The Mess

HUMOR

Pink Hair and Pajama Bottoms

Art by A Divine

This is how it started for me. I put a little pink in my hair and the world went crazy. You’d think the sun fell out of the sky or something.

Apparently, you can dye your hair black, brown, yellow, red or a combination of any of those, but you can’t have any of the colors of the rainbow above your neck. Especially after you reach a certain age, and if you do more than just a streak or two, and if your hair is light to begin with.

There are rules.

It’s so funny to me when I watch other people react to colored hair and to clothes, like pajama pants, being worn in public–things deemed “not acceptable” by society that bring whispers and stares from the loftiest of humans and a few of the less lofty as well.

It’s as if y’all think Jesus can’t love you if you’re wearing your pajamas outside of your house.

Okay, to be fair, I don’t wear my pj’s in public, but I am going to say this: they’re just pants.

They’re pajama pants because that’s what we named them. Y’all get that, don’t you? Somehow Sponge Bob makes them socially unacceptable, or plaid flannel does, or something. But they’re just pants!

We make up the rules. Somebody does. I’m pretty sure I never would’ve said you couldn’t have pink hair. It’s delightful! I also like lime green hair, but it’s not a great color for my face. Orange is my favorite color, but I’m not sure I’d want it on my head. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to see it on someone else’s head though. People are no less human because of their choice of hair color, or because they wear pajamas to Walmart.

The condemnation we throw at others because of their personal choices is ridiculous. As if clothes and hair matter. There are a whole lot of things in this world that do matter, just not those. I have a huge list of them, but what I’ve found is that it’s also socially unacceptable to talk about the things that are important. It’s only good to talk about things which don’t matter anyway, because you can be busy offending people about the stupid things they do that don’t amount to anything and totally ignore the ones that are dragging them to hell.

After all, you have to be politically correct….

A fine line exists between what you can say and what you can’t anymore, and I guess that’s why people fixate on stupid stuff and don’t address the important issues. Don’t look at me to point them out—I’m not even allowed to be political at all.

It’s my job.

I signed a piece of paper twenty years ago that said I can’t speak aloud any political view because I represent the state I live in. I’m okay with that, but when I finally retire, I can’t wait to unleash all I’ve been holding in. This dam is gonna break with a fury y’all have never seen before, at least for a few minutes, until I get a few years worth of frustration out of my system.

But you know what I’m not going to gripe about?

Pink hair and pajama bottoms. That’s what.

Because I don’t care.

HUMOR

Pink Hair and Pajama Bottoms

Art by A Divine

This is how it started for me. I put a little pink in my hair and the world went crazy. You’d think the sun fell out of the sky or something.

Apparently, you can dye your hair black, brown, yellow, red or a combination of any of those, but you can’t have any of the colors of the rainbow above your neck. Especially after you reach a certain age, and if you do more than just a streak or two, and if your hair is light to begin with.

There are rules.

It’s so funny to me when I watch other people react to colored hair and to clothes, like pajama pants, being worn in public–things deemed “not acceptable” by society that bring whispers and stares from the loftiest of humans and a few of the less lofty as well.

It’s as if y’all think Jesus can’t love you if you’re wearing your pajamas outside of your house.

Okay, to be fair, I don’t wear my pj’s in public, but I am going to say this: they’re just pants.

They’re pajama pants because that’s what we named them. Y’all get that, don’t you? Somehow Sponge Bob makes them socially unacceptable, or plaid flannel does, or something. But they’re just pants!

We make up the rules. Somebody does. I’m pretty sure I never would’ve said you couldn’t have pink hair. It’s delightful! I also like lime green hair, but it’s not a great color for my face. Orange is my favorite color, but I’m not sure I’d want it on my head. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to see it on someone else’s head though. People are no less human because of their choice of hair color, or because they wear pajamas to Walmart.

The condemnation we throw at others because of their personal choices is ridiculous. As if clothes and hair matter. There are a whole lot of things in this world that do matter, just not those. I have a huge list of them, but what I’ve found is that it’s also socially unacceptable to talk about the things that are important. It’s only good to talk about things which don’t matter anyway, because you can be busy offending people about the stupid things they do that don’t amount to anything and totally ignore the ones that are dragging them to hell.

