Journal Entry 10/31/2021

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.

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.

If you'd like a little more on background on this story, you can read more by clicking HERE.

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.

I called DCF (The Florida Department of Children and Families).

Now why, you might ask, did I do it? Why would I betray her?

I don't see it that way.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

Please understand that I AM NOT saying that my daughter and her husband do not love their child. THEY DO! And HE LOVES THEM! 

 I DID NOT CALL DCF DUE TO A LACK OF LOVE!

I CALLED BECAUSE MOST PEOPLE DO NOT UNDERSTAND NOR DO THEY WANT TO ADMIT THAT NEGLECT OR ALOOF DISREGARD IS ALSO A FORM OF ABUSE!

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.

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.

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.

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 loved them hard as fuck!! I STILL FUCKING DO!!!!!!!

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.

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!"

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.

Yet, they have NO IDEA. None of them do!

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.

Wouldn't you know it. That's exactly what happened.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Giving up on that conversation, I concluded it with, "I just wanted to tell you myself before anyone else did." and hung up.

Later that day I got this text message from my daughter.

Yes, she has no real clue.

But ... I LOVE HER SO FUCK MUCH! SHE IS AND WILL FOREVER BE, MY PRECIOUS STONE!

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.

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 ensure that they will have a brighter future.

Now ... you decide.

Journal Entry 9/30/2021

I need a Spiritual Release—a Soul Cleansing.

Have you ever just felt like you needed to see the Universe/God/Higher Being seeing you?

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.

In recent weeks I have learned a Universal secret—one that I would love to share, but first have to master.

But I am getting ahead of myself, for this post is not about this topic, but something else.

With that said, let me dive into the meat of this post.

Hell, this may not make sense to anyone else but me. Frankly, it doesn't matter as long as it makes sense to me.

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.

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.

The place?
Music.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Journal Entry 9/29/2021

The last week has been really trying for me.

I injured my back whilst getting out of the shower and since then I have been in massive amounts of pain.

There is a reason I am bringing this up. It's gotten me thinking about some stuff.

In order to make things clearer, I have to rewind a bit.

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.

So, in that spirit, here is a little something else you didn't know about me ....

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.

I was all of 2 pounds and 3 ounces, and a whole 12 inches long. Literally the size of a baby-doll toy.

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.

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.

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.

Well, here I am, and as per predicted, I survived but my health is absolute shit.

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.

At least it feels that way sometimes.

Now that that's out of the way, back to the point I was trying to get to.

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.

Like, what more do I need? Seriously!

This causes an inner debate, and it isn't all peaches and cream.

It gets me to wondering;

Why did I survive if I was going to have to live a life full of physical pain?

Why didn't I fall into that percentile that didn't make it?

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.

There are so many questions. My fear is learning later on that I have even more issues that I had no inkling of.

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".

All I know right now is that life is so fucking unfair.

Journal Entry 9/22/2021

 Every day I feel a little more like a broken individual who just can't get fixed.

Call me "Ms. Glass".

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.

Last night I learned ... like, deeply learned, that I have a tenuous and unhealthy relationship with money. But only as it pertains to myself. Not others.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Then ... my dad stopped gambling. He cleaned up his act. That is when poverty came and stuck!

The rest, as the say, is history. The proverbial rollercoaster, turned into a full-on haunted house.

Then came my adulthood. This too led to a perpetual instability and struggle with money. Always ... struggling. Always, fighting. Always.

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 fucking perfect wife) if I could not produce the monies he thought I should be producing, then I was worthless. Period.

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. 

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."

He said, "Yes it is."

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?"

He said, with the most serious look I had ever seen before, "I would ALWAYS CHOOSE THE MONEY."

Those words broke my soul.

When we finally broke up, the struggle of poverty continued. Always fighting, always trying to make a way. Always trying to make ends meet. Always.

The money was never enough. And whenever I thought I was finally breathing from the struggle, something else came along.

Eventually, money became poison.

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.

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"?

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.

Of course I will keep working, but just for today I am feeling quite tired.

Florida Trip 2021—Journal Entry Part 3

 If any of my experiences while in Florida this year broke my heart it is the one I am about to share with you.

If you've followed my blog, you probably know a little bit about my relationship with my oldest daughter Amanda.

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.

(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)

At any rate ... things went to shit. Dysfunction does that, always.

Dysfunction always 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Fast forward a farrago of turmoil and many years later, many things had transpired that cannot be undone.

For more about that you can visit my previous blog HERE.

Now, time to get into what I wanted to address with this post.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

On the surface that all seems like great fun, right? Right.

Talk about raining on my parade.

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.

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.

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.

I know what the latter smells like because for a time I worked at an animal clinic/shelter.

Now that you probably have a clear picture of what I am attempting to explain ... THAT is what her apartment smelled like. Exactly that.

I swear on my grandmother's grave that I wish I were exaggerating. I truly do.

To make matters worse still, the smell was all over my grandson.

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. So fucking hard!

