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.

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.

Connecting Some Dots ...

 I think.

I Don't HATE Valentine's Day ... I Just Don't Agree with it.

Please ... call me bitter if you must. Frankly, I don't care.

The truth is, I don't necessarily hate Valentine's Day. I just don't agree with the politics.

Yeah, yeah, yeah ... I know the spiel.

Saint Valentine ordained this day to be a day that we show the people that we love how much we appreciate them. I get it. I do. But let's call a spade, a spade, shall we?

Valentine's Day has become so commercialized that you almost feel guilty for being single because you don't have anyone that will give you all the red-and-pink colored stuff. Nor, can you do it in return.

The minute you set foot in stores the day after New Years, everything has morphed from holiday cheer to hearts and roses. You're bum-rushed by all the "love" in the air.

It's like the air has puked all the red and pink frilly stuff into our environment and we are being forced to breath it in.

Well, what if you don't have anyone to love or that loves you back? At least, in the romantic way. Then what? You feel like shit about it because everyone around you has gotten all the "sweet and endearing" gifts and you haven't. It makes you just want to get home and cry while getting drunk off your ass.

So ... what do I do to not feel like a huge pile of horse shit on Valentine's Day?

I celebrate the people I love; my kids, family and friends. Then, come February 15th, I go to the local Walmart and buy all of the Valentine's Day chocolates at half price. 

So, like I said. I don't hate Valentine's Day, I just don't agree.

The Dreaded "Rut" ...

As far as sayings go, this one pretty much covers it.

Grrrr! How I hate this place with a fervent passion. It's like pulling teeth slowly without an anesthetic. 😠😤

What is that rut, you ask? Well ... the proverbial Writer's Block.

Sheesh! I swear, it never fails. I can be in a perfectly productive flow when BOOM! life hits me with some unforeseen and unfortunate circumstance, then just like that ... RUT! It fucking sucks!

I mean, to think that I finished writing "Peter Blade" 6 months ago today and I have yet to finish editing it. At this rate it will never be out come Halloween. I don't even know what to do anymore. Honestly, I am at the point where I want to give up on writing altogether. Just go to all of the retail outlets and delete every single book I have published. No longer call myself a writer. Seriously, what good is a writer that doesn't write, right? Right.

If there were enough hours in a day, or enough time on my hands, and perhaps no illnesses to deal with, or home to support, then I would have all the time in the world to write. But that simply isn't the case. I am a busy woman--my life is jam packed with "To Dos" giving me little time for anything else. And, when that little time comes all I want to do is rest because I'm either exhausted or in pain.

Honestly, I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do ... anyone? Please?

Profound Thoughts: February 14, 2018

Hello, y'all.

I have some thoughts sitting on my mind and I need to expel them.

Most people don't know my personal fight with my identity. Apart from my best friend, I don't think I've ever really spoken on it. I have, in the past, talked on my identity as it stands today, but I don't think I've ever really talked about how I got there.

Today is that day.

Where to start? 🤔

It's tough—even if I were to start from the beginning—because of the convoluted nature of the circumstance.

I remember that as a tiny tot, race, creed, color weren't things that mattered to me. Although, most of my aunts, uncles and adult family members called me "negra", I never really gave it any thought. It was, at that time, after all, just a nickname. And so I considered it, responding with no reproach. Little did I know then how that seemingly innocent nickname was just the beginning of the preordained paved for me by my ancestors.

It all started at an early age, but I was indeed old enough to somewhat comprehend human behaviors; perhaps 4 or 5-years-old. The first compliment I ever remember getting was from my godfather whom has since passed away. He said in Spanish, and I quote, "She so pretty for a black girl." to which my mother replied, "Well, she's not really black, she's Puerto Rican."

The conversation went on to become a humorous exchange between the two parties.

Godfather: Well, her father is black, so she's black.

Mom: He might be a dark skinned Puerto Rican, but he's not black.

Godfather: Dark skinned equals black.

Mom: Don't you ever dare say that to his face. He won't like it.

And so it went.

I didn't get it. What the hell was happening here? Why this big debate about whether or not my father and I were black? I mean, everyone in my family was a different color. Some were pink, some yellow, some light brown, others dark brown, some were even kinda blotchy or two-toned.