After all, you have to be politically correct….

A fine line exists between what you can say and what you can’t anymore, and I guess that’s why people fixate on stupid stuff and don’t address the important issues. Don’t look at me to point them out—I’m not even allowed to be political at all.

It’s my job.

I signed a piece of paper twenty years ago that said I can’t speak aloud any political view because I represent the state I live in. I’m okay with that, but when I finally retire, I can’t wait to unleash all I’ve been holding in. This dam is gonna break with a fury y’all have never seen before, at least for a few minutes, until I get a few years worth of frustration out of my system.

But you know what I’m not going to gripe about?

Pink hair and pajama bottoms. That’s what.

Because I don’t care.

HUMOR

Pink Hair and Pajama Bottoms

Art by A Divine

This is how it started for me. I put a little pink in my hair and the world went crazy. You’d think the sun fell out of the sky or something.

Apparently, you can dye your hair black, brown, yellow, red or a combination of any of those, but you can’t have any of the colors of the rainbow above your neck. Especially after you reach a certain age, and if you do more than just a streak or two, and if your hair is light to begin with.

There are rules.

It’s so funny to me when I watch other people react to colored hair and to clothes, like pajama pants, being worn in public–things deemed “not acceptable” by society that bring whispers and stares from the loftiest of humans and a few of the less lofty as well.

It’s as if y’all think Jesus can’t love you if you’re wearing your pajamas outside of your house.

Okay, to be fair, I don’t wear my pj’s in public, but I am going to say this: they’re just pants.

They’re pajama pants because that’s what we named them. Y’all get that, don’t you? Somehow Sponge Bob makes them socially unacceptable, or plaid flannel does, or something. But they’re just pants!

We make up the rules. Somebody does. I’m pretty sure I never would’ve said you couldn’t have pink hair. It’s delightful! I also like lime green hair, but it’s not a great color for my face. Orange is my favorite color, but I’m not sure I’d want it on my head. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to see it on someone else’s head though. People are no less human because of their choice of hair color, or because they wear pajamas to Walmart.

The condemnation we throw at others because of their personal choices is ridiculous. As if clothes and hair matter. There are a whole lot of things in this world that do matter, just not those. I have a huge list of them, but what I’ve found is that it’s also socially unacceptable to talk about the things that are important. It’s only good to talk about things which don’t matter anyway, because you can be busy offending people about the stupid things they do that don’t amount to anything and totally ignore the ones that are dragging them to hell.

After all, you have to be politically correct….

A fine line exists between what you can say and what you can’t anymore, and I guess that’s why people fixate on stupid stuff and don’t address the important issues. Don’t look at me to point them out—I’m not even allowed to be political at all.

It’s my job.

I signed a piece of paper twenty years ago that said I can’t speak aloud any political view because I represent the state I live in. I’m okay with that, but when I finally retire, I can’t wait to unleash all I’ve been holding in. This dam is gonna break with a fury y’all have never seen before, at least for a few minutes, until I get a few years worth of frustration out of my system.

But you know what I’m not going to gripe about?

Pink hair and pajama bottoms. That’s what.

Because I don’t care.

HUMOR

Pink Hair and Pajama Bottoms

Art by A Divine

This is how it started for me. I put a little pink in my hair and the world went crazy. You’d think the sun fell out of the sky or something.

Apparently, you can dye your hair black, brown, yellow, red or a combination of any of those, but you can’t have any of the colors of the rainbow above your neck. Especially after you reach a certain age, and if you do more than just a streak or two, and if your hair is light to begin with.

There are rules.

It’s so funny to me when I watch other people react to colored hair and to clothes, like pajama pants, being worn in public–things deemed “not acceptable” by society that bring whispers and stares from the loftiest of humans and a few of the less lofty as well.

It’s as if y’all think Jesus can’t love you if you’re wearing your pajamas outside of your house.

Okay, to be fair, I don’t wear my pj’s in public, but I am going to say this: they’re just pants.

They’re pajama pants because that’s what we named them. Y’all get that, don’t you? Somehow Sponge Bob makes them socially unacceptable, or plaid flannel does, or something. But they’re just pants!

