More Than Momma

 I am far from perfect. FAR from it. There is this niggling that tugs at my brain and my heart though. A little voice that quietly reminds me of all of my faults, my mistakes, my misdeeds. And she is there.  Always.  And sometimes she roars in my ears until I melt into this abyss.  Is that the real purgatory? To live mired in the imperfections of your past. Your present. The things that haunt you into your future. Maybe. or just maybe all of those things that I have studied from Freud and Bloom and the countless psychologists of yore ring true. Either way, I hate it. I hate the internal crumbling. The feelings that who I am today are still a disguise for the stupidity of my youth. Well, let's be real here. My first 35 years or more. I search and I work to quiet this roar within me, but she just keeps clawing her way back into my life.  She stalks me with a stealth so quiet yet aggressive that I barley know when I am under her spell. "They" call it being triggere...

 Caregiving Across the Ages Childhood  As a young girl of the 1970's, it was clear that my role in life should encompass the typical female stereotypes seen in the world around me.  And that was fine by me.  While I was a tomboy for sure, the idea of caring for a family was a given.  I had my dolls. I played school and house.  I even dressed up my poor dog and drove him around in a doll carriage.  So it makes sense that my first real role in caregiving was that of the neighborhood babysitter.  WHAT A CAKEWALK!  Show up.  Eat their food. Have some friends over while the kids slept. Get paid. Go home! Cha Ching!  As long as nobody got hurt too badly or found out you had the secret guests, you were golden! BUT...Unbeknownst to me, I was caregiving every day. Just not in the typical way one might expect. Yes, I fed the fish, walked the dog, and learned the deeds of a good little girl that fit the roles of caring for the home and family....

Last year, just weeks before Christmas, our home caught fire. Giant fire. Nothing we did or anyone else caused this.  No act of God. No arson or silly mistake. It just was. The loss was nothing like any other loss I have ever experienced. Death, even the most tragic of incidents I have experienced, are a part of life.  Everyone dies, even when you are not ready for it or it makes no sense. You can't always prepare, but deep down you know it is coming for us all. Hurricanes?  I am a master of prepping for these. Grab what you can. Protect the rest the best you can. Get out and wait. I have never lost more than pieces and parts of my home to these so maybe the full weight of their power and devastation are lost on me. You can prepare away, but deep down you know that the chances of a catastrophic direct hit are not that great when you weigh out the odds over all hurricanes we might see. I am not trying to make light of these and other catastrophes at all. I am guessing what...

 It has been a minute...or actually over a year...since I have taken the time to sit down and write. It has been lost on me the freedom that I felt, releasing my heart on the "pages" of this venue, but I have needed it so. But life took over. It has been a minute since I prioritized the things that have helped me to find peace, my daily practices that saved only for me. But life took over. It has been a minute since I utilized the tools that I have in my toolkit to manage the stress and calm the anxieties that spin through my soul. I LET life take over. It has been a minute since I took control over my day to day rather than letting the days dictate me. Now, I am working to take my life back over. It is a minute at a time. A day at a time. But my life is mine not the culmination of things that occur around me. Hoping for a minute each day to create a series of moments until I am back where I want to be.

 My Grandmother never really shared too many details about her childhood with me. Well actually nothing about her childhood at all. I know where she worked as a young teen and into young adulthood. I have seen pictures, a few, of her in those years with family.  I never knew how impoverished she and her family were. I only knew of the love story that brought her family to America. A story that I have learned through much research into Jewish genealogy could be true or could be lore.  Regardless, I find it fascinating. The Love Story My great-grandparents were born in Austria.  The town that they actually lived in no longer exists as it was back then. It was wiped out during World War II after they had already immigrated to New York via Ellis Island. But they did not come on their journey together. And the town is not the love story, although it makes for an intriguing scavenger hunt through time and history. The two young people fell in love in their hometown in a ti...

 I have heard, from lots of different folks, that one or all of the above are bogus, fake, or something that weak people say occurred to them.  I am here to call bullshit. Nobody wants to admit that they have been party to any type of abuse- especially that which they have no physical proof. The reality is that some of those who do the abusing, in my opinion, may not realize how or why they are doing what they are being accused of and oftentimes the ones being abused have rationalized through months or years of conditioning, that this abuse is somehow their fault. They have caused this treatment or they deserve what has occurred. Furthermore, in my opinion, since this is difficult to prove- lack of physical evidence- it is very difficult for authorities to take it seriously unless they witness it themselves. Verbal abuse includes but is not limited to: Name-calling, belittling, insulting Threatening or blackmail Gaslighting Patronizing Blame Manipulation through guilt- "If you...