Why did I have to be "pretty for a black girl"? Why couldn't I just be pretty? Why did any of this matter? I mean, I had one light pink grandmother and one dark brown grandmother—same thing applied to my grandfathers. My mom was medium brown with really straight and soft hair. My dad was dark brown like his parents with fluffy, stiff hair. Everyone was different! So, what was the big deal? 🤷
Oh, the innocence of a child's mind.

What I did deem strange at that age was that every time a new baby was introduced into the family, the light pink ones were celebrated, whereas the dark brown ones weren't celebrated as much. 

These types of debates went of forever. 

At the time, I took these things with a grain of salt because I didn't understand the depth of it all.

When I was of school age the subject of skin color seemed to grow. I remember with crystal clarity things like not being accepted by the African-American crowd because I was too light. But, also being rebuffed by the Hispanic crowd because I was too black. The African-American girls would purposely pull my hair saying that "I thought I was better because I had 'good' hair". Whereas, the Hispanic girls would say that "I had nigga hair."
I remained the subject of racial harassment until middle school, or "Junior High" as we called it.

Suffice it to say that I quickly learned the difference between Black, Hispanic, Caucasian, Middle Eastern and Asian.

It was all so confusing, but since I didn't know any better I accepted the divisions as gospel. Ironically enough, the only crowd that accepted me without prejudice was the smallest of minorities—the Indian and Middle-Eastern crowd.

In 3rd, 4th and 5th grades I had a good friend named Sahar who was Iraqi. Sahar would tell me, "You look like my cousin. You have the same skin color, nose and eyes." And, I didn't really find it strange because there were people of all colors, shapes and sizes in my own family.

This struggle with identity didn't just exist in school, as a matter of fact it was prominent at home.

My mother, who was a mixture of Taina and European would gleefully boast about her white father. My father, who was black on both ends, would get insulted when someone called him black or confused him for African-American. It was the biggest of insults, apparently. "Ahhh, nah, nah, nah, nah! I no black, I Porro Ricen!" he would retort full of angst in his thick Hispanic accent.

Later on in life, when I became an active member of my local Hispanic Church, I immediately realized that there was an obvious bigotry there as well. And, unfortunately, it happened daily. There were always these underhanded, disguised and noxious comments regarding the supremacy of the lighter skinned Hispanics, and the inferiority of the darker skinned individuals. Which was ludicrous because the church was full of Hispanics of all skin colors and Latino nationalities.

When I was old enough to date, I dated a guy who shared my mother's features; medium brown, with soft hair. His family members made it a point to always tell me that before me all his girlfriends were white so I should feel lucky that he was with me.

Slowly but surely my self-esteem plummeted, making me feel like less than anyone because I was too light to be black—but then again, I wasn't black, as per my father—and too dark to be white. Some of the church members would tease me about my "big nose" and "kinky hair". They would tell me that my butt was big because I was black and that was the only "nice" feature about me. At times, when they were feeling generous, I was told that "I was pretty for a black girl", and so it went.

By the time I turned 16 I had absolutely no self-esteem whatsoever. Due to my religion at the time I knew that the only person that accepted me as I was, was God. Even that wasn't enough, to be sure, but what could one do? One could not change the color of one's skin. Other than God's unconditional love, I was black which meant not pretty and less than, which translated into not loved.

When I got married, my ex-husband—who was an abusive asshole—made it a point of telling me almost daily that I was "fat, black and ugly". That I would never do better than him because no man could love or accept someone so unattractive and unworthy. Hence, I should be lucky that he was with me because I would otherwise be single. When my two youngest children were born and they happened to be light skinned like their father. My mother boasted—her chest inflated with pride—about her white grandchildren. After a while, just like my father, I started to resent being called black. I would snap back at people saying, "I'm Puerto Rican not black."

Until one day ...

One day, I decided to educate myself. Thus began my journey to self-acceptance. In a series of several years I researched my ancestry. Wouldn't you know it ...? I was indeed black.
Or at least partially black genetically speaking, but half black by appearance and heredity. As a matter of fact, I was more black than I was white or indigenous Taino. When I learned this, I began to research famous black Puerto Ricans as well as the famous black Americans, seeing as how I was both Puerto Rican and American.

It was then that my self-esteem began to change and grow. I knew one thing—the most important thing—I wanted to carry forward the path they started. I wanted to be one of the very few Correas' that contributed something beautiful to our legacy.

At the end of a very long journey, I learned, accepted and understood that I AM BLACK, and I am not "pretty for a black girl" but BEAUTIFUL BECAUSE OF MY RICH BLACK HERITAGE.