We make up the rules. Somebody does. I’m pretty sure I never would’ve said you couldn’t have pink hair. It’s delightful! I also like lime green hair, but it’s not a great color for my face. Orange is my favorite color, but I’m not sure I’d want it on my head. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to see it on someone else’s head though. People are no less human because of their choice of hair color, or because they wear pajamas to Walmart.

The condemnation we throw at others because of their personal choices is ridiculous. As if clothes and hair matter. There are a whole lot of things in this world that do matter, just not those. I have a huge list of them, but what I’ve found is that it’s also socially unacceptable to talk about the things that are important. It’s only good to talk about things which don’t matter anyway, because you can be busy offending people about the stupid things they do that don’t amount to anything and totally ignore the ones that are dragging them to hell.

After all, you have to be politically correct….

A fine line exists between what you can say and what you can’t anymore, and I guess that’s why people fixate on stupid stuff and don’t address the important issues. Don’t look at me to point them out—I’m not even allowed to be political at all.

It’s my job.

I signed a piece of paper twenty years ago that said I can’t speak aloud any political view because I represent the state I live in. I’m okay with that, but when I finally retire, I can’t wait to unleash all I’ve been holding in. This dam is gonna break with a fury y’all have never seen before, at least for a few minutes, until I get a few years worth of frustration out of my system.

But you know what I’m not going to gripe about?

Pink hair and pajama bottoms. That’s what.

Because I don’t care.

RECOVERY

Worry ‘Bout What You Gon’ Worry ‘Bout

But don’t worry ‘bout me.

Photo by Amber Kipp @ Unsplash .com

A little thing like a major hurricane ain’t enough to keep us down. Not forever, anyway.

Y’all keep on having your petty little wars about whoever is superior to whoever else.

I get it.

We all do.

And while y’all are fighting, maybe take a minute to remember the entire nursing home full of PEOPLE who were left behind during the worst storm they’ve ever seen.

Or didn’t see. They were old, eyes and ears fading, left to sit in their own waste, unable to rise from their beds and chairs.

But y’all go on fighting.

Y’all go on worrying about which ONE MAN is gonna be THE one man, while MASSES OF MEN take each other out on dark and filthy streets in the name of justice, when actual justice is so perverted that y’all couldn’t call it if you saw it. And you never do see it, because the war being waged on the outside is nothing like the one hidden beneath the deepest layers of corruption this nation has ever seen.

But y’all keep on.

Take all our monuments and institutions and drag them down the dirty streets while you scream for an equality you already had but pissed away. Y’all keep on fighting.

I can’t say this stuff. I’ll be stoned with the same rocks I’m throwing, because don’t I believe in your cause too? Of course I do.

But y’all keep on twisting it up, making it ugly. Continue to make this a place so unrecognizable we’re all afraid to peek out of our houses in the mornings.

Afraid of what our brothers and sisters will come to give us, afraid of what they’ll come to take away.

Photo by a. divine

We don’t have a whole lot of time left to get this right. The panic button’s been pushed.

We’re all looking around, jerking our heads this way and that, trying to find cover when there clearly isn’t any.

I’ve been part of discussions about burying a steel building or a school bus, piping air in, stocking up on ammo and food—trying to survive the onslaught we all know is coming.

While y’all are wasting time and people fighting and ignoring the storm that already came, the storm that’s coming is still coming. And y’all ain’t gon’ get away from it.

None of us are.

Not if something doesn’t change real soon. Something, like EVERYTHING.

But hey, y’all worry ‘bout what you gon’ worry ‘bout.

Just don’t worry ‘bout me.

I’ll be fine.

We all will.

RECOVERY

The Cold Hard Truth About Loving God

What it really looks like

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

Loving God sounds easy, but don’t read this if you aren’t brave enough to face yourself.

I always considered loving God from a selfish point of view. I love Him because of all He gives me, for blessing me with life, for sending Jesus to die for my sins.

But to love Him just for being GOD is a lot more terrifying because it causes you to be morally just, but  not at all socially acceptable.

