Month: November 2021

I have not tested this idea regarding COVID, but when my eldest child was a baby, she came down with a fever. I made chicken soup with the bones and meat cooked into a thick broth, carrots, celery, and lots of garlic. The idea I learned in massage therapy school and related healing, the lymphatic system is where larger molecules of fats get pushed out of the body. So the good fat broken down into particles in the broth get pushed through lymphatics, and this pushes out viruses. When she went to sleep after eating the soup, her body broke into a sweat, pushing out toxins – and her fever broke. I have wondered if this would help people with COVID.

As she turned down the lane, she saw the cider house still open – though it was late.

“Why not?” allowed her reconsidering, and after backing up, she then eased to the side and forward into the parking lot.

When she got to the top of the stairs, the doors were locked, after all.

She could see the two gents behind the counter pouring drinks for themselves, glad the day was done.

“Ah, to be them for a moment!” she lamented, wistfully.

Then, she accepted defeat with grace, and headed back to the car.

Just as she was getting in, one of the men invited her to return if she was just getting a couple of bottles.

“Everyone needs a bit of cider on a Frdiay night!” he welcomed repeatedly, warmly.

She accepted his offer joyfully, and they spoke briefly about cider types and flavors.

She inquired and found she could try a small sample tray of on-tap exotics in the future.

Feeling nourished – and possibly saved – she purchased two cans by different brewers, and headed home to her evening.

As she parked the car in the back of the building, she noted the heavily-coated man walking into the light, coming toward her.

Bundled up tight against the icy night air, he hoisted two bags she surmised were full of bottles.

As he passed, he said nothing and asked for nothing, seeming content upon his purpose.

Suddenly inspired to add to his cause, she hailed him as he moved away, and asked if he was collecting.

He said yes, and after they discussed the heavy weight of her contribution, they arranged to meet at his rest stop in 15 minutes.

When the time came, she drove to meet him.

As she pulled up, he shed his outer layers, revealing a decent shirt and pants, as if he wanted her to see him as a worthy human.

He told her his name, then she gave hers, and she said how happy she was to have met him.

He thanked her, sharing that he was saving up to get a certain kind of phone and that she was helping him boost to meet his goal.

She donated three bags of empty No. 1 Rosemary Water bottles, sure that the creators and shareholders would be happy to have their ingenuity in spirit expanded.

Her family needed the little bit of money that recycling gleaned, but this man had carved a niche for himself that she felt needed promotion.

“You’ve become a brash, young man!” his mother exclaimed.

“Why don’t you just settle down and marry? Haven’t you had enough ‘fun’?”

“Mother, you know they need me – I’ve only just begun!”

Worriedly, she conceded: “As long as you’re happy…”

My mother taught me that you don’t walk away from family – which is funny, because she drove me away by how she and her then husband treated me when I was fifteen.

This is when another break happened to me – a split, off from another reality.

A week before my sixteenth birthday, she stripped me of the friends I had gained and the Bachelors I could foresee by sending me away to take care of my grandmother.

She thought that removing me from the situation would help everything. Being with her mother gave her a sense of control over me.

It is one of my deepest regrets and a heinous tragedy that the wounding from both my ex’s and my own childhood ended up being passed to our children when they were in their teens.

At least I recognized tbey needed to be given the choice to decide their destiny when we lived temporarily with my parents and chose to return to their schools on the Central Coast and be homeless.

We climbed out of that pit together, although I “lost” my eldest to the confusion and pressures of what then transpired as she went to high school and tried to find a way to create her own family – free from our losses.

What’s important about all of this is that I saw the issues underlying throughout our family’s progressing timeline, yet was not taken seriously.

Like Cassandra with her prophecies, my sight was biased as triviality. I was branded a “mad woman” for begging others to see.

The irony is that my middle name is Cass. Her legacy has always haunted as a tease, playing with my conscious perceptions.

And, with such a strong, Greecian goddess name as Athena, I thought it was my duty to learn and uphold any wisdom I could find in all things.

It has been my goal in life to always improve myself, and Cassandra’s example has guided development of my intuition.

I’ve been surprised that no other person of my name that I have met has taken its meaning seriously – beyond the novelty, or an excuse for indulging ego.

Our names are an important aspect of who we are. They set the tone for how we could be living.

The sweetest little tubby tube of a dachshund you ever saw with black, sleek, flat fur and a brownish-pink belly.

She used to sit up on her hind legs – the long length of her swaying – to beg for scraps and treats.

I remember her progression from energetic puppy into complacent cylinder.

We grew up together.

I almost remember when she got that crimp in her tail from missing the sliding glass door timing.

At least, I remember the before and after.

She didn’t last long after grandpa died.

But, by then, she was ancient in dog years.

She used to chase me around with a fly swatter if she thought I was being naughty.

She was dead serious about her aim, once she got her mind to it.

