June 19, 2019 darnold1975

Life With The Plant

“It doesn’t have a high potential for abuse, and there are very legitimate medical applications. In fact, sometimes Marijuana is the only thing that works… It is irresponsible not to provide the best care we can as a medical community, care that could involve Marijuana. We have been terribly and systematically misled for nearly 70 years in the United States, and I apologize for my own role in that.”

—- Dr. Sanjay Gupta / Neurosurgeon

Where our society and medical professions have advanced from the days of lobotomies, bloodletting, hydrotherapies and many other dehumanizing ways of treating mental illness, many attitudes and stigmas still remain the same. And still, there are those affiliated with religion that seem to think that mental illness is punishment for moral transgressions. And yes, I have also been told that even though trauma induced, my alters are actually demons that do not deserve a voice but should be cast out instead. I chalk a lot of this up to ignorance but still the target was me.

While living in Albuquerque Mel and I would come to realize, unbeknownst to us at the time, the complications that living with a mental illness would entail. I had lived with severe depression and anxiety since childhood which few people from school days realize. Even as a child and teenager I was well liked and was one of the favored clowns much like today. Before we left Mississippi there was very clear evidence that something was definitely wrong. Finally, breaking free of a 14 year abusive relationship just seemed to complicate life more than either of us could’ve ever imagined.

Albuquerque was a place where we could break free from the overly conservative south to have a relationship and family, or so we thought. With each passing day, though, my “quirkiness” would soon take on a life of its own. By the time our oldest, Marshall, was born it was like the flood gates had been opened. We were already seeing a very loyal and trusted therapist. I was now losing time for days and weeks. I was hallucinating and becoming increasingly suicidal and my behavior was becoming more erratic and at times very scary. I had also started becoming very aggressive which led to horrible rages. The scariest part about it all was that I had no memory of these things happening.

The level of trauma that I held within me was now bursting at the seams to a point that I couldn’t contain it. The harder I tried, the more I failed. I was seeing a psychiatrist and had run the gamut of psych meds and their subsequent unpleasant side effects trying to find some combination that could provide me, Mel and our new little baby some relief. I had been given several different diagnoses that never quite seemed to fit. And each time I would have to be hospitalized the re-traumatization just grew in intensity.

I eventually became toxic from all of the meds and was seen in the emergency room because the doctors thought that my kidneys were shutting down or that I might’ve had a stroke. I was admitted to the hospital but the next morning the doctor that came to see me was yet another psychiatrist. Again, it seemed, no one wanted to believe us. I politely told him he could leave and that I was going to leave as well since nothing was being done and the bill was going higher and higher. Mel and I left the hospital completely defeated and our trust in the system that was designed to help was becoming depleted.

Mel would soon begin capturing some of my strange behaviors on video in order to show the doctors exactly what was happening. Doctors and other professionals still didn’t seem to believe us despite the captured evidence. No one believed that it was possible to have these types of behaviors and to not be able to remember doing them. When Mel would show me the videos and tell me other things that I had done, I was appalled. There’s no possible way that I was treating her or our new baby this way. In some instances, after seeing the footage, I would collapse with grief.

After returning to my psychiatrist following the debacle in the hospital he said, “Hey, how about we try the medications again?” I simply replied, “You’re crazier than I am if you think I’m going through that shit again. I almost died from your pharmaceutical poisons.” Psych meds didn’t help they seem to complicate and exacerbate my symptoms but most of the time left me feeling “robotic” and unable to feel anything. That’s when I was put on medical cannabis and it has been a lifesaver every since. Anytime, I’ve had to be hospitalized for mental health issues I ALWAYS refuse the medications unless absolutely necessary like for sleep. The meds have never helped me because most of the time I feel so bad from the side effects of the adjustment period that I’ll just quit taking them. They simply made me a “chemistry experiment.”

For the first time in my life, I was able to have some type of quality of life while we searched endlessly for someone that could treat my complex traumatic past. Cannabis has its limitations just like any other medications. But, for once, something was actually working and “Big Pharma” just couldn’t compete with nature. These days I don’t ask for permission or have the willingness to wait on an already corrupt government and the decisions of the narcissist clown that currently runs the country to tell me when it’s ok to have a quality of life. I just simply do what I have to do to survive the best way I know how and most psych meds are still not a part nor will they ever be a part of that formula ever again.

I have taken much criticism for using cannabis as a medication to treat PTSD. Again, it’s ignorance that seems to fuel these criticisms. Until you have almost from synthetic medications then maybe an alternative way doesn’t seem feasible. Even as a recovering addict I have yet to have a single problem related to addiction with cannabis. Hands down this plant has and is continuing to save my life from some incredibly debilitating symptoms.

For some people cannabis seems to be the only answer. I take a medication that can replace any combination of psych meds. There are those times, though, when symptoms seem to just shoot through the medicinal ceiling of the plant. And this is when I will usually have a backup plan for anxiety meds and sleep meds. Some people mistakenly think that medical cannabis “cures” PTSD. I politely tell them that it’s a medication just like any other medication to treat the paralyzing “symptoms” of the disorder only it’s much safer and works better for me. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have the ability to “unbreak the plate” of the traumas that caused the PTSD to begin with. You still have to do therapy. You still can’t go around the issue to reach a resolution. Painful as it might be the only way for that to happen is to work through it. Cannabis helps with the very frightening flashbacks, migraines, insomnia, anxiety and any other unpleasant symptom that can lead to suicidal thoughts and behaviors. So while the presidential pumpkin and his posse are busy playing politics and searching for the next horrible hairdo. I’ve got therapy and a lifetime of trauma to work through. I and many others don’t have the luxury of being able to wait for them to get finished rolling around in the bed with “Big Pharma” and pass federal legislation so that this medication is legal everywhere. I, not anyone else, will die from my PTSD symptoms unless they’re controlled. Sadly, many people, as well as, returning soldiers have died by their own hand because of lack of access to a medication that can save lives in so many different ways.

I will always back this highly stigmatized and demonized plant that has helped give me some type of quality of life despite some people’s ignorance about the topic. My wife will tell you that being put on the cannabis program has saved my life. And even though functionality still fluctuates heavily sometimes from the disorder itself, it’s still so much better than it could be and has been thanks to a plant called exactly what it is….weed. Cannabis has had such a positive impact on my life that living without it seems inconceivable. And the only side effects I have to worry about these days are sleepy, happy and hungry.

#Thispuzzledlife

June 19, 2019 darnold1975

Lessons Learned

“There are certain life lessons that you can only learn in the struggle.”
― Idowu Koyenikan, Wealth for All: Living a Life of Success at the Edge of Your Ability

I have been asked more than once since writing these blog posts how I decide what to write? The truth is that I don’t always know. Sometimes it can be a topic that has embedded itself in my gut. It can be a topic that I continually search for answers and/or the meaning in my life. But, I often times will begin writing without any type of direction. Maybe it’s even some type of struggle where writing is my way of asking the universe for a lesson to be taught. And my thoughts have always been to sit back and wait for my answers to be revealed. Whatever the “reason” or “lesson” my intent is to be open and receptive no matter how difficult.

