tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67940886119749009532024-02-28T18:43:36.428-05:00Author Y. Correa's BlogAuthor Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.comBlogger283125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-37805625513535174412023-07-02T11:03:00.001-04:002023-07-02T11:03:26.407-04:00Journal Entry — 7/2/23<p>It's been well over a year since I blogged about anything at all.</p><p>But ... I need a space to put these thoughts out in the ether, even if no one ever reads them.</p><p>1. I am doing everything in my power to not let the depression that I am feeling drown me altogether. It's just a lot. I feel so heavy, burdened, and useless. It's too much.</p><p>2. Life is far too stressful for me right now. I know that I have to "keep on keeping on" as they say but given the option, I wouldn't.</p><p>3. I may have a few hours, maybe even a day where I am <b><i>okay enough</i></b>, but mostly ...? Darkness.</p><p>4. The layers run deep. There is so much more to it than what I am talking about. On the surface it may seem like situational, superficial depression but it's not. Although, those things are the ones that are at the forefront.</p><p>5. Being tired of being sick and tired is miniscule to what I am currently feeling. Years ago, I used this phrase a lot. It no longer seems to fit. Now I am just plain old tired as well as repulsed by everything and <b><u><i>almost</i></u></b> everyone. Some very important people notwithstanding.</p><p>Lately I have been feeling like I should have ended things long ago instead of pressing forward. I know that I know, that I know, that it's the depression speaking. But it doesn't feel like a lie. I mean, deep down inside I know my life has value. I know that the people that love me also need me. I know that "this too shall pass" as they say. Nevertheless, currently, I feel like none of that is true because this state of existence has endured for years upon years. I need and want it to stop; for things to be better. Yet, the lights in my spiritual room have been off for so long that I don't remember what illumination feels or looks like.</p><p>Someone ... Help.</p>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-15466004433297636312022-06-08T08:17:00.004-04:002022-06-18T11:58:14.111-04:00Get 4 Free Books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZXC5TQihw5qTQwoev8NPVdLKme1ftwFHoHgzxI9ffxedXkqveEcVSFYJTnODmN3di9o129D2PieeYd-ku6O4dqTCilds2cd-R7AxZklYo4ZJbqyqOI9zOmnER1FaZQhofeuJIAXo1j1upwps56lckceo7cybtiluwjtEyIaZs829Xk0QVU8qah-fd/s1540/Poster.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1540" data-original-width="1540" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZXC5TQihw5qTQwoev8NPVdLKme1ftwFHoHgzxI9ffxedXkqveEcVSFYJTnODmN3di9o129D2PieeYd-ku6O4dqTCilds2cd-R7AxZklYo4ZJbqyqOI9zOmnER1FaZQhofeuJIAXo1j1upwps56lckceo7cybtiluwjtEyIaZs829Xk0QVU8qah-fd/w400-h400/Poster.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">You can pick up copies of these spectacular classics by clicking any of the links below:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Liliths-Dominion-Novelette-Y-Correa-ebook/dp/B01D0I845G/" target="_blank">Lilith's Dominion</a></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00CHXILHC/" target="_blank">MarcoAntonio & Amaryllis</a></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07H728CLT/" target="_blank">Peter Blade</a></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Reversal-Y-Correa-ebook/dp/B08SMQRQWT/" target="_blank">Reversal</a></span></p>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-3132992705815352212022-04-10T12:22:00.001-04:002022-04-10T12:22:18.809-04:00A Letter to My Daughter — 4/10/2022<p style="text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: large;">Dear Daughter,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday was your 29<sup>th</sup> birthday and I missed it.
More than that, I miss you. I have been bottling up some thoughts and feelings
for quite some time, and through these means, I intend on speaking on them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s hard to know where to start. I can’t really say that I
know what to say at this very moment, so maybe I should just start from the
beginning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I missed you terribly yesterday. Your Sweet 16 came to mind
and I thought about how I threw that together in such a short amount of time
and how happy you were when it finally came to life. You looked so beautiful in
your dress. I remember slaving over it tediously as I sewed it. You probably
remember that too. I remember cooking all the food and then renting the location
and all the hassle that came with that. But more than anything I remember your
smile when you entered the party looking like a Precious Princess in Red and
Blue.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">But truth is, in retrospect, I feel like I failed you.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I failed to give you a sense of self-worth and self-esteem.
I failed to show you that you deserved more. And I probably failed to show you
that you were loved. Because of this, you chose such a glum life path.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I remember when we used to be so close. Like best friends.
We did everything together. We laughed and cried together, we had our movie
franchise that was “our thing”, we only had each other for the longest time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Daughter, we grew up together— I was just a teenager when I
had you and my family life was so heinous that I didn’t have very many tools in
my arsenal to know how to deal with some of life’s struggles and hardships as a
young mother. I certainly, was not equipped to deal with the men that I had
chosen; from your biological father to the one that raised you. I am not
making excuses … I am simply stating the fact of why and where I think I went
wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thus, you grew up in turmoil, in treacherous waters, drowning
in misery. Seeking a lifeline out of the sea of despair in with you were sinking.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">But the choice that came was not a good one, and you latched
on to it. I tried to accept that choice. Even cared about this person to an
extent. Probably because the face that he showed was one of humility and
concern for your wellbeing. He was a lie. A fallacy that eventually stripped
you of any tidbit of self-worth you may have had. Still, you held on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’d even decided to intervene and gave you both the
opportunity to live with me. But in time, you both threw me out of my own house
and forced me and your two little brothers to live in a room no bigger than a
single bedroom. That hurt me more than words could say because not only did I
feel betrayed, I felt robbed of my life once again. This time, by my own
daughter and her significant other.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yet, I moved on with my life and let you move on with yours.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">You stayed with him, continued to suffer hunger,
homelessness, poverty the likes of which you’d never experienced with him. I
never wanted that for you. I never wanted you to suffer the way I did. Much
less become an addict and a person of a bedraggled nature.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">When the day came that you told me that third party individuals
were being introduced into your union, I flinched — recoiled in concern for you.
I knew, in the pit of my stomach, that this would be a huge issue.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then you became pregnant. I would lie if I said that I was
happy. I tried to be … for you. But I was honestly petrified. Terrified at what
this would mean, not just for your ability to care for a child, but for my
grandchild itself. I distressed that he would be caused to endure a life of
chaos. I knew he would be loved, for I knew the amount of love you had to give
and how much you desired to have a child of you own. What I fretted about was
the pandemonium that surrounded you — the life of a vagabond and an unsavory
union, at best. A despicable one, at worst,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Your state of living was vile, repulsive. The smell of your
home … putrid. The dirt, the uncleanliness, far beyond anything I’d ever seen. And
though the stench permeated your skin and clothing … you stayed. You stopped
bathing, stopped caring for yourself. Began to live under the same beliefs as
he had, that bathing was only needed if you were dirty in excess. Meanwhile,
there was cologne/perfume. <b><i>Retched</i></b>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">By this point, you and your husband had a live-in girlfriend.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Shortly thereafter, my grandson was born. My beautiful,
precious, grandbaby that solely reminded me of you. <b><i>Not of his father</i></b>.
Period. Soon your husband claimed to no longer be in love with you but to be in
love with your mutual girlfriend instead.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Though broken and downcast, still you hung on. Yes, there
was a trail separation, but could it really be called that when you decided to
live with his mom and refused to be away from him? No. Because for better or
for worse, although <b>you suffered</b> an agony that <b>I could feel</b> in my
bones, you held on. You agonized day after day seeing how he was treating her,
yet still coming back to you for sex and counsel whenever he had an argument
with her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I kept telling you, you need to leave that place. Just go to
my mom and dad’s house. Leave that place. Since I lived in another state altogether,
there wasn’t much I could do. But you refused. It was like you’d become an all-out
glutton for punishment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is when the begging for help started. On a weekly basis
you would reach out to me for financial help. $20 here, $40 there … this, that
and the third. Diapers, wipes, food money. The seeming “need” never ended. All
because he refused to work, and you couldn’t find a job either, supposedly. I
honestly thought that that was not the reason at all. I thought that you both
were either too high or drunk to hold down a stable job.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Nevertheless, whenever I could, I helped. Even to my own
detriment because I was under severe financial straits myself. Many times I
found my bank account in the negative all following having helped you because “<i>my
grandson was hungry</i>”.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">But with all that, nothing would prepare me for what I would
see the day I went to visit your home when I traveled back to our home-state
upon my dad’s heart surgery.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wanted to give you a great surprise. I think I succeeded in
that. What I did not expect was what I witnessed when I got there.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I knocked on your door, you were not there. You and
your husband’s girlfriend was there, as well as my grandson. When she opened
the door, I gagged. The smell smacked me instantly — it nearly knocked me off
of my feet. It was abhorrent. And the space was so, so dirty and in disarray
that the hairs on the back of my head stood and the thought of my grandson living
in this state.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I greeted your girlfriend, and then hugged and kissed my
grandson. I even attempted to hold him for a bit, but he smelled fowl. The fetor
that came from his skin made me ill. Sick to the point of having to put him
down. It broke my heart in a zillion piece.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Heavy is the heart of one who cares; none heavier than that
of a mother.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stirred for day, weeks, even a couple of months on end
with what I should do with these findings. I lost sleep, stressed in ways that
I could not explain. Sometimes the stress caused me to over-eat, other times, I
couldn’t eat at all. Some days I could do nothing but think about it. “It”
being how you and my grandson were living. Other days, I tried to put it out of
my mind to no avail.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">There were times when I could not understand why someone
closer hadn’t contacted the authorities already? Why hadn’t this been reported?
Because, in ever sense of the word, it was child neglect. It wasn’t to say that
you didn’t love him, but he was <b><i>not</i></b> being properly cared for.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">So, for better or for worse, and knowing that someone had to
break the generational curse of abuse … I took it into my own hands knowing the
chance I was taking.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am still in awe that the first person you called the day
the authorities came to your house was me. I was a thousand miles away, and yet
you called me. Why? Because in your heart of hearts you knew that I would be
the only one that had the heart to stand up for what was right.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">And now you hate me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I took that chance. I knew what I was getting into. That
doesn’t stop it from hurting any less. It doesn’t stop my heart from breaking
every time I see your picture of look in the mirror and see your reflection
looking back at me. It doesn’t stop me from agonizing when I see pictures of my
grandson and wished wholeheartedly that I could just hold him tight and never
let him go. It certainly doesn’t stop the nightmares or dreams where I see you
and relive those terrible moments. Or you come back into my life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I need you to know that it all came from a place of love.
Profound, unending, unconditional, true and sacrificial love. A mother’s love.
The same type that you have for your son. And in the same way I don’t want to
see you or my grandson suffer anymore, I believe that you would never want to
see him suffer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wish I could get inside of you and make you see things
from my perspective, but I know that will never happen. So today, I write this
letter knowing that I missed your 29<sup>th</sup> birthday yesterday,
remembering the precious baby I held in my hands that late Good Friday night on April
9<sup>th</sup>, 2003. And more than anything hurting because I wish I could
hold you, kiss your face and tell you how much you mean to me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Forever and always your mother,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-77193445988295677952021-12-31T10:43:00.003-05:002021-12-31T10:43:18.609-05:002021 Summary and Thoughts<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Once in a while I come here to give an overall look at the year that has passed. I don't think I actually got around to doing this in 2020, although I wanted to.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I mean, I might have. Who knows? I frankly don't feel like looking it up. </span><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">😄</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">At any rate, moving on .... </span><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">🤸🏽♀️ </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Truth be told, I don't know that I have the energy or inner strength needed right now to go over all of the ins and outs of this past year. Suffice it to say that it was trying beyond measure.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The funny thing about my life is that just when I think shit can't get any harder, <i>it does</i>. 🤷🏽♀️</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There is always that saying that people default to, "<i><span style="color: red;">God won't give you more than you can handle.</span></i>" Besides being tired of hearing it, if that's the case, than by spiritual measures, I should be a heavy weight, champion, Gold Medal, pro body builder by now.🏋🏼♀️</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But, "C'est la vie," as they say. Right? Right. </span><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">😒</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With all that said;</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here is my hope for 2022 ....</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">1) That God/Spirit/Allah/The Universe/Higher Power (<i>or whatever you call it</i>) has my back—that I don't feel spiritually orphaned, such as I have been for so long.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">2) That things, to one degree or another, start to look up. Whether that is health-wise, financially or in my love life ... I can use a great degree of Transcendental Light in all of those areas.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">3) That I find all of the Inner Gladness and Fulfillment I need to carry on.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">4) That my children and grandchild be safe, healthy and happy and <b><i>FIND INNER PEACE</i></b>.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">5) That the people I love and care about the most are embraced and covered by Transcendental Light and be suffused by contentment in everything they do.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Basically, 2022, I need you to help me recharge my proverbial battery. That legit is all I want and need from you because my aspirations are big, and my heart and mind are even bigger.</span></div>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-32856800058716145842021-10-31T11:39:00.004-04:002021-10-31T11:39:48.490-04:00Journal Entry 10/31/2021<p>No this isn't about Halloween, even though what I am about to share is truly harrowing. At least to me; in my heart and soul.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_tp7jPalZDAM302UkbCapUKelcLrOFtgoadrG3Vpo_hJuEex95HAqD3NLvEQp4z6d1l-JAwC_CdXTkVMOyAaFRuCBhT1EtIfSCn63AAmhIfjlnmwCKKbppNuv1IGdj5SmbqfcWTfwMEg/s2048/divier.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1970" data-original-width="2048" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_tp7jPalZDAM302UkbCapUKelcLrOFtgoadrG3Vpo_hJuEex95HAqD3NLvEQp4z6d1l-JAwC_CdXTkVMOyAaFRuCBhT1EtIfSCn63AAmhIfjlnmwCKKbppNuv1IGdj5SmbqfcWTfwMEg/w200-h193/divier.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">Several weeks ago I shared a Journal Blog Post about my daughter and how she and my grandson are living. At the time I was severely grappling with what I should do—how this should be handled. Because the situation could not continue as it was. Furthermore, no one locally—the local family members in their area—were stepping in to help make a change.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">If you'd like a little more on background on this story, you can read more by clicking <b><u><a href="https://authorycorrea.blogspot.com/2021/09/florida-trip-2021journal-entry-part-3.html" target="_blank">HERE</a></u></b>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">It took me several weeks of contemplation of possible repercussions to finally come to a decision. Since no one else was stepping in, and through ongoing contact with my daughter in that time allowing me to see that the situation was only getting worse, I stepped up.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I called DCF (The Florida Department of Children and Families).</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Now why, you might ask, did I do it? Why would I betray her?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I don't see it that way.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">But that didn't stop my family from coming down on me like a flood. I'll get more into this in a minute. First I will delineate the reasons why. At the end of this post, I will let YOU decide whether what I did was the right or wrong thing.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDlYRbHNYplxA5y_z-bKQGgcs4FfNOkvKEMrrsbIRzlQn9VXpdTG56DOD2Wv9qDKskGuCaBFkuaouUuvzSz7TUwQHQ_6cXL3A3ZSji3LwWzTF9bXUID61XbRSv3qZ1pZDulvwMR0umkU/s2048/divier.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1970" data-original-width="2048" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDlYRbHNYplxA5y_z-bKQGgcs4FfNOkvKEMrrsbIRzlQn9VXpdTG56DOD2Wv9qDKskGuCaBFkuaouUuvzSz7TUwQHQ_6cXL3A3ZSji3LwWzTF9bXUID61XbRSv3qZ1pZDulvwMR0umkU/w200-h193/divier.png" width="200" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">1) One day when I had returned home from Florida, my daughter spoke to me and told me that she had gone clean from drugs and alcohol. She said that she'd stopped smoking weed and drinking because she wanted to do better for her child. Reason being, that she realized that she was high and drunk more often than not and that as a mother this could not go on.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">However, at some point recently, she backslid. She started smoking weed again. So often in fact, that she was calling me while so high that she couldn't get out of bed. And posting pictures online of herself so high that her eyes looked like fireballs. She also went back to drinking. I don't know what the catalyst to her backsliding was because she would not tell me. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">2) The living situation—whether because of the fact that she had gone back to being high and drunk, I cannot say, but only speculate—had gotten wore. I know and attest to this because of the several video phone calls she had with me where I was able to see the conditions of the house. It was, and I underestimate when I say this, unsavory.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">3) During several video calls that I had with my daughter and grandson, I could see how unkempt he was. His hair had not been brushed in God knows how long, and it was so outgrown that it was mated and had lint stuck in it. His clothes looked dirty and he was back to wearing diapers when he had been potty-trained.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">4) Most of the time, the floors were covered in animal feces and urine, dirt, and only God knows what else, but the baby often sat on the ground to eat his food.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">5) My grandson had no real schedule or discipline. He sometimes went to bed at 1 and 2 in the morning, woke up whenever he wanted and just was neglected and wayward as a whole.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Please understand that I AM NOT saying that my daughter and her husband do not love their child. THEY DO! And HE LOVES THEM! </p><p style="text-align: center;"> I DID NOT CALL DCF DUE TO A LACK OF LOVE!</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>I CALLED BECAUSE MOST PEOPLE DO NOT UNDERSTAND NOR DO THEY WANT TO ADMIT THAT <u>NEGLECT OR ALOOF DISREGARD IS ALSO A FORM OF ABUSE!</u></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij4rbHAZZicxOnB5RFlKKgfea-keCGu88cw2udZyRjbcrXEeDlszaK8b1nuUKCxPYrDY1jdGzCUqdKoPnV44hHvM-kJTO8jwKCSymgYEyEdn42xCIWzeNxs9LZ7AM855vgNTf1AR1Jp5Y/s2048/divier.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1970" data-original-width="2048" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij4rbHAZZicxOnB5RFlKKgfea-keCGu88cw2udZyRjbcrXEeDlszaK8b1nuUKCxPYrDY1jdGzCUqdKoPnV44hHvM-kJTO8jwKCSymgYEyEdn42xCIWzeNxs9LZ7AM855vgNTf1AR1Jp5Y/w200-h193/divier.png" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've very clearly talked about on here how when my children were little I did not have the tools, nor the direction on how to raise them properly. I was raised in a level of chaos, abuse and dysfunction that left me scarred for life. Then I was unfortunately married to a man that capitalized on those scars and made things worse.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yes, I spanked my kids. Sometimes, lost all control that I whupped them so bad I would feel like shit afterwards. This wasn't a common occurrence, I assure you. But it did happen. I admit that it affected my kids. It hurt them. I am still trying to make amends to that. Because I honestly didn't know any better. I admit that those butt whuppings probably messed them up really bad.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But, my house was always clean! They were always cared for properly! They were never neglected! I never displayed traits of aloof disregard! I did the best with what I had and what I was given! I did my best raising my kids and I promise you that there were a great many good memories that I created for them! Even if they might not remember them ... I do.