out from behind a landscape stone near the recently watered rose bush, I spotted the head of a large snake. I stopped dead in my tracks, frozen in fear, and waited as the five foot reptile slithered three feet away from me. Once out of striking distance, I took three giant leaps backward and began screaming for my husband. I never knew I had the capability to produce such a loud shrill. Unbeknownst to him of my situation, my cries for help went unanswered as he was on a conference call in his office.

When the snake reached a safe distance on the opposite end of the porch, I leaped over the rose bush, cracked open the back door as to not let Dutch, our chocolate lab, outside and made my cries for help undeniably evident. “Claaaayton! CLAYTON! There’s a five foot snake on out here!” He rose to his feet and quickly proceeded to the back porch. Not wanting to take my eyes off the snake for fear of his escape, Clayton (with his blue-tooth headset in place and conference call still going in his left ear) retrieved a long handled, flat head shovel and began his plight to save his damsel in distress. He shifted a rock to block the snake’s escape and began jabbing, as the snake’s head peeked out the other end. With five or six forceful thrusts amid the hissing snake in self-defense, Clayton was finally able to sever the head, and the battle was won. My HERO! Even though the war was over and the snake was dead, it took me over an hour to stop trembling with fear from what had just taken place.

While all this may give many of you the “heebie jeebies,” what I find interesting was realizing that for the remainder of the day, I was peering with a sense of great hesitation every time I went outside. Even though the danger had passed, fear, trepidation, and the message,“proceed with caution”, was the common thread racing through my head. I knew I had to take time to dive in and see what it was all about, as it was no longer about the snake. No, this was much deeper in its root than that of a slain reptile.

I just realized, and when I say “just” I mean just now, that I am living my life with the mindset of proceed with caution. I hate that about myself. When I was in my 20’s, I jumped into life with no regard to possible consequence or outcome. Some might call that free-spirited; some might refer to it as irresponsible. Truth be told, it was probably a little bit of both. So what happened? Where did that sense of reckless abandonment go? Even this morning as I sit here on the back porch tapping away at my laptop keys, my feet are perched atop a short stool and my eyes occasionally glance toward the landscape stones as if he’s going to rise from the dead and continue his reign of terror. The danger has passed Michelle, let’s move on.

I don’t want to live a life based on fear of what happened in the past. To that, I also don’t want to relive the twenty-something life of reckless abandonment. No, I want to live a life of intentional abandonment, or as some may call it,  faith. But what is it that prevents me from doing so? Why am I holding on to the past as if it were still a present day danger? Why do I allow those in my now to pay the price for those of my yesteryear? Why wasn’t it enough to witness the death of the snake and see its lifeless body to relinquish the fear that the danger has truly passed? Literally and metaphorically speaking, why do I still fear the snake?

My “snake” is pain. I fear pain. Not physical pain, but emotional pain. I fear being hurt. Not just a little, but a lot. I fear it to the point that it prevents me from living a life of intentional abandonment and faith. I am living my today based on events of my yesterday. That’s not living – that’s reliving.

What’s your “snake?”

Survivors Journey Part 2 – Creating Diversions in Fear of Fear

My heart has been heavy since my last post in which I committed to opening up and dissecting my life for any and all to see. There were a few (well, more than a few) moments when I thought to myself, “Are you nuts?” It’s possible and completely subjective. Honestly, I’m scared. Being vulnerable is, by far, not one of my strengths. There are some incredibly painful experiences in my past which I’m not too eager to revisit, but I’m committed to the road for which I’m being lead, and this is part of the journey.

When I initially sat down at the computer this morning, I began with the title, “Freeze, Flight, or Fight.” As soon as those words hit the screen, I felt an overwhelming sense of fear take hold. Immediately, I removed myself from the situation. I went inside and began preparing the spaghetti sauce for tonight’s lasagna, checked to see if I had any “Words with Friends” to play on my iPhone, texted a few folks, checked the laundry in the dryer that’s been sitting there for two days (as if another two or three hours is going to matter), and then I headed toward the back porch and began stocking the recently purchased Diet Pepsi’s into the outdoor mini-fridge. About half way through the Pepsi pile, I realized what I was doing. I had taken flight. I didn’t want to dive into today’s thoughts; so instead, I opted to create a diversion…admittedly, several of them.