I have always been one that has taken the hard road out of necessity. Mel will be one of the first to tell anyone who asks that “Dana has to see something for herself before she will make a decision. You can tell her all day long the easiest way to go but until she sees things for herself she won’t budge.” This is not a fact that I deny. Maybe the hard truth is the only way I learn. If you wait for me to read between the lines, I will most assuredly leave you frustrated. Being incredibly hard headed and coming in 2nd place only to my Nannie, has never really made the “easy way” a workable option either. I must have questions answered and the questions about the questions answered. I might still reach the same conclusion but it will have taken me twice as long.

As a young child and then a mouthy teenager if I was told not to do something you can write it down that within hours or minutes I would be doing the very thing I was told not to do. This is where playing sports and having coaches who had the ultimate authority taught me discipline. As an adult and without their sometimes harsh discipline I seemed to go through life hungering for direction. Also, through this same discipline I was taught how to pick myself up and keep going. Because it wasn’t all about me, it was about our TEAM. This team concept is one lesson that I have never lost.

At 43 years-old and a difficult adult life, I’ve had to take some hard looks in the mirror and some much needed soul searching that would’ve had the ability to piss off Gandhi. Go a step further and do this in solitude with the daily worries of a mother and a wife and it doesn’t take long for someone to start questioning whether or not the chip on my shoulder is actually worth carrying. It also has the incredible ability to lessen the teenage arrogance in my walk and anger written on my face all seemingly hidden by a smile and a few jokes. Because when you don’t have the daily distractions of life there’s nothing that can bring forth an argumentative yet very sobering day like the one staring back at you.

There have been many times that I have stared in the mirror only to see the one looking back almost as if to say, “Really? Smiles and laughter are all fun and games until you get a really good look at yourself when the clown isn’t on stage, isn’t it?” I continue to look in the mirror at the stern arrogance of the one who, in recent years, has been able to provide intimidation whenever needed. I look down at my hands remembering how much damage can be done to a room in a fit of rage. I then look at my forearms and hear the familiar taunts from 30 years prior and the feeling of words spoken as though they were being said for the first time. The adult that was to educate her never raised her hand in anger because the muscles she used as a weapon could also cause damage. I look up as tears begin to stream down my face wishing, for that moment, that someone would make the pain in my chest cease. I search for a laugh or a smile to be instantaneous medicine as it has been for the majority of my life. Instead, however, were a set of eyes belonging to a very hurt teenage child who is fixated on the guilty memory of the unknown mother who said, “She hurt my son too.” Through the tears she tried but couldn’t convey the language of her pain. Pain, as she would discover, wasn’t always spoken. And on this day, the lessons were learned.

#thispuzzledlife

June 19, 2019 darnold1975

Code Of Silence

The Code of Silence

“The predator wants your silence. It feeds their power,

entitlement, and they want it to feed your shame.”

—Viola Davis

When I first begin getting to know someone, the very first thing I look for is their level of snitch. What do I mean by this? Snitching is when you tell on someone to get yourself out of trouble. Another word for a snitch is a tattletale. To be labeled as a snitch socially is to be ostracized. In other circles being labeled as a snitch can get you killed. And snitching is a predator’s greatest enemy because that exposes secrets.

As a small child the term snitching wasn’t used yet. I did know what the term tattletale meant. And what hurting my friend’s feelings and damaging a relationship because of telling secrets meant. It meant people would be mad at me and I would have no friends. Even teachers at daycares can get tired of all the tattling. Step inside any daycare and you’re liable to hear, “The next child that tattles doesn’t go outside and play.” These are two dichotomous examples of telling information. My question to think about is are we teaching our kids the best and safest message? There are always exceptions to the rule. By the time these children are teens there’s an unwritten “code of conduct” around telling information whether it be relevant or not that might save lives. This will also get someone labeled as a snitch.

I can expand more about teens later, however, for the sake of this blog post I’m going to refer to myself as a young child. My first lesson in keeping secrets that should’ve been told was around 5 years-old. I was molested many times by my neighbor’s youngest and middle sons. These boys were around 13-15 years old and old enough to know better. The way I was held emotionally hostage was through threats like “the police would come and I would have my parents taken away.” I was also told, “that I would make people mad and no one would want to be my friend. And it would be all my fault.”

This little girl named Dana would do everything possible to make sure both she and her family was safe. From a child’s point of view, I hung on to every scary word spoken. And afterwards they would tell me how beautiful I was. The searing pain that would burn my body would leave an imprint on my psyche even today. The pain and fear would start and I would leave somewhere in my mind where pain was not felt. Still to this day, I’m very confused in just about every way in regards to having been molested.

People that seek power over other people instill in their victims that telling about abuse is a sign of weakness. As a teenager, anytime I told or tried to tell about the abuse to the school administration this information would get back to the teacher making the abuse worse. The message I got from doing that was to “forget asking for help and save yourself.” After the abuse of my 8th grade year, I vowed that as long as I was around to witness someone needing defending or help I would step in and protect in whatever way that I could. This has bought me unnecessary trouble with coaches and friends but to me it was worth it. I could then lay my head on my pillow at night and sleep.

One night after Mel and I had been speaking to a class at the college, A mother from that class asked me where I went to middle school. I told her Petal Middle School and she asked about the teacher that was so abusive. Because her 8th grade son would come home from school every afternoon with tears in his eyes due to being called names in front of his classmates by a teacher. She told me the teacher she was speaking about and after my heart dropped into my stomach I said, “Unfortunately, ma’am that is who I was speaking about.” She asked, “What should I do?” I told her, “Tell someone and get your child in counseling like yesterday.” I don’t know whatever happened to that mother and her child’s situation. The information I shared with her helped she and her son? However, a big load of shame and guilt was dumped on me as penance for that child and any other children after me that I kept the secret about the abuse ,consequently, leaving the predator unscathed and in the driver’s seat to handpick her next teen victim with ease.

The small little southern city with air tight politics and a nose for people’s business other than their own was to my detriment that year. I was told many years later by one of the administrators that worked there my middle school years information that still burns my ears. I was told, “You were a child at that time and I couldn’t say anything especially due to the politics. But I can tell you now that she should’ve never been around children.” The disappointment must’ve been written all over my face when she saw how perplexed I was. She said, “Is there something I can try to clear up for you?” I stood there for a moment not knowing what to say but burning with questions. “Yes ma’am. I do have a question…..So you all knew she was abusive and shouldn’t have been around children and you let her teach anyway?!” “I was her verbal punching bag and her abuse has affected my education, my career, my relationship with my wife and children, my relationships with others and above all the relationship and image of how I view myself as a human being!” I was mad but I couldn’t stop then tears. She hugged me as we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

When I went to my own vehicle and unlocked the doors, I sat down and shook my head and said, “They knew the whole time and didn’t try to stop her. Didn’t they know how badly it all hurt? Did they even care? Yes, I fought every way possible to make it through that year in school that still shows its ugly scarring. No matter what adult I tried to tell that year I got no help from the abuse. And “snitching” never did me any favors. Had someone look past the labels and protected me from the backlash of telling the truth about the abuse my life could and maybe even would be much different now. That one year of school affected a few other teenagers in ways that are still damaging to them. The most visible are the scars that line the forearms of those teens with 30 years of thick scarring from the one thing that would listen to us all then…..razors. I also had the experience of eating disorders (anorexia, bulimia), alcoholism, drug addiction that were all there with their arms wide open to help shield me from the unwanted torture of abuse.