You have to be extraordinarily fierce to love God like you should. And you have to know who He really is.

Ephesians 3:14 calls God the Father from whom every family in Heaven and earth is named, and Matthew 23:9 says we have one Father, and He’s in Heaven.

In John 20:17 Jesus told Peter if he loved Him, “Feed My sheep.”

Sheep are prone to wander away, and to feed them, you must first recognize them, know them, seek them, and find them.  

Feeding His sheep means searching out the lost and the broken, patching them up with the word, and giving them hope in Jesus Christ. It also means feeding them if they need food. Giving to people who need it.

To love God as my Father, I also need to spend time with Him, and love His children.

Wait, what?

Love His children.

To do that, I must recognize that every human being on earth was uniquely designed by God. Even the ones who aren’t like me—the stinky ones, the toothless ones, the addicted ones, the different ones, the sick ones—all people have value and are loved equally by God.

This has never been more relevant than it is right now.

It’s impossible to ignore what’s going on in the world, and why would you want to? If you ignore one catastrophe, another will knock you off your feet.

Look at the opioid crisis. It may have gotten a little better, but we have a long way to go before we beat Big Pharma and heal our land of this sinister presence. Here’s a link to an article I wrote about why I will never be free of it.

If that particular drug addiction isn’t disturbing enough for you, do a little research on meth addiction. It’s also mentioned in the above article, and you can read a story here about a young mother who suffered from both mental illness and drug addiction. I wonder what it would’ve been like if her mother would’ve answered the call?

And I wonder if she’s alive today.

I work with a recovery group every week. It’s as healing as it is draining. If you think the addicted are limited to the homeless and mentally ill, you might be surprised to learn that Debbie who works at the insurance company down the road will trade her body for a hit of meth tonight and show up for work tomorrow morning.

You don’t know what you don’t know.

The human side of addiction is different than you think.

They aren’t all monsters. They’re your family.

It’s not in their control. It’s bigger than they are. They see the damage they’re causing and feel shame and humiliation. Still can’t stop.

They feel betrayed by everyone they love because they’re often left to deal with it on their own, mostly because of their own destructive choices. Doesn’t keep them from hurting.

They desperately seek small doses of approval and love and will give anything to anyone because they know what it’s like to do without. They’ll also steal anything from anyone because they know what it’s like to do without.

They still love their children.

It’s easy to love people who we think have their lives together, but once you find out they have real PROBLEMS, it gets a whole lot harder. The reason? Because then it might involve YOU. And you don’t want to get involved. We all like things easy, no confrontation, no conflict. Smooth sailing until we slide into home at the feet of Jesus.

Well that’s not how life works, Karen.

Real life isn’t always pretty. It’s hard, scary, unfair, and sometimes it’s downright gruesome. It can scar you up pretty bad and leave you with PTSD or something equally hard to talk about. Maybe you don’t know why that teenager has lines up and down her arms, but I do. I also know why she stays locked up in her room all the time. You can read my story about social anxiety here.

What the world needs is to know the truth in all its ugliness, but what we want is a prettied-up version of it, with only the parts we happen to agree with and make sure you leave out the rest.

No one wants to face it ALL, and I have to wonder if we’d be emotionally able to process it if we did take a cold hard look.

Nevertheless, I’m going to continue to get as close as I’m able and maybe get banned from ever writing anything anywhere ever again.

What happens when love turns to hate in the Christian heart?

It does, you know. You can deny it all you want to, until you go into the convenience store that’s owned by a person of the Islamic faith and while they’re ringing up your purchase you’re thinking that not only do they probably not use toilet paper, they also hate all Americans and wish you were dead.

But they won’t ever tell the preacher you bought that vodka and those blunts, so you’re going to keep going.

We all want justice to be done, but who even knows what that is?

We have a media that lies to us on a daily basis, and I guess the side you’re on is determined by which set of lies you choose to believe.

Somebody knows how that virus got out, and whether it was manufactured or came from a bat that a human was crazy enough to eat, and if they haven’t been murdered already, you can bet it’s on the agenda.