I immediately stopped what I was doing, went into my husband’s home office and proceeded to get down on my knees in front of him and ask for a big honey hug. You might be asking yourself, “On your knees?” Well, I’ve learned in the past year that when I physically get down on my knees assuming a position of vulnerability and submission and allow him to wrap his arms around me, I succumb to a sense of overwhelming peace. I am allowing him to comfort and reassure me. I’m not talking about submission in the sense of superiority; rather I am reaching out to the Earthly man who loves me more than anyone and allowing him to exercise his role as protector, provider, comforter, and encourager. Not only does it feed me, it nourishes him by allowing him to serve in a manner for which he was designed to by God.

I was now ready to face me.

Based on what I know today, I exhibit two major behavioral flaws; fear of vulnerability and stuffing and/or masking my emotions. Trust me when I say there are many more flaws than that, but we have to start somewhere.

I have always viewed vulnerability as a weakness and weakness resulted in being a victim; therefore, I must not allow vulnerability in my life. Am I hitting a nerve yet? Maybe so, but what I have come to understand is by being vulnerable you not only open yourself up to hurt, you also open yourself up to love. Somewhat of an oxymoron if you ask me. But in order to heal, you must allow yourself to feel – that’s where stuffing my emotions comes into play. I cannot heal from the wounds of my life unless I am willing to feel the pain resulting from those injuries. It’s a vicious cycle.

I just caught myself checking “Words with Friends” again. “Don’t run, Michelle. Stay in the moment!”

April 2011, I began working with a phenomenal therapist named Diane. There’s been more “ah-ha” moments in the past several weeks than I can begin to explain. In one of our sessions, Diane asked me to recall my first memory when I experienced fear and vulnerability. I had to think about it for a moment…

“I must have been around four, maybe five years old. My parents had taken my brother and me to some friends of theirs’ home in the Indiana farmlands and left us in the care of an older child while the adults went out for dinner. This was not uncommon practice in the late 60’s. I don’t recall who these people were, but it was not an uncomfortable environment as there were other kids there to play with. As the sun set and the dark of night fell upon the house, a very loud knock coming from the front door rattled the small house. I could hear a man yelling on the other side of the door at us to let him in. I now recognize that he was intoxicated, but up to that point in my life, I had never witnessed anyone in a drunken state. My parents were never much to partake in alcoholic beverages, even to this day, so intoxication was not a state of being I was familiar with. We gathered together and crouched down behind a large chair as to not be seen through the window. I can remember shaking with fear just wishing he would stop. As his patience grew thinner, the banging grew fiercer, and the yelling escalated. It seemed to go on forever. In my little girl voice I can remember thinking, “Daddy where are you? Please come back. I’m scared. Daddy? Oh, please Daddy…I need you.” My thoughts went unanswered and  little Michelle remained frozen in fear.

Eventually, the man exhausted all of his attempts at entry and decidedly left. While the incident may have been over, the fear remained at the forefront of my mind. To this day, I can still feel the fear of that fateful night. Who was he and what did he want? That remains unknown. But what I do know is that my first memory of fear and vulnerability was met with having to self-protect, self-comfort, and swallow the fearful tears that so desperately wanted to flow. Inside was a little girl who wanted to scream, “Go away and leave us alone!” but the undeniable terror that he could possibly unearth our miniscule hiding place was more than enough power to shatter the innate desire to fight. Instead, I internalized my fear and remained frozen.

It was at that moment the critical, fear of vulnerability, behavioral flaw set itself in stone and continues to plague me to this day.

As Diane and I processed through this event, it became clear to me how a single moment in one’s life can set in motion an emotional and physical response to life’s tragic events, no matter their significance. I challenge readers who are struggling with the fear of vulnerability or stuffing emotions to examine their first memory of such experience. You may be surprised at what you find.

As for today, it has taken me four hours, two loads of laundry, five stirrings of the spaghetti sauce pot, four glances at my iPhone, three trips to the bathroom to address the over consumption of Diet Pepsi, and eight cigarettes to get through this first look back…but I did it. And for that, I am proud.

The journey continues…and I am not alone.

Survivors Journey

Do we really have character flaws? I don’t think so. I prefer to coin them as behavioral flaws. Specifically, learned behaviors. Generally speaking, some of our behaviors are developed by mirroring what we witness in our youth, and others we develop when faced with various circumstances throughout life in an attempt to self-protect.

