Struggles, Beginnings and the peace gained 

           This is the garage door that started the journey for me.  I took this picture yesterday.  Six days from now I will have been with my boyfriend for twenty one years.  Some days that feels like a century… But I digress.  When we first got together,  his “grandma” (who was actually his adopted mother)  let us live in her garage.  She had a bathroom put in on the back porch of her house (and had him pay her back for it to teach the twenty one year old us about bills) but she never charged us for the utilities. At the time I was to headstrong to see the gift that she was giving us… She was stern and slightly scary to me.  I have learned that she really was an amazing woman since. 

          I can say that it was a struggle to make the garage into a home.  We ran gas lines for a stove.  We acquired a refrigerator from a local mission.  He and I slept on a large sofa we were given. I failed to appreciate the struggle then,  because at twenty one I was ignorant of the way of the world.  I had seen the darkness in man,  but I had really never had to do the housing thing.  When my family didn’t have a home I lived with my grandma.  So I always had a roof over my head.  The garage wasn’t even the worst place I have ever lived. I have lived ten people in a two bedroom trailer with no running water.  That is another story though. 

      Now Joe is working on getting the house.  He inherited a fourth of it and his adopted sister is giving him her share.  So we have only two halves to buy before it is ours.  This is a convoluted and stressful time for me.  I want to keep the memories of this house.  I want the stability for my family that the house will provide. But the house also has baggage.  Baggage in the form from of people who are currently in the house.  People who we are trying to get settled.  There is a lot involved with this. Add the fact that we are not able to settle in and you have the chaos of my life. 

      Then I looked at the garage door and felt like it had come full circle. Which is why I took the picture.  The feeling of peace came through in the picture. 

Stress and the results 

We all go through moments of stress. How we deal with said stress is how we are as a person. Now don’t get me wrong,  I am not judging anyone for the way that they deal with the stress in their life.  All that I am saying is that we as a society tend to see dealing with stress as a character definition. 

           However sometimes it is beyond our capacity to deal with.  Then stress becomes mental illness and nervous breakdowns. There becomes physical symptoms.  And it varies by the person. Stress is not something that is wanted by anyone.  It does however,  on occasion sharpen the mind and make clarity easier to achieve. 

            I,  myself,  have found that for example the stress of a deadline can get the creative juices flowing in some.  I have also seen others who freeze when placed under such stress. How do you handle stress?  And what are some relaxation techniques you have for dealing with stress when it shows up? 



So I have my entire life been unable to fit exactly any label. I was sporty,  nerdy,  geeky,  a loner,  a bookworm,  social,  antisocial,  introvert,  extroverted,  a joiner…well you can see where I am going with this. It was not a true issue for me,  and was all in the same breath. I always felt like I was on the outside.  I laugh… I collect labels… But then I would hide the fact that it hurt.  Why should I be a label?  I have never been very good at limiting myself…

That being said…. My twelve year old is very much like me.  She is fluid in who she is and what she does. She asked me today…. Mama why do people have to label each other?  Why can’t they just accept that each person grows and change with each passing day? …….how is it that this child who has not yet reached even a decade and a half umderstands something that eludes over half the human race?

Perhaps we need to learn instead of separately labelling each other,  to instead celebrate the uniqueness that is the human race.


You claim love equality,

With words that

match nothing

Of reality.

You still fail to understand,

I want nothing given from

A hesitant hand.

Tis not material

Items I desire,

Nor any attachments

Grand of wealth.

Reach for me just once

And tell me honestly,

That you are interested

To learn who I am,



Parenting isn’t about

wealth or greed,

Or the material

That you can give.

Knowing one well,

Ignoring the other is

Just seriously unkind.

Book Review: Dragon in the sock drawer by Kate Klimo


Cousins Jesse and Daisy are not prepared when the “thunder egg” Jesse has found turns out to be a dragon egg that is about to hatch.