Maybe it IS caused by something other than what we’ve been socially influenced to believe, and we’re all about to be led like sheep to the slaughter, but somebody better decide on a conspiracy theory and stick to it so we can fight. Otherwise we’re all going to die. Or maybe not. Who knows?

We want to believe the police are there to serve and protect, but how can it always be true if what we’ve seen with our own eyes tells us a different story?

No one who has the internet missed the knee on the neck. No one will ever forget that. And it was big.

Big enough that we can’t run from the truth anymore.

If you were raised in the South, there’s a ten out of ten chance you were raised in a home with at least one racist.

Maybe a non-violent, “just joking around, I have friends of every color” kind of racist, but still a racist.

If you’re as old as I am, you can probably remember a whole lot more than you tell about the separation of blacks and whites and how it really looked back then. You might even want to say we’ve come a long way since then, because up until recently, you probably believed it was true.

It’s time to step out of your bubble of denial.

And I’m not just talking to white people. I’ve been a recipient of the other end of racism. It also exists. The words “cultural appropriation” come to mind. If anyone ever read my articles, I’d get slammed for that one. Lucky for me, I pretty much go unread. It’s still true though.

Pretty much nothing has changed since the sixties if you’re talking about attitudes. Maybe some laws have changed influencing equality in the workplace and schools. But PEOPLE haven’t changed. And that’s what’s wrong.

It’s a HEART problem. It can’t be solved by changing a few laws.

I was in my late teens when I realized I’d been lied to all my life. That’s when I knew for certain skin color was not a determining factor in the value of a human being. I never embraced a racist point of view, but the culture I grew up in dictated my life.

I had black friends growing up and I honestly never understood why they lived on the other side of the tracks and couldn’t come over to play at my house. But I heard the disparaging comments about the color of their skin. I heard the “n” word.

I don’t blame my family. My father was a good man. He had black friends. After he died, several came to see me. They told me of ways Daddy had helped them, been there for them, fed them, clothed them.

It was those conversations that started the change in me.

Nothing made sense to me until I understood that it was culturally unacceptable for Daddy to acknowledge what his heart knew. We were all the same.

I mentioned that the truth isn’t pretty. It’s hard, and it’s ugly, and no one wants to face it. That doesn’t make it less TRUE. That’s how I grew up.  

We did that. We were that. To some extent, we still are that.

And white privilege. I’ve balked at that so many times. I’ve been one of the ones to say it doesn’t exist, because I’ve worked hard for every single thing I’ve ever gotten and my life sure hasn’t been easy.

But it’s not the same.

When you’re white, you have a certain expectation that things will go a certain way, and they usually do.

If you get stopped by a police officer, you can be reasonably certain you won’t get dragged out of the vehicle and thrown down into the street unless you’re running your mouth or threatening in some way.

It probably won’t happen because of the color of your skin.

When you’re black, you can’t have that same expectation.

You can also expect to be looked at first if there’s a crime committed, and you happen to be in the area. Your color is associated with poverty, violence, low education levels, reliance on the government, and with mouthy bad attitudes.

Did I get this information off a statistical study?

No. I didn’t have to. I’m white. I know the associations. I hate that it’s true, but it is.

And the truth is very ugly.

I would like to see our nation band together to change the truth. To fix the heart problem. To learn to love God by loving His children, the way that our parents (while saying the n word at home) taught us to sing that old song—“red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight….”

But no. I recently read that this old song is racist too.

Apparently the “red” and “yellow” are racist terms. To be fair, I don’t think they were back when I sang the song.

Back to where this started, we must love the unlovable, pick up the fallen, go for the weary, feed the hungry, nurse the sick, protect the helpless, nourish and teach the children. Like the other old song says, “Rescue the Perishing.”

The Bible says in Psalms 97:10 that to love God means to hate evil. All forms of racism is evil, even the hidden ones, including the thoughts going around in your head when you encounter someone different from you.

I know I can’t love God without serving Him by serving others, and without fighting for the rights of others who are weary of fighting for themselves. This battle for equality can’t be won unless we all stand together against the enemies of hate and prejudice.

Violence and hate isn’t the answer and never could be. The only answer is love.

I could quote a hundred things from Martin Luther King, Jr but two stand out. The first is:

“Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.”