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had 4 kids at a young age and I did the best that I could for each and every one of them. I stand by that. I loved them all with every fiber of my being and they never went to bed hungry, or having eaten of a contaminated floor. I gave them love, attention, and care, as much as I did discipline. When I was hard, I was really hard. But when I was good, I was really, really good. And when I loved them, <i><b>I loved them hard as fuck!! I STILL FUCKING DO!!!!!!!</b></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><b><br /></b></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">No one but me knows that sacrifices I made for them when I could have been selfish, or indifferent. But I always put them first. Always.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At one point I sent Pipo to live with my mom and dad for 6 months when he was 9. My kids think that it was because I wanted him out of the house. But it was really because my ex-husband had threated that he would kill him if I didn't send him away. He said, and I quote, "If you don't get that kid out of here, I swear to God Yasmin, I will slit his fucking throat tonight!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Most of the butt whuppings I did give my kids were because my ex-husband told me that if I didn't do it, he would make sure to break their fucking bones. Then after I did beat them, he would gaslight me. He'd say to my kids, "You know, I keep telling you guys not to make your mom mad. I try to calm her down but she doesn't listen to me." When in actuality I was sparing them from his wrath.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yet, they have NO IDEA. None of them do!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT7TQOvMsUWlg_cJNCfL_l3BQWeAyR3uNhIKKG_TcQ6-FnJBCDBMazPdrkHBBqMIffcj7SQ1ytBzQcOs_6DK2EPJScbICIzAeTka1pmN_x16GALr7oNDfDrI51sVjkcHN2QoCdCEJtJGQ/s2048/divier.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1970" data-original-width="2048" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT7TQOvMsUWlg_cJNCfL_l3BQWeAyR3uNhIKKG_TcQ6-FnJBCDBMazPdrkHBBqMIffcj7SQ1ytBzQcOs_6DK2EPJScbICIzAeTka1pmN_x16GALr7oNDfDrI51sVjkcHN2QoCdCEJtJGQ/w200-h193/divier.png" width="200" /></a></div><br />So after I contacted DCF, I had this sort of vision. I herd my daughter's voice so clearly as she called me screaming. She was saying that DCF had taken her son.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Wouldn't you know it. That's exactly what happened.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At first I received a call from DCF confirming my report. They asked me a further set of questions and then said that they would go visit the residence.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Next thing I know my daughter is calling me screaming. The vision had come to pass. The only difference was that in real life she asked me if I had called them on her. I said yes. I could not lie. That was the last time I hear her voice. It will probably be the last time I hear her voice forevermore. The screeches of her bellows are recorded in my mind. Branded there forever.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYttZleT4DHNsRQ5fhE2Im1fJyfcVmy_3sP9GQamdicYnXLjcLMjWeIf-_EjcZLW9kOLwtzDjQVkeAj8Kwa5FYDIvSud87gt29P05ZKLq0XxrA7PX7VWvb6979ASQyQdWqpqtzTi4trYc/s2048/divier.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1970" data-original-width="2048" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYttZleT4DHNsRQ5fhE2Im1fJyfcVmy_3sP9GQamdicYnXLjcLMjWeIf-_EjcZLW9kOLwtzDjQVkeAj8Kwa5FYDIvSud87gt29P05ZKLq0XxrA7PX7VWvb6979ASQyQdWqpqtzTi4trYc/w200-h193/divier.png" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I contacted my mother after the fact. My heart was in pain. And all I really wanted was (1) to tell her myself before anyone else did. I wanted her to hear the news from the source. (2) In some way, I wanted some motherly compassion. Maybe I wanted too much, I don't know.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Instead, all I got was judgment. Words of blame. Finger pointing. As if what I had done was the most terrible thing to do to anyone.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Giving up on that conversation, I concluded it with, "I just wanted to tell you myself before anyone else did." and hung up.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKL4E-p_H2XLLBy8tjIEoQHtXXYMmSMllS5Fa78xUbas0jLTbr2ppGzYT2MSVom2vUa1P45X6zXq4DJNOWwhKSVEtM1b88T6eooJ6SXSBxeqF7sD_gewjR6tQOgj-Ry08fGTIDRdFatU/s2048/divier.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1970" data-original-width="2048" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKL4E-p_H2XLLBy8tjIEoQHtXXYMmSMllS5Fa78xUbas0jLTbr2ppGzYT2MSVom2vUa1P45X6zXq4DJNOWwhKSVEtM1b88T6eooJ6SXSBxeqF7sD_gewjR6tQOgj-Ry08fGTIDRdFatU/w200-h193/divier.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Later that day I got this text message from my daughter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_vzJS_HrA6CLBmtSMFdbcM2mAUGb_nDGorKqDqkY1QjoOgpXQAW6C2jFTsmfcww0NH4PtEm7hvNWaM7JdtqD5H1_Ca_YuoB3fwjthcEKgPjxAAKb20ToTWA4kpPzT8Eicy0iihirlpaE/s871/screenshot+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="871" data-original-width="738" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_vzJS_HrA6CLBmtSMFdbcM2mAUGb_nDGorKqDqkY1QjoOgpXQAW6C2jFTsmfcww0NH4PtEm7hvNWaM7JdtqD5H1_Ca_YuoB3fwjthcEKgPjxAAKb20ToTWA4kpPzT8Eicy0iihirlpaE/s320/screenshot+1.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY07nHUsu2KlwK6l1jFqFC6Pta5uAvfYopb8XLR7EZNNtuOUzR7FDzBPV-3DNdWsYoDo8CDuisp0xBUYZ8bWO1f94FTij8UP_B6tuEzkCfI-D1RnsngOLlr4idvLg45y6mo_5xrR4sHr0/s737/screenshot+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="737" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY07nHUsu2KlwK6l1jFqFC6Pta5uAvfYopb8XLR7EZNNtuOUzR7FDzBPV-3DNdWsYoDo8CDuisp0xBUYZ8bWO1f94FTij8UP_B6tuEzkCfI-D1RnsngOLlr4idvLg45y6mo_5xrR4sHr0/w327-h230/screenshot+2.jpg" width="327" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Yes, she has no real clue.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">But ... I LOVE HER SO FUCK MUCH! SHE IS AND WILL FOREVER BE, MY PRECIOUS STONE!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">What I did, I did for all the right reasons. I want a better life for my grandson, I want my daughter to get clean, and I want a better life for her. That's it. That's all. I just want to break the cure of abuse, neglect and have them break free into a beautiful future.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Once again, I am willing to make a sacrifice. I am willing to sacrifice never seeing them again as long as I can rest in knowing I did the right thing to <i><b>ensure that they will</b></i> have a brighter future.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><b><i>Now ... you decide.</i></b></div><p></p>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-53105991193308319612021-09-30T11:01:00.003-04:002021-09-30T11:01:34.812-04:00Journal Entry 9/30/2021<h2 style="text-align: center;">I need a Spiritual Release—a Soul Cleansing.</h2><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi95ZHmmu_9R8BOI8njX5dBC2_WLoRw_a4N4oPq37X8G2rkIMR0xyoYOMVTbLni0H-OIfiX9UxyFMp_wvq5wc1SmVw44KRru2GRj4zn0zEfw4LKVSdKoShbhMtd31Me_zkQAT3dWKf8VNQ/s220/spiritual-universe.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="220" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi95ZHmmu_9R8BOI8njX5dBC2_WLoRw_a4N4oPq37X8G2rkIMR0xyoYOMVTbLni0H-OIfiX9UxyFMp_wvq5wc1SmVw44KRru2GRj4zn0zEfw4LKVSdKoShbhMtd31Me_zkQAT3dWKf8VNQ/w342-h342/spiritual-universe.gif" width="342" /></a></div><br /><h3 style="text-align: center;">Have you ever just felt like you needed to <b><u><i>see</i></u></b> the Universe/God/Higher Being <b><u><i>seeing you</i></u></b>?</h3><p style="text-align: justify;">And if I could, and if It did, I would ask a multitude of questions. Seal all of the hole which perforate my soul. Satiate my desire to connect with something bigger; grander and more magnificent than myself.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">In recent weeks I have learned a Universal secret—one that I would love to share, but first have to master.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">But I am getting ahead of myself, for this post is not about this topic, but something else.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">With that said, let me dive into the meat of this post.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvtUwthICpABg3M7ZLgtEuYKmkerlg1FaEeoaFknOR5cdCd4tbnRE9K4jCQIoaAVWhqzxq7_0kIpb-WO-EBh6MNPh5Z4VkOXn5wjU4LEgRjlIiMsSxjjeH-08WEKJzeUMUXfUsaAco0To/s1000/1358805_orig.jpg.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="1000" height="64" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvtUwthICpABg3M7ZLgtEuYKmkerlg1FaEeoaFknOR5cdCd4tbnRE9K4jCQIoaAVWhqzxq7_0kIpb-WO-EBh6MNPh5Z4VkOXn5wjU4LEgRjlIiMsSxjjeH-08WEKJzeUMUXfUsaAco0To/s320/1358805_orig.jpg.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">Hell, this may not make sense to anyone else but me. Frankly, it doesn't matter as long <b><i>as it makes sense to me</i></b>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">When I was younger, I found a place inside of myself, where I could go externally in order to fulfil the need to be heard by the Cosmos. Though it might seem like a contradiction, I assure you, it is not.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">However, time has lent itself to loss; thus, I have lost my ability to tap into that space like I used to. And it hurts me deeply.</p><h3 style="text-align: center;"><b><u><i>The place?<br /></i></u></b><b>Music.</b></h3><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8yJ90L7o9b5yLZ_DzBYKCij80n_S16rrnkld-IMZIf6-ItwIsQ43hJVB-2byvnCm3gP8ck6-jIP0FSDNf2LsEoprfspjV6P5q_xwXw184h6y0r8pKJgOIOL65-fleLFOGqFy3hiJHWjI/s1600/singing.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8yJ90L7o9b5yLZ_DzBYKCij80n_S16rrnkld-IMZIf6-ItwIsQ43hJVB-2byvnCm3gP8ck6-jIP0FSDNf2LsEoprfspjV6P5q_xwXw184h6y0r8pKJgOIOL65-fleLFOGqFy3hiJHWjI/s320/singing.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br />For those of you who do not know, I used to sing. No, not just in the shower. I used to sing in churches, in concerts, and out in the open. I sang Gospel, for having grown up Christian, it was what I knew. But I in so doing I learned that I could beckon, through song, the expanse of Creation and it would hear me, feel me, see me, and respond.<p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">About a decade ago, I lost that ability. I can narrow it down to the very time and day. But I will spare you the specifics.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I can remember with so much accuracy that I can recall the sensations of living waters running down my spine as I was lifted into a realm that was far beyond this plain.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I've lost it. I called that ability "My Beloved," for it was pure, unadulterated, unconditional and exponential love that I felt whenever I opened my mouth to call upon the name of Jah through song.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">There wasn't, and never will be, anything like it. I was transported; flown above the macrocosm and into a pocket of space where time, material, superficial and all relative things did not exist. It was just Totality and I. And it was wonderful. There I could speak to It, ask things, receive things that money could not buy. It was my Sanctuary.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio_Pk-eI6erXVu2JbLC1LMHcqjblEUNsKzH-eVlSfq4R2Fw_doO9Me3i_O3D23aRJKN9Ky8f1HsRH22Wb6C6iZrXCn09PqjmUsjH9fAPdM5QEEIMiEpJlLtbz7xIbW23r3wzPxjilBoZQ/s1000/1358805_orig.jpg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="1000" height="64" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio_Pk-eI6erXVu2JbLC1LMHcqjblEUNsKzH-eVlSfq4R2Fw_doO9Me3i_O3D23aRJKN9Ky8f1HsRH22Wb6C6iZrXCn09PqjmUsjH9fAPdM5QEEIMiEpJlLtbz7xIbW23r3wzPxjilBoZQ/s320/1358805_orig.jpg.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Nowadays I yearn to regain that lost gift. Especially in times of need and anguish, such as I have been experiencing lately. But it's so far from my grasp. I can almost taste it, but can't quite grab it. I want it back, My Beloved. I want to open my mouth and call upon it once again, for it is where my peace lies.</p>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-31472177771575064922021-09-29T11:20:00.000-04:002021-09-29T11:20:24.190-04:00Journal Entry 9/29/2021<p style="text-align: justify;">The last week has been really trying for me.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I injured my back whilst getting out of the shower and since then I have been in massive amounts of pain.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">There is a reason I am bringing this up. It's gotten me thinking about some stuff.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In order to make things clearer, I have to rewind a bit.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCUoZz5ZssBkJ63Re9s5mmORM-LegbbJZ8kfDYa6scQ1H2AkMPcMy5FZWPGBhgJxiPSF55azT_hbcSDgBw8EecGT3AOJB1f0GNNWKORsnxSUg0CIx_pfWWFVsCZehv_jtqlYtSJOi-svw/s646/rewind.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="646" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCUoZz5ZssBkJ63Re9s5mmORM-LegbbJZ8kfDYa6scQ1H2AkMPcMy5FZWPGBhgJxiPSF55azT_hbcSDgBw8EecGT3AOJB1f0GNNWKORsnxSUg0CIx_pfWWFVsCZehv_jtqlYtSJOi-svw/s320/rewind.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">Through this blog I have slowly but surely divulged many things about my life. It's been, in a way, my variation of an autobiography.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">So, in that spirit, here is a little something else you didn't know about me ....</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I was an underdeveloped infant at birth. I was not premature, I was just underdeveloped due to some major health issues that my mother was having whilst pregnant of me. So, while I was full-term, at birth I was the size and development of a premature baby.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I was all of 2 pounds and 3 ounces, and a whole 12 inches long. Literally the size of a baby-doll toy.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn7IvKk8UZVW0e29eilKVowodZWzgkfCjKJ-EZ0c6xPVrKwKxA9RAPiT16RdndF2naX7S0M_piRSBZ9f856fHQ0MfBMtKuaVJ1VJTreEzC9F6HwnDwv_z1ofH8zi8KASlhh_zUmVIvj5U/s656/babydoll.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="656" data-original-width="509" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn7IvKk8UZVW0e29eilKVowodZWzgkfCjKJ-EZ0c6xPVrKwKxA9RAPiT16RdndF2naX7S0M_piRSBZ9f856fHQ0MfBMtKuaVJ1VJTreEzC9F6HwnDwv_z1ofH8zi8KASlhh_zUmVIvj5U/s320/babydoll.gif" width="248" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">As a matter of fact, my mother and grandmother used to buy baby-doll toys just to take their clothes off in order to dress me. This was because at that time premature baby clothing didn't exist.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">My mother's attending doctor and my pediatrician gave me a less than 30% chance of survival. After only 1 month in an incubator and still very fragile, but against doctor's advise/orders, my mother decided to take me home.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The issue was that I was still underdeveloped and taking me home would mean that I would have a smaller chance of survival and a bigger chance of developing immediate and future major health issues.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Well, here I am, and as per predicted, I survived but my health is absolute shit.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">During my childhood I was a sickly child, and now, well ... I mean, I am in my mid-forties and there isn't an ailment in the world that I don't have.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">At least it feels that way sometimes.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Now that that's out of the way, back to the point I was trying to get to.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy20bHGfNkBHncnTgN51ngsquGHJuZQSpnxyBZ8TfqCgTkSit385n6KwpiN2uK6jgsoUNhbV4Xs59zQPWM8fu_ywxRR14IDL_Kj4INo206a0oQbXLSGQr2evxfVWA5cvi1h4zBoi3PLig/s200/fast+forward.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy20bHGfNkBHncnTgN51ngsquGHJuZQSpnxyBZ8TfqCgTkSit385n6KwpiN2uK6jgsoUNhbV4Xs59zQPWM8fu_ywxRR14IDL_Kj4INo206a0oQbXLSGQr2evxfVWA5cvi1h4zBoi3PLig/s0/fast+forward.gif" width="200" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">For several years now I have been dealing with increasingly declining health. Throughout this time I have learned of various congenital defects that I was born with that I had no clue existed. Earlier this year it was something in my brain. There was something else before that which I cannot recall at the moment. And this time, I've learned that I have even more congenital issues with my spine. This was discovered during my visit to the ER when I hurt my back.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Like, what more do I need? Seriously!</p><p style="text-align: justify;">This causes an inner debate, and it isn't all peaches and cream.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">It gets me to wondering;</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Why did I survive if I was going to have to live a life full of physical pain?</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Why didn't I fall into that percentile that didn't make it?</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Why didn't my mother just leave me in the care of the attending physicians? Maybe I would have had a chance at a healthier life.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">There are so many questions. My fear is learning later on that I have even more issues that I had no inkling of.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">There is so much more happening in my brain right now regarding all of this that I don't even know if I can get it on paper. My mind is a scramble of "what ifs" and "whys".</p><p style="text-align: justify;">All I know right now is that life is so fucking unfair.</p>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-36856981131622838132021-09-22T09:37:00.002-04:002021-09-22T09:37:29.397-04:00Journal Entry 9/22/2021<p style="text-align: justify;"> Every day I feel a little more like a broken individual who just can't get fixed.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvHNM4eXfGiaggtQT9iGKE5I_qNjP9s9uu20FnCmkI9mnfMZoWe8XWXsJOKLZohSaIs3iMD7LTkwIU4PFysvCY4I9GsVIorJNFZ3EY2Mg9-qVTYKt4HHsKQnFgKHQ9K0FXK5656nthvw/s240/FreeAdoredBluebird-max-1mb.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="133" data-original-width="240" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvHNM4eXfGiaggtQT9iGKE5I_qNjP9s9uu20FnCmkI9mnfMZoWe8XWXsJOKLZohSaIs3iMD7LTkwIU4PFysvCY4I9GsVIorJNFZ3EY2Mg9-qVTYKt4HHsKQnFgKHQ9K0FXK5656nthvw/s0/FreeAdoredBluebird-max-1mb.gif" width="240" /></a></div><h3 style="text-align: center;">Call me "Ms. Glass".</h3><p style="text-align: justify;">I tend to think of myself as a once beautiful porcelain bowl that was dropped, broken into a thousand pieces, then mending itself with Crazy Glue. The cracks still show, and it is slowly coming apart and leaking.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7DZ_QAHAA5hidSVpsGKvZazwu24mkpC1LhfBtceGW9YlVDVBTQ718g9D9KiJs51NrOQleCr6vEAdSRQ34eoxt6a9_4EuE5we57eo1zQ3k-5FVtwgdEBQU3k0_bMIm1hu79uG9Yz5ZbM/s2067/Christmas-Dividers-PNG-File.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="2067" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7DZ_QAHAA5hidSVpsGKvZazwu24mkpC1LhfBtceGW9YlVDVBTQ718g9D9KiJs51NrOQleCr6vEAdSRQ34eoxt6a9_4EuE5we57eo1zQ3k-5FVtwgdEBQU3k0_bMIm1hu79uG9Yz5ZbM/s320/Christmas-Dividers-PNG-File.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">Last night I learned ... like, <b><i><u>deeply learned</u></i></b>, that I have a tenuous and unhealthy relationship with money. But only as it pertains to myself. Not others.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">This might not make any sense to anyone but me, but there it is. It's my truth. So it doesn't matter if it doesn't make sense to anyone else.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Through a very enlightening conversation with my soul sister I got to the core of why I had so many issues and anxiety with managing my own monies. When it came to me—very uncomfortably, I might add—I nearly had a full-blown anxiety attack before I could even get the words out. It was then that I realized that this truth was dug so far inside that even I couldn't see it until I allowed myself to do so. I had hidden it from myself.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">My truth, my dubious relationship with money started ages ago when money became the focal point of everything. My dad was a gambler. A very good one I might add. He would bring home hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars in just a weekend of gambling. The monies were just tossed atop the bed like candy falling from a piñata. It was then that my mother's shopping addiction started. My mother has always had an addictive personality. When she wasn't addicted to one thing it was another.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">This made the finances incredibly unstable. We might be dancing in dough today, and fending for scraps tomorrow. There was the rollercoaster of having and not having; of hand-me-downs that were ill suited for anyone, to extravagance that was far too much for the hood. And we indubitably grew up in the hood.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Then ... my dad stopped gambling. He cleaned up his act. <b><i><u>That is when poverty came and stuck</u></i></b>!</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The rest, as the say, is history. The proverbial rollercoaster, turned into a full-on haunted house.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7DZ_QAHAA5hidSVpsGKvZazwu24mkpC1LhfBtceGW9YlVDVBTQ718g9D9KiJs51NrOQleCr6vEAdSRQ34eoxt6a9_4EuE5we57eo1zQ3k-5FVtwgdEBQU3k0_bMIm1hu79uG9Yz5ZbM/s2067/Christmas-Dividers-PNG-File.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="2067" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7DZ_QAHAA5hidSVpsGKvZazwu24mkpC1LhfBtceGW9YlVDVBTQ718g9D9KiJs51NrOQleCr6vEAdSRQ34eoxt6a9_4EuE5we57eo1zQ3k-5FVtwgdEBQU3k0_bMIm1hu79uG9Yz5ZbM/s320/Christmas-Dividers-PNG-File.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Then came my adulthood. This too led to a perpetual instability and struggle with money. Always ... struggling. Always, fighting. Always.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Having tied myself to an incredibly horrid man who intentionally belittled me at every turn, he made it clear that my worth was only in as much as I could provide financially. It didn't matter how perfect of a wife I was (and I was a <b style="font-style: italic;">fucking perfect wife</b>) if I could not produce the monies he thought I should be producing, then I was worthless. Period.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">One day he said something to me that stuck. It stuck like nothing had ever stuck before. I think these words changed my life entirely when it came to my relationship with money. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">We were having an argument about his constant need to indulge in expensive things and have fancy stuff, and the extents to which he would go to in order to get those things. I said, "Life isn't all about the money."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">He said, "Yes it is."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I asked him, "So you would rather have money than your wife and kids? No, wait, what would you choose ... money and fancy stuff, or your family?"</p><p style="text-align: justify;">He said, with the most serious look I had ever seen before, "I would ALWAYS CHOOSE THE MONEY."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Those words broke my soul.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7DZ_QAHAA5hidSVpsGKvZazwu24mkpC1LhfBtceGW9YlVDVBTQ718g9D9KiJs51NrOQleCr6vEAdSRQ34eoxt6a9_4EuE5we57eo1zQ3k-5FVtwgdEBQU3k0_bMIm1hu79uG9Yz5ZbM/s2067/Christmas-Dividers-PNG-File.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="2067" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7DZ_QAHAA5hidSVpsGKvZazwu24mkpC1LhfBtceGW9YlVDVBTQ718g9D9KiJs51NrOQleCr6vEAdSRQ34eoxt6a9_4EuE5we57eo1zQ3k-5FVtwgdEBQU3k0_bMIm1hu79uG9Yz5ZbM/s320/Christmas-Dividers-PNG-File.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><p style="text-align: justify;">When we finally broke up, the struggle of poverty continued. Always fighting, always trying to make a way. Always trying to make ends meet. <b><u><i>Always</i></u></b>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The money was never enough. And whenever I thought I was finally breathing from the struggle, something else came along.