As defined by Wikipedia, a character flaw is, “the creation and criticism of fictional works, a character flaw is a limitation, imperfection, problem, phobia, or deficiency present in a character who may be otherwise very functional. The flaw can be a problem that directly affects the character’s actions and abilities, such as a violent temper. Alternatively, it can be a simple foible or personality defect, which affects the character’s motives and social interactions, but little else.”

On the other end of the spectrum, a behavioral flaw (abnormality) is defined as, ” in the vivid sense of something deviating from the normal or differing from the typical (such as an aberration), is a subjectively defined behavioral characteristic, assigned to those with rare or dysfunctional conditions.” I don’t know about you, but my life is plagued with bouts of dysfunction and trauma.

The controversial word for me is “fictional.” Life is not fictional. I am not fictional. I am real. I am alive. I am living, and I am struggling. Not every day mind you, but life is a struggle. I believe the ultimate goal would be to find ourselves full of peace and contentment as evening’s slumberous escape approaches. No, if I were fictional, that which I could create, the story of my life would read very differently. I guess it would be the “white picket fence” version. But that’s not reality, is it?

White picket fence lives are anything but normal. I would gander to say you could spend a lifetime searching for a bona fide example of such only to find your efforts were merely in vain. If white picket fence lives were reality, there would be no Hollywood. Seriously, how exciting would a movie be if it were sappy sweet and had no conflict? No romantic ending or tragedy to triumph? Unfortunately, that would be a rather boring cinematic experience. Yet when we find ourselves in the midst of real-life tragedy, triumph is the least of our immediate focus. I would consider survival to be at the forefront of our thoughts, and it is amid the survival mode that our behavioral flaws generally cement themselves to the very core of our being.

In March of this year, I came to realize that I’m up to my neck in concrete, aka behavioral flaws. Shall I continue to sink, or will I identify a giant sledge hammer and begin to break down this solid wall of cement that has fictitiously protected me for so long?

In the coming weeks, months, years….whatever it takes, I’ve decided to filet myself to you, the reader, as my emotional journey toward identifying, admitting, and addressing my behavioral flaws unfold. Several of my very personal, life issues will be gut-wrenching to revisit, but I realize there is no way to truly move forward in becoming the woman God intends for me to be unless I am willing to do the work.

If you are a woman who has been a victim of parental abandonment and struggle with abandonment issues and/or self-worth, survived molestation by a family member or church leader, domestic violence, rape, divorce, undergone an abortion, continually find yourself emotionally detached and afraid of being hurt, been promiscuous, lived a life full of lies and deceit in an attempt to garner love, been involved with a married man, suffered addiction to mask your feelings, denied yourself the right to feel by stuffing with food, cigarettes, or alcohol, or you find yourself in a constant state of trying to control nearly every essence of your out-of-control life, then we have something in common. Yes, I’ve survived every one of these tragedies, lifestyles, and deplorable choices and am now faced with the daunting task of dealing with the behavioral flaws that have followed in my effort to self-protect.

What a mess, huh? But the way I look at it, I can choose to dive in and do the work by dealing with the subconscious, negative behaviors that adversely effect my life, or I can continue to swim in a cesspool of fear and disconnect that prevent me from living the abundant life God has given me. With great trepidation and a slice of optimistic anticipation, I am choosing to dive in. I’m not sure I’m ready to swing a sledge hammer just yet, but the pointed end of a pick ax is a start. I invite you to share in my journey, and maybe you, too, will begin to identify then chip away at some of your self-protective, yet fictitious walls.

The good news is, you’re not alone.

New Venue for My Writing

I’ve opted to place all of my blog posts on www.noomizo.com 

If you’ve not signed up for this site, I would encourage you to as it has some incredible articles in addition to many other topics of interest. Following is a link to my first article. Earlier this month, I was asked to join the writing team for Noomizo and will be focusing my attentions there. Mind you, the journey will be no less than that of my blog; however I am opting to share my survival story in a manner which may potentially reach more women who may need to hear my story as it relates to their own personal journey.