New Year, New ... Whaaaat?

Idioms ... Can't live with them, can't stop saying them. 🤷

Every new year, we, the human race, embark upon the wondrous journey known as "The New Year's Resolution". What a grand feat we impose upon ourselves! A splendorous combination of hopes, dreams and unrealistic expectations.

Just before the new year, I'd decided what my resolutions would be and the conviction was as real as it gets. Pure passion, pure drive, pure resolve.

But, as life typically does, it knocked me off my happy horse with unexpected circumstances before the 2nd month of the year could turn around.

 Right on my arse.

Truth be told, the first week of the new year was fantastic—smooth as frozen custard on a hot day. I was filled with excitement. I'd finished "Peter Blade", had done quite a bit of other (what I referred to as) productive things, and was at the cusp of a fruitful year.

Then, BOOM! 💣💥 "Screw you!" said, Fate and she laughed maniacally. 😈

Please, dear reader, allow me a small portion of your day to share the happenstances as of the last month and a half, or so.

So, you see, the way that I'm set up ... family comes first. Always. No exceptions.

Family, to me, is not just blood related but soul and heart connected. Much like when a couple marries, they become a family. To me, when my heart and soul connects with someone, he/she becomes my family. My heart and soul, however, don't connect with just anyone.

With that said, my best-friend ... my soul sister ... she is my family.

It all started with my medical conditions getting flared up shortly after the introduction of the new year.

When one or more of my medical conditions flare up, I can be bedridden for up to a week if not more. Suffice it to say, that I was down for the count for a while, and just when I started feeling better my best-friend got incredibly sick. What had started off as a suspected cold, morphed into the flu, then an array of other situations. I won't get into the meat of it as I do not want to infringe on her privacy. That is for her to tell, not me.

Now, being that she and I share a home and I have dubbed myself the "mamma bear" of the family, the moment she got sick everything was put on the back-burner and she became my main focus. All I wanted was for her to get better. I did whatever I could do to ensure her speedy recovery, but the the "speedy" part wasn't happening any time soon.

My dear soul sister, was down and out and excruciatingly ill for over 4 weeks. We are talking about numerous visits to the doctor's offices, 3 or 4 (I can't quite remember exactly) visits to the Emergency Room, and countless sleepless nights, medications, treatments and God knows what else. Truthfully, I lost count—days, nights, hours ... they all blended together. A blur, a tizzy of chaos.

Among all of that disarray I got more flare ups, my son got a cold, work was a holy fucking mess, no more progress was being done on my writing projects, the government services that I was receiving went to shit and caused even more upset ... 

I mean, it was like ...

Crash + Burn = Murphy's Law

😖

 

Honestly, at this point I am just glad that the bestie is recuperating. The process is slow, but certain. That alone relieves a lot of stress as I would lose my mind if something ever happened to her.

What I am struggling with now is the lackadaisical effects of disrupted focus, the down-laden influences of worry and stress, and the roller coaster of emotions related to the sum of trials.

On top of that is the realization and dejection related to an unceremonious epiphany.

The other day I went clothes shopping and tried on a few garments. I was simultaneously bewildered and despondent. The clothes "made me look fat". Then I realized ... No, THEY aren't making me look fat. I have gained weight. A lot of weight.

Turning into myself, I reflected on many things. That is when I came to the above conclusion (see picture).  😩 😢

In self-reflection I realized that whenever I was at the height of my emotions and unable to address them—I was solely focused on pressing on, being strong and getting things taken care of—that I turned to food. More specifically, sweets. M&Ms being my drug of choice.

I would lie if I said that I wasn't disappointed in myself. I am. Very much so. How could I do this to myself? It was then that I realized that the comfort I felt with food was in one way or another easing the angst and disenchantment. This, of course, was not a good thing. Now, I find myself in the position of continuing to have to deal with myriad ordeals AND finding another way to cope. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I need to find a way.

Writing used to be my catharsis, my outlet whenever things got overwhelming. Now, with all of the vicissitudes and fiascos which allow me little to no time to write, I've got to find another way. Food cannot be my saving grace. Not any more.

But what? What can I use when my tools are wanting? Help, anyone?

Well, that's all I have for now.

Tah-tah, hugs and kisses.