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Eventually, money became poison.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">It was fire and ice. I didn't want it even though I needed it. It was my best friend and my worst enemy. Whenever I had it, I wanted it to go as fast as possible. Whenever I didn't have it, I needed it right away.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7DZ_QAHAA5hidSVpsGKvZazwu24mkpC1LhfBtceGW9YlVDVBTQ718g9D9KiJs51NrOQleCr6vEAdSRQ34eoxt6a9_4EuE5we57eo1zQ3k-5FVtwgdEBQU3k0_bMIm1hu79uG9Yz5ZbM/s2067/Christmas-Dividers-PNG-File.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="2067" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7DZ_QAHAA5hidSVpsGKvZazwu24mkpC1LhfBtceGW9YlVDVBTQ718g9D9KiJs51NrOQleCr6vEAdSRQ34eoxt6a9_4EuE5we57eo1zQ3k-5FVtwgdEBQU3k0_bMIm1hu79uG9Yz5ZbM/s320/Christmas-Dividers-PNG-File.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I've learned that I am damaged. Sometimes I feel that it is beyond repair. I wonder, is it even worth trying to continue working to my enlightenment, and through this chaos, or jus do like most and say "this is me"?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I want to say the former is the most beneficial route, but the latter seems more convenient. Mostly because, despite writing this blog post without shedding a tear, I am hurting inside. Why? Because the route to enlightenment hurts like a son of a bitch.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Of course I will keep working, but just for today I am feeling quite tired.</p>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-37030588147095117782021-09-15T09:53:00.000-04:002021-09-15T10:44:56.080-04:00Florida Trip 2021—Journal Entry Part 3<p> If any of my experiences while in Florida this year broke my heart it is the one I am about to share with you.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpac_9jvaIcFl8jgcsGUn5Zu7X7jhLPP6_LWUFHH6kHs9VcvGX7K6kr3sCXVEf7jKPJb_NtfeGKioKUWVnNMAW-MBxORkjPRIhNmgPOyCn5EFJk4Ojm1y5z6U-CSwOzkEMlKvAFGMEw0M/s500/heartbreak.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="500" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpac_9jvaIcFl8jgcsGUn5Zu7X7jhLPP6_LWUFHH6kHs9VcvGX7K6kr3sCXVEf7jKPJb_NtfeGKioKUWVnNMAW-MBxORkjPRIhNmgPOyCn5EFJk4Ojm1y5z6U-CSwOzkEMlKvAFGMEw0M/s320/heartbreak.gif" width="320"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">If you've followed my blog, you probably know a little bit about my relationship with my oldest daughter Amanda.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Let me be clear ... I fucking adore her. I love her to death. Just as I do all of my kids. But, being that she is my first born, and the one I "grew up" with, for many years she was my best friend as well as my daughter so the bond was special.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBFKf2WZDzdVtmrO_w3CEMiLkbcqH2qJle57VIbGJr10wHkZ6E9Z7u5I_ETabODRtNxcba_JDzTy6-uyurRLjbGKVisvUFS8ZZRuY-a7zXTf1duqN4EYVoG6bnJ7xAxDkWyxW-t_Cp_E/s2048/Promo-Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBFKf2WZDzdVtmrO_w3CEMiLkbcqH2qJle57VIbGJr10wHkZ6E9Z7u5I_ETabODRtNxcba_JDzTy6-uyurRLjbGKVisvUFS8ZZRuY-a7zXTf1duqN4EYVoG6bnJ7xAxDkWyxW-t_Cp_E/w400-h400/Promo-Collage.jpg" width="400"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(<i>In case you are wondering who is who; I am the shorter/smaller one in all of the images. All of my kids are bigger than me. I'm not the biggest person in the world. LOL</i>)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">At any rate ... things went to shit. Dysfunction does that, <b><i>always</i></b>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Dysfunction <i><b>always</b></i> ruins beauty, no two ways about it. What could have perhaps been the most beautiful mother/daughter bond of all time went to shit quick, fast and in a hurry.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Honestly, I wish it hadn't. Amanda means so much to me. All of my kids do, of course. In their own ways they are all so incredibly important and beautiful to me. I am not sure if anyone could ever understand what I am going to say without misconstruing it as a "playing favorite" thing, because it isn't that. It's just my truth.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">When Amanda was born, I saw her soul. I saw in her, the she that she was always meant to be. And it was a glorious one. Amanda has such a gorgeous soul. Tender, caring, sweet, kind, giving, selfless ... all of the things that generally don't exist anymore. I saw all of the best parts of me in her and my hopes for her were high. So very high.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">There was also a fragility there that I thought I needed to nip in the bud, or it would destroy her. I admit, I must've done it altogether incorrectly. In my attempt to toughen her up, I broke her down. The tenderness of her soul, I saw as a threat that would eventually be her inevitable demise. I was right. But my approach to fixing that was completely wrong. I see that now.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCYAawqO5JcQkmI1uTtijtGWd9LFWE8eACXy4rSAUTZwdbOy1CRldOCByZ0oKEI80Q4bKEYHweviN9tZtryKx4rKEXRCfgPRwvXq59H03qPZaUs_xy0mLMGUCGUfeZQyl-Ktf75nYKYCU/s750/crying.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="545" data-original-width="750" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCYAawqO5JcQkmI1uTtijtGWd9LFWE8eACXy4rSAUTZwdbOy1CRldOCByZ0oKEI80Q4bKEYHweviN9tZtryKx4rKEXRCfgPRwvXq59H03qPZaUs_xy0mLMGUCGUfeZQyl-Ktf75nYKYCU/s320/crying.gif" width="320"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I recognized that frailty because it had come from me, and it was the very same one that led to my childhood trauma. Thus, it was the very same type of damage I was aiming to protect her from. Not knowing any better, I made things worse.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG5IABc-TF63FP3Xn0ZNrhqohGp0B37wwnYOwGkD3FS2q6pzcjmve72QUSiBk_t_tKzAJCQ4NXWqA9y96qewcxMI1_YjOE065pJndimR6RJoZExFrFrRdCHzSkqB_zOG6TOTExeM-vFPs/s786/1658518_preview_preview.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="786" height="103" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG5IABc-TF63FP3Xn0ZNrhqohGp0B37wwnYOwGkD3FS2q6pzcjmve72QUSiBk_t_tKzAJCQ4NXWqA9y96qewcxMI1_YjOE065pJndimR6RJoZExFrFrRdCHzSkqB_zOG6TOTExeM-vFPs/s320/1658518_preview_preview.png" width="320"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Fast forward a farrago of turmoil and many years later, many things had transpired that cannot be undone.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">For more about that you can visit my previous blog <a href="https://authorycorrea.blogspot.com/2021/06/connecting-some-dots.html" target="_blank">HERE</a>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Now, time to get into what I wanted to address with this post.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">One of the things I was aiming to do while I was in Florida, as I mentioned yesterday, was make amends with my two oldest kids; Phillip (26) and Amanda (28).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I was under substantial time restraints but I wanted to catch Amanda by surprise. I knew she had no clue that we'd (my bestie, my youngest son, and myself) had traveled down and that was on purpose. Having made substantial, albeit, not wonderfully put together plans, we made the trip to Miami from Vero Beach. Most of my family lives in Vero Beach, but Amanda lives in Miami. There is a three hour ride between them.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBqfwSc5ymz1eicmUOnVt_2wxjHIrA8pMhenewjQh1hPVYEvf4kTJ8pIqh9lECgn_yJhzYQeo0gTckUqEzO5e9oBmhbc4hnDMJ8VDjKlCoVRiFQ4IdkPnLg2TOcI-qpSiDuWuhRvE6Hg/s480/surprise.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="480" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBqfwSc5ymz1eicmUOnVt_2wxjHIrA8pMhenewjQh1hPVYEvf4kTJ8pIqh9lECgn_yJhzYQeo0gTckUqEzO5e9oBmhbc4hnDMJ8VDjKlCoVRiFQ4IdkPnLg2TOcI-qpSiDuWuhRvE6Hg/s320/surprise.gif" width="320"></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The idea was, hopefully, to catch Amanda at work and have her take up to her apartment to see my grandson Khai. That didn't pan out. Of course, those are the risks we gamble when we surprise people.</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">As it turned out, Amanda was with her mother-in-law, and Khai was back at Amanda's apartment being babysat. Amanda was going to go straight to work from her mother-in-law's house so I wouldn't be able to catch them together if I tried under the time restraints. The only option was to see them apart.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Thus, we made our way to Amanda's apartment first to see my grandson Khai, and once there I had the babysitter contact Amanda's mother-in-law to let her know that we were on our way there but to keep it a secret.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzZoTil7f_sKc6daM0iTzkaRIsRLEXnmL5SbKJzQDV1JnFNDga45CF0SmdWNTH1WWa0EVgqBBdzbFxVNY-LKHnKgJawf-_CsSSE2_wuXO2YbAggH_jy3C8-isQyXdE2ye5GHB441U8pJQ/s620/disappointed.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="620" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzZoTil7f_sKc6daM0iTzkaRIsRLEXnmL5SbKJzQDV1JnFNDga45CF0SmdWNTH1WWa0EVgqBBdzbFxVNY-LKHnKgJawf-_CsSSE2_wuXO2YbAggH_jy3C8-isQyXdE2ye5GHB441U8pJQ/s320/disappointed.gif" width="320"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">On the surface that all seems like great fun, right? Right.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Talk about raining on my parade.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTa09abZf_zKui4UYvG6ER126BDKdp_8k4fspsP1rNEG9A-SYLotIzhFfwAy-H-7xxH_T5BP-IihzebYFWGCFd9KCFmbaA0gkU29fGhxWk9r9dLF2WP80AcD-IJqGcEIDciYxfaUIHwGA/s500/very+sad.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="277" data-original-width="500" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTa09abZf_zKui4UYvG6ER126BDKdp_8k4fspsP1rNEG9A-SYLotIzhFfwAy-H-7xxH_T5BP-IihzebYFWGCFd9KCFmbaA0gkU29fGhxWk9r9dLF2WP80AcD-IJqGcEIDciYxfaUIHwGA/s320/very+sad.gif" width="320"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">No mother ever wants to see their child, let alone their grandchild, living in such a heinous condition. I will try to explain the best way I can.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">When we arrived home after the trip there was a trash bag that we'd forgotten to put out before we left, and of course the cat litter that needed cleaning. The smell when we walked in was strong. Strong enough for me to say, "Damn, that stinks. What the fuck?" If you've ever had a similar experience then you can understand what I am alluding to.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Now, if you can image that smell, but multiply it exponentially it was be akin to the smell of an animal shelter that has not been cleaned properly for at least a week. Just imagine all of the animal feces and urine compiled and dried up everywhere, along with all of the other yuckiness that comes along with it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I know what the latter smells like because for a time I worked at an animal clinic/shelter.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Now that you probably have a clear picture of what I am attempting to explain ... <b>THAT</b> is what her apartment smelled like. <b><i>Exactly that</i></b>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I swear on my grandmother's grave that I wish I were exaggerating. I truly do.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">To make matters worse still, the smell was all over my grandson.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My heart ached immeasurably because I wanted to coddle him, hold him, kiss him and love on him. I wanted so bad to give him so much love. And, I did to some degree. But it was so hard to get past the smell. <i><b>So fucking hard!</b></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><b><br></b></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My best friend was astounded that I could show him as much affection as I did under the circumstances.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I could not gather the nerve to go inside of the apartment so the babysitter and my grandson came outside but left the door open behind them.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And let me tell you ... Khai was dirty. Oh so dirty. As I mentioned previously, he smelled horribly. But then there was the fact that his hair looked like it was matted and hadn't been brushed in weeks. His underpants (he's been recently potty trained; he's only 3-years-old) were wet and no one had changed them yet. His 4 front teeth were decayed like no one had taken the time to show him how to properly brush his teeth, or even do it for him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyxWKDhbmIIVEHVud6h77NX0kzg-wF_-dIWP6MEwUvrd2bjZ_-FcR6ucMwKmVO3lbSKUSy1UvnE0z5i8LTT5pq5EPGQb_z7RUdGkXiPApZzFXU7qa1WNqaowui3hStHPh63e96ceQFyI/s500/heartbreak.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="500" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyxWKDhbmIIVEHVud6h77NX0kzg-wF_-dIWP6MEwUvrd2bjZ_-FcR6ucMwKmVO3lbSKUSy1UvnE0z5i8LTT5pq5EPGQb_z7RUdGkXiPApZzFXU7qa1WNqaowui3hStHPh63e96ceQFyI/s320/heartbreak.gif" width="320"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Then I peeked inside of the apartment just to get an idea of what the living space actually looked like.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">If you've ever seen an episode of hoarders, you'd have an idea. Only not as much stuff, but with all of the dirt, grime and nastiness.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I left there with but one thought on mind, "<b><i>Do I call CPS? <u>Should</u> I call CPS? Why hasn't anyone called CPS yet?</i></b>"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I am still really struggling with that. I mean, deeply struggling with that to this day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">A little less than an hour later I finally got around to seeing Amanda and the reunion was incredibly bittersweet. Although, more bitter than sweet.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">She too smelled horribly but covered it with large amounts of perfume. She looked sickly and unhealthy, and she looked like a shadow of the light she used to be.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><b>A mere shadow.</b></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">That is the image I am left with of her and my grandson at this point. I don't know what I am supposed to do with that. I truly don't.</div>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-6187992359380523932021-09-14T09:15:00.006-04:002021-09-15T08:19:34.379-04:00Florida Trip 2021—Journal Entry Part 2<p style="text-align: justify;">So as I said in my last one of these entries ... my trip was very enlightening and interesting.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Today I want to take the time to talk about what happened with my son Phillip. He's my 2nd born, and unfortunately, the one with whom I've had the worst relationship with throughout his life.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">There is so much to say that I frankly am not sure where to start. I guess it's best to start at the beginning.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">My son's nickname is Pipo (pronounced Pea-poe). If you see me refer to him as such it's because that is what I always call him.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Our dysfunction started even before he was born. I hate to say it, but it's the truth. My pregnancy of him was unexpected.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">It wasn't that I didn't want him, I just wasn't ready for another child at that time. The life of turmoil that I was living scarred me profusely so I was in such a horrific place that I had nothing left to give emotionally. Especially to another child. I was barely able to give love, attention and nurturing to the one I already had.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Nonetheless, I am not the one to abort my children (I am not against abortion, I just don't abort my own) so I pushed forward with the pregnancy.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">My husband at the time had abandoned my daughter and I (whilst I was pregnant) so I was thrust into single motherhood at the ripe age of 18. This caused a cyclone of bedlam inside and around me.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">When a child is born everyone expects this picture perfect union between mother and child.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNeCW1BnjFISxpDhLdwyTAMqe8bdnCAPh6wcd2nib-eRpXZDUif1pDIRvgkR18B85DmAZnKoAnBo90oXhyphenhypheno0gORpjENzwn6m8skvbuxNDjJeXxNJyZNBsRgrrRlhwW2gm0PN27g5lesx8/s512/unnamed.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="319" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNeCW1BnjFISxpDhLdwyTAMqe8bdnCAPh6wcd2nib-eRpXZDUif1pDIRvgkR18B85DmAZnKoAnBo90oXhyphenhypheno0gORpjENzwn6m8skvbuxNDjJeXxNJyZNBsRgrrRlhwW2gm0PN27g5lesx8/s320/unnamed.png" width="199" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">There is the supposition that there will be an instant connection and all things will be beautiful.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">But what happens when the situation is just the opposite?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I had Postpartum Depression.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBqhFfXYDmbK55eclwZ6zwNkyffeqiXQsL4t7tal0c2rbNIA0BMh1hLDhoZvbmQHbrvIlBeIE7UVO9SqZ6U-Gh5xdzX8OnNYhewj9DMbUjcs3Rc0UbtngASMOqLnntkmaVIOlVTtolIE/s500/istockphoto-1065630112-612x612-removebg-preview.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBqhFfXYDmbK55eclwZ6zwNkyffeqiXQsL4t7tal0c2rbNIA0BMh1hLDhoZvbmQHbrvIlBeIE7UVO9SqZ6U-Gh5xdzX8OnNYhewj9DMbUjcs3Rc0UbtngASMOqLnntkmaVIOlVTtolIE/s320/istockphoto-1065630112-612x612-removebg-preview.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">But at the time no one really knew what that was and much less how to address it or help a woman going through it. Thus, unfortunately, a true bond never formed between Pipo and I. I loved and love him ... of course I did/do! But we lacked the bond/connection that a mother and son should have.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">To make matters worse, time served only to hinder an already tenuous situation. Pipo had dyslexia and ADHD. Which in the Hispanic community at that time was just a way to say that the child was a misbehaved child and just needed more discipline. The more out of pocket Pipo got, the more rigid I became. I didn't know any better. No one pointed me in the right direction. No one told me that there was a better way.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">When I asked for advice all I got was "Whoop his ass, that'll fix him." And I was already spanking the life out of him, how much more spanking could I do? The more mutinous he became, the more angry I got. The angrier I got the worse I punished him. The more I punished him, the more I begrudged him. The more I begrudged him, the more he begrudged me. And the cycle just kept compiling into an avalanche of unaddressed dysfunction.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8IteOZUL9SL5SQ73XfxTgpYEYzQkXvAHngD1dGBjzuUbDSWww8S7-1NH-ajj20ulh5Z5LCfn8q2q4BQwbIwx6FHJ0IMQgdOMaG9iChEwKC4OagdkzhGkenkA_lhULDXfu5Kui2c-X95U/s660/MAC24_DIFFICULT_MOTHERS01MERGE_wide.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="277" data-original-width="660" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8IteOZUL9SL5SQ73XfxTgpYEYzQkXvAHngD1dGBjzuUbDSWww8S7-1NH-ajj20ulh5Z5LCfn8q2q4BQwbIwx6FHJ0IMQgdOMaG9iChEwKC4OagdkzhGkenkA_lhULDXfu5Kui2c-X95U/s320/MAC24_DIFFICULT_MOTHERS01MERGE_wide.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Soon an already splintered mother/son relationship became altogether fractured. I couldn't stand the sight of him, and vice-versa.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">One day, amidst myriad tribulations, I opted out! I needed to save myself from the drowning ship known as my family unit. I had no choice. It was either leave or die. I left. Pipo didn't want to go so he stayed behind. 6 years later, he is still in the drowning ship.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrc7LCqT6YkQEEafWQkg2vlgkRqQQqsq9KXV3lqoJErvwSrB9jJEFFgiI64mQ8q8hbtvaZT1gE6iSLzc3LizZLzCF9oTsbSHMu7Jr7JdiAP3N4JVIowbvWOcVhk4UiwaSWMFLFaTEkch0/s2400/DecorativeDivider204.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="2400" height="50" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrc7LCqT6YkQEEafWQkg2vlgkRqQQqsq9KXV3lqoJErvwSrB9jJEFFgiI64mQ8q8hbtvaZT1gE6iSLzc3LizZLzCF9oTsbSHMu7Jr7JdiAP3N4JVIowbvWOcVhk4UiwaSWMFLFaTEkch0/s320/DecorativeDivider204.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>I'd been working on myself for some time. One thing that I knew that I need to fix was my relationship with Pipo. I needed to make amends some how. I needed to tell him some things that he needed to hear.<p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Upon my visit to Florida this past week I took advantage of that time to do just that.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I hadn't seen a proper picture of him or video chatted him or anything like that in nearly 6 years. We only ever spoke on holidays or special days and we had essentially no communication between us.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">When I saw him for the very first time my heart broke into a million pieces. He looked terrible. Just totally and absolutely abandoned. He looked like ... well, I won't go into details. Let's just say that no mother wants to see their child in that condition.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The one day that I had time for just he and I to speak, I did so.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">At first he seemed apprehensive. I imagine it was because he expected me to come at him with harsh words and judgement. That was never my plan.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">As a matter of fact, it was just the opposite. I wanted to apologize for not understanding him. I wanted to apologize for not being a good mom to him. I wanted him to know that I love him. I wanted to tell him that I take all the responsibility for the damage that was caused to him. I wanted Pipo to know that I took all of the accountability for the part I played in ruining his life and I wanted nothing more than to be able to establish a better relationship with him. I told him ... I want to be your mom, the mom you deserve. I want you to let me be that.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Immediately, the flood gates opened. He opened up to me in a way that he had never done before. All of the pain and angst he had against me, it was all let out in tears and words of disappointment. He told me how he felt growing up and how what I had just said to him meant everything to him.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The entire event was life changing.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The look in his eyes, I will never forget it. I get choked up right now just remembering it. I saw his soul ... every bit of his soul in his eyes that day. All of it. I saw <i><b>MY SON. My Pipo</b></i>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I would like to think that that day the bond we lacked in his 26 years began to repair itself. In the days that followed we saw so many similarities in one another. There were so many things about him that I didn't know were just like me. I saw me in him, I saw him in me. I saw us. The way Spirit intended.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">My heart was full that day in that aspect. If any good came out of that trip, it was the fact that I regained my Pipo. For that, I am eternally grateful.</p>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-72244731639352871482021-09-13T13:07:00.001-04:002021-09-13T13:07:08.069-04:00Journal Entry—9/13/2021<div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTh24lW3lMVCNQyemRn6BqyADNccPQNNtr_EXmJCH4tIFOcGO8crs-T-ZnJb1_qm8FgkoAl6fEDUYlIGUAMpjziS3ODmSWnkLaYd-I_xhausRXjsstaAyG1yuzP-k1bZj39FuqLwTACtw/s220/tupac-tupac-shakur.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTh24lW3lMVCNQyemRn6BqyADNccPQNNtr_EXmJCH4tIFOcGO8crs-T-ZnJb1_qm8FgkoAl6fEDUYlIGUAMpjziS3ODmSWnkLaYd-I_xhausRXjsstaAyG1yuzP-k1bZj39FuqLwTACtw/w400-h267/tupac-tupac-shakur.gif" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: center;">If the looks on our faces could talk, what would mine be saying right now?