We might not know where this will end if we join forces as humans for a change, instead of fighting as blacks and whites. I have a pretty good idea of where it will end if we don’t, and it’s not good.

King also said:

I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.”

And it is.

I can only love God by loving His children the way He does, or as close as a human can get to that. I can remember the stories of little girls who were forced to sit in the back of the classroom because they weren’t white, and couldn’t come over to my birthday party because they lived on the other side of the tracks.

I still know what it felt like for an old black man to press twenty five dollars in my hand with tears in his eyes and say, “Your Daddy bought me tires for my truck,” and everything that was out of balance in my head righted itself.

The outside isn’t the inside. The skin of a man doesn’t determine who he is.

Skin color, addiction, illness, education, level of crazy—none of these should be a factor in how I love and treat someone else. What matters is we are all God’s children, designed by Him, for a reason. We are all loved by Him.

To really love God just for being God, honor His greatest commandments, in Matthew 22:37-39. “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it. You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

Love my neighbor—His children.

All of them.

Photo by Miguel Bruna on Unsplash

RECOVERY

The Child Revisited

A poem about life after childhood trauma.

young brother and sister looking out glass door
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Today I got a glimpse of me.

The me that I swore could not return.

I saw the part of myself that I said was dead and buried,

Killed off by the destruction that was my life.

And when I saw me, I knew who I was.

I recognized the part of me that has always been my strength.

Like a fool, I closed my life to that part of myself for many wasted years.

I said to let that person exist was to be weak

Because that part of me hurts and is angry.

For so long, I have fought against any reminders of that me.

But somehow, today, when I wasn’t looking, I found me.

I looked in my eyes and saw the hurt.

I looked in my heart and felt the pain.

I looked in my head and regained the memories.

Suddenly, I was back to a place I had never really left.

And in that glimpse of me, I knew I was going to be okay.

So, I said so long to the child I never really was, and never will be.

I touched the face of my strength when I let the hurt wash over me.

And I said hello to the child who will always be a part of me, who always was.

Fairy tale dreams don’t come true.

They can’t. With real life comes real hurt.

We build walls and we tear them down.

We deny everything, we doubt everything, we are no longer innocent—

But SOMEWHERE inside of us still LIVES THE CHILD.

RECOVERY

Slipping Off the Deep End

Social Isolationism can make you crazy.

man with ears and nose mask
Photo by michael schaffler on Unsplash

The world we live in is imperfect at best, and a cataclysmic train ride to hell at worst. Just when you think things are starting to go your way, something happens to bring your life crashing down around your feet in broken bits of whatever’s left when your expectation doesn’t match your outcome.

And if you want a fast track to crazy, just go into social isolation for a few months.

I’m not a social butterfly. I never have been, thank God. I love my own company and can go without other people for long periods of time. But not forever.

Humans aren’t designed to live their lives alone. We need connections.

When the normal is snatched away from you, the “new normal” takes its place. NOT the one everyone is predicting, but the real one. The crazy one.

At first everyone was content with taking care of things that needed to be taken care of. I did a little of that. Cleaned up some stuff, threw away some stuff, boxed up some stuff, gave away some stuff. I did home repairs. Cleaned out a shed. I burned a lot of things when we were able to (there was a burn ban in our state for a while).

I burned some things that didn’t need to be burned just because I like destroying things sometimes.

After a while, I ran out of things to do.

I ran out of things to write about to, or I couldn’t think of much. My mind seemed a bit blank.

A blank mind is a dangerous thing.

Granted, it could be said there’s a little insanity in each one of us. Some more than others. But when you take a person away from everything that is “normal” and into forced isolation, the potential for crazy dramatically increases.

Thoughts creep in. Suspicious, paranoid thoughts.

You have nothing else to do anyway, so may as well entertain those thoughts for a while. Maybe check into them, see if you can validate them in some way. Maybe by using social media, the devil’s playground.

Sleep is an odd thing as well. If you aren’t parented by your job on when to sleep and when to get up, there’s no reason for a regular schedule. You can even do your cyber stalking in the middle of the night if you want to.

You’d be surprised how fast the crazy sets in.