Y. Correa

Purging: November 30, 2017

There is a reason why I called this Blog Post "Purging". Trust me when I tell you that that's precisely what I am going to do. I indubitably need to clear my soul of this shackle and I intend on doing that today ... right here, right now.

My heart has been feeling heavy for some time now; it's strange, though. You see, while my soul feels free and enlightened, my emotions are heavy and drained. Is it possible to be both spiritually enlightened and emotionally, mentally and physically downcast? I suppose so, because that is exactly how I am feeling right now.

But, I am getting ahead of myself. To truly purge, I have to start from the beginning. But, the beginning is convoluted. It's a twisted string of threads, some older than others, worn and thinning, about to snap, while others are newer and still standing strong.
I know that I have to undo myself of all of the weight. Reason being, my PTSD has been raging at an all time high.
I can't sleep at night—bad dreams disturb me.
I can't be alone for too long—my thoughts asphyxiate me.
When someone does something that reminds me of the pain, it rattles me to the core—quivering nerves threaten to make me fall over.
I have been binge eating—I seek a repose from the anguish, food provides it.
Rationale fights against irrationality—neither win, it's a draw.
Focus feels like a myth or legend—something that once existed and is now gone

My personal hell is in my mind. It is the purgatory from which I am having trouble escaping.

Therefore, I purge. I expunge the restraints that want to keep me down. I let it go ... or at least try ... right now.

What I am currently dealing with is kin to a highway with many lanes all going to the same place but originating from completely different locations.
That place? My destruction.

In order to further clarify what I am getting at, I must start with the first lane ...

August of 2016 I took a job working for a nonprofit organization that helped special needs children and their families. I was passionate about this job because it hit home. Being that I am a mother of a special needs child, the idea of working for this organization appealed to me in myriad levels. Also, there was the added benefit that my son could actually be at work with me after school every day. It seemed perfect—just what he and I both needed. In my mind, I would be making money while helping in an area that spoke to my heart, and the added benefit was that I could do this with my child en tow. Not every mother has that advantage.

The job proved to be a difficult one, but nevertheless, I woke up every morning—rain, sleet, or snow—and went to work because I'd convinced myself that this organization and the families it "helped" needed me. On top of that, was the fact that the organization would fall apart without me. I'd become the backbone that held everything together.

Every week there was a new element of chaos that worked its way into the organization, and every week, like clockwork I would iron things out. To say that I gave MY ALL to this place would be putting it lightly. I gave MY ALL and then some. Willingly, I depleted every bit of reserved energy I had just to help this place function.

I had a boss who was, in a word, horrific. This woman had no concept of common sense, business sense, etiquette, boundaries and acceptable behavior. She was the embodiment of a plebeian—no class, no ... shit, well, no nothing. How she functioned in this field was beyond my comprehension.

Month after month, day after god-awful day, I trucked along; every day things got worse. The problems grew in the inner functioning of the organization with expediency and I had to sprint to keep up. Yet, I was never appreciated or commended. On the contrary, the boss always found a way of blaming me for THEIR (her and her co-operator's) mistakes. To say that I was perturbed ... well. Huh! You can only imagine. 

One day, it came to my attention that the organization was running out of money and layoffs were immanent. Before I knew it, like an avalanche of insanity, I was laid off along with the one and only colleague that I had any respect and love for. She and I were the hardest working individuals in that place, yet we were the first to go. I won't get into the logistics of why because if I do I will never finish this post.

All of the sudden, like an unexpected punch in the gut, this enormous plight came to my attention. My ex-co-worker and I were being implicated of illegal activity towards the company. We were being accused of having disclosed private information and breaching HIPAA laws, of malicious plotting towards the organization, of defaming the owner's character, and innumerable other things that I don't care to get into.

ALL! OUTRIGHT! LIES!

And, the proof she claimed to have wasn't even proof. It was tidbits of correspondence that had been completely taken out of context. Truth be told, I had more reputable, substantial and tangible proof of her barbarous and unlawful acts. That is besides the point, though.

The point being that I was wholly, completely, utterly and undoubtedly traumatized! This entire situation reactive my PTSD in a way that really, truly destroyed me.

Next thing I know I am collecting unemployment, losing my son's Social Security Disability Benefits (which at the time was my only means of income), having to apply for food stamps (which was like pulling teeth) and fully behind on my bills. On top of it all, my health had plummeted to the point of no return.

I am currently disabled. While I am attempting the process of obtaining Disability for myself, this can take six to nine months.