No matter what, I knew to not push her past that point of no return.

I knew she’d make sure that I would never forget it.

Other than that, we got along fine.

She’d send me to the kitchen to get snacks and watch my own TV while she watched her golf, loudly.

A cigarette and a cocktail later, early evening.

She wasn’t a lush – in fact, my grandparents were highly respectable.

It was just the swing of the clubhouse scene.

She’d let me watch her make dinner, but barely help.

Her meals were her own secret recipes.

I guess they were the one thing she could maintain control over.

And man-oh-man – she knew how to make our tummies crave her artisanry!

She had this magic Italian dressing mix that I could never reproduce again.

And her mac-n-cheese with Ritz crackers crumbled over the top – baked in – was heavenly!

A piece of candy or two was given to me as a rarity.

There were jars in the large kitchen drawers of latest selections.

And always, I was permitted a slice or two of the forbidden Kraft sliced cheese.

She knew how to take good care of me, and always played cards until late as my partner until grandpa came home.

Coming home at 2am.

Smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and sweat – highlights of an evening’s production.

Crisp damp of a new morning clinging, he was like Jack Frost – heart happy and singing.

It was a kind of letdown that he had to come home, again.

He’d go straight to the couch after barely saying hello to me and grandma.

He used to let me lay alongside his length and snuggle while he’d smoke his cigarette as reclined.

He rarely spoke about his engagement.

Maybe he’d comment about what was on TV.

He’d tolerate it when I again begged him to stop smoking to avoid his later cancer.

And soon, his mouth would drop open into a loud snorking sound.

Grandma and me, we used to tease quietly – joking.

Then, “Hey, Grandpa…Wakeup! You were snoring!”

He’d make his apologkes and shuffle off to bed, yawning.

It was our ritual when I’d stay over.

I missed him, while he spent most of his time chasing glory.

I take most of the hits to keep my family healthy.

This is where a partnership comes in handy.

I am not feeling sorry for myself in saying this, but I know I’m not like the rest of them.

You know.

The other single mothers needing a man to step up to the scene.

Yeah…it’s just a flimsy illusion of hope for me to cling to.

My husband projected onto me.

Everything I did and said became an impetus for him to countermaneuver.

A reason for denying me.

I was multitalented.

His mother was this way.

If I got angry, rather than coming to my defense, he criticized me – and by his gaze berated.

I felt under constant scrutiny.

Nothing I did, no mater how beautiful, pure, or innovative was worthy of his approval.

I know now that it wasn’t me.

That it was because he became injured, and this kept nightmares from his past constantly playing.

But, when you come away branded as “bad” by someone you once trusted and loved, it’s hard to find reprieve.

It can’t be forced, but must be earned.

A lot of sh** went down to make someone’s resiliency scatter.

It must be fed with given trust.

It must be carressed by promises kept.

It must be shown that Light Is the Truth.

And that darkness is the fallacy.

Perhaps I am making a mistake in going to places where the poor go.

I haven’t judged them – but I sure as heck judge myself!

Perhaps, if I avoided such places, I wouldn’t be triggered by my empathy.

Maybe I am overexposing myself to this, instead of more positive situations.

I’ve just been so caught up in survival, making sure we can make it by simplifying.

Yet, even the homeless look at me, wondering what I am doing there.

It’s clear that I am not one of them.

I’m a niche creator.

The system is broken.

Maybe it never worked to begin with.

Laws are just cobbled together to serve lawyers and politicians, instead of human decency – which they claim to defend.

When someone as good as me gets put through hell, like rabid wolves, others target.

A public argument or heated discussion.

The need to at last set limits with an out-of-control dog.

This is all it takes – just a “slip” – and in come the wild hogs.

They say that stress can kill, and now I know why.

It messes with your homeostasis.

And like an injured cichlid in a tank, society turns on you like an opportunistic school (of cichlids) and picks at you.

Until you fight back, and prove you have what it takes to still compete.

It’s a feral instinct of self protection, and if you don’t push against and act crazier than they do, they’ll keep coming after you.

If I know all of these things, why can’t I get out of the cycle?

Why does the darkness keep pulling me back to its bossom?

Well, because I put up a good fight and keep it at bay.

It so easily claims others – but not me.

I am tired of it.

Maybe I’ll just ignore it.

I heard that if you do this, it simply ceases to be.

When you’re an empath, you sense nuances other people may not notice.

When you’ve been abused, you learn to track patterns.

When 911 happened, I felt the undercurrents.

Most of the nation reacted to the external of it.

I realized then that Bush Jr.had secured the presidency.

No one was going to do a recount.

How convenient – and was the cost worth it?

To evil, yes. For profit – absolutely.

Hey. I don’t want this power.

It’s like being a super hero with no benefit.

And, it’s not like I can control it, or predict anything.

I have no real proof my impression was the whole story.