Psychology Today calls solitary confinement torture. It leads to all kinds of symptoms, including anxiety and paranoia. It may seem extreme to compare our bout of social isolationism to solitary confinement, but I don’t think it is. It would be especially daunting to someone who already has issues with trauma, loss, and anxiety.

You know, people like me.

Being socially isolated causes loneliness and depression also. We’re able to get out more now, and that’s a huge relief, but there are some people who are never able to get out much.

A large percentage of our population are shut ins. We have the elderly, and the mentally and physically disabled. People in hospitals, hospice, and nursing homes.

Maybe your mother, father, or grandparents.

People who are too poor to afford to go anywhere.

Going a little crazy for a bit has helped me see things from more than one perspective, and I’m grateful for it.

I see that I need to reach out to people more and stop doing without people for long periods of time, even when I’m not forced to.

I also reached out to my ex-husband and asked for his forgiveness. Not because I crashed and burned our relationship. That was him. It was more because I could see the other side of the fence, and how he had to live with me choosing to give my attention to all kinds of things, and not realizing he needed more from me.

I kind of see why his thoughts went all haywire. When you feel isolated, you’ll do stuff you wouldn’t ordinarily do.  

Good comes from everything if you know where to look.

Even slipping off the deep end.  

RECOVERY

Flies and Fishhooks

Focus Matters

Photo by Stefan Cosma on Unsplash

For some reason, the flies are unbearable this year, and I think it’s because the pipe running into the sewer has a leak, and human waste is trickling onto the ground in the backyard. I feel like a little kid from a third world country, swatting at flies that are too lazy or full to even be intimidated enough to fly away.

An overwhelming dampness hangs in the air and settles on my skin. Typical for the South. When they go on about the South rising again, they don’t bring up the stench of human sweat and the clinging humidity-drenched clothes weighing us down, keeping our energy levels too low for us to do more than talk the talk.

We can’t rise up. We can just sit here and pound the letters of our keyboards into oblivion as we set the world straight with a few well-chosen words.

Another day in the pre-summer self-isolationism that’s been forced upon us, against our wills and for our own good.

It’s a strange newness, with approximately half of everyone you run across wearing a mask while the other half looks on with disdain, and vice versa.

We’re such judgmental folks. Of course, each of us has an opinion on what’s best, and the likelihood that all of us are wrong is very high.

When things are tragic, terrifying, or ugly, we can’t stop looking at them. It’s just human nature.

I knew this kid when I was in elementary school.

Billy was fishing with his brother—he couldn’t have been very old—maybe six or seven and maybe even younger. Somehow one of their fishhooks got embedded in Billy’s eye. It didn’t end up pretty. The eye, I mean.

Photo by Mael BALLAND on Unsplash

Growing up, any time I saw Billy, my gaze was immediately drawn to that bad eye. I didn’t mean to look. I just couldn’t help it. I could barely take in what he was saying for staring at his eye.

I missed being a real friend to him because my focus was on the wrong thing.

I got lost in how he looked and not who he was.

I’ll never know how amazing things might’ve turned out if I’d have looked past the surface.

It’s odd how you remember things like that.

I’m thinking the world we’re existing in right now has a lot in common with that story. Terrible things have happened. It’s hard to draw our gaze away.

We can’t help but stare at all the bad because it’s right here in our faces. It’s human nature to dwell on the tragedy, rather than search for the triumph.

Not only that, but it’s easy to get lost in looking for someone to blame for things being the way they are. And someone does need to be held accountable. Justice needs to prevail in a lot of situations. No argument with that truth.

I’m just saying that it’s real easy to get overwhelmed if you keep staring at all the things that are wrong. If you do that, you won’t ever have what you really need in life, especially when it comes to relationships. The things that are on the outside can look really bad, and if we focus on them, we’re going to miss the opportunity to have the kind of world we need to live in.

If we’d take our focus off the way things look, and put it instead on who God is, we might find out how amazing things can really be.

RECOVERY

Wearing the Mask of Sanity

Life explained through the lense of madness

Photo by Callie Gibson on Unsplash

The silence I live in since I found my child dead isn’t silent at all but is made up of voices from my childhood, talking incessantly and laughing as they clink their wine glasses together and scrape their forks across china plates. Noise I can’t explain is now accompanied by the shrill voice of tinnitus.