The “Code of Silence” protected by perpetrators in a way that I had no defense. And as a very young bride, I would face abuse again for the next 14 years. That “Code of Silence” that was used as an intimidation factor all those years worked. It kept me silent and the perpetrators innocent. I go to bed scared every night and the first emotion I have in the morning is fear. This shame based silence that seen as normal or acceptable is very hurtful. Maybe protecting offenders because of “snitching” isn’t the problem. And maybe listening and helping to protect children and teens when they tell should be handled first instead of politics and reputations.

“We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim.

Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.

–Elie Wiesel

#thispuzzledlife

June 18, 2019June 18, 2019 darnold1975

Live To Fight Another Day

“It might not seem like it now, but this is more than just a fight.”

—-Adonis Creed, Creed 2

The last couple of weeks have brought some very intense emotional days and nights. I’ve manage to, once again, keep the smiles and laughter present and to hopefully not let on that I have been feeling every emotional strand that holds my psyche together. Sometimes the emotions are not just one but all of them at the same time. The toll, both physically and emotionally, that these intense emotions can take on a body and mind words cannot do justice to try and replicate. The only description that I can find, at this moment, is a slow, creeping death. And these are the times when I begin to question every decision and mistake made in my life including whether staying in Texas is still the best decision.

Lately, the battles with my behavioral addictions has been the ones to seemingly take me over. The battles between my ears are crippling. I’ve battled anxiety and depression for as long as I can remember. Within the last few years depression seems to have intensified so much that I don’t even know the name to give it. And my anxiety has me wondering why I don’t have a cardiac “crash cart” available on a moment’s notice. Also, the fight for every bite of food and the urges of self-harm never stop talking to me.

Coach Nick Kolinsky told our team time after time, “Little things make big things happen.” He was obviously talking about us working as a team. He reminded us that as players if we do our jobs fielding, batting and running individually that we are doing our part to help the “team” as a whole. I’m now much older and his words about working as a team still ring true. The sometimes little irritating therapy assignments are all for one goal…….FUNCTIONALITY. Not only individually but again as a mother and a spouse. And as a well oiled system.

Then there are the times that I get buried in questioning my diagnosis. I’ll still try to find a way out of my condition being true. But within minutes one or more of the symptoms return only to confirm that the diagnosis is, in fact, correct. I think I’ve questioned this diagnosis since the day I was told that I met criteria.

The last few months has been filled with neck surgery, back surgery and very soon a hysterectomy. With all this stress and others my eating disorders thought that it was a perfect time to raise their ugly heads higher and with sometimes an unbearable strength. If I look at this opponent as a whole it becomes too overwhelming to think about challenging its poisonous power. Don’t get me wrong I’ve been struggling for years with this big, smelly beast. Life with ED (eating disorders) has gotten stronger over the years. I know what to expect on each level of starvation. The pain of anorexia and bulimia I cannot explain. But there have been many days lately where just lying in my bed hurt. The dehydration and everything that comes with it like dry mouth, cramping muscles, stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting (there’s no food but there is bile), dry skin, brittle hair, lack of energy and this time it was a good ol’ case of thrush. And along with it the added messages of those who spoke venomous comments to me as a teen and an adult are on some kind of marquee being seen and spoken one after another. I usually lie in my bed crying about having to make simple food decisions. My ex-husband would call this immature, senseless and childish self- loathing. And for a minute I try to pull myself together. My effort would be for nothing when the towering thoughts about how everything about food and body image is bad unless he takes total control to tell me what I can and cannot have to eat. Those painful thoughts and sometimes realistic situations leave me paralyzed not knowing what decision is the “right one” so that I don’t get in trouble. All in the name of “not wanting to have a fat wife.”

“You would be as big as this house, Dana, if you didn’t have someone managing your food for you. You’re just too dumb to make decisions about healthy food, I guess” he would say daily. “Remember this…..” he would say. “I’m not living with a fat woman! Go look at yourself in the mirror and tell me if you can even see what I’m talking about.” I would go to the nearest mirror where I could see down to my knees and look at everything about myself. In my eyes and apparently his too, I looked like the Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man from the original Ghostbusters. I could see how disgusting I looked or at least I better be able to see it. I would again, as I had many times, gone back to where he was waiting and told him, whether I did or not, that I saw the problems areas on my body and that I would fix it.

Obviously, that was another time and another place. But every time I try to put a piece of food in my mouth, I hear those words screaming at me. Day after day and night after night his torture emotionally was more than I could take. I would nod like I understood but I would soon lose what he was saying and me and my brain were elsewhere. Nevertheless, I would do my best to follow food orders and always in sequential order came the secretive self-harm behaviors. The combination of surgeries and trying to deal with the trauma of my eating disorders has been difficult at best.

There have been times when I just needed some cry time. The time again when I lie in my bed cry and hating the things that were done to me. “I don’t want these problems!” Are the words my heart screams as each painful word rolls down my cheek. ” I want everything I fought so hard for and loved so much. ” I wake up every morning pissed off that I have to face another day. I want the road I was already on to be successful academically and professionally. I want my family that I’ve tried so hard to preserve. Divorcing him was the easy part. The frustrating part is facing it all again daily after I’ve survived it once. ” I shouldn’t have to be doing all of this! I didn’t do this to myself! Someone make them pay so there’s some type of justice is sought for all the things done.”

My tears continue to stream down my face as I write this because I do remember so vividly the abuse that happened daily concerning food and body image and how powerful his criticism were and at times still are. Mistakes for me are the “end of the world” and that includes food, body image and food choices. I trust my dear coach despite the pain. I continue to follow her guidance and know that these days are the ones where I have to trust that she’s still taking me down the right path. She hasn’t failed me yet or led me astray in any way. So you see the first quote is right in that this difficult time is more than just a fight. It’s an ongoing war with myself. These days I simply LIVE TO FIGHT ANOTHER DAY.

“He who fights and runs away
May live to fight another day;
But he who is battle slain
Can never rise to fight again ”
― Oliver Goldsmith

#thispuzzledlife

June 18, 2019October 10, 2020 darnold1975

But I Still Made It To Texas

But….I Still Made It To Texas

“My basic principle is that you don’t make decisions because

they are easy; you don’t make them because they are cheap; you don’t make them

because they’re popular; you make them because they’re right.”

—Heodore Hesburgh

As I count down another 365 days in my life, I also look back on holiday traditions and 2018 as a year of struggles and lessons. Yep, I’m too lazy to write separate blogs about Christmas and New Year’s. Did you catch that or is it just me? Ha! Ha! At this point, I’m just glad that I still have the ability and “want to” to write publicly about my struggles as an individual, family, therapeutically and as a system. Honestly, my first thoughts about the year 2018 all revolve around my middle finger.

In January, I started my new path alone by moving to Texas. The importance of this decision was realized only a couple of months prior. Mel and the kids needed to live in a place that was familiar and where they could regain their own sense of balance and security that I could not help provide in my condition at that time. And I needed answers and healing from my own demons and dark past. Sometimes life gives you a way out but only for a limited amount of time. Our life in New Mexico had finally come to an end complete with two little boys that make our hearts beat. My mental health issues were becoming increasingly dangerous and the toll it had taken on Mel and the boys was almost irreparable damage. If love was all that was needed to “fix” everything that had been damaged there wouldn’t have been a need to leave. Mel and I both saw the need and the importance of me moving somewhere that answers could be found but only with the right practitioner.