I have YET to recover from all of the harm that this caused me, and I feel like I never will.

Before I knew it, I was being offered a job at an organization that did the same thing as the last place, doing the same job as the last place, but only offering me part time hours. The reason I accepted it was because I could work from home. With my disability getting so bad, I had no choice BUT to work from home. I've been rendered immobile.

You are not going to believe me when I tell you that this place ... it's worse than the last. Now, it too is going under.

Still, I have yet to recover.

My finances are shot to shit, I have NO money, struggle every waking day with my illness, am consumed by stress, and worry every hour of the day about how I am going to pay my bills, take care of my son, pay my rent, etc ... ect ... etc!

I was a teen mom. I had my first child when I was 17-years-old and my second child when I was 19-years-old. At the age of 20 I was a single mother, working 2 jobs and going to school in order to obtain some sort of education so that I could better me and my children's lives.

At that time, I was living in Florida. I'd rented a 4 bedroom house in Fort Lauderdale (which I paid for) and my parents lived with me. This seemed to be a very convenient set up as my parents could look after my kids while I worked and went to school.

Whenever I got pain, I would take my check, cash it and put the entire sum of it in my mother's hands. She was in charge of paying the bills, buying the food and things of that nature. I simply did not have the time. I trusted her to do it. My trust was misplaced, to say the least.

But, that is a story for another day.

One night, I got home from my overnight shift as the cleaning lady in the local old-folks home to find a note tucked under my pillow. At first, I thought it was a mistake. Maybe one of the kids had put it there. Regardless, I opened it up to see what it was. The note was addressed to me. It was not a note, but a love letter.
It was a letter professing his undying love for me. It carried on to say the things he "loved about me" and how he would want just one thing from me ... "a kiss". The letter dictated that he was convinced that this kiss would prove how we were destined to be together forever. After two sides of mushy lovey-dovey stuff, I noted the signature.

HE, was my father.

I was rendered speechless and sick to my stomach all at once. I didn't know what to do, what to say, how to act, or even where to look. I couldn't look him in the eyes, that was for sure.

I couldn't understand it. I simply could not wrap my head around it.

WHY, in the name of all things holy, was MY FATHER sending ME a love letter?

Torn apart, as well as discussed, I responded, and my response was short and to the point.

"NO! Absolutely NOT! YOU ARE MY FATHER!"

Leaving the letter under my pillow, as I was instructed to do with my reply, I carried on with my day. The following day, another note.

"You don't understand, Yasmin. I don't see you as my daughter. I see you as a beautiful woman. The woman I am meant to be with. The love of my life. You are it. As a matter of fact, our connection is even deeper because we share the same blood."

For approximately a month, this exchange of letters went on. He insisted that we were meant to be, and I insisted that he was a sick man who needed help. That would NEVER happen.

Suffice it to say that tensions rose in our living arrangement. Things got funky. He would, "Accidentally" barge into the bathroom when I was in it. Due to a broken lock there wasn't much I could do about it. He looked for every opportunity to try and grope me. It was like living with a stalker, but this stalker was your father. How do you handle that?

One day, my mother stumbled upon the letters. What transpired then was like a blur, all of it going slow and fast all at the same time.

She screamed, cried, hollered and carried on. My father yelled as he defended his case. I held my children as I cried. And, before I knew it, fingers were being pointed at me. 

I was to blame! It was all my fault.

My relationship with my parents was never good to begin with and now it was even worse.

Since that time, my father has never given up on his dream of being with me and it's been more than 20 years. My mother still holds a grudge towards me, blaming me for stealing my father's affection. And I keep my stance.

I remember time and time again wishing, even praying, that he die. Literally. I asked God to relieve me of the burden by just taking him to heaven already. Then there were times when I prayed, asking God to change his mind and heart. None of that ever happened. With time, I grew to hate him and resent him deeply. Yet, my emotions felt conflicted because, at the end of it all, he is my father. I love my father. These paradoxical emotions persist.

The effects that linger are residual tidbits of anger and resentment. They towards me and I towards them.

To this day, whenever I am with someone, my father acts like a jealous child. He does and says things that make absolutely no sense and, in turn, make my life twice as hard. Whenever I am dating someone, he goes out of his way to make our lives hell. He makes snide little comments, throwing shade, whenever I am dating or in a relationship with someone. It is the most hideous, heinous behavior any father can indulge in.