I stare blankly and wait for the moment to pass. It always has. I pray it always does, but let’s face it. The odds aren’t good.

My life is no different than countless others who hide behind a façade of normalcy.

We are what we’ve become, or maybe were destined to be or always were. I’ve lost sight of my reasoning on this. It doesn’t matter anymore. Too much has happened. I can’t contain it in a neat little box that I can present to the world with a bow and say, “See! This is who I am!” It’s not so cut and dry.

But I play the game with reasonable success, although I can’t say I have everyone fooled.

I don’t ever pass a metal, rusty swing without my mind immediately throwing me back to the familiar creaking of the up and down motion accompanied by haunted laughter from the children I birthed and buried before they were ever old enough to swing.

This is my world, and I accepted it a long time ago.

I live in a state of semi-madness, but it’s a concealable offense, and no one knows but me. It’s safer that way.

How can you explain to a world seeking to avoid ugly of any kind that you have flashbacks of your son’s dead face, taking turns in rapid-fire succession with a bloody pig head hanging from a limb? You can’t. How do you explain the visions of a hammer coming down hard to stop just short of its goal and the buttons of your dress hitting the wall like bullets as it was ripped from your body? You don’t.

Memory could be the death of all that’s sane in me if not for the foundation I’m rooted in.

Still, at times I feel a shift and reach out helplessly, blindly grasping at anything that might pull me to a safe place. And there is no safe place. Not on this earth, although I’ve been assured time and again that this is temporary, and eternity will hold none of the evil that haunts me now.

We shall see. I may have traded eternity in a desperate bargain with God to save Heaven for my child instead of me. He never said if He took the deal.

Even in my crazy, messed-up world, life continues to go on as it will do. Relationships fail, cheaters cheat, betrayers betray, and sometimes they don’t. The world I’m unfamiliar with is the one with truth and honesty. I’m too acquainted with the other to be fair to the one-percenters.

So I watch the words form on your lips and hear them trickle past the noise in my head and in my sanity I pretend to believe you, while my mind screams out, “Motherfucker, I’ve always been old! I SAW what you did!”

But I know you would neither understand nor receive my words, and besides, I don’t curse. Not aloud anyway. So, I remain quiet, and live inside your lie with you, because it’s what I’ve learned to do.

It’s how I exist on earth, and how I allow you to exist as well.

Could the foundation hold if I revealed the truth? Could YOU survive if you were confronted with not only the evil of the world but the evil of your own soul?

Every day we die. We live in a state of perpetual decay, yet we think that by not acknowledging it we’re more alive.

We have the audacity to mock the ones who show the crazy.

We laugh at the souls brave enough to acknowledge the voices, and then try to drown them out as if we don’t all hear the same thing. The line between sanity and insanity is as thin as a hair and so easily broken that I don’t dare breathe in its direction, for fear it will snap and the hell inside will become the hell outside.

And oh, how we pretend! Our entire world is make-believe. We’ve created money systems, and cars, houses, and hosts of other things and imagine they actually MEAN something. We’ve manufactured societies with rules and laws, and jobs to go to—and it’s all nonsense. Constructs that we’ve created to get through a world we don’t understand. An evil world where free will has led to the absolute destruction of mankind, except for the foundation.

On some level, you must know it, but you play the game anyway, because hell, everyone else is playing and that’s all there is to do anyway. To go against the construct is to be—insane. No one wants to get caught in that trap.

It’s all meaningless.

Photo by fotografierende on Unsplash

In fact, to learn what has actual value in this world, to learn what LIFE really is, you must experience the end of it. Death. Loss. Love.

You must find yourself loving another person with every single fiber of your being, love them so much that you’d rip your own heart out of your chest and give it to them, pour your lifeblood into their veins, breathe your last breath into their nostrils—and you must be helpless to do any of these things.

Instead, you must lose them before you understand that although breathing surely is a symptom of life, life is nothing more than a symptom of death.

Sanity is just a mask we wear to keep from facing both.