I had set my sights on moving to Texas in 2016 but actually taking that step without Mel and the kids wouldn’t happen until January 2018. This was a decision that kept tugging at my heart. I knew it was the right decision but I didn’t have any way of proving that to make the decision easier to make as a couple. It would be one of those Please don’t be the wrong decision! Please don’t be the wrong decision! moments that was so scary I couldn’t put into words. She and I knew that without long term help of some kind I wouldn’t have a relationship with them anyway. I was just dangerously out of control mentally.

By March life would once again be full of new struggles. My 2006 Honda Pilot that I brought with me on my new endeavors would be totaled in an accident. Not knowing the extent of my injuries I would run to the vehicle that hit me to help the driver as I had done many times while working on an ambulance many years earlier. Once the emergency vehicles showed up and I had returned to the opposing side of the highway where my own vehicle turned its last wheel the searing pain in my neck, back and legs would make its way into a form of uncomfortable permanence. The days of having good medical insurance was left in the deserted high mesa of Albuquerque, New Mexico. And now I was just another American leaning on Medicare for help. I would also soon be driving an 18 year old black leather 2000 Pontiac Grand Prix that would come to be known simply as “The Hot Pocket.” Let the frustrations begin!

Learning who I was as an individual is still a process that I continue to learn about every single day. But I was learning since moving here in January that I had a very large trigger that I had never even considered. In Albuquerque we were left most times to fend for ourselves no matter where we looked for answers. When I moved to Texas I was greeted with a large outpouring of love that most would welcome. I, however, was terrified by all the help that was awaiting. I honestly didn’t know and still don’t really know how to receive help without there being a price for it. I suddenly became very triggered and left a stable living situation only to “couch hop” for the next few months until I looked up and I was homeless. This would mean that I didn’t have the privacy and quiet that I longed and hungered for. No one seemed to understand especially me. Being in public and around people all the time seemed to make me feel like I was boiling in hot water. No matter how hard I tried to accept this form of love and acceptance…I just couldn’t.

My mental health issues soon began to show the ugly faces that I had tried to warn other about and all I could think was “Damn, not here. Not to these good people.” But trying to wish them away wouldn’t happen in Texas anymore than it had worked in New Mexico. I knew that this meant one thing….people would get hurt and relationships would be damaged and lost. I couldn’t stop it. I had seen it 100’s of times and nothing good ever came of it. I just knew what it felt like when it was about to happen. All I could hope for was that it wouldn’t be too bad because this time I was alone without Mel and the kids. I prepared my heart for the worst like I had many times. This time would be no different as I would lose the relationships of those that I loved and admired without even trying.

Physically I felt completely beat down. Mentally I was a hot mess and I now doubted whether this move was in fact the right thing to do. The true reason that I moved here, to do therapy with my new coach seemed to be the only thing that still seemed right. I leaned on the many years of lessons that I had learned from Sarah to help me make the decision again about staying in Texas when I wanted to run because it was the right thing to do….and again I stayed. It wasn’t because I had faith that things would get better. I stayed simply because I trusted her and that she never led me in a wrong direction while she was alive.

Therapeutically, I thought moving here and working with “coach” would be an easy thing to do since I was so incredibly excited to be given the chance. I was excited and I knew without a doubt that my decision of working with “coach” was still the right decision. But “easy” was never in the realm of reality. I had a decorated therapeutic past and it didn’t seem to recognize good or bad practitioners. It only recognized “practitioner” and “position of authority” both which scared me to death. I constantly reminded myself that I already trusted her on some level because I moved here to work with her. But instantly trusting even though I was confident in my decision just wasn’t going to happen.

When I looked at my new life the only place that didn’t seem to bring some form of unwanted and unneeded pain was the hour that I spent with coach in session. Most days the money it would require to afford food was always an unknown. I was not willing to forego a therapy session because for that hour I felt safe even if I was shaking with fear for the time I was in there. I would be scared of possible topics I might have to discuss and I fear her position as a therapist but I didn’t fear her as a person and that meant everything to me. I wanted to be heard and my pain validated and the only place that seemed to happen was when I was in a session because I wouldn’t dare open up to others. Life is hard and society can careless how I feel about anything in the present time much less 40+ years of pain and abuse from my past….but she did and still does care.

Coach knows what she’s doing and I have to continue to trust her. She knew that the only way that I would find comfort is through consistency and compassion. I was sloppy seconds of a very abusive therapist but I was looking and hungering for the help that I so desperately needed. And that my aggressive nature had to have a reason. Before long her compassion began to melt my very tough exterior and tears would form and begin to drop from the years of abuse. Except this time my tears brought about more compassion and validation where, at times, tears were seen as a weakness and more abuse seemed to follow.

August 1st started the “intensive” that she and I would have for a month. That month did a lot for me regarding trusting coach and the therapeutic process as a whole. Before this started, though, I vowed to be completely focus, “nose to the grind” and completely secluded. This was no phone calls except immediate family and my coach and no social media except for blogs and remembering friends who have died. Sometimes solitude is all you need to help regain focus on things that are important. Because in solitude you have no one to look at but yourself. Apparently, this is just what I needed because the changes that have occurred within my system are some that I never dreamed possible for a teenager who was simply not heard. The key to her was something along the lines of a forced hug (not literally) to show her that everyone isn’t the same. And allowing her a voice preferably not a screaming one. Yes that teenager is indeed coachable when others have often thought incorrigible.

Fall time for me brings about some pretty horrible memories and anniversaries. At some point, coach responded to a question of mine “being thankful for what I do have” was the answer. I’ve thought about that every since the day that was said. This fall I would finally understand what she was saying. Now that It’s towards the end of December I can say that I put her phrase into practice by being thankful for what I do have this year despite all the struggles:

I made it to Texas where I was met by an awesome group of people.
I was involved in a wreck and injured but I wasn’t killed.
I ended up back in the psych hospital 2 more times but it didn’t hurt anything but my pride.
I ended up homeless but repaired the relationship with my parents.
I had two surgeries because of my wreck but I’m still walking and talking.
My time in Texas has been a struggle in every way. But….I Still Made It To Texas.
I don’t get to see my boys very much but there is Facetime.
I have several addictions that I struggle with but I’m still here struggling.
I never get to see my wife. She was able to be here several days for my surgery.
I don’t get to spend holidays with my family. Making the sacrifice to live in Texas without them helps to ensure I get to spend the rest of my life healthy and happy together as a family.
I just embarrassed myself and my wife because I “flipped my wig” coming out of anesthesia. What a great education in mental illness behaviors the hospital staff got from me free of charge not once but twice.
Difficult decisions were made and tears were shed because it was the right thing to do. Not the easiest thing to do.

I always think about the holidays when I was little and prior to our family’s matriarch, my Nannie’s death. I can remember the smell of the air and the damp fall leaves, our family traditions and how much they still mean to me. I remember my daddy’s Christmas morning breakfast and the year Sarah and Doug sat at our family’s table and had breakfast with us. I also remember how much holidays scared me when I was married to my ex-husband. The day time hours were fake happiness and gifts. And the night times were criticisms about what I had managed to mess up and how dumb I was. Don’t think for a second that he didn’t criticize my appearance on those days too.