</h2><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGt-GFI8oCPc3xGNUtdHWI0ZwXm1fdpw0OnLqVWyjbxuNQzSEW6E-BxjNp2Zb8bKu2dRVFeZ6SoA9qkHsOio2JY-HJxKe-ltj2JoQNyDAcQRePifqowrY_XRqz_Pm5SArRgNH_i7ljDWs/s320/abstract-3166168_960_720.png" /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hopefully it would say that I have been in an extreme level of profound thought. I am prone to doing that quite often. I would never apologize for it because it's who I am—people either roll with it, or steer clear. You pick which one you'd rather be.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another "<i><b>hopefully</b></i>".</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hopefully, I won't hurt anyone's feeling whilst expressing <b><i>my feelings and opinions on my platform</i></b>. But if I do ... <b><i>I am not sorry</i></b>. <b>This is my page</b>. Feel free to exit left. Thank you. Let us carry on, shall we? Wonderful.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm2tDIJbKx6rk_tBd6sfiuOUPNDwTNtB8eNTYpaUinjigOWsAoOKJDBnNOE1-3u0u3jWgUd8FS5PpW4pmv8JILoYxkNGyWepiO7r3u5Sbq30BIkSLjHN8Xa8MpnE0NtPLnJ7vE7oTI4lc/s740/AjarSilkyGalah-size_restricted.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="740" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm2tDIJbKx6rk_tBd6sfiuOUPNDwTNtB8eNTYpaUinjigOWsAoOKJDBnNOE1-3u0u3jWgUd8FS5PpW4pmv8JILoYxkNGyWepiO7r3u5Sbq30BIkSLjHN8Xa8MpnE0NtPLnJ7vE7oTI4lc/w400-h225/AjarSilkyGalah-size_restricted.gif" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">It occurred to me yesterday as I was doing some things ....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The notion of "<i>salvation being individual/independent</i>" in terms of religion—in this case, specifically Christian—is a useful scare tactic for religious abusers.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">When I say "<i>religious abusers</i>" I am not referring to the people who abuse the structure of religion to their benefit (although that too can be the case). What I am referring to are those people whom use religion as a veil to abuse others.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Let me explain what I mean by "salvation being individual/independent".</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Christians are taught to perceive salvation through Jesus Christ as something to be obtained by their own means. They are solely responsible of accepting salvation and keeping it no matter what the cost, issue, challenge or event. It is their independent responsibility to hang on tight to salvation and they cannot blame anyone else for any short-comings, faltering, or laps in their faith. Period. No. Matter. What.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I am not here to argue the validity of that belief or statement. I'm not here to tell anyone how wrong they are for believing that, or how right they are, for that matter. I'm not here to debacle against anyone's faith. What I am here to do is bring to light how a religious abuser uses a faith based tool like that as a tool in their arsenal of torment against their victims.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I'll explain.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The notion of "salvation being individual/independent" fits the profile of the abuser's scare tactics; it assists them in absolving themselves of any wrong-doing or responsibility. It is a way of blaming the victim for their distrust in structured religion while further tormenting the victim with the idea that regardless of the torment the abuser imposes upon you, if you don't fend for your own salvation, you are going to go to Hell regardless.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The abuser loves this methodology. Why? Because it suits their narrative which goes a little something like this:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">"<i>Well, God says that you have to forgive and forget. So I am going to ensue hell upon you in whatever way I deem necessary and you HAVE to forgive me. Because if you don't you're going to hell. Why? Because salvation is independent.</i>"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The truly sadistic and narcissistic abuser will even go as far as to twist the truth even more. It would sound a little something like this.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">"<i>I mean, look at how I am forgiving you every single day for the bullshit you put me through. I can't stand you. As a matter of fact, I hate your guts. But because I love you and because God loves you, I forgive you. And I only punish you because I am trying to teach you something. I want you to get right with God so that you can stay saved. I am saved. I am saved because salvation is individual and I already forgave your stupidity.</i>"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Either way you cut it, the victims is to blame and the abuser is absolved of guilt and wrongdoings. Why? Because salvation is individual. So any brokenness they have thrust upon you—mentally, physically or otherwise—has been wiped clean by faith.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><h2 style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Hold tight, there's more.</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLcI53v0dJcVAnZFlgUA4ZfVKaXSaOIKc1p_4E_cVvDrCoQBtxUl1MKh6yH5krepOYKx2k0I6_nmgJ9GoDxO9YszlMpEY6qjEx1Zp5JfxzmpPLLVrIcmLp3CJebdgO6VW2LNkZ8nV3jIs/s960/abstract-3166168_960_720.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="960" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLcI53v0dJcVAnZFlgUA4ZfVKaXSaOIKc1p_4E_cVvDrCoQBtxUl1MKh6yH5krepOYKx2k0I6_nmgJ9GoDxO9YszlMpEY6qjEx1Zp5JfxzmpPLLVrIcmLp3CJebdgO6VW2LNkZ8nV3jIs/s320/abstract-3166168_960_720.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This morning another thought came tumbling down my brain tube.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This one was coaxed by a conversation I had yesterday with the Bestie. It was a conversation around spirituality and religion; sort of on topic with what I have been covering until now.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">It surrounded the excuses, perceptions, limitations and expectations people make regarding religion and their belief system.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Something that we hear often is "Only God can change me/someone." That statement is usually followed by a profession of expectation or absolution. They would sound something like this, "It would take a miracle to do so. I know God makes miracles," and/or, "And if He hasn't done it by now then he probably won't."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I find it very bizarre that the very people that have great enough faith to believe in a Higher Power, place expectations and/or limitations on that faith. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I tend to think that if you are openminded enough to believe in something, than shouldn't you also be open enough to the possibility that that something can do anything?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Thus, this morning a thought occurred to me, a very, very deep one. Dear reader, I need you to really look at and follow these words I am about to utter because they have to potential to be life-changing. Every bit of what is about to follow can be the catalyst to a brand new mental frame work for you, if you let it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Here we go ....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">There is infinite wisdom and there is finite wisdom. Then there is wisdom that is perceived as infinite but in actually finite.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Think of this equation. The math is simple if you can open your mind to it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">God <b><i>created</i></b> us in his <b><i>image</i></b>. The operatives words are "created" and "image".</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">If God (or whatever you call your Higher Power—I call mine Spirit) is Creation and we are made in his image, than that, by default implies that we too carry the ability to create. This is proven by the fact that throughout history we have created a great many things. Technological, architectural, scientific and even spiritual advances that no one could or would have expected were <b><i>created</i></b> by <b><i>our imaginations</i></b>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>What is imagination within the realm of creation?</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">It is the image-making power of the mind; the act of creating or reproducing ideally an object not previously perceived and the ability to create such images.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Think of this ...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">If God gave us the ability to <i><b>create and limitless imagination</b></i>, <i>shouldn't then we be able to imagine and create within ourselves the very undamaged and splendiferous human being we want to be</i>?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">All we have to do is be open to the possibility that the power was within us all along. We don't have to wait for a miracle. We ARE the miracle.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Here is the flip side of being that level of openminded.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">What may seen like heresy to some, in their finite faith, is spiritual growth to the person who searches for infinite wisdom.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Thus, for those who are still expecting (within limits) their Higher Power to do something, it is blasphemy to say, "You have it within yourself to do just exactly what you are asking for."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Personally, I feel much closer to otherworldliness in my path through popularly perceived heresy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The hodgepodge of mediocre spirituality is dark. It can estrange those who finally see the light, but follow your light always. It will never lead you stray.</div><p></p></div>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-43624512675211613762021-09-11T17:17:00.004-04:002021-09-11T17:17:23.690-04:00Florida Trip 2021—Journal Entry Part 1<h2 style="text-align: left;"> 9/11/2021</h2><div style="text-align: justify;">Too much happened during this past week. Let me rephrase that … a lot of things have happened in these several months, but this past week has iced the cake something fierce. Just imagine a lump of super thick and chunky mashed potatoes on a not-so-fluffy cake and maybe you’ll start to get the drift of what I am alluding to.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was just explaining to The Bestie that my brain is set up sort of like a freight boat stacked to the heavens with boxes. Each one tightly containing its own treasure, but some of the boxes could very well be married to and/or linked in some fashion to another … or even several others.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So to better exemplify my week, I shall prepare to the best of my ability, said freight boat analogy for all to see and examine.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx860Eoah_M7n7IX4sR4CkbTv85tmtrKI7BWoP9r4aaY7cme2DaLSalstEovzFMPqMOlNAEQEsKn9mD8nNmyhZFcgR7sb3tpD-vCwrQMPm0IIY4EqJD3lZpCQQjk9lRgBnsidA7QJIiMM/s1056/My+Freight+Boat.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="816" data-original-width="1056" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx860Eoah_M7n7IX4sR4CkbTv85tmtrKI7BWoP9r4aaY7cme2DaLSalstEovzFMPqMOlNAEQEsKn9mD8nNmyhZFcgR7sb3tpD-vCwrQMPm0IIY4EqJD3lZpCQQjk9lRgBnsidA7QJIiMM/w640-h494/My+Freight+Boat.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>The above is just a small and compact summary of some of the goings-on inside my head and the things that are prevalent in my existence.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now it’s time to make this roughly make sense in the realm of what happened this week.</div><div>In order to do that I have to rewind somewhat.</div><div>In late July I received a very unsettling phone call from my mother informing me that my beloved dad had had a massive heart attack and would require a Triple Bypass Open Heart Surgery as soon as humanly possible.</div><div>The issue was that they live in the hot spot of Covid here in the states; Florida. Because of this, things at that hospitals were not in great shape and issues like my father’s were being postponed due to the lack of available surgeons and medical staff to complete the tasks. Thus, because of this, his surgery was postponed until this past Tuesday; September 7th, 2021.</div><div>I made it a point of wanting to be here for my father’s surgery so I did my due diligence and packed up … well, we were off. I am still grateful that my soul sister came with me because I would have lost my mind without her there. You’re soon to know why.</div><div><br /></div><div>Upon my arrival, I was quickly met with a mom that was in rare form.</div><div>No, I lie. She wasn’t in rare form. She was just a much more amplified version of herself. The very same narcissistic, egocentric, scatterbrained, unstable, hyper-nervous, martyr with a victim complex as ever, <b><i>only worse than ever</i></b>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Believe me when I tell you, my years away have changed me drastically—in leaps and bounds. Truly.</div><div><br /></div><div>This whole system of her behavior really sat foul with me. Mostly because of my dad. In the days leading to his surgery my heart went out to him. It broke my heart time and time again to see him lying there with no strength to be had, being bullied by her, with barely any say-so in anything, and constantly being told what to do. Why? Because she said so. It was like she kept saying, “I’m letting him rest” but couldn’t or wouldn’t. He had no peace whatsoever in the days leading up to his surgery. And anytime someone would tell her to chill the fuck out and leave him alone or just stop altogether, she would break down crying and telling a sob story about how she can’t deal with this sacrifice.</div><div>Then whenever one would give her advice on what would be a better way to approach things, she would come back with a “Don’t tell me what to do, and I will do it like this,” then do it her way and completely fuck things up.</div><div><br /></div><div>But dear reader, let me assure you … if this trip was anything, it was eye opening. Enormously so.</div><div><br /></div><div>They say that when you are far away from something for long enough and you come back to it, that’s when you are able to see certain things with clarity. This couldn’t be more true in my case.</div><div>I think I will follow with a table. I feel like it might help collate my thoughts in a better fashion.</div><div><br /></div><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-675a1b87-7fff-c938-dd02-8a94582af8ad"><div align="left" dir="ltr" style="margin-left: 0pt;"><table style="border-collapse: collapse; border: none;"><colgroup><col width="224"></col><col width="207"></col><col width="225"></col></colgroup><tbody><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Things I Witnessed My Mom Do</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Parallels I Saw</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Things I Want To Do</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hyper-Focus and Talking too Fast to be Understood</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I do this when I am overly stressed.</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I feel as though I need to be more aware of the moments I get hyper-focused due to stress and center myself. AKA: Ease the anxiety.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nitpick … about everything.</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t nitpick about </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">everything</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, but I do nitpick unnecessarily sometimes.</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I need to learn when to pick my battles.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The cluster-fuck of disorganization under the guise of cleanliness.</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am normally a very clean person, but I do know that I have disorganizational tendencies with some things. It drives my Bestie insane sometimes because it doesn’t make sense as the things I leave messy are the easiest things to organize. </span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I vowed that this will never happen again. Especially after having seen things from my Bestie’s point of view.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pacing hurriedly but going nowhere.</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I do this sometimes. It’s that feeling of “needing to do something” but there is nothing to do, it’s really just my anxiety at a fever pitch.</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I need to make it a point of becoming aware that I am redundantly unreasonably pacing and just find a more productive way of calming my anxiety.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Excessively apologizing.</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I used to do this too, though I have slowed down on it significantly. I’m not sure where this comes from or even why we do it, but just feeling the need to constantly apologize is not a way to live one’s life.</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Keep practicing awareness on this and continue to do what I am doing.</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div align="left" dir="ltr" style="margin-left: 0pt;"><div align="left" dir="ltr" style="margin-left: 0pt;">Here is a table of things that she did the whole time we were there that made no sense to anyone but her. I’ll call this segment, “Only In Her World”.</div><div><br /></div><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-7d01d2a9-7fff-3038-e071-67ee4c64ca9e"><div align="left" dir="ltr" style="margin-left: 0pt;"><table style="border-collapse: collapse; border: none;"><colgroup><col width="656"></col></colgroup><tbody><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Only In Her World</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Having to have the last word </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">NO MATTER WHAT! Period! </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It didn’t matter if the last word made sense within the context of the conversation, it didn’t matter if it was asinine altogether. As long as her voice was the last voice, then she won the argument. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even though there was no argument</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">CONSTANTLY</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> telling me what to do, even though </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I KNEW EXACTLY</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> what I was doing. In many cases, I knew better than she did.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Complain, complain, complain … constantly do the wrong thing, get a bad reaction, and then complain some more.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not take her medication on purpose, then complain that she wasn’t feeling well.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Drama. Like, ALL the dramatics. ABOUT EVERYTHING. ALWAYS. ALL. THE. TIME.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Get her way … cry. Not get her way … cry. Get her way some more … cry again. Cry because she could. Cry because she wasn’t getting attention the first time she cried. Cry because “Jesus”. Cry because “Not Jesus”. Cry because “the Devil”. Cry because … just because. Cry.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Emotionally manipulate everyone at all times, whenever possible and then cover it in a guise of holiness of sweetness.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Doing the most. At all times. Planning far too many things, all within the timeline that would only permit a thing or two, and then get mad about what she couldn’t do.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fun Fact: This too was something that I was guilty of (because it was a learned behavior) until I saw it in her. Now … guess what? #NotAThing.</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Is my mother always right? Yes. In her opinion, it is an indubitable yes. No matter how wrong she may be. She has no concept of accepting a potential “misunderstanding” or mistake. She cannot accept her faults. Simply put, she is right, and everyone must accept this. Period.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The best example is when she turns around the things I (or anyone else says, for that matter) and then swears that that is what that person said even if that was not accurate. </span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 23.25pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 1pt; border-left: solid #000000 1pt; border-right: solid #000000 1pt; border-top: solid #000000 1pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 5pt 5pt 5pt 5pt; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Petty Betty’s real name is Ana.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ll explain.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Everything I do—in my mother’s eyes—is a personal competition with her abilities and achievements. The day before my father’s surgery he asked me to make him a Cream of Rice. He hadn’t eaten properly in days. However the Cream of Rice is something that he likes the way I make it. Yes, he will eat the one she makes, but he prefers mine. I don’t know why. He just does. So he requested it. I made it for him. He scraped the plate clean. I showed mom the plate. Mostly because I was so happy that he actually ate something. Her immediate minimization was instinctive. She quipped, “Yeah, well, it wasn’t much food anyway.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That wasn’t the point but it didn’t matter. To her, it was. This is just one example of many more just like it.</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table></div></span></div></div></span></div><div><br /></div><div><div>The first few days I was there, I dropped into a very, very dark place. I mean, how could the family as a whole be going through such a troubling time (my father, especially) and her make the entire thing about her? How could she be that way? It was gob-stopping. Flabbergasting. Upsetting. Not to mention, beyond depressing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Suffice it to say, that immediately after my father pulled through the surgery and made it out the other side fine, the bestie and I made up our minds. We would be heading home immediately after. That very same week. The planned 2 weeks that were to be the would-be stay, were shortened drastically due to a person that had no concept of what it is to really function as a persona, let alone a family.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, this is Part 1 of a potentially 3 part session on my trip to Florida. If I can wrap everything up in just 2, then great. But I anticipate at least 3 entries.</div></div></div>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-76598239645147368252021-06-21T08:46:00.000-04:002021-06-21T08:46:08.025-04:00So much ... Too much. The Life of a Person with an Invisible Illness<h3 style="text-align: left;">What is an Invisible Illness?</h3><div style="text-align: justify;">An invisible illness is one that does not exhibit externally visible signs or symptoms. Those with invisible illnesses and disabilities may have symptoms such as pain, fatigue, dizziness, weakness, or mental health disorders.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: justify;">List <i><u>of some</u></i> Invisible Illnesses:</h3><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><ul><li>Allergies and food intolerances</li><li>Arthritis, especially rheumatoid</li><li>Cancer</li><li>Chronic Fatigue Syndrome</li><li>Fibromyalgia</li><li>Depression and mental illness</li><li>Diabetes</li><li>Digestive disorders such as Celiac, colitis, and irritable bowel syndrome (IBS)</li><li>Migraine and headache sufferers</li><li>Heart conditions</li><li>Lupus</li><li>Lyme Disease</li><li>Multiple Sclerosis</li><li>Infertility</li><li>Sarcoidosis</li><li>Sjogren’s Syndrome</li></ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2qKcYGpejBcl4wOI9PrXyf24b8w-QYlSUFjmlGstEFYXt-Ut2CUEFAWuHX9Q_o1CEJ3wkTC0Z5mIOZPz0XAgD0T8c8tKIJy8Cz_7nS1jtarLgepTpBRa26XMHU5REx7hJV1XmfPJgca8/s1208/InvisibleIllnessFB.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="629" data-original-width="1208" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2qKcYGpejBcl4wOI9PrXyf24b8w-QYlSUFjmlGstEFYXt-Ut2CUEFAWuHX9Q_o1CEJ3wkTC0Z5mIOZPz0XAgD0T8c8tKIJy8Cz_7nS1jtarLgepTpBRa26XMHU5REx7hJV1XmfPJgca8/w640-h334/InvisibleIllnessFB.