I moved away from Florida about three years now. I needed and wanted to be far away from my family.

This morning, he called me under the pretense of asking me if I'd heard anything from my daughter. But, what it really was, was an opportunity to ask me about my new beau. Then, he drops in a convenient, "Well, I gave you an opportunity, but you didn't want it." Once again, I am sick to my stomach. It's a putrid way to live. The bile in my throat is the disdain and disgust I have for him as a person, for the hell he's put me through and for the bond that was severed.
As I drove my best friend to work this morning before using her car to go to the food pantry, I stewed.
Pure, unadulterated, ravaging hate and pain. This was all I could feel right then and there. Hate. I HATED him so fucking much at that moment for repeatedly bringing this into my life when I never asked for it. HOW DARE HE!

Then, guilt. How can a daughter hate her father? Especially when, to some degree, he has been a good father her entire life. Or, has he? I no longer know.

As if I am not going through enough with the weight of my financial situation and my father's bullshit, I get hit with yet another "mistake" by Social Security regarding my son's check. Yet another fuck up that hit's me in the gullet.
Once again, my bills are going to be late, partially paid or unpaid. I don't know how much longer I can do this. I am out of gas. I just want life to stop for a minute. For. One. Goddamned. Minute. Please, for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph ... let me breathe!

I had to go to the food pantry this morning to get some groceries. This makes me feel like shit. I do it because I have no choice, but I passionately hate having to. I know that it's probably a pride thing. I understand this. That by no means subtracts from me despise.

My health is on a steady decline. I was diagnosed with 3 autoimmune diseases as well as a handful of other shit. Last I counted, 8 sicknesses. It's a wonder I even get up in the morning.
There is some much more to what I am feeling and thinking about Lane 5, but I will talk about that at another time.

Impending changes are happening to our (the one I share with my bestie and son) household and while I know they are necessary and not all bad, there is a large part of me that is feeling anxious. It is because a combination of factors which I don't want to get into right now. But, the anxiety is growing exponentially. I pray that my jitters are unwarranted.

With all of that ... My biggest concern??

I need to purge lest I altogether crash.

They say ...

 Well ... that remains to be seen. Sometimes, I feel like God forgot that he only made ONE of me.

I am Aquarius

At the risk of divulging my age ... Here it goes.

All of the good old, authentic hippies from 1969 through the 70s remember this ...

[embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kjxSCAalsBE[/embed]

I admit to STILL being able to jam to this song. Maybe I'm bias. :P :D

But what was this song really saying?

"The Dawning of the Age of Aquarius ..."

Every zodiac sign has it's Age. Please, do not misconstrue this with a numeric amount of human years lived, and their maturity and growth, quantified in a number of time elapsed. I'm not referring to the linear calculation of a person's life span. In this instance, I am referring to a time, an age, a generation.

Now, what is The Age of Aquarius and why is it so important to this blog post.

Astrologers maintain that an astrological age is a product of the earth's slow processional rotation and lasts for 2,160 years, on average. In popular culture, "Age of Aquarius" refers to the advent of the New Age movement. Now many people have speculated that the Age started in the 1960s and 70s, however not everyone is in one accord in that aspect. Various philosophers speculate that it hasn't started yet, while other insist that it only JUST started with the commencement of the 21st century.

Some believe that the signs of The Aquarian Age will be that humanity will dominated by networks, and information.

The key phrase for this age is “Be to be.” The key to the astrological sign Aquarius is “I know.” This is the age of information and knowledge. There will be nothing secret anymore. All information and all knowledge will be available at your fingertips, literally. At the touch of a button.

During this age, the focus is no longer on your identity and existence,  or as Shakespeare so eloquently put it, “to be or not to be”, but rather on accepting yourself as a whole person ... "Be to be."

This is defined by no longer needing to believe in something outside of yourself as you are ready to accept that you have the knowledge and wisdom within yourself.  The Age of Aquarius is truly defined by wholeness of being, with the expansiveness and enlightenment of the mind.

For some time now, I've been steady thinking about all of this, and I realized that Aquarius isn't just my zodiac sign, but it's also my aura, my personality, my essence. I honestly am not referring to the confines of the implied astrological characteristics, but mostly the true and complete meaning of the word.

For most of my life, I've been highly misinterpreted. Vastly misunderstood, and indubitably misjudged. You see ... Because I am Aquarius, I don't fit into any one mold or predetermined class.