Recently, Mel came to Texas because I had back surgery as a result of the wreck in March. This was the first time she and I had spent any significant amount of time since I moved here. The experience was a disaster for both of us at the hospital even with my limited memory. The embarrassment for me personally has been a lot to bare. But the tears we both shed before her ride picked her up to take her back to the airport because we both love each other and miss being a family were the ones that were the heaviest. I asked her again now that it’s been almost a year since moving here, “Do you think we made the right decision?” We both agreed and said, “Yes.” Moving here was the right decision but it didn’t guarantee things being easy and so far that has remained true. This year has been one of many ups, downs, struggles and lessons…..BUT…….WE STILL MADE THE RIGHT DECISION TO MOVE TO TEXAS TO DO THERAPY…..AND WE MADE IT HAPPEN!!!!

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019 darnold1975

What December 4th Means To Me…..

” Today, on her birthday, I am teary eyed about the other woman

who also remembers that today, 43 years ago, she gave life

to a child that is calling me “Momma.”

—Unknown

I must admit that my birthdays for a long time have carried with them a dark cloud. As a child, I remembered them being like most kids’ birthdays. Cake, ice cream, presents and if you were lucky a party at McDonald’s complete with a tour to the store’s freezer just to find out that it was cold. A paper birthday hat and the playground equipment that was fun only in spring or fall seasons because you didn’t dare play on it in during the humid summers of the Deep South for fear of being burned alive by the stifling hot metal. The consequences of being a child playing on metal playground equipment would remind you that next time maybe you shouldn’t.

In my teen years, birthdays usually consisted of The Petal Lady Panther Basketball Classic. Softball season would’ve ended by now and we were well into our basketball season. There were plenty of local “social parties” complete with a bonfire, alcohol and loud country music. I was also busy trying to fill an emptiness in myself that I couldn’t identify. I just knew that emotionally I hurt. I began treating that hurt with any substance or behavior that seem to soothe that pain even a little bit. Little did I know that I was already in the death grip of addiction by the time I graduated high school. The combination of both the physical and mental stress of addiction for a mere 4 years would take the dream of playing college ball of any kind away.

As a late teen and early adulthood, I wouldn’t only see the dichotomy in a person’s behavior. I would often times feel the shift in his behavior before it actually happened. It was also on some of those same scary nights that my birthday December 4th would fall. Apparently, there was an unwritten rule about what men, specifically my ex-husband, were entitled to on any day but celebrations of any kind were a guarantee.

This “emptiness” was now identified as a void. And the void was the one thing that has haunted me daily since middle school….my adoption. The abusers in my life have always made sure that this particular topic’s wounding got a little deeper with their ability to hurt without touching. Each year that passes it makes this time of the year just a little bit more painful. I’ve always seemed in some way to seek out the love and acceptance of my birth mom that I’ll never receive. She, unfortunately, does not have it to give to me to satisfy that insatiable need that never seems to be filled.

In the process of searching, finding and being rejected again and years of abuse I’ve pretty much walled my heart off to most people including close friends and family. Each year it gnaws away at me until the thought of getting close to someone scares me so bad that I reach out and destroy that relationship. Now In my 40’s I walk around with such a thick and, at times, aggressive coat of armor that I run off a lot of people before they get a chance to really know me past my silly sense of humor. Several people know that my birthday is off limits in regards to contacting me. Social media is turned off and my phone is put on “Do Not Disturb” making it virtually impossible to contact me unless you’re here in person. Very grumpy I can be on this the one of the heaviest days of grieving for me all year long.

Coach has the uncanny ability to get me to do “therapeutic assignments” that can have me stomping around like a toddler who was given the wrong colored cup. I have the ability to act just like that when I think my unhealthy ideas are much better and/or more fun. This birthday would be different though. I had to be receptive to her ideas and be trusting enough in her as a person and as a professional for her guidance to be remotely acknowledged on this topic. And by the end of the day after coach stirred the fairy dust and a few of my own tears fell, for the first time in many years when the sun went down my smile didn’t. It was genuine happiness and…..well….it was different but it was nice.

I guess what made the day even more special was celebrating my birthday with our oldest son, Marshall who turned 7 years old yesterday. I never understood how my birth mom felt. I heard the painful words she said to me. But when I laid eyes on our beautiful first born, I’m glad that I don’t know what it’s like to be her. Because I have two beautiful little superhero, “man cub” children that call me Mom and I get to call them Sons.

I can still say with much assurance that the impact my adoption has had on my life has been tremendous in both good and bad ways. There are many tears left to cry on this topic. And much more emotional healing that needs to occur because coach does more than blows a whistle…..she plants seeds.

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019October 4, 2024 darnold1975

Everyone’s Entitled To One Good Scare

“Was that the Boogeyman? As a matter of fact….it was.”

John Carpenter’s Halloween, 1978

The last couple of years for Halloween posts I’ve written about the difficulties of the this time of year. Make no mistake that I’ve loved the holiday since I was a child. I was a child of the 80s and very distinctly remember the smell of the cheap plastic masks with the rubber band and two staples to hold it on your head. And the one small air whole that didn’t allow enough air to keep a fly alive in the time it would take us kids to get to the next house. Completely out of breath from lack of oxygen and the plastic mask sliding all over my face from the sweat I would hold out my bag at the next house while saying, “Trick or Treat” in anticipation of another dose of sugar.

As I got older into my teen years the fascination of the holiday and horror films would be my focus for the next 30 years and counting. Most of us don’t exactly enjoy getting scared but this holiday has always seemed to be the exception to the rule for many of us haunted house, haunted barn, haunted cornfield, haunted hay ride, haunted school and horror movie going individuals. And it seems that this time of year is when we turn getting scared into a sport. I know that until recent years since having my own children that I was always first in line to anything creepy scary. Mel she just patiently waits for me to return and to get my personal rating.

Anyone who knows me knows one thing…I love the horror movie series HALLOWEEN with the favored boogeyman Michael Myers directed by John Carpenter. I am a true fan of this series. This time of the year usually consists of binge watching these types of movies for the entire month of October. Whether it be Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger, Leather face, Pin Head, Chucky, Jigsaw or whomever might be your favorite “fright guy” there’s one thing we learned growing up is that the boogeyman are all make believe monsters in masks and make-up.

Now that I’m an adult, I love to watch for the comedy in some of the earlier films amid the gore. Here are a few things that I’ve noticed about horror films that seem to always remain constant.

No matter how fast you run the boogeyman can ALWAYS walk faster.
It’s an apparent rule that you must investigate every scary or odd sound.
The cars taken to the future murder scene won’t crank even though you left it running to go check on your friend.
The boogeyman can be burned in a furnace; shot multiple times; decapitated or drowned and still beat you back to your car and wait in the backseat while you frantically try to crank the uncrankable.
It never fails….if you’re in class at school and happen to look out the window the boogeyman will be standing across the street, in plain sight of everyone else, staring at you but no one else can see him.
No one wears bras…..EVER!!!
Rotary phones never work.
Windows are always left open.
Cell phones NEVER have a signal.
Doors always slam shut and jam.
Boogeymen are always experts in the hygiene and mating habits of teenagers because that’s who always dies in the shower.
When you’re in the shower and hear the phone ringing, after sprinting to the phone in a shower cap and towel, no one is EVERon the other end of the line.
If you have a family pet it will be killed and then you’ll be killed. Apparently, this is a horror film sequence that must happen.
The boogeyman can still find you even when you pull the covers over your head.
“SH-SH-SH-AH-AH-AH” translated means “run deeper into the woods then trip and fall over a big bag of air.”
Every house in horror films from the 80’s has the same butcher knife in the kitchen drawer.
Screaming really loudly while standing still does NOTscare the boogeyman away. He will continue walking towards you.
The scariest music to hear is whenever the little girl starts singing a nursery rhyme while jumping rope.
After watching a horror movie at a theatre you WILL instinctively look under your car and in your backseat before getting into your car.
Horror movie night regardless at home or in a theatre teaches you that five minutes after turning off the lights you will hear a noise in your room and will ninja grab your cell phone with that horrible little light and attempt to light up the room to see if you have company.
Telling the boogeyman, “Don’t rip my blouse, it’s expensive you idiot!” will not make him stop trying to kill you.