You can find me there and subscribe to my RSS feed when new posts are uploaded. It is there I hope you’ll join in my journey to recovery as well as other topics of interest I delve into.

http://www.noomizo.com/index.php/daughters-constructing-or-destructing/

The Dealer

Early evening ushered in like any other, so it seemed. A soft cool breeze filtered in from the north delivering the subtle news that fall was fast approaching. Dried leaves from mature oaks gently rustled about slowly falling to the ground as thousands of grackles had begun to make their way south. It appeared to be yet another uneventful evening; however, it was the impending experiences of this night in 1988 which would inevitably awaken the darkness of my eyes and change the course of my life forever.

A mutual acquaintance from work had recently introduced me to Billy whom I had taken an immediate liking to. Billy stood a modest six feet tall with biceps and an upper torso any man would envy. He was fun, exciting yet in a sense, dangerous; a character trait which intrigued me.  The kind of danger I could see lurking in his eyes like that of the ocean; beautiful to gaze upon yet teaming with hazard below. Billy and I quickly began a courtship based primarily on one commonality……cocaine.

This particular evening, we found ourselves in a state of boredom, wanting to party but needed to locate an available supplier. For me, this was not a daily activity but as I later learned the same did not ring true for Billy. Friends and family warned me Billy was a no-good thug but I refused to listen. I was convinced their impression of him was wrong, but even if they weren’t, I was confident I would be the only woman who could change his ways. It is clear my displaced affection for Billy was as blinding as the darkness of this October night; all that was about to change.

After having made a few calls while I dressed, Billy and I set out to drive across town with the hope of scoring. An undeniable fear began to take hold of me, a fear I quickly dismissed. Driving through the early night, I noticed the sky began to take on darkness like none I had seen before. Streets became rough and narrow with every passing block, displaying familiar grandiose oak trees like that at home, yet I knew the safety of home was far from my reach.

The road in front of this house bore no lights, nor did the house itself short of a dim lamp glowing from a small back window. The rousing moon shone itself upon the white painted house revealing weathered flecks of paint and the pier and beam on which it stood. Billy parked the car two doors down, turned off the engine, left the keys in the ignition and prepared to exit.

“Stay here,” Billy instructed. It was apparent he had been here prior to tonight and I would have been wise to follow his direction, unfortunately, curiosity got the better of me.

“I don’t feel safe…..alone……here.  I’m going in with you,” I replied.

Having paused for a moment, Billy said, “Not sure if he’s gonna like it, but come on.”

Approaching the house, I spotted a woman sitting on the porch delicately positioned in a rickety wood rocking chair slowly toggling back and forth. She paid no mind to us; rather, she sat there mindlessly staring forward. A coarse wool blanket nestled in her lap and what appeared to be a second hand cardigan draped over her slouching shoulders covered in a tumbled mess of unkempt hair. At the time I didn’t pay much attention to her; who she was, what she may be doing or even acknowledging her presence. If I had, my instinct would probably have been to run back to the car and stay where I was told.

Dressed in my red high heel shoes and looking like I had just been to the salon, I cautiously began taking each step toward the front door shadowing Billy. The other side of that threshold bore little resemblance to anything I had ever seen before. Decayed floors had been resurfaced with stolen plywood; scores of rolled newspapers lined walls to block the wind; beer and Coca-Cola cans tossed about; putrid smells of rotting food; and in the midst of this filth I spotted a baby carrier.

There he was, perched in his antiqued recliner to the left of the front door…the dealer. “Hey man,” Billy offered. The dealer merely nodded his head at Billy then turned my direction. His eyes cut through me like a twister rips through a lumber yard, dissecting every essence of my being. I had never felt such a winter chill as I did at that moment. By the look in his eyes, I immediately knew this man was cold, paranoid, suspicious yet full of fear. The feeling was mutual.

“Hi!  How are you?” I asked in my best North Dallas trying to be cool voice. He never said a word – just kept staring with his eyes locked on mine, sizing me up and down trying to determine whether or not I was a nark. Having broken the stare out of sheer intimidation, I glanced to the right of the dealer and there in his hand resting all too comfortably was a loaded and cocked handgun. Without a doubt, I knew he would not hesitate to use it given the perceived need to. It was that moment I found myself wanting to run back to the car but fear cemented my red high heels directly into the plywood which they stood.