People, it seems, can't comprehend the uncomplicated, complexity of me.

And, trust me when I tell you that that is EXACTLY who and how I am.

I am perhaps the most UNCOMPLICATED, COMPLEX person you, or anyone, has ever met. It is THIS that confuses most people, and inevitably leads to the misconception of my personality, and person.

I believe in modesty and simplicity of character, with an evolving and ever-growing mind set.

Yes, yes me, indeed. ;) LOL

I do think however, that in order to best tackle the facets that make ME, me, I should probably list the attributes that most people associate with Aquarius and then specify whether or not those things are true for me.

As per Cafe Astrology, here are the things we Aquarius Women are supposed to be like:

Aquarius is an air sign, but unlike her other light-hearted zodiac sisters (I dunno what sign they are referring to. LOL), an Aquarius woman is no gentle breeze or dreamy zephyr. She is a tempest filled with an inner force and power (<-- True!), which can be a little scary when you first come into contact with her (<-- Also true.). Hold on tight and go along for the ride. If you pass through the eye of the storm, you will find a smart, independent, and most of all, original woman at the heart of the hurricane (<-- True, true and true.).

Many Aquarians have a visionary, grand, and humanitarian approach to life (<-- Yes, this is indeed a fact.).

The Aquarius woman is quirky (<-- Yes.). She is an enigma (<-- Yes). She is unpredictable (<-- No. Not completely true. I CAN be predictable, if you know me well enough.). And independent (<-- SOOOO very true.). This is a fixed sign which means she doesn’t take kindly to people telling her what to do (<-- Somewhat true. It depends. Don't tell, ask. Don't demand without cause, suggest with substance. I work on sincere rationale, not commands.).

But if you need help, she is a true humanitarian who is ready and willing to assist someone who might be short on cash or down on their luck (<-- This is also somewhat true. I will help ONLY if there is true cause.). She’ll also dole out sound advice (<-- Wholeheartedly true.). This sign cares about her fellow man, woman, child, animal, and environmental cause (<-- Somewhat true. This can be iffy with me, because I care about men, women, children, animals and the environment if it mean something to me. All out strangers, or strange circumstances, get side eyes from me.).

The Aquarius woman mingles with people from all walks of life (<-- Kinda, sorta, but not completely.). She tends to greet and interact with people the same way, no matter what their age or background  (<-- True.).

She likes to travel (<-- Yep.), she likes the new (<-- Not always.), but she can be curiously attached to the old (<--- This more than the latter. Love old things ... it IS History, after all.). While Aquarius women love progress (<-- Yes.), on a personal level, they don’t like change (<-- Yes.). It has to do with their loyalty (<-- SOOOO VERY YES!), their attachment to the past, and their memories, so even though they have the courage to look ahead, usually with optimism, and see the best things in store, they still like to know where they have come from and who they are (<--- All of this is very true. I would also like to add, that I ALWAYS want to know where I'm going as well. That is to say in all aspects, social, emotional, mental, the whole nine.).

Usually when we hear the word “loyalty” we immediately think about being loyal to our mates. While Aquarius women may very well keep their promises in their relationships, they take loyalty to a different, deeper level (<-- Yessss!). This woman will stay loyal to a particular brand (<-- Ehh, sometimes.), restaurant (<-- I like too many to be commited to just one. So, maybe "nope' here.), mom-and-pop shop (<-- Probably.), team (<-- TV Shows, for sure. "Team", well ... I don't follow sports, so ...), musician (<-- Yes.), and so forth, through thick and thin, unless of course they truly prove themselves unworthy (<--ABSO-FREAKING-LUTELY, this!). This is a rare and wonderful trait, that seems in fact to be an endangered attitude in today’s world. While Aquarians have many interests, they are not flighty by nature (<-- VEEEERY TRUE! I stick to what I like/love, and see it through all the way.).

Aquarius and Relationships

Space and freedom are what an Aquarius woman needs most in a relationship (<--OHHH EMM GEE, PREACH! #ThisRightHere!). Give her room to breathe and blow away any expectation of a traditional house Frau (<-- True.), content to leave your slippers out by the fireplace, put the children to bed, and cook your dinner (<-- NOT true. I don't mind doing these thing at all, because I was raised with traditional family and moral values.). The Aquarius woman is more likely to have left the children out by the fireplace, put your meal to bed and cooked your slippers for dinner (<-- I only do this because I'm absentminded. It's not on purpose, I swear.). She’s a little bit of a rebel (<-- True. Maybe MORE than a little bit.), and her perfect relationship is with someone who is happy to overturn the status quo with her (<-- Yes!). Ideal partners are generally considered to be Libra, Gemini, Sagittarius, and Aries.