This year John Carpenter is back in the driver’s seat making the 10th film in this series. October 19th, 2018 Michael Myers will return to Haddonfield for yet another bloody Halloween. I might not go see this movie on it’s opening night with the rest of the fans. But make no mistake that I’ll be there to watch it in the theatre when everyone is gone to school and work. Another stellar “scream queen” performance by Jamie Lee Curtis I’m sure will happen.

This was sort of a “tongue-in-cheek” way of looking at the boogeyman. For many of us, though, we have met and had interactions with the real boogeymen and women of society. They don’t have blank expressions, knives for fingers on gloves, chainsaws, butcher knives or anything considered stereotypical of these scary people. They are people who call themselves friends, teachers, “safe people”, trusted professionals, clergy and spouses just to name a few.

In the last several years, I have lost the ability to have fun on Halloween. Horror films serve me a purpose and those reasons are reserved for coach. I still watch my movies but the term “boogeyman” takes on a whole new meaning. I face the memories of the boogeymen and women every day and night. I’ve had enough scares to last me a lifetime. And, honestly, if you try to scare me once you’ll not do it again. Just like Jaime Lee Curtis playing the part of Laurie Strode in the Halloween series, I’m watching, waiting and hoping every single day that they don’t find me again. Because they don’t wear masks, they walk among us.

“The darkest souls are not those which choose to exist within the hell of the abyss, but those which choose to break free from the abyss and move silently among us.”

-Dr. Samuel Loomis, Halloween

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019April 2, 2020 darnold1975

At Least I Didn’t Poop On The Floor

“At Least I Didn’t Poop On The Floor”

“Having a 2-Year-Old is like owning a blender that you don’t have a top for.”

–Jerry Seinfeld

I’ve always said that being a parent is the hardest but most rewarding job on the planet. Our dreams of being coming parents was not easy in any shape, form or fashion. Thank goodness there are companies that now include fertility benefits that makes this dream possible not just for LGBT families but any family that has this same dream. Our dreams were fulfilled and soon much laughter would ensue for us as first time parents.

One of the things that I’ve enjoyed the most is the same kind of humor that I would experience sometimes days or weeks later after a specific event. This is the same way that I’ve also found humor being in the mental health system for many years. The humor might not be seen in the moment but trust me I would see it soon afterwards. Lesbian moms raising two little superhero boys guarantees a wide variety of funny moments daily especially when I’m involved. And there are also those times as a mother when I have come to the realization why some animals eat their young.

As an LGBT couple one of the questions we have been asked many times is, “Who did you choose as the donor?” First of all, the process of finding a donor requires much more than noting the name and look of someone in a lineup. The process is actually much more complicated. It took us approximately 1 year to pick out our initial donor which is not the “donor daddy” as we call him, of the boys. He is completely anonymous which is how we chose him to be. We don’t have a name only a donor number chosen from a nationally well known donor bank as HIPAA also protects their specific information as well. We do, however, know specifics about the donor and his biological family’s health information minus the names. And well….this is as far as I’ll go in talking about this part of the process.

One of the most frequent questions asked specifically about the donor is ethnicity. And after watching our sons single-handedly transform our living room into an obstacle course of different objectives that is only meant for kids no matter how much the adults try to succeed at beating the course I can very confidently say, “THE DONOR IS PART NINJA WARRIOR!!!!!” Both boys have the uncanny ability to jump from the sofa, to the loveseat and then to the coffee table and back while having a loaded nerf gun; shooting zombies and dodging sharks in the ocean (otherwise known as the carpet) while simultaneously avoiding hot lava often times with either me or Mel being the disabled one who was shark bitten and is now hopping around on one leg from our wounds. Yes they do let me use one of their nerf guns which is usually the one that doesn’t work. I inevitably will take heavy fire from both boys only to get frustrated with my guns and just take the nerf bullets out and start throwing them due to mechanical failure. My battle wounds are usually heavy and we both usually end up with many painful red polka dots all over our faces and body from their always “spot on” aim. I have yet to understand why their aim is so good with a nerf gun and the aim for the toilet looks like a drunk with a water hose has been allowed to just have “free time.” With the automatic watering of my eyes after a shot right between the eyes or directly in the nose and a loud squeal from me after another battle wound eruptions of laughter would commence. This was usually followed with a burning question from our 6-year-old Marshall while I’m assessing my wounds, “Momma D can I practice shooting your boobs as target practice until you’re ready to play again?”

When the boys were infants some of the funniest moments were me and “DIAPER TIME.” Mel grew up helping to take care and babysit children, of all ages, on a regular basis. I, however, was always uncomfortable around children and ran when diapers were going to be changed. Being a new mom DID NOT change that like many would think. The saying, “It will all change when it’s your child” was a lie. It might not be someone else’s child’s shitty diaper but it was still a shitty diaper and nothing make that any prettier no matter how much Glade air freshener was sprayed around the topic. I always hated those words, “Dana it’s your diaper turn!” My instant thought was, “Somebody just kill me now!”

There are those people, like Melody, who are just natural mothers in everything they do. I am not nor will I ever be that kind of mom. I’m the one on in the background gagging at just the sight before the wretched smell even has time to enter my nostrils. She would always end up snickering and say, “My God Dana! It’s just a diaper!” “Ummm….yes Mel that is the problem at hand!” She would always try to help in her own special way by finding the nearest spray can of air freshener and spraying it all around the area where the diaper changing would commence. When the sticky tabs of that diaper were forced to release the death grip on the plastic that occasionally helped hold the brown napalm death in its holding area the smell in that area of the house would resemble something like a shitty fruit basket. I would be gagging and would say, “I swear it smells like someone took a gigantic crap in an apple orchard!” Comical doesn’t begin to describe the sight of me attempting such feats. It pretty much looked like a scene out of a YouTube video of father’s gagging while the mother’s are videoing and laughing hysterically.

I knew, though, that every time I got through one diaper that my turn would follow again sometime after Mel took her turn with such ease. So, I tried to get smarter about how I went through this process. I eventually took the time to wear full turnout gear like I was about to face the “Diaper Apocalypse.” I would prepare by covering everything on my face, accept my eyes, with a sweatshirt and holding my breath. I would also have both hands in sterile gloves to protect my skin from possible poop exposure. Having everything I need very near and at my disposal, I take a deep breath and shout, “I’m going in!” I always tried to change the diaper in the time that I was holding my breath but inevitably I would eventually need to breathe. I would try to take very short breaths just until the job was done but some of the jobs seemed like a construction site. Out of desperation, I would try to take an even bigger breath just to try to make it to the end and that’s when it happened. I would start gagging and usually throw up but not without first saying, “Oh my God I taste it! It literally feels like I just ate shit!” I would no doubt look back at Mel saying, “I’m in diaper hell! Help me!!” She trying her best not to wet her own pants from laughter would say, “Dana it’s just a little poop!” I have never been able to adjust to such wretched smells that have come from our little boys.