But, if anyone is paying attention at all to what’s around them, over time, some things can become a bit predictable.

Like the fact I was attracted to the celebrity.

Guaranteed that he was not available.

If I could break out of this grip that some hold has on me, I would do it – gladly.

That’s why my ex left me.

I wasn’t the problem – it was imbedded deep in his psychology.

And, like my father and fiance, he figured breaking up the family was a worthy sacrifice.

Well, having received that end of the lack of pardon, I refused to abandon my children.

So, they had to see the ugly – the damage that happens when someone destroys your dreams and takes everything.

I wish it didn’t still affect me.

It would be nice if there wasn’t constant negative reinforcement.

It that the out?

Make everything perfect?

Or numb oneself to the nth degree by alcohol or mushrooms or some other drug of choice that is a “no no” – but still more permissable than allowing me to break free?

The system has to be Right, and wil do everything and anything to maintain this facade.

At the expense of you and your loved ones – at a pittance of the cost for making you dependent.

So, there’s a fire raging inside of me.

It’s determined to break this larceny.

I have nothing to prove to others, but myself to reclaim – and to be the best person that I can be.

Oh, how the mortgage specialist was so kind and attentive.

He kept pinging my email, until I asked him to wait and contact me mid-Novemeber.

Then, he called today like clockwork, eager and ready to be of service.

Until I began telling him what had transpired and that I’d gone into business for myself.

Then, he abruptly cut me off and began retreating..

“We need two years worth of proof if you’re a sole proprietor…”

Interjected as he hastily gave apologies and said I could contact him when I was ready, while hanging up.

The nice thing about being alientated is that you remember.

And I have all the emails, so I won’t forget who turned tail on me when the sale was suddenly not so easy.

When the day comes, he will not be the person I apply to for a home loan.

I’m the worst on myself, but not on others.

I hold myself to strict accountability – and if I vary outside any “norm,” I am the hammer on the gavel.

No jury of peers – none is needed..

No begging for clemency: I know what I’ve done.

And yet, the rapists, murderers, and destroyers of sanctity get to walk, without punishment.

It has become acceptable by society that people are disallowed variances – unless extreme.

She discovered when she connected with him online that there was already too much static between them.

She had approached him, open and honest.

While he had responded politely with light inquiry, his guards were already cemented.

She realized, then, that she didn’t want to just get shunted into a preset category.

He was too important to her to let him get away with that.

I am not a “helicopter” parent, but I do make sure he is nourished.

He has social anxiety and his own difficulties.

We have been through hell together, and separately.

I won’t abandon him because society says this-and-that about upbringing.

Society, as a rule, ignores what we really need in order to become fully conscious, healthy contributors.

I may get into a lifestyle of traveling for work and exploring, but he’ll be the base I return to until he is solid with his own wings.

Humans are capable of wonderful things, and I’m ensuring he gets to claim his talents.

I skimmed across mention of a Type-C personality.

My impression was that this is a person who schedules their own lifestyle flow, according to the best support of their creativity.

This kind of takes a back seat for me.

Not just because of work needed for income, but because of adrenal depletion.

Once I am up and moving, I tend to keep going until my energy is beyond flailing.

I don’t know when to stop because everything seems important when there’s so much to get coordinated and progressing.

Plus, these past three years I was apparently fighting deep depression and crushing anxiety.

Not that it was always cycling in my head – in fact, I was in denial that I had any.

This is because it is important to me that I stay functional.

I do not like masticating when I could be innovating.

But, once we had arrived to the mountain, I was hit by a weight I struggled to manage.

Every day, it was on me – attempting to suppress and suffocate.

My body reacted by locking down muscles to slow movement, as if preparing for immanent attack.

We had just moved to predator country: bear, cougar, and rabid man.

We found ourselves not only 20 miles over hard terrain from any town, but 2 hours away from sensical civilization!

My mind and emotions were on high alert and negative reactive, as if we were nearing doomsday.

I was probably picking up on why people move to and have stayed there.

I think my being’s awareness just understood integrally that we had arrived to a dead-end situation.

No pun intended.

And somewhere, deep inside, I was screaming to be released from that situation.

Devotion to my parents complicated.

So now, the lingering effects are that I must rest – then rest again, when there is not something absolutely pressing.

I just gave too much at the cortisol shank bank.

For example, I was going to jump into the shower, but then had another thought to write.

My posture felt fatigued, so I crawled back into bed until the thought was captured.

Now, back comfortably nestled on the heating pad as l allow my body to relax again, I realize I still feel exhausted.

So, when I think of working closely with a person I greatly admire, I think about his schedule.

I think about his eating patterns and workout regime.

I think about his daily performance and the sleep loss he’s enduring.

And I ponder how I could even sync up with that kind of lifestyle.

I am simply where I am in my healing, and I would have to contribute independently.

I cannot ever let myself get this depleted again.

I need a life path that ensures my continued recovery.