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div></div><div>I know that the above poster is a little outdated, but it's still relevant. Especially to this post.</div><div>Today, in the spirit of transparency—<i>not looking for sympathy, but for understanding</i>—I will divulge some things that I rarely talk about. Namely, my <b>Invisible Illnesses</b>.</div><div>There is only one other person in this whole world, apart from my doctors, that knows the full extent of my illnesses without restrictions. That is my soul sister, best friend, and confidant. Other people have only observed some aspects of it, IF I have shared anything at all.</div><div>Today, I remove the veil and uncover everything and what it's like to deal with it all.</div><div><br /></div><div>With that said. Here is the long list of illnesses that I've been officially diagnosed with, along with the ones I am being test for.</div><div><br /></div><div>Officially Diagnosed:</div><div><div><ul><li>Rheumatoid Arthritis</li><li>Degenerative Bone Disease</li><li>Fibromuscular Dysplasia</li><li>Chronic Complex Migraine Syndrome</li><li>Fibromyalgia</li><li>Pulmonary Sarcoidosis (Currently in remission, thank goodness!)</li><li>Iron deficiency anemia — Thalassemia</li><li>Mixed anxiety and depressive disorder</li><li>PTSD</li><li>Hypertension</li><li>GERD</li><li>Vitamin D deficiency</li><li>Vitamin B12 deficiency (non-anemic)</li><li>Carpal tunnel syndrome</li><li>Sciatica</li><li>Tibial Tendonitis</li><li>Eczema</li></ul><div>Being tested:</div><ul><li>Multiple Sclerosis — Results will officially be in on June 30th.</li><li>M.V.D. (microvascular angina) — Results will officially be in on June 30th.</li></ul><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ-C0pyvjIBsMLfBQn7J_dKvCThHdtzXP2ABznVqIgnwHVAVvB4nIDmq5SNwQuvFS7XugHstCJDtNDcUu9sxul2jEm1Hezw-BIi0REJiUsHrkd90mNB3YNyuOyXRkBAyAHc7RR4L1SZww/s1585/6544327_preview.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="1585" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ-C0pyvjIBsMLfBQn7J_dKvCThHdtzXP2ABznVqIgnwHVAVvB4nIDmq5SNwQuvFS7XugHstCJDtNDcUu9sxul2jEm1Hezw-BIi0REJiUsHrkd90mNB3YNyuOyXRkBAyAHc7RR4L1SZww/s320/6544327_preview.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I promise you that these are not in my head. I am not a Hypochondriac. These have been confirmed by physicians after lots and lots of testing. And at first, it was really hard to get doctors to believe me. Many of them treated me like I was crazy. Like I was just making shit up. </div><div>I mean, it's bad enough to deal with 1 invisible illness; my list is long and intense, but I am getting ahead of myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let me just cut to the chase.</div><div><br /></div><div>The fact is, I am so fucking tired.</div><div><ul><li>Tired of feeling sick and tired.</li><li>Tired of being judged by people who don't think "<i>I look sick</i>".</li><li>Tired of the narrow-minded individuals who only see a "<i>lazy fat chick</i>" but have no idea what I am really dealing with.</li><li>Tired of being treated as if "<i>I just worked/tired a little harder, I'd be fine.</i>"</li><li>Tired of the rushing waves good days vs bad ones. Lately, more bad than good.</li><li>Tired of having to plan my life around my illnesses.</li><li>Tired of, well, everything.</li></ul></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMeTrqIJpWaZ2SLjgmi2EwaZyp5MClpep4Qfq3akUv1iSv0TsMCgUP92GsyXCjJfjeGaqGo0BVsU42a2x0ovTrKNMN_2CE_5m0SZEIy-RIGba88hzn1sAz1syjLxgIHMZLkdEjVRI390/s1080/Invisible-Illness-advocacy-o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMeTrqIJpWaZ2SLjgmi2EwaZyp5MClpep4Qfq3akUv1iSv0TsMCgUP92GsyXCjJfjeGaqGo0BVsU42a2x0ovTrKNMN_2CE_5m0SZEIy-RIGba88hzn1sAz1syjLxgIHMZLkdEjVRI390/w400-h400/Invisible-Illness-advocacy-o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I want nothing more than just a normal life. I want to live like other people. Not have to cope every living day. I want to work a regular job, have a good active life, all that shit. I do. God, yes I do. But that isn't feasible for me and it sucks.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9xJSMLZ2zmCqJiGyDE_Faux_pfBDnt6mseCAr_vG4W847vczwOAEsLj0EsI1WgLmAoQQy-kzriYfTG23l6iZfB1qBXrAt6gFiqE67Q_NK73NOh7ksfYEsQk0Ri4-ReFkvVTEQySN2KUM/s564/invisible+illness.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="564" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9xJSMLZ2zmCqJiGyDE_Faux_pfBDnt6mseCAr_vG4W847vczwOAEsLj0EsI1WgLmAoQQy-kzriYfTG23l6iZfB1qBXrAt6gFiqE67Q_NK73NOh7ksfYEsQk0Ri4-ReFkvVTEQySN2KUM/w400-h400/invisible+illness.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Most people can't understand how this impacts every facet of my life.<br /><div><br /></div><div><b><u><i>Work:</i></u></b></div><div>I have to push myself to get up and go. And, I am a workaholic. I actually love to work. Then there is the never-ending slew of doctors' appointments that take up ALL of my time off (vacation and sick time). It's a fucking disaster. Recently, I was forced to go on Temporary Disability and take leave from work because of the avalanche of medical stuff.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><u><i>Part-Time Work (InstaCart):</i></u></b></div><div>I usually do InstaCart to make ends meet. I am sooooo fucking grateful for the helping hand of my bestie! She comes with me and helps so goddamned much! I mean, you don't even know! But even with her help, I am forced to also weigh out the good vs bad days. For example, yesterday I was pushing myself. Trying really hard. Luckily I got through the day of InstaCarting but not without consequence. After the fact, I was basically a heaping pile of worthless shit. The weakness, exhaustion, pain, and whatnot just drowned me. It was really, really rough.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i><u>Daily Life:</u></i></b></div><div>Whether it's cooking, cleaning, or just spending time with my loved ones, I have to weigh that against how well I am feeling. Lately, it's been really bad. I just don't and can't. And it makes me feel like shit! Because I WANT to! Enough said.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i><u>Dating:</u></i></b></div><div>If you've followed me all this time, you know I am single.</div><div>I would love to be able to date and meet someone to spend the rest of my days with. But this is twofold. (1) If I do put myself out there, I have to make sure that the guys contacting me understand that I can't just get up and go. I have to plan everything, and even with that, I will never know if I might get a flare-up the day of. (2) It impacts my self-esteem profusely because "<i>Who the fuck is going to want to date a 'broken' woman?</i>"</div><div>The self-esteem issue impacts everything else. It's like the Domino Effect. I feel worthless, so that makes me feel ugly. I feel ugly, so that makes me look at all my flaws which confirms my ugliness. I feel more depressed so I don't want to get dolled up for anything. Like, at all. I don't get dolled up, so I feel even uglier. The uglier I feel, the more depressed I get, the more I believe that I will never find someone and the vicious cycle continues.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKWCn6gTdCWUEjFc3hs-bnPRUIZXvh3FO_ft4PFKTH9pvGHcJZ2KEheGDt4zTC78M8gR4qkiK4Gmw4HrPMCz9MSliBmdwj5puGSoyKSYm79K_p9qDHxyX6vLuPu1TIiyIEsw-s9CeOXQM/s1024/As-Not-Seen-on-TV-Arthritis-Awareness-Campaign-Graphic-1024x553.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="1024" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKWCn6gTdCWUEjFc3hs-bnPRUIZXvh3FO_ft4PFKTH9pvGHcJZ2KEheGDt4zTC78M8gR4qkiK4Gmw4HrPMCz9MSliBmdwj5puGSoyKSYm79K_p9qDHxyX6vLuPu1TIiyIEsw-s9CeOXQM/w400-h216/As-Not-Seen-on-TV-Arthritis-Awareness-Campaign-Graphic-1024x553.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>I mean, as far as what it impacts, the list can go on and on for days.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've tried many times to apply for Social Security Disability. I have gotten denied every time. But then I also can't stay without work because I have bills and responsibilities. So I go to work. If I go to work, Social Security says that I was faking it. Because if I can work, then I was fine all along.</div><div>And then, the cycle keeps going.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDgzre-Dq7Ehkdupl8ZejsgWYagtECD_3HZElLO707kCCIXjNtRJUeNmctEvULt92AytbMg2MtM0iFnM2iIXp13b6exO0UqdWAt_dyJS6btjuPO6d-4F5Ujo34045LcBKom2nejh-jEuc/s229/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="229" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDgzre-Dq7Ehkdupl8ZejsgWYagtECD_3HZElLO707kCCIXjNtRJUeNmctEvULt92AytbMg2MtM0iFnM2iIXp13b6exO0UqdWAt_dyJS6btjuPO6d-4F5Ujo34045LcBKom2nejh-jEuc/w400-h384/images.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>It's really, truly, hell. So many times I feel like I am fucked either way and all I want to do is give up. You guys just don't even know.</div></div>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-49418735411991769042021-06-19T11:39:00.002-04:002021-06-21T07:00:19.872-04:00B.E.D.; What is it, and do I have it?<div class="separator" style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Lately, I have heard the phrase "Binge Eating Disorder" a lot. Whether it's been with people saying that they have it, learning about it, or pondering on whether or not I might have it ... there it's been.</span></div><p style="text-align: justify;">In today's post, I reflect on:</p><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>B.E.D.</b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>What is it, and do I have it?</b></i></div><h3 style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUD7rb4UCy9d5NMtCSfT2WRLpHSsoVN8afpCjkqUgX4AkzQET_Ey_j21Lvhq5zR2bhSC-XcqXNgsREjPvHcJsCMmLXqJ4pzSDxfZiLu1TfOGjbxzrT9Yi7gwgjacXnBz-U28f8qUyzQQ/s639/fire+divider.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="157" data-original-width="639" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUD7rb4UCy9d5NMtCSfT2WRLpHSsoVN8afpCjkqUgX4AkzQET_Ey_j21Lvhq5zR2bhSC-XcqXNgsREjPvHcJsCMmLXqJ4pzSDxfZiLu1TfOGjbxzrT9Yi7gwgjacXnBz-U28f8qUyzQQ/s320/fire+divider.png" width="320" /></a></h3><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #fcff01;"><i><b>Note:</b> This will be a Stream of Consciousness post, so I will be doing the work as I go along.</i></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #fcff01;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;">To better assess the question posed I have to take a good look at what the disorder is and how it manifests. For that, I've inserted the images below.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibVkIfUbpdzPs04DOkkT0ewbvMHroE9SWfl21iJWMn2d6mkPRaSoodOm_ZQwi253CUtZSaFHi8VJbqmCoyGCRJVVYMtsEK314zizVMSGgxQF1fzB2ziJdCk3UutrtWRqrFPDA_yiwSe8g/s946/bed+symptoms.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="945" data-original-width="946" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibVkIfUbpdzPs04DOkkT0ewbvMHroE9SWfl21iJWMn2d6mkPRaSoodOm_ZQwi253CUtZSaFHi8VJbqmCoyGCRJVVYMtsEK314zizVMSGgxQF1fzB2ziJdCk3UutrtWRqrFPDA_yiwSe8g/w400-h400/bed+symptoms.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRH4xvqtew6kWi2I8h46GorPiZFaWsEXqsFAAICGA2ymNDuQKsQcJyviYd6hqkriLHn4t0_PmQWxO_Ft06in864zqTQqMRP3VH2bAt55qVCWNkM1761Hts5gPBnLEitKqi0fLzl5kBSoA/s2048/cycle.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRH4xvqtew6kWi2I8h46GorPiZFaWsEXqsFAAICGA2ymNDuQKsQcJyviYd6hqkriLHn4t0_PmQWxO_Ft06in864zqTQqMRP3VH2bAt55qVCWNkM1761Hts5gPBnLEitKqi0fLzl5kBSoA/w400-h400/cycle.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I am thinking that I need to have a Come to Jesus conversation with myself. I need to really probe into my mind and answer some important questions. Since, I don't know what to ask, I recruited the help of an online questionnaire that can help me understand whether or not I demonstrate the symptoms shown above.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Click <a href="https://binge.eatingrecoverycenter.com/un-betr/" target="_blank">HERE</a> if you want to look for yourself.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">In being completely transparent, there was 10 questions asked in the quiz. If you answered yes to 5 or more of the questions then chances are you DO have B.E.D.. I answer yes to 10 out of 10. But I had to be honest with myself while responding—no excuses.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I also had to take one more step. I had to answer the questions without comparing myself to <i>everyone else</i> but in by comparing myself to myself in times past. Not sure if that makes any sense to you.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Let me start at the beginning. It's the only way you're probably going to understand.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Ready or not, here I go.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUD7rb4UCy9d5NMtCSfT2WRLpHSsoVN8afpCjkqUgX4AkzQET_Ey_j21Lvhq5zR2bhSC-XcqXNgsREjPvHcJsCMmLXqJ4pzSDxfZiLu1TfOGjbxzrT9Yi7gwgjacXnBz-U28f8qUyzQQ/s639/fire+divider.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="157" data-original-width="639" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUD7rb4UCy9d5NMtCSfT2WRLpHSsoVN8afpCjkqUgX4AkzQET_Ey_j21Lvhq5zR2bhSC-XcqXNgsREjPvHcJsCMmLXqJ4pzSDxfZiLu1TfOGjbxzrT9Yi7gwgjacXnBz-U28f8qUyzQQ/s320/fire+divider.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My earliest memory of binge eating wasn't all that long ago. It was probably as early as three years ago, with my most recent breakup. It was another guy I had fallen for, and things didn't go as planned, so I ran—like I always do—and regret led me to binge eat one night. I realize that now. I ran from fear of putting myself in a potentially bad situation with a guy that would not meet my expectations. But I had developed feelings for him. Thus, after having broken up with him, I was filled with regret. I stewed a lot on whether or not that was my last chance at love. Whether I had just let it get away. This time, for good</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I told myself the night I binge ate for the first time, that I was going through a breakup so I had good reason to eat a whole tub of ice cream even though I wasn't hungry. I could go ahead and follow that with a whole pack of cookies and whatever the fuck else I please because <i>I was hurting</i>. And this, even if just for that night, would ease the paint.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i>That</i> was my excuse for <i>that night</i>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I would find, however, that many, many similar nights would concurrently follow whether I realized it immediately of not.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The excuses varied.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><ul><li><i>Because I was depressed.</i></li><li><i>Because I was on medication and needed to eat in order to take them. </i>(A legitimate excuse, but hindering nonetheless. I'll get more into this later.)</li><li><i>Because I felt like it.</i></li><li><i>Because sometimes you just want to.</i></li><li><i>Because it's okay to indulge from time to time, but in moderation. Right? Right.</i></li><li><i>Because I was mad at this, that and the other thing.</i></li><li><i>Because life sucked.</i></li><li><i>Because I was PMSing.</i></li><li><i>Because I was happy.</i></li><li><i>Because I'm a foodie.</i></li><li><i>Because it was a Holiday.</i></li></ul><i>𝆕 Because, because, because, because, because ... the wonderful, wonderful things food does. </i><i>♪</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div>Low and behold a cycle began to emerge; and I can only see it now.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimty-p5d6GCE9fVAqBvgon34hhUR_t0Jsxi4opGq03rSUrA-Z2iGiI_Nm6CwMOnzysMgvmeFb1OwO5h9Re-GIHYDG5EtBBkmjBbUCXDY_I8DeuVpRFfw0x1JyrZeypx6IfSML5fmeACnI/s2048/cycle.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimty-p5d6GCE9fVAqBvgon34hhUR_t0Jsxi4opGq03rSUrA-Z2iGiI_Nm6CwMOnzysMgvmeFb1OwO5h9Re-GIHYDG5EtBBkmjBbUCXDY_I8DeuVpRFfw0x1JyrZeypx6IfSML5fmeACnI/s320/cycle.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">My personal order was as follows:</div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li style="text-align: justify;">Trigger</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Binge</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Relief</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Shame</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Restrict</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Cravings</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Trigger, and so on ....</li></ul></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Alongside this cycle were all of the accompanying symptoms:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh1nr4tq9t0y8L0Pw9n0eeKVb0p8oZlcVW-pEB-CgOzygW0cfyEkJN7v3gUiiqOevxyV-N1eT6zYpZLnEV1aATpMEPR2HwpPMQs_BhClD5jSNwfa-CFDMqoUtaT8Xv1tkejmUoT6563ao/s946/bed+symptoms.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="945" data-original-width="946" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh1nr4tq9t0y8L0Pw9n0eeKVb0p8oZlcVW-pEB-CgOzygW0cfyEkJN7v3gUiiqOevxyV-N1eT6zYpZLnEV1aATpMEPR2HwpPMQs_BhClD5jSNwfa-CFDMqoUtaT8Xv1tkejmUoT6563ao/s320/bed+symptoms.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">There came a time, some time after the binging began where I began to hoard the food. In my case, the soft stop is sweets. Candy. All the candy, any candy. Chocolates, cakes, fruit snacks, you name it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The hoarding didn't come from a place of not wanting to share, but from a place of not wanting to be judged. I kept feeling like I was being judged all the time, even though I wasn't saying it. I still feel this way.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">So, the hoarding, wasn't hoarding in the common sense of the word, but it was more "hiding" than anything else.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My triggers, I have become very familiar with. Too familiar with.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">They are loneliness, depression, anxiety, and the need for intimacy with a romantic partner. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I know that my own fears get in the way of that, so the vicious cycle continues.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My struggle with this potential B.E.D. that I am challenged by is more from a place of emotional eating than anything else.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">That is coupled with the issues I face with the medication regimens I am on. I am on far too many very strong medications. At last count, I am taking 13 prescribed medications. Most of them, I have to take with food.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I find it very hard at times to know when I have not eaten enough to take my meds, just the right amount, or too much.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The lines are so blurred.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I can only tell, after I've eaten.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Somewhere between 25 to 30 minutes after I have eaten, if I have not consumed enough food, I immediately get very sick.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">You see, because <b><i>I DO TRY</i></b> to eat "normally" per say. <b><i>I DO TRY</i></b> to not over eat.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I serve myself in small plates, small portions, so on and so forth. I've tried all of the "tools" people swear on and preach about.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">However, if I don't eat enough I get super sick. If I try to eat "just enough" I feel as though I am over eating, then feel guilty/ashamed for doing so, and that serves as a trigger.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This is multiplied by 3 times a day. Every. Fucking. Day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">You have no idea how complicated that makes things.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUD7rb4UCy9d5NMtCSfT2WRLpHSsoVN8afpCjkqUgX4AkzQET_Ey_j21Lvhq5zR2bhSC-XcqXNgsREjPvHcJsCMmLXqJ4pzSDxfZiLu1TfOGjbxzrT9Yi7gwgjacXnBz-U28f8qUyzQQ/s639/fire+divider.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="157" data-original-width="639" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUD7rb4UCy9d5NMtCSfT2WRLpHSsoVN8afpCjkqUgX4AkzQET_Ey_j21Lvhq5zR2bhSC-XcqXNgsREjPvHcJsCMmLXqJ4pzSDxfZiLu1TfOGjbxzrT9Yi7gwgjacXnBz-U28f8qUyzQQ/s320/fire+divider.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Do I have B.E.D.? Yes, probably so.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">What can I do about it? Well "acknowledgement", they say, is the first step. Maybe I can find some services in my area that can help.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Honestly, just writing this post is a trigger for me. I just want to "hang-up" and go grab some gummy bears or something.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Fucking hell, what more do I need? I have too much to deal with as it is.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Pray for me, y'all.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Deuces</div>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-59479651341196476232021-06-13T15:51:00.002-04:002021-06-13T15:51:40.327-04:00Bringing Some Things Into Question<p style="text-align: justify;">Like so many of us, I was brought up in a religion that ground it into your head that "<i>the gays</i>" and their liken were the spawn of the devil and they would be—just like Sodom and Gomorrah—burned.</p><h3 style="text-align: center;">My question is, <b><i>why so much hatred?<br /></i></b>Why, <b><i>exactly</i></b>, other than "such and such/so and so says so"?</h3><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjofRQFSHRNQPsgvih8-axmuuqfJkpiYHKtF6FYn06PcCs-ETy25sehGTDg5RwDUbPHd7TmweVzByOsSKK6Tu2J8mpPMt2W12L3AXcwpJjyWtY1k-qRmDRoY4bWIoSewEDAztLnXjQAaOc/s512/divider.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="70" data-original-width="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjofRQFSHRNQPsgvih8-axmuuqfJkpiYHKtF6FYn06PcCs-ETy25sehGTDg5RwDUbPHd7TmweVzByOsSKK6Tu2J8mpPMt2W12L3AXcwpJjyWtY1k-qRmDRoY4bWIoSewEDAztLnXjQAaOc/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Today, I dedicate this post to my kids, first and foremost, and then to all of those whom have lost their families simply because of their sexual orientation, or gender identity. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">In celebration of <b><u><i>National Pride Month</i></u></b>, please know and understand <b><i><u>that I am a proud ally.</u></i></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><i><u><br /></u></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjofRQFSHRNQPsgvih8-axmuuqfJkpiYHKtF6FYn06PcCs-ETy25sehGTDg5RwDUbPHd7TmweVzByOsSKK6Tu2J8mpPMt2W12L3AXcwpJjyWtY1k-qRmDRoY4bWIoSewEDAztLnXjQAaOc/s512/divider.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="70" data-original-width="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjofRQFSHRNQPsgvih8-axmuuqfJkpiYHKtF6FYn06PcCs-ETy25sehGTDg5RwDUbPHd7TmweVzByOsSKK6Tu2J8mpPMt2W12L3AXcwpJjyWtY1k-qRmDRoY4bWIoSewEDAztLnXjQAaOc/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">Let me start by saying that there are so many threads to what I want to say; so many variables that play into this thing called LGBT+ Pride and what it means to me. It's hard for me to decide on where to begin.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, as the old adage goes ... <i>I'll start at the beginning</i>.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzxAzKcZQTmmlkAYHSHqxg4cEguVHEKGfvhTb14Pr7t4b4CY5IxDpx9mwM7cJDDN37YbFnHimX7D_NJmsn_3X__mrf3gbvSa8lSzoR08SUZueipgUCaIWtRTb_6UYaDyGvDb2EI4ap75w/s480/tenor.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="480" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzxAzKcZQTmmlkAYHSHqxg4cEguVHEKGfvhTb14Pr7t4b4CY5IxDpx9mwM7cJDDN37YbFnHimX7D_NJmsn_3X__mrf3gbvSa8lSzoR08SUZueipgUCaIWtRTb_6UYaDyGvDb2EI4ap75w/w400-h210/tenor.gif" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">All righty, so ... I can only speak for myself.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Since that's the case, I will talk on my experience as a person and individual in a world <b><i><u>full</u></i></b> of all kinds of residents.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtoQMmLTMXqvnyu7-BrLYPXKjZKVxtSbXy7a3Ch_NfFP8gtULUBIgIkpAnAeuKUUSuOkRmch0yjKsSLhwCWQ6O3X_7z7nODqS_eG2q09thRXlL-CDEWvw4G1Frc0boSFH4nU1gZCZ4Jk0/s500/rainbow_world-removebg-preview.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtoQMmLTMXqvnyu7-BrLYPXKjZKVxtSbXy7a3Ch_NfFP8gtULUBIgIkpAnAeuKUUSuOkRmch0yjKsSLhwCWQ6O3X_7z7nODqS_eG2q09thRXlL-CDEWvw4G1Frc0boSFH4nU1gZCZ4Jk0/s320/rainbow_world-removebg-preview.