I am also the parent that when one of the boys gets sick at school rushes off to rescue our little man cub hoping to God that he doesn’t puke in my vehicle. The whole ride home, maybe 3 miles, I would saying, “Please don’t puke! Please don’t puke!” Inevitably when we finally get home the spewing would finally let loose and my own gagging would once again start. This time I’m gagging while trying to keep our puking kid from traipsing through the morning’s breakfast. There is absolutely no possible way I could clean that up without exposing my own breakfast. But as the spouse I am considerate in my own way so I gently place newspaper over the area and block it off with fluorescent cones so no one would step in it. And the soured mess patiently waited all day until Mel got home from work to clean it up.

Potty training is another source of laughter for our family. I understand that it takes time when your child comes to you and says, “Mommy I have poops and need a new DIPA!!!!” In my opinion, if you can say this you are old enough use the toilet. Letting them run around without a diaper never seemed like a good idea to me especially when they take this to mean that they can “free pee” anywhere including my leg while I’m running their bath water. “Son you are NOT a Chihuahua! Pee in the toilet!” is what I said and we all had a good laugh.

Truly, some of the funniest moments we have experienced as parents are the total randomness of both boys in things they say and/or do. Here are a few of those situations.

When Copeland was an infant and Marshall being raised in an electronic world when Copeland would start crying he would ask, “Momma can we put Copeland on the charger so he will stop crying?” No son but we can pretend.
Conversation between Mel and Copeland…..

Copeland: What are you made of mommy?

Mel: Sugar and spice and everything nice….

What are you made of Copey?

Copeland: Plastic

Mel: No sticks and snails and puppy dog tails that’s what little boys are made of.

Copeland: Nooooooooo I don’t have puppy dogs!!!!

Mel: So what are you made of?

Copeland: Rubber

Later Mel tries to ask the question again.

Mel: So what are you made of Copey?

Copeland: Plastic and rubber and Boogers!!! Lot of Boogers, Momma!!!

Marshall being so proud that he lost both of his bottom teeth asked Mel if he could put his picture on Facebook, Instagram and TWEETER. Obviously, Mel and I and the rest of the universe has been saying this all wrong. Death to Twitter.
Marshall and Copeland were having a pillow fight when Marshall was overheard saying, “Pick up your pillow and fight like a man!” Words never heard in THIS lesbian household.
Trying to give our boys the freedom to choose what he would like for meals has been advantageous for both them and us. Sometimes you can get some funny requests. Like recently, Mel asked Copeland what he wanted for breakfast and he instantly said, “Not broccoli-it’s not tasty.” Ok let me just say before it’s assumed that our little boys are being force fed trees for breakfast like miniature brontosaurus’s is not correct. Randomness…remember…randomness. How about a snow cone? When asked what flavor of snow cone he replied “a chicken one!” Now, I have seen chickens with flip-flops but not on snow cones.
Just today I learned that both boys now take pleasure in crossing their pee streams with each other so they can see how they can make an “X.”
Recently, the boys were arguing and then the oldest got “fwapped” by the youngest very unapologetically in the face. Marshall runs to tell on Copeland and says, “Momma, Copeland hit me in the face and touched my eyeball!” As hard as you might try to maintain the “parent face” sometimes with statements like this it just can’t happen.
Copeland decided that he didn’t want to wear his diaper after his nap and took it off and then proceeded to go squat on the hardwood floor in front of his grandfather, who was watching TV, and took a big dump.

Our little family has a complicated life most of the time. Without knowing the obvious our family is just like most raising two children with both being boys. Food groups have expanded from candy, chicken nuggets, boogers and now include a group known as the “hot dog.” Honestly, you don’t even have to speak English as long as you can speak fluent “poop and wiener” you’ll be able to have a conversation with our 3 year-old and 6 year-old. We don’t ever take for granted the laughs because we understand that all that can change on a moment’s notice. The humor is always welcomed for however long it’s willing to stay to give respite from the stress. Mel and I were discussing something about the boys one day and it we just weren’t seeing eye-to-eye on something and the words that changed the whole tone of the conversation were hers, “Well At Least I Didn’t Poop on the Floor.”

“There really are places in the heart that you don’t

even know exist until you love a child.”

–Anne Lamott

#thispuzzledlife

June 16, 2019 darnold1975

A Letter From A Parent

A Letter From a Parent

“You have forgotten who you are and so forgotten me. Look inside yourself, Simba. You are more than what you have become. You must take your place in the Circle of Life. Remember who you are. You are my son.”

—Mufasa, Disney’s Lion King

Even before you entered this world you were being showered with love.

We mapped out a plan and you were sent from above.

While you were growing you momma was busy protecting.

For she was shown a different side of life.

A side about chaos and strife.

The ones with the big hands disguised as a cuddly bear but underneath were a big healthy snake

Created was hatred and fear.

Your education will provide for you many opportunities.

But be careful trusting even those considered “trusted” within your own communities.

Sometimes those with power seem to embrace that delicate gift to be used as a weapon.

And then one day you are standing there only to be called a fool.

Also created was hatred and fear.

Whoever you fall in love with it doesn’t matter who they might be.

Man or woman just love and be free.

If your relationship requires a suit of armor….BEWARE.

Because in the eyes of the perpetrator, no one will be there.

Another example of hatred and fear.

My precious boys always remember this……

-If someone wants you to do something and it feels wrong then it probably is.

-No one’s hands are automatically invited just because you’re a kid. You belong to you until you decide that the right person has come along to share that with you.

-Don’t get caught up in the politics of government and the business world. The heads of these corporations are as corrupt as their politics. Learn and simply be aware.

-Medical Cannabis Saves Lives!

-Be loyal for this is a shining quality.

-Be a man of your word.

-Remember that families come in different shapes, colors and sizes. There are those families that are a part of your genetic makeup. There are also the families that you handpick and these are your “Chosen Families.” They are not given but rather simultaneously joined and built through mutual love and respect on both sides. They stand alone in the world in love, loyalty and compassion. Hold onto them tight for the greatest pain is when they leave for reasons other than by choice. This pain will be felt deep in your soul.

-You are a uniquely, beautiful person who deserves for the words “No” and “Stop” to be validated.

– Remember that anyone who is “different” from you has their own scoop of “special” in their soul.

-The most powerful and damaging muscle in the body is the tongue. It can do damage in ways that people sometimes aren’t able to recover. And once it’s said it cannot be taken back.

-Becoming a man is a process not an event. You can’t walk into your house and throw a quarter on the table and call yourself a man.

-There’s a big difference in being a father and being a daddy.

-Appreciate a valuable education because it can disappear with your dreams when you’re not looking.

-Dreams give you a reason to live. Never allow someone to hurt you so bad that you stop dreaming.

-Don’t judge those who die by their own hand. You don’t know their battles and I hope you never do. Sometimes life is just too difficult.

-Learn from your elders for they are life’s greatest storytellers.

-Always, always remember that there is a story inside of you that if only you share it with the world the amount of lives touched can be limitless.