My best friend was astounded that I could show him as much affection as I did under the circumstances.

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.

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.

Then I peeked inside of the apartment just to get an idea of what the living space actually looked like.

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.

I left there with but one thought on mind, "Do I call CPS? Should I call CPS? Why hasn't anyone called CPS yet?"

I am still really struggling with that. I mean, deeply struggling with that to this day.

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.

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.

A mere shadow.

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.

Florida Trip 2021—Journal Entry Part 2

So as I said in my last one of these entries ... my trip was very enlightening and interesting.

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.

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.

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.

Our dysfunction started even before he was born. I hate to say it, but it's the truth. My pregnancy of him was unexpected.

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.

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.

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.

When a child is born everyone expects this picture perfect union between mother and child.

There is the supposition that there will be an instant connection and all things will be beautiful.

But what happens when the situation is just the opposite?

I had Postpartum Depression.

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.

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.

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.

Soon an already splintered mother/son relationship became altogether fractured. I couldn't stand the sight of him, and vice-versa.

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.

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.

Upon my visit to Florida this past week I took advantage of that time to do just that.

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.

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.

The one day that I had time for just he and I to speak, I did so.

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.

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.

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.

The entire event was life changing.

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 MY SON. My Pipo.

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.

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.

Journal Entry—9/13/2021

If the looks on our faces could talk, what would mine be saying right now?

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.

Another "hopefully".

Hopefully, I won't hurt anyone's feeling whilst expressing my feelings and opinions on my platform. But if I do ... I am not sorry. This is my page. Feel free to exit left. Thank you. Let us carry on, shall we? Wonderful.

It occurred to me yesterday as I was doing some things ....

The notion of "salvation being individual/independent" in terms of religion—in this case, specifically Christian—is a useful scare tactic for religious abusers.

When I say "religious abusers" 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.

Let me explain what I mean by "salvation being individual/independent".

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.

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.

I'll explain.

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.

The abuser loves this methodology. Why? Because it suits their narrative which goes a little something like this:

"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."

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.

"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."

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.

Hold tight, there's more.

This morning another thought came tumbling down my brain tube.

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.

It surrounded the excuses, perceptions, limitations and expectations people make regarding religion and their belief system.

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."

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.

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?

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.

Here we go ....

There is infinite wisdom and there is finite wisdom. Then there is wisdom that is perceived as infinite but in actually finite.

Think of this equation. The math is simple if you can open your mind to it.

God created us in his image. The operatives words are "created" and "image".

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 created by our imaginations.

What is imagination within the realm of creation?

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.

Think of this ...

If God gave us the ability to create and limitless imagination, shouldn't then we be able to imagine and create within ourselves the very undamaged and splendiferous human being we want to be?

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.

Here is the flip side of being that level of openminded.

What may seen like heresy to some, in their finite faith, is spiritual growth to the person who searches for infinite wisdom.

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."

Personally, I feel much closer to otherworldliness in my path through popularly perceived heresy.

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.

Florida Trip 2021—Journal Entry Part 1

 9/11/2021

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.

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.

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.

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.

Now it’s time to make this roughly make sense in the realm of what happened this week.

In order to do that I have to rewind somewhat.

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.

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.

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.

Upon my arrival, I was quickly met with a mom that was in rare form.

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, only worse than ever.

Believe me when I tell you, my years away have changed me drastically—in leaps and bounds. Truly.

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.

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.

But dear reader, let me assure you … if this trip was anything, it was eye opening. Enormously so.

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.

I think I will follow with a table. I feel like it might help collate my thoughts in a better fashion.

Things I Witnessed My Mom Do	Parallels I Saw	Things I Want To Do
Hyper-Focus and Talking too Fast to be Understood	I do this when I am overly stressed.	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.
Nitpick … about everything.	I don’t nitpick about everything, but I do nitpick unnecessarily sometimes.	I need to learn when to pick my battles.
The cluster-fuck of disorganization under the guise of cleanliness.	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.	I vowed that this will never happen again. Especially after having seen things from my Bestie’s point of view.
Pacing hurriedly but going nowhere.	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.	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.
Excessively apologizing.	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.	Keep practicing awareness on this and continue to do what I am doing.

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”.

Only In Her World

Having to have the last word NO MATTER WHAT! Period! 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. Even though there was no argument.

CONSTANTLY telling me what to do, even though I KNEW EXACTLY what I was doing. In many cases, I knew better than she did.

Complain, complain, complain … constantly do the wrong thing, get a bad reaction, and then complain some more.

Not take her medication on purpose, then complain that she wasn’t feeling well.

Drama. Like, ALL the dramatics. ABOUT EVERYTHING. ALWAYS. ALL. THE. TIME.

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.

Emotionally manipulate everyone at all times, whenever possible and then cover it in a guise of holiness of sweetness.

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. 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.

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. 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.

Petty Betty’s real name is Ana. I’ll explain. 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.” 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.

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.

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.

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.