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Perhaps it was my tumultuous upbringing, or maybe it was that at my core I was always a being of light and love ....</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Whatever the case, I cannot say, but I never seemed to be one who formulated bigotness or prejudices of people based on skin color, accent, religion or yes ... sexual orientation or identity.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">As a little kid, at my earliest age, all I cared about was being around people that were kind and nice to me. Their "looks" or what they sounded like had very little to do with my impression of them.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In my later years—and because of the influences that surrounded me—I did begin to "see" differences in people. In the way they looked, sounded, acted, things of that nature.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">For example, my mom's little sister seemed more (in the way that I would have described it back then) "manly" than my mother. To add to this, she also had a lady that lived with her, and they were always very caring around one another. Furthermore, I noticed that my parents didn't care too much about that. I, on the other hand, didn't really care. I loved my aunt, liked her friend, and had fun playing with her friend's twin daughters.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In my pre-teen years my mother explained that to me as my aunt being '<i>funny like that</i>'. So I asked, "What do you mean by 'funny'?"</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Her answer was, "Well, you know how ladies like men?"</p><p style="text-align: justify;">"Yes," I replied.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">"Your auntie Iris," she said, "doesn't."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I shrugged, "Okay," and carried.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Right around this time was when my parents' found Jesus and all-out havoc was thrust into an already ass-backwards, chaotic existence.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">So much happened in that time.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Even the proverbial, them (the preachers) trying to rebuke the devil of gayness out of some individuals. And whenever that devil wouldn't leave, these people were told that they had a stronghold that they weren't working hard enough to cast out and put in God's hands.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Please keep in mind that this is just one of many myriad prejudices that this church attempted to instill into its followers.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I always cringed at the exorcism sessions when the person carrying the stronghold on homosexuality would contort and convulse on the ground as preachers tortured them with holy oil/water and bellows of expulsion.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">No words can really explain the horror. It was truly awful.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">It never sat right with me because on the every day these people that were supposedly demon-ridden were beautiful people. Lovely, kind, warm people.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">So, I befriended them, even if no one else would.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Many years later, <b><u><i>I am proud</i></u></b> to say that I am the mother of (starting from oldest to youngest) a bisexual daughter, a gay son, a lesbian daughter and an a-sexual developmentally disabled son.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I carry that as a badge of honor.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Not because it is "trending", but because I feel like the Universe found me worthy enough to gift me these kids because it knew that they would ALWAYS have someone to lean on in times of need. Even if the whole world turned back on them.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjofRQFSHRNQPsgvih8-axmuuqfJkpiYHKtF6FYn06PcCs-ETy25sehGTDg5RwDUbPHd7TmweVzByOsSKK6Tu2J8mpPMt2W12L3AXcwpJjyWtY1k-qRmDRoY4bWIoSewEDAztLnXjQAaOc/s512/divider.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="70" data-original-width="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjofRQFSHRNQPsgvih8-axmuuqfJkpiYHKtF6FYn06PcCs-ETy25sehGTDg5RwDUbPHd7TmweVzByOsSKK6Tu2J8mpPMt2W12L3AXcwpJjyWtY1k-qRmDRoY4bWIoSewEDAztLnXjQAaOc/s320/divider.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><p style="text-align: justify;">But, I diverge.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">To add to the aforementioned question is this one ....</p><p style="text-align: justify;">If the basis of religion, at its core (apart from the logistics of varying beliefs), is for us to be good human beings, then why are you so cruel to others?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">After all, aren't they too living, breathing, human beings just like yourselves?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I've heard so many responses.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>- "God loves them, just not the sin in them."</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>- "You either believe what the word of God says or burn in hell, no excuses."</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>- "God is a God of love, but also righteousness!"</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>- "I'm no one to judge, but I am just repeating what the bible/torah/whatever holy book says."</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Oh, boy, the list goes on for ages. But we preach so much hatred. Why? Honestly, why?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Look past that which you cannot understand, and that which might scare you, and into the soul. Inside the human sole you will see that we all have the feelings and fears. We all have hearts that beat, and veins that bleed. We all know how to love, and how to hate.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Some will look at this post and decide that I am a sheep gone astray, confused, a vagabond sinner, an agnostic or a atheist. They may want to pray for mercy on my soul, or decide that I am a lost cause. Whatever you decide, or whatever notion you come to is your own. I won't try to change your mind.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I am at peace within myself, and in my heart that I, (1) believe that love is love. (2) will stand by any LGBT+ individual that just wants to live the same old boring life that we all do. (3) Will always love my children, even if they decided the were straight tomorrow. And (4) that I have a heart and soul full of spiritual fulfillment and flourishing.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">So to those who just can't see past the tips of their own noses as it pertains to their stance on LGBT+ Pride and supporting it, I dare you to:</p><p style="text-align: justify;">1. Put yourself in the shoes of the person you are judging so harshly—set your narrowmindedness and pride aside and just be human for once. See that no one would voluntarily want to put themselves through the horror of prejudice and bigotry for the sake of "fun".</p><p style="text-align: justify;">2. If God is a God of love, <i><b>who the hell are you to hate</b></i>? Period!</p><p style="text-align: justify;">3. What is it about LBGT+ individuals that scares you so much or offends your masculinity/femininity? How does "<i>their</i>" (saying it with sarcasm) existence hinder yours?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Maybe, <i>just maybe</i>, consider that if you stopped condemning other peoples sexual orientation or identity as part of your religious beliefs you might find peace in this little world.</p>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-68847152638918808542021-06-12T11:58:00.001-04:002021-06-12T11:58:26.630-04:00Hoarding of a Different KindYesterday afternoon I asked myself a question ....<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPEFiTXK20F7bbZIwjxTFZREuOINSZWPYBMLJ1Lfcho-pAg97hSodQ5Qp5qumDOIxCKuHIy8iqz_XI0Ja6-97lO2Mxr0UjxPPQola4Y75lq6Zu5oA0-zosBTxHIkdYBWJfWluAeED4Go/s600/red-divider-png-600x121.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="121" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPEFiTXK20F7bbZIwjxTFZREuOINSZWPYBMLJ1Lfcho-pAg97hSodQ5Qp5qumDOIxCKuHIy8iqz_XI0Ja6-97lO2Mxr0UjxPPQola4Y75lq6Zu5oA0-zosBTxHIkdYBWJfWluAeED4Go/s320/red-divider-png-600x121.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"<i>Jazz,</i>" I said to myself, "<i>do you really have mixed anxiety and depression disorder if what you've been dealing with all along, for all of these years, is this pent-up mental-emotional hoard?</i>"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDILc448q_7V5Q26geNTEkzhVY-_9UrHAAV63svvnnl4gRKREeBYapHsjghVoFxkFAPieYCr1PYjcBbgsqpaDOaZO1kZuZrh_j0DOTzVkcoOs_xxM6e3hkjAX3aOquc7wzgxZYkrh-ni4/s498/b4cc376c6d382a2f07f90e5f09e104c1.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDILc448q_7V5Q26geNTEkzhVY-_9UrHAAV63svvnnl4gRKREeBYapHsjghVoFxkFAPieYCr1PYjcBbgsqpaDOaZO1kZuZrh_j0DOTzVkcoOs_xxM6e3hkjAX3aOquc7wzgxZYkrh-ni4/s320/b4cc376c6d382a2f07f90e5f09e104c1.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Hell if <i>that</i> doesn't get the cogs of the ol'brain a'workin'.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Talk about a good question.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I mean, I really thought about it in the terms of a hoard.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Like, if I cleared the hoard (expelled everything that I've been holding on to all these years), would the mixed anxiety and depression disorder evaporate too?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is a tough one to get into, but shit ... I've been touching on tough topics all week long. LOL</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here goes everything.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuQTSIYkuXEB-OEjjZD2jpRmP6CAHoAghJt-3U6vMAj3xxUQVukVZI7t-F6yi32h6jHVrt4Rb6aKohe5n9GsJuuGSMr_MPylnOZnWSiikUD4jmrdS2cps9KOTK6aCu3r4XHkidg9halc/s600/red-divider-png-600x121.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="121" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuQTSIYkuXEB-OEjjZD2jpRmP6CAHoAghJt-3U6vMAj3xxUQVukVZI7t-F6yi32h6jHVrt4Rb6aKohe5n9GsJuuGSMr_MPylnOZnWSiikUD4jmrdS2cps9KOTK6aCu3r4XHkidg9halc/s320/red-divider-png-600x121.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">First thing is first, I don't have an answer to this question. I honestly don't. I will, however, take some time to consider it and delineate my thoughts on here.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Many year ago I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Back then it was called "Clinical Anxiety and Depression". Some years later this was changed to "Mixed Anxiety and Depression Disorder", and nowadays we know that that too has its subcategories. One of them, I've learned very, very recently is called Dysthymia. Which I am like, one million percent sure, is a better fit for my mental-emotional state, but since I have not been officially diagnosed with that I will leave it out of my personal equation. Nevertheless, since it doesn't hurt to learn something new, here you go. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8w8XQHRSxnHyA25Lf1eokIFzvkuxgMW_vyCzFYgYM4JFYh34EPHDs1d-QtOSxWhA0-g44JqUdIOXMOj6ZMsnMdBAXeZZph-2ROZPrBydHzaPn5jEssqHiC2ut23_zSzCFIY2jlSpU9RY/s700/dythymia.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="394" data-original-width="700" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8w8XQHRSxnHyA25Lf1eokIFzvkuxgMW_vyCzFYgYM4JFYh34EPHDs1d-QtOSxWhA0-g44JqUdIOXMOj6ZMsnMdBAXeZZph-2ROZPrBydHzaPn5jEssqHiC2ut23_zSzCFIY2jlSpU9RY/w640-h360/dythymia.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">To learn more about Dysthymia and other mental health issues, here is a link to one of my favorite YouTube informative Physiatrists, Dr. Tracey Marks.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She's great at breaking down all of those tedious threads of mental illness.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href=" https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCL2QpphEeZFYwk6-WXD6hpA" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="869" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgsU9iar3p-wK2uzgUWgn72Vk8O-7rggsPiwaxPApNm3jylcsyxJUTSdfEl41EY1w6DGWvUVXfbBsLhrXKwUbSZmrg7K57XRfu9FAvFLcv5qn5nY7tQTtWJnoDchXI2VjViIR0IKpePE/s320/October-2019-1185-Headshot.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Here is the thing about Depression ....</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvRWPZDg-psC9u1Pdj5ryYxsEf40Pf208PGGRSqjLv7kxlrK-R93uIXTY5sMIjikMDdwA-5QwWYitum0r8DpuUYRN7-SCkxULWBhXE26cBRWR-RZHzbF-vVOpZo7ZI83No14CXgucVxI4/s760/depression-looks-like.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="525" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvRWPZDg-psC9u1Pdj5ryYxsEf40Pf208PGGRSqjLv7kxlrK-R93uIXTY5sMIjikMDdwA-5QwWYitum0r8DpuUYRN7-SCkxULWBhXE26cBRWR-RZHzbF-vVOpZo7ZI83No14CXgucVxI4/w276-h400/depression-looks-like.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">And here is the thing about Anxiety ....</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgId6B18RI41uKopeMn1OVYzXEywSQiS02j4eABT_orcMtyYsxG44nI1Ek4YOBjD7qPepGxjpBoLlMvu_B9vlBsVL0jBmL06sYVSaCzH70ktb1R012AKSPKZgYcvsVodNxFzwwdQKf7Ri8/s569/what-anxiety-feels-like-post-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="569" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgId6B18RI41uKopeMn1OVYzXEywSQiS02j4eABT_orcMtyYsxG44nI1Ek4YOBjD7qPepGxjpBoLlMvu_B9vlBsVL0jBmL06sYVSaCzH70ktb1R012AKSPKZgYcvsVodNxFzwwdQKf7Ri8/w316-h400/what-anxiety-feels-like-post-4.jpg" width="316" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Then there was the element of PSTD.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I was also diagnosed with that.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Not the, "I joined the military and the government screwed me" kind, which is what most people think about when PTSD is mentioned. But the more general, "my life was a fucking shit-fest, stuffed into a chaos tornado, tossed into a what-the-fuck volcano" sort which is the lesser known of the two.</div>This is a little visual on what PTSD feels like.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbh3iM9KAxjAeUA-TVuOzzDfRwuZbyDr_Fh7ABjUpAEfMiAMZsESL2K2YLV1vqS4rtBVWXimyq5IzWH4QGAcHxT-nT0UuYQZdwyL_Up7ggq9o8N5hecKXDKaRPqVY5-xdVaXmEMA1s94/s1000/42838-shutterstock_101982913%255Er-full.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="1000" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbh3iM9KAxjAeUA-TVuOzzDfRwuZbyDr_Fh7ABjUpAEfMiAMZsESL2K2YLV1vqS4rtBVWXimyq5IzWH4QGAcHxT-nT0UuYQZdwyL_Up7ggq9o8N5hecKXDKaRPqVY5-xdVaXmEMA1s94/w400-h280/42838-shutterstock_101982913%255Er-full.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now to get into answering my question from before.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Mixed Anxiety and Depression Disorder as it pertains to myself, is something genetic. Mental health issues is something that runs in my family, therefore it was very likely that I too would develop them, whether early on or later on.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As it pertains to the PTSD; that was caused by the innumerable amounts of mental and physical trauma I endured from an early age all through to my adult years. I believe that I could have missed that ship had I not gone through all of the stuff I went through. But, such is life and here I am.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here are my own thoughts ....</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My mental-emotional hoarding came from a place not knowing how to deal. Thus I tucked the pain in the reservoirs of my mind.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am convinced that the anxiety and depression compounded the PTDS, making it much worse that it might have been in the first place, had the anxiety and depression been addressed many years before.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, in the end, do I think that cleaning out the hoard of my pain will cure my mental illness. The short answer; no. But I do think it's the best step into the correct direction of healing to the best of my abilities.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Okay, that's all I got for today. Stay tuned for more posts about my personal Shadow Work and healing.</div></div>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-6881677452940910022021-06-11T09:25:00.002-04:002021-06-11T09:25:22.956-04:00Different People, Different Degrees of Dysfunction <p style="text-align: justify;">I'm an early bird. Always have been. I wake up early and most of my important and/or powerful thoughts occur during the early morning hours.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">At night, I'm basically a limp noodle. LOL</p><p style="text-align: justify;">So if you follow my blog at all, you'll always see that I will say, "I woke up this morning thinking ...." Sorry, Nigh Owls. LOL</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxCDqQHtG9YJdXsJkCHK9HbetvuSAlYZ6kgAQSuUTCJRa6zMx3kE7Uh4QQB4b0lCKCuorodIqzqCK0ztmL9Kc_tov-SVT4s9tDvWHkYZmlN5GhPk1nYIk3IKqjSuLLCxVKbWKW0sgeXA0/s407/pinkdivider-swirly_000.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="97" data-original-width="407" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxCDqQHtG9YJdXsJkCHK9HbetvuSAlYZ6kgAQSuUTCJRa6zMx3kE7Uh4QQB4b0lCKCuorodIqzqCK0ztmL9Kc_tov-SVT4s9tDvWHkYZmlN5GhPk1nYIk3IKqjSuLLCxVKbWKW0sgeXA0/s320/pinkdivider-swirly_000.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Anywho ...</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I woke up this morning thinking that different people have different degrees of dysfunction. Like, I am a firm believer that everyone has some sort of issue/dysfunction. No one is perfect.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I would never endeavor to say that it's a "<i>weak person versus strong person</i>" thing either. That's just asinine.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">But I am going to rewind a little bit because I can already sense that I am getting ahead of myself. I am pretty sure a little bit more elaboration, if you will, is needed.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">These past few days I've been talking a lot about my abandonment issues.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I've come to the very important understanding that I have them, I need to address them, I have to be honest to myself about how they started, and what it's been like for me.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In my observation there are several types of people with abandonment issues—they all manifest differently depending on the person.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">1) There are those who hold on tighter to people who don't care about them simply because they don't want to be abandoned again.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">2) There are those who become so insecure and convinced that they are going to be abandoned that they become obsessed with those who are close to them, to the point of an irrevocable compulsion of stalk the other person's every move.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">3) There are those who let go too soon—at the inkling of feelings being involved, they jump ship. They are too scare of losing again that they rather never take the risk.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">4) Then, there are those like me. Those who push away when they sense they are losing, but are devoured profusely by loneliness and fear, and the sense of perpetual abandonment.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">When I love, I love hard. I mean, <b><u><i>hard</i></u></b>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The love I give is blind, unconditional, without measure, and inexhaustible. It is the type of love that is loud, proud, at times unconventional, but mostly superlative.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">It is the knowledge of that which keeps me at arms length from any individual whom I may sense will not reciprocate that love. Furthermore, there is the perennial feeling that at any given moment, for some miniscule and unfounded reason, said individual is going to leave me.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Them abandoning me, leaves me with an avalanche of aftermath to deal with which they could never comprehend.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Thus, I rather hold back. Not give that love—which I want so badly to unwarp and gift away—and save myself all of the heartache that may come.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The "<i>what ifs</i>", the "<i>plausible or possible endings</i>", the "<i>numerous scenarios</i>" and the "<i>I don't know what can happens</i>" are my bane. They are the chains that bind me to a life of unwilling servitude to loneliness because I refuse to be abandoned again.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>I've learned that ...</i></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Loneliness is its own prison.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Fear, of any kind, is its own purgatory.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Overthinking, its own hell.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><b>I understand that ...</b></i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Heartache can be overcome, but one must measure one's own strength to know they can.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><b>My desire is ...</b></i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">To reach my personal Nirvana, and get out of this ongoing purgatory.</p>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-77823721489171227042021-06-10T15:35:00.004-04:002021-06-10T15:35:41.667-04:00Connecting Some Dots ...<h2 style="text-align: left;"> I think.</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwT0ILtIrbeiewvRSMxaQEaCYHkhbBquz1UMMXmT45WUtRYcoyPhxcidTeo5tbKQWpSmLWXy02fbpE54OwNxdcgC-7zoZr5lHztgPJfIGjB2A6c7CH-0eiy-M9SW40oyuGeJAaR8QXk6g/s480/giphy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="404" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwT0ILtIrbeiewvRSMxaQEaCYHkhbBquz1UMMXmT45WUtRYcoyPhxcidTeo5tbKQWpSmLWXy02fbpE54OwNxdcgC-7zoZr5lHztgPJfIGjB2A6c7CH-0eiy-M9SW40oyuGeJAaR8QXk6g/w181-h215/giphy.gif" width="181" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I woke up with a really interesting and direct though this morning. It was the fact that I could recollect the very moment when things changed regarding my Abandonment Issues.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The moment everything took a drastic, dark, and dangerous turn in that regard. I can remember now, with sharp exactitude, the very moment when the synapses in my cerebra were chemically and biologically altered to the point of radical ramifications.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Please understand that I am not pointing blame to anyone—I promise that I am not saying that it's anyone fault. What I am saying is that I am identifying when the real problem started and how it changed my life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span><!--more--></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: justify;"><b><u>March 2007</u></b></h3><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I found myself back in my parents home with all four of my children due to a very ugly and awful breakup. One in which I lost everything. <i>Literally, everything</i>. Including my dignity. I was a very broken woman. A broken woman who didn't even know who she was anymore, and was doing her best to get by and stay strong for her kids.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I did the only thing that I knew how. I tucked the pain away as deeply as I could, proverbially "sucked it up" and "kept on trucking" for the sake of my kids.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was not given permission to deal with the pain, nor did I know how.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was not give permission to mourn, nor did I know how.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was told by the only people I had left in my life—<i>my family</i>—that "<i>oh well, shit happens</i>" and that I just needed to find a way.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had fallen so far into a darkness that was choking my every waking second that I didn't know how to get out of it. Furthermore, <i>I had no way out</i>. Much less, someone to turn to.