Aquarius and Friendships

Walk down the street with your water-bearing Aquarius friend and count how many people stop to say hello and a how-do-you-do to her (<-- Queen, you think? :o #AskingTheBestie). She’s friends with absolutely everyone, or that’s what it feels like. In truth, though, the Aquarius woman seldom allows people to get too close to her (<-- THIS RIGHT FREAKING HERE! *nodding* Yup!). She can be slightly reserved when it comes to her real feelings and you will find that her circle of friends is, in reality, a lot smaller than her casual hello-goodbye routine indicates (<-- SOOO TRUE!). Generous, and always there when you need them, Aquarians flock with friends who share their love of independence and intellectual pursuits (<-- YESSSS!).

The Aquarius woman will surround herself with a wide range of friends and a broad spectrum of personalities (<-- I used to, not so much anymore. So, was true, but no longer is.) . Some say she needs this variety because she can be a bit quirky herself (<-- Well, yeah. I'm a totally goofball, to be sure.).

Placing a high value on friendship, the Aquarius woman is extremely loyal and is known for having long-term friends and equally enduring relationships (<-- Yes and yes, however, life had taught me that not all relationships last as long as I would like them to.).

It was pretty scary how on point that was. Yet, it STILL lacks all of the depth of character that is me.

I was once asked, "What would it look like if I could see inside of your mind?"

Well ... if you could at all understand the idea of the following image, then you'll truly comprehend the concept of my mind's mechanics.

My grandmother used to say, "Every mind is a world" and that proverb couldn't be truer when it comes to the way I see the world.  Most of you who follow me know that I am a fan of both Science and History. When both of those things come together, then I am thrust into my very own utopia.

If you could image for a moment having a mind so expansive that everything you think about, all that you do, and the way you see things are heedlessly—by pure virtue of being you—is broken down in your mind's eye into a molecular level both scientifically and philosophically. I see everything, natural and supernatural, physical and metaphysical. My mind just works that way. I never asked for it.

Some people have told me that "I think too much." what they cannot understand is that I don't think too much by choice. This is how I am made.

Most people think that I'm a walking, talking contradiction, because for all of my intellect, I am far from a prude and even less obnoxious about it.

• I'm a genius, yet I'm humble & modest.


• I'm independent, yet my close friends and family are everything to me.


• I crave independence, yet need certain people around me to support that.


• I'm a philosopher, but also a clown.


• I'm a scientist who believes in the supernatural powers of the universe.


• I'm clairvoyant, yet realistic.


• I crave intellectual stimuli, but also joke around when immersed in an intellectual conversation.


• I am fascinated by history and mythology, yet adore all modern advancements.


• I am a soul out of time, yet a human in the right time.


• I see the past, present and future as running on a parallel plane, all at the same time.


• All is everything, and everything is us (humanity). Yet, I am me and will be who I am.


• I am an absolute artist, and a science nut.


• A realist and a surrealist.


• My feet are well planted on the ground, but my mind can be found floating among the stars.


• I bring knowledge, understanding, honesty and loyalty to the table in relationships, but yearn for understanding, loyalty and acceptance in return.

My thoughts on any one subject can range from the actual and the unseen—that is to say, what is right in front of me, as well as what is not.

Prior to being a writer, I was a teacher. A practical employment, to be sure, but not challenging enough. Nevertheless, I found myself in a bind when leaving the field, although I left unwillingly (I was laid off). I was stuck between  my desire to cultivate, nurture and teach children, and my need for cerebral impetus. I taught, and loved passing my knowledge on to the children, yet I was not being fed wisdom; something I need.

For far too many years, I've always been the bringer of enlightenment, but have very rarely found people to feed my need for education. When I turned to writing, I found an outlet that would allow me to merge all of the facets of me onto a creation of my own. And, what a wonderful venture that was.

In my works I insert a piece of my very soul—the essence of me—as well as all of the things I hold within. The constitution of my very existence is found within the pages of my works.

For one reason, and one reason alone.

Because ...

I am who I am, because I know who that is, whether the world likes it or not.