-If you see or hear an injustice make your voice heard for you might be the only advocate in the moment. DO NOT REMAIN SILENT because your personal view isn’t popular. If you turn a blind eye then you’re just as guilty as the perpetrator.

-If you need help ask for what you need. The longer you wait the more your soul will become necrotic until the damage is so colossal that recovery might not be possible.

-Men and boys have tears too. Share them with the world. Character makes a man not tears.

-Religion is for those who are scared to go to hell. Spirituality is for those of us who have already been there.

-Don’t live in a tunnel of vision. Just because it’s not what you choose doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Make educated decisions not ones that guarantee membership in a local bandwagon.

-Learn history and be able to recognize the signs of it beginning to repeat itself.

-Even through your greatest efforts you can’t save them all. It’s not about you.

-Be smart about living life not just likeable.

-Respect takes a long time to develop and a mere second to lose.

-Animals are to be loved for their love is a different and special kind of love.

-Every situation is a gift. It might not come with a pretty bow and pretty wrapping but it’s still a gift.

-Don’t attach your self-worth and value to someone who can’t see your worth and value.

-Learn to love yourself independently of from the societies of the world for this is a great lesson in survival.

-Look for the diamonds that cross your path and love them like the precious gems that they are. Learn from them.

“Love hard but be willing to be loved hard back.”

–Momma D

#thispuzzledlife

June 15, 2019 darnold1975

The 1-2 Punch

“Grief is perhaps an unknown territory for you. You might feel

both helpless and hopeless without a sense of a ‘map’ for

the journey. Confusion is the hallmark of a transition.

To rebuild both your inner and outer world is a major project.”

–Anne Grant

Another sleepless night and I’ll just call I….grief and shame. It comes with no instruction manual or statute of limitation. To me it’s one of our body and mind’s deepest and purest emotions. Grief is one of these emotions that float around in our psyche waiting for its “perfect” time to be exposed. Its perfect timing usually does not equate to our perfect timing. Some of us prefer to grieve in private to hide whatever shame we’ve been intentionally or unintentionally exposed to about the process. No matter how heavy or light the grieving is on a more intimate level we would usually prefer to have someone close by for support.

My personal grieving process is one that’s very confusing and shame based. While still living at home with my parents prior to my relationship with my ex-husband, grieving was considered a natural part of life. Emotions were acknowledged and processed usually around the dinner table. At the hands of an abusive teacher at age 13, was the first time I very distinctly remember being shamed for my tears. Tears were no longer seen as an emotion but rather as a weakness. The lesson learned from this experience was “Ignore the emotion. Hide the tears. The abuse won’t stop but it shouldn’t get worse.”

Tried and true this method worked for this moment and many more years. I had no idea where powerful emotions other than anger went. They just seemed to dissipate as quickly as when they appeared. The grief has been out of sight from the naked eye. Though it was only buried and not gone.

Grieving around my ex-husband was never acceptable as you can imagine. His grief no matter how minute seemed to always be justified. My tears led to comments about being “childish and embarrassing” for him especially when in public. At home behind the dread closed doors, I was still called “childish” and “stupid.” I was also made fun of, laughed at and “taught a lesson about being an adult” by way of some sexual encounter. I very quickly learned how to also control those emotions with a shovel and dirt. So where do the emotions go? They are buried deep in the ground where your heart rests. They are festering sometimes for years one on top of another. Eventually maybe sooner rather than later a foreign substance or maladaptive behavior comes along that seems to provide some type of pseudo-catharsis. It presents itself as the dependable one who will always be loyal and non-judgmental and a best friend We buy into the rationalizations only to have the name ADDICTION tattooed on our foreheads like a scarlet letter. The substance and/or behavior soon becomes the “best friend” that will cut out throats leaving only a trail of destruction to show the quality of the relationship. This “stuffing” of emotions is in no way exclusive to grief.

Three years after the death of Sarah and I sit here quietly in the wee hours of the morning, in my bed facing this very emotion. A heavy heart and a lump in my throat that seems to be limiting my air flow is the result of this incredibly painful memory. From the time we were notified that she was terminally ill until she passed away from approximately 1.5 weeks. I felt as though I had no time for grieving because I had promised to do the difficult job of being with her until the very end. Out of respect, I felt that I needed a safer time and place to deal with this. However, tears just seemed to continue to fall despite the fact that I could not feel any emotion. I vowed to process this the minute I got back to Albuquerque.

Once I was able to line up another therapy session the weight of Sarah’s death and the miscarriage of Copeland’s twin got the best of me and I began sobbing like a child. I was being so vulnerable and raw with my emotions for the first time since the horrible days of not being allowed to grieve around my husband. I just needed to be able to cry as an adult child and parent for these heavy losses. I hungered for something as simple as compassion. This day and time “compassion” would be the illusive fugitive. The response I received from this “trusted” professional was, “Dana give me a break. She wasn’t your real mom and that wasn’t a real baby.” All I could do was freeze and try not to vomit. It was like another 1-2 punch experienced many times previously but all in their own unique fashion. I became numb and have no further recollection of the remaining time in session.

In the years since this happened any time emotions about the loss of Sarah make it to my throat but rarely do they leave my eyes. The shame for grieving even with so-called “safe” people now felt “unsafe.” This incident alone has made for some difficult therapeutic baggage. I don’t know how to put what happened into words but betrayal is how it felt then and now. Being able to address this topic with professionals on a level deeper than just superficial has been nearly impossible because of one thing…FEAR.

Luckily after this incident our trusted couple’s therapist of 6 years, at the time, was patiently awaiting the return with open arms as we come back licking our wounds. Unfortunately though the damage had already been done. The same actions by my former perpetrators had now rolled out of the mouth of my therapist. When I finally met “coach” in nothing less than a flamboyant display of behavior my distrust and subsequent hatred for professionals of any kind was very evident.

I’ve always said that compassion is my kryptonite. “Coach” hasn’t let me down in this area. It’s been a very slow process to learn to trust the right kind of “safe” people. As the boiling lava of grief surrounding the loss of Sarah and our unborn child continues to fester, I still find myself going into the closet in my bedroom to cry so that no one else in the house can hear me. The few times I actually do shed tears around others is simply because I consider them my very closest. As I continue to deal with the shame of showing intimate emotions I also realize that I’m working with someone who would never treat me like that. With all the complexity of untangling some very painful areas of my past, I must admit that I can leave that for someone other than me. When I met “coach” someone in the same professional position had planted a seed about the possibility that it could happen again. The pain of it slowed me down but again compassion is winning out. And slowly but surely my tears are finding their way out of my eyes again.

“Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change.”

–Dr. Brene Brown

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	darnold1975 on Wounded Healers
	Heather Hughes on Wounded Healers
	darnold1975 on Wounded Healers
	Heather Hughes on Wounded Healers
	darnold1975 on Wounded Healers

	darnold1975 on Wounded Healers
	Heather Hughes on Wounded Healers
	darnold1975 on Wounded Healers
	Heather Hughes on Wounded Healers
	darnold1975 on Wounded Healers

This Puzzled Life

This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.

lgbt parenting

Life With The Plant

Lessons Learned

Code Of Silence

Live To Fight Another Day

What December 4th Means To Me…..

Everyone’s Entitled To One Good Scare

At Least I Didn’t Poop On The Floor

A Letter From A Parent

The 1-2 Punch