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yet, in all of this smut, I was trying as hard as I could to heal.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But there was ONE light in the midst of all of the chaos.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Above it all, <i>I had my kids</i>. They were my life. My everything. Especially my eldest. She was my best friend. We'd grown up together. We'd been through it all together. She was so special to me because she was my confidant <i>and my daughter</i>. She was my angel <i>and my child</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I admit that when one is in that type of pain, one doesn't make the best choices. One of the choices that I made that wasn't the best, was dating when I wasn't ready. When, in fact, my kids weren't ready for me to either.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And to make matters worse, my parents were being devils incarnate. So—this was something that I found out much later—whenever I went on a date and left my mom to babysit, she put the responsibility on my eldest daughter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She would leave my eldest to babysit her younger siblings when it my mom who supposed to do it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One day we had a HUGE blow-up, family fight.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I say huge, I mean it was FUCKING HUGE.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">However, if you'd ask me now what it was about I couldn't tell you because I don't remember.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That day, tempers were flying and Amanda said something snarky.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hell if I remember what it was. I flipped shit. I yelled like a freaking banshee at her.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Her response was to leave. She just up and left and didn't tell me where she was going.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That wasn't like her.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I didn't see her again until the next week.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I, of course, blew up her cell phone, I searched the entire block, I even called the cops, until I ran into one of her friends who told me that she had been at her boyfriends house that whole time. I had him tell me where that was and I drove over there.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She came out.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I ordered her to go back home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She did.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That led to yet another argument, in which she packed up some stuff and left home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">She moved out and moved in with him and his family.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mentally I was in such a fucked up place that I thought, "<i>If she wants to leave me too, then so be it.</i>" I realize now that this was the beginning of a very unhealthy way of coping with loss.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So much happened after that. Soooooo much! Too much to write about here.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I know this.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In a matter of some months I'd lost the man I had given everything up for, and loved too much. I'd lost my home, my safety, my identity, my dignity, my life, and now ... my child and best friend. The only best friend I had at the time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The only thing I remember after that is pain and anger, anger and pain, and pain and anger some more.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Blindly, ardently.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Just furiously blind with pain and anger but fervently trying to push it aside for the rest of my kids.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I cried myself to sleep for months on end after that, if not well into a couple of years.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But no amount of tears shed lent to any sort of alleviation of the pain and anger.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That incident altogether changed the way I saw the world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, I was resolved that I would never be hurt like that again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But wouldn't you know it ...</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The times after, when I tried to trust again, I was let down profusely. Again. Abandoned, again. Hurt, again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This only cemented my belief that allowing people too close would lead to more heartache. With time, and many more shitty experiences from tons of shitty people, all I see now is red. <i>Red</i>. All the time, red. Red with anger and pain, and bitterness, and a sense of potentially being abandoned. Again.</div>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-11127244057244871282021-06-09T08:00:00.001-04:002021-06-09T08:00:06.181-04:00Still Mad? Well, yeah!<h2 style="text-align: left;">Even though I don't wanna be.<br />I wanna be like ....</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHaJFNbf8DuuXNSnKTiO_lFPEJYVUroOHEwMzbgUbFLM8A-yf7hsJPYeL1TfVE56G0vBt91NqzwfEz39XGd1vsh8hJ-ycmYLYUgXEKr0n3DoGtQfU7BtjBRKAlyXrC1aH47F7BMAfvVTE/s220/don%2527t+give+an+f.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="220" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHaJFNbf8DuuXNSnKTiO_lFPEJYVUroOHEwMzbgUbFLM8A-yf7hsJPYeL1TfVE56G0vBt91NqzwfEz39XGd1vsh8hJ-ycmYLYUgXEKr0n3DoGtQfU7BtjBRKAlyXrC1aH47F7BMAfvVTE/w350-h276/don%2527t+give+an+f.gif" width="350" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">So since I am doing my own little version of Personal Shadow Work, let me list the things I am still mad at. Maybe in that way I can start to let shit go.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Be advised, this shit is probably gonna be deep.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Why? Because deep wounds, leave deep scars.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjhgAtpEmKulsnUr5InzcP1PFpMOctuy_Co4sW_G1OsOEkPpxxMHT6TcDUpB7eBpzPcbluCkBlNqE6afeDgxX5Dk7yjgEuvZk4xyJf03_SkEOdnAb-sh6J1kmMOQ_VkeFkWLveAAfm3I/s356/periodt.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjhgAtpEmKulsnUr5InzcP1PFpMOctuy_Co4sW_G1OsOEkPpxxMHT6TcDUpB7eBpzPcbluCkBlNqE6afeDgxX5Dk7yjgEuvZk4xyJf03_SkEOdnAb-sh6J1kmMOQ_VkeFkWLveAAfm3I/s320/periodt.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Following is a list of things I am still mad at in no particular order. Most of this shit I've been holding on to for years. Some of it is still kinda new-ish.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><ol><li>The younger, more fucked up version of my mom. The version of her that was dysfunctional, addicted to all kinds of stuff, abusive, neglectful, and mentally unstable in all kinds of ways. Also the version of her that got so sick that she depended on the little girl version of me to be her care giver when it was supposed to be the other way around. Furthermore, she was supposed to protect me and she didn't. This made me have to grow up way before my time. It was unfair and I am still mad at that shit.</li><li>The younger version of my dad. The one who drank and gambled his life away and failed to be the dad that I needed during a tumultuous childhood. I am mad at the version of him that failed to do his due diligence as a father when I had no one else.</li><li>I'm mad at the younger version of me. The one that cried her nights away. The one that suffered in silence. The one that swallowed her fears, and drank her tears. I am mad at the child that grew up far too soon for the sake of her maladjusted parents.</li><li>I am mad at the community that failed me. At a time in my later childhood when my family turned to the church for safety and restoration, all we got was a church that was nothing more than a cult in hiding which hurt us more than words can say in the name of God. This infuriates me still. I am livid beyond measure at that sole fact. I'm irate at the damage they did and the way they hid behind holy veils. I even hate them for it.</li><li>I'm mad at the men I trusted and opted to love in my life. I am mad at the damage they did to me. I am mad at the fact that I believed in them and put my life, my love and my trust in their hands and they took advantage of me. They damaged me. They broke me. They trampled on my heart and never so much as apologized. They caused me so much mental-emotional damage that I am still trying to overcome it and I am finding very hard to.</li><li>I am mad at the life that was taken from me and the people that usurped it without a second thought. They took what was mine like it belonged to them all along. I am furious at all the hard work I put into that life, and they robbed me of it.</li><li>I am mad at the way my eldest daughter abandoned me. When all I wanted was the best for her, when I just needed to heal, and needed her to understand that we were BOTH trying the heal, she turned on me and left. I am mad that she picked <i><b>him</b></i> over me. I am mad that to this day she still picks him over everything and everyone, no matter what manner of damage he does to her.</li><li>I am mad at the employers who took advantage of my passion and dedication to use me, abuse me and then kick me to the curb whilst rubbing my name through the dirt. To this day I still have nightmares about it. And I find myself from time to time wishing all of the worst upon them.</li><li>I am furious that I've lost my optimism. I'm irate that I have lost the part of me that was my signature, the part of me that made me who I am. I've lost all hope, enthusiasm, and silver-lining idealism.</li><li>I'm furious at all the people in this world that continuously trying to take advantage of others. Those self-centered, egotistical, narcissistic, ego-maniacs that can't see past the tips of their noses and can't think past their own agenda.</li></ol>Sometimes, the weight I bear makes me feel like I am actually mad at the whole world. I know I am not, but that's what it feels like.<br /><div>I don't want to be mad anymore. I don't want to hurt about these things any more. I want to recuperate the me that existed before all the pain—the core of me that was full of liveliness and light. I want to bring light upon the world and show others that pain does not have to define who you become. How can I do that if I can't let go of the anger?</div><div>I want to break the cycle. And I want to do that starting today.</div></div>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-1454698323740151892021-06-08T13:54:00.001-04:002021-06-08T13:55:26.395-04:00Accounta-fucking-bility <h2 style="text-align: justify;"> ↑↑↑↑<br />That; I'm fucking taking it.</h2><p style="text-align: justify;">Today I am taking accountability for the things that I potentially fucked up because of my fears, trauma, and personal disfunctions. Stand by, there may be a lot of them. Who know, there may only be a few. I don't fucking know since I'll be jotting them down as they come to me.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">1. Damaging my kids. I fucked them up good. I tried the best I could with what I had and what I knew—God knows I did. But that obviously wasn't enough to give them the firmament they needed to make better choices and have better lives. For that I am profoundly sorry. More than words can say. So much that it hurts.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">2. Relationship with good men. All I've ever wanted was to be happy with a good man that was my compatible equal. However, my trauma, my fears and my personal disfunctions made it so that I fucked up any chances of finding that. I personally ruined it whenever I did find a good man with great relationship potential because of the "what ifs" that never came.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">3. My relationship with my extended family members. Yes, it is true that I have always been the black sheep of the family. There is no doubting that. But perhaps I could have tried a little harder. Maybe I could have given a bit more effort. I let fear and personal disfunction, not to mention, my views of my place inside the family unit dictate the way I maneuvered within them. So much so that I distanced myself completely from them.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">4. My self-esteem. God damn, this is a hard one for me. I done fucked up my self-esteem so bad that I don't even know where to begin. I messed myself up in that way sooooooo hard that no manner of "reversing trauma and negative talk" has helped. I'm so damn jacked up in this subject that I may need some professional help with it. Like, facts. How did I do that, you are probably wondering? Because I listened more to the people who talked ill of me than to those who praised me. That's how. I could have just as easily done it the other way around.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Accounta-fucking-bility, that's what this post is all about today. Sorry for all the bad language, but not really. That's just me. Take it or leave it.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Bye!</p>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-65931008874284742612021-06-08T10:34:00.005-04:002021-06-08T13:16:23.081-04:00Journal Entry 6/8/2021<p style="text-align: justify;"> I don't do these often, so when I do they are important. At least to me. In the end, that's all that matters.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">So anyone that really knows me, knows this. I deeply and passionately hate sounding cliché. There is nothing about cliché behaviors that appeal to my eclectic persona. Not a thing. Hence, when I say what I am about to say, it comes from a place of profound meditation and understanding.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9c-lxtbdfTTBdpJkftNkZFSusNGovlcRxBK4mEGD8WAqvnl9xYIzecWgI6RyIevkniE1yNaKzLj8lKRon1On1NlTnmaYH5qu9xfKgS6LdQUyJ466mgHpzs_06hMktirBmmwFuw9MBFg/s220/tenor.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="220" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9c-lxtbdfTTBdpJkftNkZFSusNGovlcRxBK4mEGD8WAqvnl9xYIzecWgI6RyIevkniE1yNaKzLj8lKRon1On1NlTnmaYH5qu9xfKgS6LdQUyJ466mgHpzs_06hMktirBmmwFuw9MBFg/w308-h224/tenor.gif" width="308" /></a></div><div><br /></div>There I was just minding my bees wax, having just jumped out of the shower and getting ready for my morning routine, <i><b>when it just dawned on me</b></i>.<div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1EvHycoNr7TlT8Mv1nJmsZ86XftU0-vtq40cswoc7v-9_U32HytKMqsygpbecM1qK-P92cEBol1XPxEvefOoE-xOJ28N2ic7MFKcCAhyphenhyphen8hcVY4gsU4eKPgZsUmryIPCB32mjf_f8DcKw/s480/giphy.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="261" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1EvHycoNr7TlT8Mv1nJmsZ86XftU0-vtq40cswoc7v-9_U32HytKMqsygpbecM1qK-P92cEBol1XPxEvefOoE-xOJ28N2ic7MFKcCAhyphenhyphen8hcVY4gsU4eKPgZsUmryIPCB32mjf_f8DcKw/s320/giphy.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Yup, I said it, <b><i>it just dawned on me</i></b>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now that the cliché is out of the way, let's continue.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was actually caught up in a barrage of thoughts that sort of interconnected. Lots of them. They went something like this ....</div><div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li style="text-align: justify;">I can't recall the first thought.</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Recollection of past conversations about love/romance/companionship.</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Thoughts about any potential future suitors.</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Thoughts of "falling in love" again.</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Thoughts of "Nope, I can't put myself in that position ever again. It would make me vulnerable and susceptible to pain and heartbreak."</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Thoughts of, "But you know what, if I even suspected that the dude were going to leave me because of reasons A, B, C and so on, I would drop his ass before he could say 'Why?' anyway. Fuck that shit. Men don't leave me anymore, I leave them."</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Then that was followed by, "Holy shit. 😦"</li><li style="text-align: justify;"><b><i>I just realized</i></b> that I got scared of being axed.</li><li style="text-align: justify;"><b><i>I just realized</i></b> that that is the rhetoric of a person with issues. <b><i>Bad ones</i></b>. The whole, "I'll leave them before they leave me" crap.</li><li style="text-align: justify;">In the instant, all of the aforementioned ran through my brain simultaneously with the recollection of all of the people that abandoned me. <i><b>All of it</b></i>. It just came rushing to the forefront. The pain the abandonment caused, the whole shebang. </li><li style="text-align: justify;">I also realized that when I care about someone, I hold on tight as fuck because I don't want them to leave me.</li><li style="text-align: justify;">"Holy shit, Jazz," I thought, "that's the thought process of a person with abandonment issues!"</li><li style="text-align: justify;">"Holy fucking shit Jazz, you have abandonment issues!" I said to myself.</li></ul></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So that was it.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">However, now that I know this, I can address it. I can find a way to work on it, heal it, learn how to trust, how to hope, how to move forward and all that. As of today I've made myself some promises and I plan on working on them every day until I get back to a place where I find the inner peace I am seeking.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Okay, that's it. Bye!</div></div>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-40082019453284546852021-01-21T06:00:00.003-05:002021-01-21T06:00:03.256-05:00"Reversal" is Released!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmBNkc9D7NAwYMsFf8sDVyQFtJ1NSF3ob_eBTdisH-Fm3pQFznThF7swBPM3AfF_E43dt-kOJFXce9GJh7EK359F2vA7abzOcZJ5wdyVpA0DcKuml8c6W5HTP-4WJxl_gZqZtQRCLgWs/s1929/Cool+Text+-+Its+Official+Release+Day+374262349112243.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="175" data-original-width="1929" height="58" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmBNkc9D7NAwYMsFf8sDVyQFtJ1NSF3ob_eBTdisH-Fm3pQFznThF7swBPM3AfF_E43dt-kOJFXce9GJh7EK359F2vA7abzOcZJ5wdyVpA0DcKuml8c6W5HTP-4WJxl_gZqZtQRCLgWs/w640-h58/Cool+Text+-+Its+Official+Release+Day+374262349112243.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwnkMeBdHeVWrgkGgwWWKqUO9XnYm1EmgCpJvzvJwDT6eo24OamQWsEx-_S7DTpiJK-H_sbxIOAZyCaXv4r1I8HhX0-YcQvlo5jotwaHmx8ciYCotTvZOz_-Drh2VOfRhCfh8LCMV9Tg/s480/woohoo.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="480" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwnkMeBdHeVWrgkGgwWWKqUO9XnYm1EmgCpJvzvJwDT6eo24OamQWsEx-_S7DTpiJK-H_sbxIOAZyCaXv4r1I8HhX0-YcQvlo5jotwaHmx8ciYCotTvZOz_-Drh2VOfRhCfh8LCMV9Tg/w400-h225/woohoo.gif" width="400" /></a></div><br /><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">What else can we say, but,<br />“It's the official release
day”?</span></h3><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s really exciting to start the new year off on a high note, regardless of all of the chaos surrounding us in this day and time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I feel like there isn’t much to be said, so I am going to let the story speak for itself.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2QZtPuDDND81IA39Sil3EixHt2fuWawPli67Qee84B_XNkaLq098sEmEbofeitY4iCyU1IV8PveE8Gqapgqs9sdjLeAzk1ablk9Asg9QIUbB8vGIdz62RsR7PjPENNGB3RelCCGhNlZs/s2048/Reversal+Cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2QZtPuDDND81IA39Sil3EixHt2fuWawPli67Qee84B_XNkaLq098sEmEbofeitY4iCyU1IV8PveE8Gqapgqs9sdjLeAzk1ablk9Asg9QIUbB8vGIdz62RsR7PjPENNGB3RelCCGhNlZs/w426-h640/Reversal+Cover.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL657rE45K3We5f0Og0BEKMKNntU6ly16WqbCeZCqMoKFAi24nKTRXMPIq_ibBLTuQ1OJGb8riAETNgbeOLoc8Q3AoKW3HX7H7rGjtjyybk762ZroBwS0537OuxZsxfbR1Zp_aJu_Iyjc/s817/coollogo_com-3328861+%25281%2529.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="817" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL657rE45K3We5f0Og0BEKMKNntU6ly16WqbCeZCqMoKFAi24nKTRXMPIq_ibBLTuQ1OJGb8riAETNgbeOLoc8Q3AoKW3HX7H7rGjtjyybk762ZroBwS0537OuxZsxfbR1Zp_aJu_Iyjc/s320/coollogo_com-3328861+%25281%2529.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Humanity in Retrograde</span></span></i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><b><i><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></i></b></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;">In this retro-futuristic era, the old look and reproduce as if in the prime of their lives. The babies delivered into this world—sickly, fighting for every second to have a slim chance of survival. To turn this existence on its heels, it requires something … or someone … Special. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When a healthy baby is discovered by Nurse Celestine, she makes it her mission to protect what she believes is a well-kept secret. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for the observant Nurse Trudy to put the pieces together to utilize for her personal gain as well as orchestrate Nurse Celestine’s ruin. Can Nurse Celestine succeed in combating the determined Nurse Trudy, or will all that is special be exposed and possibly destroyed? Find out in Reversal.</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiySKfN1hkqKLL0FRSo09WXSo3tZTJ9w3NEZv1iBsZsYXroT4PRyseTDjyf520aLMsixUhmjqAy8kwDjSbe7i83P_R9EHUCZnAyPLgCsFySiIqbfMPoKX3w07NOIe-niCdT6y6eBIgCoAk/s922/coollogo_com-27056679.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="287" data-original-width="922" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiySKfN1hkqKLL0FRSo09WXSo3tZTJ9w3NEZv1iBsZsYXroT4PRyseTDjyf520aLMsixUhmjqAy8kwDjSbe7i83P_R9EHUCZnAyPLgCsFySiIqbfMPoKX3w07NOIe-niCdT6y6eBIgCoAk/s320/coollogo_com-27056679.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span lang="EN"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Babies.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mere infants … fragile, feeble, sickly and flushed of color, lined the nursery of St. Agnes General Hospital NICU Department. This was nothing new, of course. They were all born that way. Those who made it past their first week of birth were among the blessed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">An almost invisible film of mauve and viridian—a sheath that covered their reality—was the translucent haze that weighed upon all things. It was as though the colors had been embedded into the fabric of the world, tinging everything—no matter what its candescence—in those pigments. The darkest of the dark, and the lightest of the light, all seemed ominous and void of vitality.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Dreary.</i> That was the word that best described this place, these people … <i>these babies.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The atmosphere was inauspicious. Everything seemed afflicted with lifelessness. The hospital, antiquated. Though hundreds of years in the future, the setting felt like a 1950’s time warp. The perimeter of the hospital was as inert as its own appearance—scant trees, barren bushes, leaf and debris covered streets.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The perils that distressed St. Agnes General Hospital was the lack of advanced technologies. It was as though the last ten centuries had never transpired. An entire fragment of time had evidently disappeared leaving behind a woefully dull and mechanically limited world which was forced to operate within its mediocre means.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The hallways of St. Agnes General were long, ominous, and cold. The walls were painted in a tainted light green. The doctors wore perfectly pressed white coats which covered their black business suits. Their hair, slick—brushed back into a tight, shiny do. The nurses donned white nursing uniforms with white hats which had red crosses in the center. Skirts at knee length, taupe pantyhose and white nurse shoes. They looked perfect. In complete contrast to their locality.</div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep</i>; first in dots then in dashes. The sound carried a cadence of absolute fear which could give any person goosebumps—that river of icy-hot pimples that ran all over one’s body. Yet the screeching of the monitor’s blaring was far louder than the unhealthy baby that attempted to cry its woes. His voice was as decrepit as his leathery, bony flesh.