“You got it?”  Billy inquired.  The dealer merely pointed to a back room which Billy and I proceeded to venture toward. Down the short hall I noticed a bathroom on my right. Inside housed another occupant whose mission in life at that moment was clear. Her arms and thighs blackened, bruised and swollen. The swallow of her neck was leathery, emaciated and aside from the click-clop from my red high heels the only noise I could hear was the smacking of her lips.  She had comfortably nestled herself onto the toilet, propped her foot up on the side of a filthy bathtub attempting to insert a needle into the vein between her toes. Though she never looked up, I could see her eyes were hollow, saddened and full of emotionless tears hindered by the sight of her own reflection. Instinct told me she was not the person we were to see regarding our vital purchase.

Peering into a bedroom at the end of the hall stood another man who briefly scanned me with his ruthless eyes, quickly closing the door leaving no doubt I was not welcome.  “You need to hang here. Don’t ask, just do it.” Billy quietly yet firmly commanded. This time, I didn’t raise any objections to his direction. What seemed to be an eternity was probably only two minutes until Billy emerged from the back room, sheepishly grinning with a look of score on his face.  “Let’s go” he said.

Stopping back by the dealer to pay our respects, I found myself frozen, yet again, at the icy breeze coming my way. Few words were exchanged between the dealer and Billy. Those words were a distant concern as my focus was redirected to the enormous brown rat crawling ever so slowly across the top of my pretty red shoe – neither a scream nor flinch uttered, not so much as a whimper. I didn’t want to disturb that shiny gun nor the man in control of it.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I wanted to run to the car and never look back – but look back I did. Gazing at the woman on the front porch as if for the first time I could see she was knocking on deaths’ door. She appeared old though was probably no more than 5 years my senior. I realized then if I ever came to this house again, the woman seated on that porch would eventually be me.

“Oh my God! Get me the hell out of here, NOW!” I cried.

“I told you to wait in the car, but nooooooo you had to come in!” Billy shouted.

I was in no mood for I told you so,”Just shut up and drive.”

As we drove away from the dealer, those particular oak trees couldn’t disappear fast enough. Somehow, the score didn’t seem so important anymore and within a very short period of time Billy wasn’t either. That night, not only did I leave behind the dealer for good, I left a part of me on the porch of that ratty old house, a part I have never missed.

Learning to Deal

Part of the mystery of doing a blog is wondering who is reading it, if anyone at all. When it comes right down to it, the purpose of blogging for me would be for the sake of sanity. A place to voice and process my inner thoughts. I’ve never been one to just sit and ponder life’s lessons. No, I have to get it down in writing as it will inevitably result in those “ah-ha” discoveries that keep life moving in a forward direction.

Since October 2010, there have been tremendous shifts in my life – situations that demand my attention. As the months have unfolded, I realize and admit that the “junk” I still have to work through is less than desirable but necessary nonetheless. The problem with life’s lessons is that they tend to be preceded with pain, hurt, sadness, or some facsimile thereof. The most recent lesson for me has been that of learning to process emotions rather than stuffing them away – an extremely unhealthy characteristic that has manifested itself in some of the ugliest ways. No matter how hard I tried, I have never successfully expunged feelings in a healthy manner. To do this, one must first actually DEAL with them….and that’s no picnic.

In the coming days, weeks, months, years….whatever it takes, I am committed to delving deep into the resources I call my life. I can say with complete certainty that it ain’t gonna be pretty! But if you’re joining me by reading this, then I pray you’ll hear my heart and join me on this journey we call life.

A Gift

A Gift

A love so precious, the tender heart shall hold,

This love doth bless thee, body and soul,

A gift for you, My child, bestowed upon thee,

While I wait for you to come before Me, on bended knee.

Come!  Come!  Oh, My beautiful ones,

Celebrate this love as My words be done,

For it’s endless beauty shall extend to thee,

While I wait for you to come before Me, on bended knee.

Praise My perfect works, as they are whole,

May you experience loves wondrous heart and soul,

Commanded this gift be a witness of Me,

While I wait for you to come before Me, on bended knee.

Sweet love… be patient, soft, yet strong and kind,

For babes shall nestle in your bosom to find,

Their gift is timeless, perceptive and free,

While I wait for them to come before Me, on bended knee.

My gift, I command thee, speak My words loud and clear,

May all who bear witness have faith and fear,

Show those whom you hold close, to believe in Me,

While I wait for all to come before Me, on bended knee.

I am God, the only God, as there is no other,

My gift of love, sweet child, may you call her Mother.

For My Beautiful Mom

Happy Mother’s Day!

I Love You

Michelle