A cute Tween book. It has adventure and a villain who is scary enough that even the adult readers will no be disappointed. The characters are rich and the descriptions are decent. This is the first book in the series and it allows you to grow with Emerald the dragon and her two preteen keepers. Very magical and a lot of fun to read. I highly recommend.

Dear Mama

Dear Mama,

I love you. All that I have ever wanted was to feel like you were proud of me.  I tried to be who you wanted.  I found that didn’t work. Then I tried being myself.  I found that I was happier,  but you still were not proud of me.  Mama I am fourty one,  and I have succeeded.  I am published.  I am usually a happy soul.  Yet when I fall,  and I do occasionally fall.  It is your voice in my ear,  telling me you expected it all along.  When I get rejected for my poetry, (as rejections are normal for the writer to recieve) that everyone else would tell me I wrote so well?  I hear you telling me that you didn’t want to hear it because of how depressing it was.

Mama,  I have published five volumes of poetry,  three children’s books,  and a novella.  You know that family have hardly even acted like it mattered?  I am doing what I told you I wanted to do at nine.  I am a writer. So I may never be a  novelist,  children’s books still need written. I have never asked for much.  Just a hey,  that is awesome.  Or even… Uh sharing it on social media that you have a daughter who is printed.  So I put space between us.  I admit that I was tired of feeling like you just didn’t care. I deserve to be someone who is cared about. I’m sorry that I was never the daughter you wanted,  but Mama,  I have always just been me.

Love always,

Your daughter.


Not everyone is healed by medicine,  not everyone is healed by therapy.  Don’t get me wrong,  it can do a great deal.  Still it is alot like an addiction,  being mentally ill. Unless you are ready to heal,  all therapy will do is give you someone else to depend on. Someone else to expect judgement from.  This is often more detrimental to self esteem than helpful.  I have been seeing a therapist since I was nine years old.  For me it was just something that I had to do.  I have had some good ones,  ones who could make me see them as human.  I’ve had a few who abused my trust.  To tell the truth,  I have done more towards healing when I was not seeing one.  I used to dissociate.  For the ignorant among my readers,  the term Dissociate is technical jargon for saying that I was multiple personalities.  Twenty years ago I was a true mess.  Nearly twelve personalities that we knew of.  I was never sure where I would wake up,  and how much time would have passed.  One of my personalities was cutting. As stated,  I was not in a good place.  When I was in control,  I was having nightly nightmares. I was terrified of being put in a hospital. Mostly because I figured I  would not be let free. I am extremely claustrophobic. When I was little,  I was molested. I finally got the courage and told him that if he came near me again I would scream.  Well I guess he believed me… But he did decide to put one last scare to keep me from talking.  He locked me in the trunk of his car and told me I would die there.  I am not sure how long I was in there.  But I was there long enough to scare me.  I was nine.  It took me four years to gain enough courage to speak.  He said that I would never be believed.  Damn him for being right.  I was told that I was insane.  I showed all the symptoms of a abused child.  So much so that I was put in therapy.  I was put on medicine… But I speak up… And I am insane.  Fine.  I am fourty one.  I am finally one,  not many.  And I am insane.  He raped me at five.  He raped me until I was strong enough to say no. Then he raped my mind for the majority of my life. And if I had been believed he wouldn’t have been able to rape the girls after me.  He wouldn’t have been free. He is in jail,  but I check on occasion.  I am fourty one and I am scared of a small man who ruined my life.  I am not sure I will ever not be. Ask my family… I am a depressing poet who has always been crazy.  Oh wait,  many of them (not all)  will not even Acknowledge that I write. I embarass them. After all,  I was telling the truth.  I don’t lie,  because thanks to the dissociation,  I often have a hard time remembering things.  So why lie if I will only be caught. I am not crazy.  I need no therapist to hear me.  I am whole.  I have good coping mechanisms. And I will not hide who I have become for anyone!

Speak your own truth.  No matter what anyone else thinks of it.