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nurse Juliette was an excessively feminine, soft-spoke Asian woman with the tiny frame. Blue-black hair fell to her waist, and Juliette’s spotless face was softly made up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Sh, sh, sh. There, there, little one. It’ll all be over soon, I promise. Mommy already knows that you’ll be going to a better place,” whispered Nurse Juliette who was sitting next to his cradle. She gently shook the child’s puny legs. Nurse Juliette’s tone was void of emotion, as though this were an everyday occurrence.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In all actuality, it was.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In complete opposition to the old-looking, ailing child was Nurse Juliette whose stature was strong, young, healthy and … well, perfect. So was the child’s mother and father who both waited for the news of his fate from their hospital room.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And, just as Nurse Juliette swayed the hardly sobbing yet profusely ailing child, the infant took in a sharp lungful and exhaled his last breath.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Ahh, poor child,” Nurse Juliette concluded, then proceeded to get out of her seat to pick up the phone. “Nurse Celestine? Yes? Good. Please advise the Smithson family that the child has passed.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Certainly,” replied the voice on the opposite end. Neither one of the voices even remotely somber.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 15.0pt; margin: 15pt 0in; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="490" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qGTka-la6BY" width="589" youtube-src-id="qGTka-la6BY"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Reversal-Y-Correa/dp/B08SPSXG47/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="261" data-original-width="524" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZCi35ix4RZeAeSVjQ6mX1AoqpdEk5CTowoudds9GNzaU8HZZojXB9aX7NrOelkxfIWHc8aahW7JO023DzJVBOSRk133ibvvy2L3pd7JbR-iESGQwJ_c5RGGV3B9wWDFdurVSIryFDDwk/w422-h210/coollogo_com-33402370.png" width="422" /></a></div><p></p><!--Codes by HTML.am--></div>Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-73022279246239099562021-01-20T07:00:00.001-05:002021-01-20T07:00:03.368-05:00"Reversal" Tour Day 3<p style="text-align: justify;">We're almost there!</p><p style="text-align: justify;">One more blog post before the big "Release Day". In the meantime, as we count down, here is my Day 3 Post.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMdl947PiUz0yGj1B7T4i7qNLP-vq8NtQNS9oyO2D5jVuICPkUmAEa0z-GgeC8tZ3-8M9kJ7ZUTM6nR5ecnvk0x5Ux0DaoNerotHk-qQWef_JJmxS1NDwkwXySyKl4E0vdDfZCdDDzrY/s724/y+correa+author+photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="686" data-original-width="724" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMdl947PiUz0yGj1B7T4i7qNLP-vq8NtQNS9oyO2D5jVuICPkUmAEa0z-GgeC8tZ3-8M9kJ7ZUTM6nR5ecnvk0x5Ux0DaoNerotHk-qQWef_JJmxS1NDwkwXySyKl4E0vdDfZCdDDzrY/s320/y+correa+author+photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Main Character Connectivity: Albert, Celestine, and Trudy</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I’ve never been the type of writer to sit inside a mold of any kind. I’ve always written in a way that blurs genres, lines, and character makeup.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In a typical story the two main characters—Albert and Celestine—would either be related or have some sort of romantic connection, whether it was reciprocated or not.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcm5d2mSf7gy2VHkUqDytD7ILmFUU3UTCAhLT1qwKtvE_xbZDBHQNF-MaqKPvFheWHgJ6G-PEcztzIRsRGcxYEIEe7Kfh2GGEYBUe5lmaUO9dUSTD50B_2EpETQmQj5l3Z1MfaiXqnYhs/s356/Love+Me+Not.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="356" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcm5d2mSf7gy2VHkUqDytD7ILmFUU3UTCAhLT1qwKtvE_xbZDBHQNF-MaqKPvFheWHgJ6G-PEcztzIRsRGcxYEIEe7Kfh2GGEYBUe5lmaUO9dUSTD50B_2EpETQmQj5l3Z1MfaiXqnYhs/w400-h225/Love+Me+Not.gif" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">I, however, believe that in real life that isn’t always the case. In real life, things aren’t just black and white.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Thus, when mimicking real life via its fictional mirror, it’s important to stay true to certain elements. Blurred lines is one of them.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTT8e7PITAGxAAIPW1B1WpqyQCiTfPJ57MQTp0GRXlT59o3g-ahh8qgrRnaXYa478EOyMR1bA4uKMsBXJ0P1-eFYe3KpyRrYzXjt_26E6oIBGhbZRfsrIxXaCaTkSU8F8T1A9rY3CyJKw/s512/blurry.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTT8e7PITAGxAAIPW1B1WpqyQCiTfPJ57MQTp0GRXlT59o3g-ahh8qgrRnaXYa478EOyMR1bA4uKMsBXJ0P1-eFYe3KpyRrYzXjt_26E6oIBGhbZRfsrIxXaCaTkSU8F8T1A9rY3CyJKw/s320/blurry.gif" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>I was asked, “Why aren’t Albert and Celestine an item?”</div><div>The answer is, “Who says they aren’t, but also, who says they are?”</div><div>I wanted to leave that up for interpretation; I wanted the reader to speculate.</div><div>Were they really romantically interested in each other, were they just friends, was it something else? Something more?</div><div><br /></div><div><div>No one knows. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Because romance is not the point of the story anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlr_diCdyDSfM7bXKdzPCmTm7x2i8Z8sFEaCT57aJXxpyCJPMFAxP7Hz_FDAlVexkLSjMz_-fk8tB2sgFPgfG5X0T9obK922JcK1AbOSsmjzK2MB8SSVQq-P3Z5ZexvTl6llnwogFpCqE/s480/Not+the+Point.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlr_diCdyDSfM7bXKdzPCmTm7x2i8Z8sFEaCT57aJXxpyCJPMFAxP7Hz_FDAlVexkLSjMz_-fk8tB2sgFPgfG5X0T9obK922JcK1AbOSsmjzK2MB8SSVQq-P3Z5ZexvTl6llnwogFpCqE/s320/Not+the+Point.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>The point of the existence of Celestine and Albert is to tell you the story that truly matters … the story of <i>“Reversal”</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of blurred lines … let’s talk a little bit about Trudy.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="font-size: large;">Who is Nurse Trudy and why is she so dead set on getting Celestine busted in the first place?</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Why, that’s the big question?</div><div><br /></div><div>In my mind, when writing <i>“Reversal”</i>, I thought of the iconic Hardboiled novels of the 50s, 60s, and 70s. In those stories, in those days, a villain was a villain just because he/she was. There was no real reason or substance to the person … they just liked being bad.</div><div>It beckons the thought of how some people just love drama. They seem to thrive on it.</div><div><br /></div><div>However, during the writing of the story, as it got deeper, things changed. Trudy was no longer a villain just for the sake of it, she was a person with purpose. She was a person who not only thrived on the drama, but did it because it meant something to her.</div><div>Then an image came to mind--one that I might write more about someday in the future in the form of a short story.</div><div>The image was that of Trudy and Celestine in Nursing school at the same time. Studying together, socializing together, the works. In time, the quintessential “turning of tides” visits their doorstep. Celestine begins to excel at what she does, whilst Trudy remains the underdog; never to meet the standard that Celestine embodies naturally. Thus, a long and deliberate plan is put into action by Trudy. A plan of redemption. She would prove that Celestine isn’t as perfect as everyone thinks she is.</div><div>Years later, they both find themselves in the world of <i>“Reversal”</i>, a world replete with happenstances which call out to Trudy that now is the time for her reprisal.</div><div><br /></div><div>Celestine is now in a situation where she can only call upon the one person that’s been a mainstay in her life … Albert.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thus the ties of blurred lines and incomprehensible connections come to life. All because of a single miracle.</div><div>A <b><i>Special</i></b> miracle.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>See y’all tomorrow for the official book release! I can hardly wait to share it with you all.</div><div><br /></div><div>Y. Correa</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>
Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-19027850404160304142021-01-19T07:00:00.001-05:002021-01-19T07:00:07.087-05:00"Reversal" Tour Day 2<p>Welcome to Day 2 of the <i>Reversal </i>blog tour.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMdl947PiUz0yGj1B7T4i7qNLP-vq8NtQNS9oyO2D5jVuICPkUmAEa0z-GgeC8tZ3-8M9kJ7ZUTM6nR5ecnvk0x5Ux0DaoNerotHk-qQWef_JJmxS1NDwkwXySyKl4E0vdDfZCdDDzrY/s724/y+correa+author+photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="686" data-original-width="724" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMdl947PiUz0yGj1B7T4i7qNLP-vq8NtQNS9oyO2D5jVuICPkUmAEa0z-GgeC8tZ3-8M9kJ7ZUTM6nR5ecnvk0x5Ux0DaoNerotHk-qQWef_JJmxS1NDwkwXySyKl4E0vdDfZCdDDzrY/s320/y+correa+author+photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">When the location and setting is also a character</span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUjrtT55lPFPqnK3KkkEVbYX3RCNgoE-30N8mj4sZlOiOKnpjiTyB0TklrdQuGtFTRgz1mSALTGq51TNFc3Z8ZWg_w5vnRRUPGg9dxwOLNq9-sFdtzf8nxU5eM6IkfDbTLt-q8kSdi598/s480/imaginary+wold.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="308" data-original-width="480" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUjrtT55lPFPqnK3KkkEVbYX3RCNgoE-30N8mj4sZlOiOKnpjiTyB0TklrdQuGtFTRgz1mSALTGq51TNFc3Z8ZWg_w5vnRRUPGg9dxwOLNq9-sFdtzf8nxU5eM6IkfDbTLt-q8kSdi598/w400-h256/imaginary+wold.gif" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">Yup, you heard me right. Today I am going to talk about how the location and setting of “Reversal” is also a character in the story. Or at least, that’s how I see it.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Open your mind and let me take you on a trip into the impossible.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Over one hundred years from now a society exists that is living in a reversed reality.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">This is not a dystopian future, but the future thereafter. It’s a time when humanity has rebuilt the devastation that destroyed reality as humanity knew it. But, in this time, everything is old, because old is new.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvEBUln0WwXA6ILGjFmUhLDyCHnVn9DbsfnhE-ERpqBJTcSyOqRhBayJl7WF2aw4H9t0DxcmibFnb1iwF0eTC7Ga_p0z7tct3x5rx8yRm0R9r7fBGttBP0xrAmvD7GFSRRcX4Z6SNyps/s646/rewind.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="646" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvEBUln0WwXA6ILGjFmUhLDyCHnVn9DbsfnhE-ERpqBJTcSyOqRhBayJl7WF2aw4H9t0DxcmibFnb1iwF0eTC7Ga_p0z7tct3x5rx8yRm0R9r7fBGttBP0xrAmvD7GFSRRcX4Z6SNyps/s320/rewind.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">Picture being so far into the future that people are living in a replica of the past. A 1950s replica to be exact.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div><div>Underneath all of the vintage allure of this world, one can still find the rubble of a world that once was. Things that exist in our time; things like flying drones, for example. Even cars like 1950s Chevys exist. How strange is that? Wide cars with benches instead of chairs. In the hospitals, the supplies and procedures are a combination of very old and very new. Imagine syringes that are made of metal and glass, but protocol that is modern. Doctors wear two-piece suits under their coats and nurses all have white uniforms and hats. All this, but science is advanced and miraculous.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here, in the world of Reversal, things seem ominous. Even the sun doesn’t glow in a way that illuminates nature, but rather scarcely glows at all. It’s cold, dreary and feels isolating. So much so, that there seems to be a perpetual cloud of obscurity that encompasses the entire planet.</div><div><br /></div><div>In this upside-down world, even evolution is put to question as the forward movement of evolution has been regressed. Now, the universe evolves backwards.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE0yl3erA-Ag9PlUjLHxDvO5heVpbZ7fL0E1RnoLBCEztwROCM2N5eU2VSuM5v0rrpFabdaJvlU_rIuTXMNwe9HGv4MLcWal9qCQtc1rgHdnofCveVBVFbamOf7pQPRo8Fc3Y0BxzRUT4/s498/evolve+backwards.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE0yl3erA-Ag9PlUjLHxDvO5heVpbZ7fL0E1RnoLBCEztwROCM2N5eU2VSuM5v0rrpFabdaJvlU_rIuTXMNwe9HGv4MLcWal9qCQtc1rgHdnofCveVBVFbamOf7pQPRo8Fc3Y0BxzRUT4/s320/evolve+backwards.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><div><div>In a romantic way of saying it, I would say that <i>“What once was, is again. and what is now, may no longer be.”</i></div><div><br /></div><div>So how does the setting and location play into the whole concept of the story as a character?</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, because though seemingly mute, it has its own voice.</div><div>The echo of the world reverberates throughout the entire plot of the story. It transmutes the dilemmas of the human characters and speaks of a place and time that are tangible. Because it is foreseeable, it is relatable, it is something we know but also something we’ve never seen.</div><div><br /></div><div>The setting and the location, speak to me. I hear its voice when I read the story. I can only hope that you have that very same experience.</div><div><br /></div><div>Until next time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Y. Correa</div></div><div><br /></div></div>
Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6794088611974900953.post-66886719295395206882021-01-18T07:00:00.001-05:002021-01-18T07:00:03.506-05:00"Reversal" Tour Day 1<p style="text-align: justify;">Lately it feels like "Blog-Tours-R-Us' around here, but honestly, I'm not complaining.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Why? Because this time it's my turn. I'm so happy to share some tidbits of my newest story which will be released in just a few day, called "Reversal".</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Sit back, have a cocktail and enjoy!</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyFU8iiz_l-k55okzrmNzrgKiCVtlftkVHJz3bkvS620hbZv6Sj7l7_MFQNsOZo6ZhnJDNIhxwuAEOdwGGC_cTG7JrVyY8A0vatWpoE28ZvdmJBsgy8xxcJ0BnDqB8mAWwvSZR6aqJ-A/s724/y+correa+author+photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="686" data-original-width="724" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyFU8iiz_l-k55okzrmNzrgKiCVtlftkVHJz3bkvS620hbZv6Sj7l7_MFQNsOZo6ZhnJDNIhxwuAEOdwGGC_cTG7JrVyY8A0vatWpoE28ZvdmJBsgy8xxcJ0BnDqB8mAWwvSZR6aqJ-A/s320/y+correa+author+photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">What was the inspiration behind the Reversal concept?</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b>Coincidence or destiny?</b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">That’s the question I ask myself when it comes to the birth of “Reversal”.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">To this day, I honestly don’t know which one it was. But after having completed the story, I’ve come to believe that I was meant to write it all along. So, perhaps it was destiny.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIdWw-7CzVeozD2jhzUNhzf70nHZrs8NmSe5rqKf0tQNn8FgTXVSGpiNw9KECxSHcerFhPDXMCmeScWuXWxn8K_9txT7q-VuL-jXdD76BhWKUmfQRWdy-UpO3k31OqSlFnZzK1TlFhm_Y/s500/where+to+start.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="262" data-original-width="500" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIdWw-7CzVeozD2jhzUNhzf70nHZrs8NmSe5rqKf0tQNn8FgTXVSGpiNw9KECxSHcerFhPDXMCmeScWuXWxn8K_9txT7q-VuL-jXdD76BhWKUmfQRWdy-UpO3k31OqSlFnZzK1TlFhm_Y/w410-h215/where+to+start.gif" width="410" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">I guess, like with all stories, we should start at the beginning ….</p><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One day, as per usual, I was chatting with my good friend and fellow author <a href="https://alopezjr.com" target="_blank">A. Lopez Jr. </a>, who’d consequently just woken up. As I routinely did, I asked how he was doing, although I already knew that he was groggy and tired.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That’s when he shared with me the fact that he’d had a “sort of bad dream”. He shared that in the dream time was going backwards and people were dying young; he was among those people.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The conversation went a little something like this;</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Me: That would make a fantastic story. You should write it down.</i></div><div><i>A.: Naw, I am working on too many projects as it is. But you’re right, it would make a good story.</i></div><div><i>Me: Then maybe just jot down the concept this way it could be something that you could come back to later.</i></div><div><i>A.: No, I don’t think it’s my story to tell. You take it.</i></div><div><i>Me: Me? No, I couldn’t do that! That would be stealing.</i></div><div><i>A.: It’s not stealing if I am giving it to you. It’s yours, take it. Write the story.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Immediately my mind flooded with the premise of the story—the ins and outs of how that world could function, the myriad things that could happen. More than that, the richness of the location and time setting.</div><div>The conversation continued between A. and me, and we went back and forth for some time about how that story would and could work.</div><div>Finally, he says, “See? I knew it was yours.”</div><div>I smiled. I was grateful for his confidence in my ability to narrate the richness of the story.</div><div>He finished with, “It’s called ‘Reversal’.”</div><div>“‘Reversal’ it is!” I responded.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqDV-fbLd2vOlXDxhHwnqbqFENqSpeSRAdJjonN-Cu4nf3WymbTzCDrQA0kidGbxIRWIv0NDFYo4vISTXz8ShGX-X2_vKZSGCJpCFEiIJOrLtsEActZZAb0tkz4uIToPvTDyfcLy-7TtM/s200/hold+on+a+second.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqDV-fbLd2vOlXDxhHwnqbqFENqSpeSRAdJjonN-Cu4nf3WymbTzCDrQA0kidGbxIRWIv0NDFYo4vISTXz8ShGX-X2_vKZSGCJpCFEiIJOrLtsEActZZAb0tkz4uIToPvTDyfcLy-7TtM/w278-h278/hold+on+a+second.gif" width="278" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>I am not altogether done. This doesn’t end with an immediate “happily ever after”.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>You see, although I started to write the story that very day it took me three years to finish. “Reversal” was a rollercoaster ride to get done. I mean, like, for real.</div><div>I’d find myself in these moments of mental debate ….</div></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i>I don’t know if I am doing this story justice.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i>Dear God, it sucks ass!</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i>What the fuck am I thinking?</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i>Should I delete everything and start over?</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i>Naw, I hate it. I’m dumping it.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i>Wait, this story is pretty damn good. Let me try to add a little more to it.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i>I love this story. Bad! Ass!</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i>I totally need to finish this thing, like, right away.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i>😟 Sheesh, what am I thinking? It sucks! I’m gonna delete it.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i>But I can’t delete it, A. is counting on me!</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"><i>Damnit! 😖</i></span></div></div><div><br /></div><div><div>Round and round the mental rollercoaster went for several years. Until the beginning of 2020. At the beginning of the year I said to myself, “If I don’t achieve anything else this year, I am at least going to finish ‘Reversal’ ... good, bad or otherwise.”</div><div>Enter 2020, slowly but surely I would add a little bit to the story. A line here, when I could. A line there, when I could, and so it went.</div><div>Until November 2020.</div><div>Enter NaNoWriMo.</div><div>Now, for many, many years I was not the biggest advocate of NaNoWriMo. I have several reasons why. Truthfully, I’m still not that big of an advocate of it. But I said to myself, “I think I am going to dedicate some NaNoWriMo time to ‘Reversal’, but I’m gonna do it MY way.”</div><div>By “my way” I was referring to it being a “relaxed” challenge. There was a reason for it. I have been working two jobs for several months, so I knew that I couldn’t dedicate all the time in the world to writing during the month of November, but whatever writing I did do it would be on “Reversal”.</div><div>So with the plan well in order, I embarked.</div><div>I was blessed enough to have written the majority of the story during November 2020, although I did not complete it by the end of the month. However, the vast amount that I did add paved the way for me to complete the story at the end of the first week of December.</div><div>I was so proud, but also, admittedly torn.</div><div><br /></div><div>Did I not do the story justice in the rush to finish it? Did I cut corners and in turn produce a less than favorable story? Honestly, I didn’t know how I felt about it. I was a hop, skip and jump away from deleting it altogether.</div><div>In lieu of disposing of the story, I opted to share it forward. Perhaps someone else’s opinion would help settle my angst.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><div>In comes my Ace, author <a href="https://www.authorqueenofspades.com" target="_blank">Queen of Spades</a>. </div><div>“Queen,” I said, “here is the deal. I am this close to dumping it. I need you to read it and give me the plain and simple facts. Cold, hard, and all that.”</div><div>“Okay,” she responded willingly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Days later, I was drumming my fingers on a table waiting to hear something back. Like, anything. She was doing the Poker Face like a pro. I couldn’t get an inch or a mile from her. Nothing.</div><div>At least, until she was good and ready.</div><div><br /></div><div>The day she was done reading the story, she was as quiet as a church mouse for the majority of the day. Anxiously, I shook my feet and waited. She was torturing me, I assumed.</div><div>Then, at the end of the day, it came.</div><div>“Well Y.,” she said, “It’s a super compelling and great story. I loved it.”</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzbra-aUC2N8EwOP4uZZ417gs4v1ILie9UEm6lbncwYrm7vEEeIKt7q_1w6D4nO-IKOmWMhjotrKa8bJFxjpvaO4ZU-vt1SXxTajiE1_pROmwwOEU1sJggYPWP6E1iy_Doz5pOqRiu5c/s480/applause+%25281%2529.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzbra-aUC2N8EwOP4uZZ417gs4v1ILie9UEm6lbncwYrm7vEEeIKt7q_1w6D4nO-IKOmWMhjotrKa8bJFxjpvaO4ZU-vt1SXxTajiE1_pROmwwOEU1sJggYPWP6E1iy_Doz5pOqRiu5c/w427-h240/applause+%25281%2529.gif" width="427" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><div>I squinted, hardly able to believe it.</div><div>“I’m serious. It’s awesome. It was great. As a matter of fact, I can see a second part.”</div><div>“Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I retorted, chuckling. </div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Z5syzlOLrJBhMpmERq0Z8fVdaHwK5h0v19voA7p3QOyC0aFuW7uCnjP0S9GSk9nhHV5g0aZUPj2ZyVtOtDWV3S23d4-eS4iRSHOCKbCSZqZNWbE4KtYpHnwGYwF4JURjN9sAqq3TPrg/s220/whoa.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="188" data-original-width="220" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Z5syzlOLrJBhMpmERq0Z8fVdaHwK5h0v19voA7p3QOyC0aFuW7uCnjP0S9GSk9nhHV5g0aZUPj2ZyVtOtDWV3S23d4-eS4iRSHOCKbCSZqZNWbE4KtYpHnwGYwF4JURjN9sAqq3TPrg/w329-h281/whoa.gif" width="329" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div>“I had a hard enough time writing this part. I doubt we’ll be having a second part.” 😄</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">+++</div><div><br /></div><div>Stay tuned tomorrow when I share the Location and Setting of “Reversal” with you all.</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaPTLHiv6nMHgE8PJ9oDMrNqxmeYidTZqtppeeBys_nvjSbpuQZNvij4GOeLhLs5_US4p3YdmsSTkkhfF7bRBEFDrwzHB70_xkZmJrL7Ygo2ChCMPEdab2nc5sKR9S5nnrCv4rhuARuKA/s480/byeee.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaPTLHiv6nMHgE8PJ9oDMrNqxmeYidTZqtppeeBys_nvjSbpuQZNvij4GOeLhLs5_US4p3YdmsSTkkhfF7bRBEFDrwzHB70_xkZmJrL7Ygo2ChCMPEdab2nc5sKR9S5nnrCv4rhuARuKA/s320/byeee.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>
Author Y. Correahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06367499693070678947noreply@blogger.com0