Blessed

de6c2975352d79e5dd16b7f46c23bfe6Not every day is beautiful.  Some days, some weeks even are peppered with sorrow or are crushed in the grip of mental illness.  If I didn’t have Jesus,  these things would be dead ends and not detours.

I am blessed.

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the camino

untitled (17)I just finished a book called “To The Field of  Stars” by Kevin Codd, a Catholic Priest’s journal of the 800 kilometer walk known as The Way of Saint James or The Camino or about 3 other things but the point is this: you finish at the site of the remains of the Apostle James (St. James the Greater).  An actual Apostle lies at the spot of the Campostela de Santiago Cathedral.  Imagine!  The resting place of Jesus’ friend and follower, one of the original Apostles who – along with his brother John – Jesus called Boanerges:  “Sons of Thunder”.  This post may  be all over the place and I really should write a better thought out piece but I can’t.  I can’t.  I am overjoyed.  I rejoiced and cried as the book came to its end and also in spots before that.  An Apostle.  Are there sites of other Apostles’ remains?  I don’t know, I guess so.  There is the tomb where Jesus was buried but his remains of course are not there.  The Camino.

I can’t get it out of my head.

I’ve always been one of those people who has completely ridiculous fantasies that require the participation of others or some such unreasonable shit. For the first time in my life I have a fantasy that can be reached.  I am going to walk the Way of St James.  Before the end of 2015 I will be in the French Pyrenees beginning my 500 mile walk to sat hello to an Apostle.  Then just turn around and go home.  Really…this will be the closest to Jesus the man that I think we can ever get.

How can I not go?

 

(photo:  The Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, the resting place of the Apostle James)

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Untitled #1 (reposting for Julie and Jamie)

I came back to this blog with the intention of telling my story without dressing the pain in spandex and glitter.  I’ve already admitted to being bipolar and living with suicidal tendencies most of my life.  Admitting is not that hard, really.  Confessing, writing without tricks, abandoning obfuscation for raw truth is going to be difficult and I don’t know if I can do it.  The last 24 months have been harrowing though I have come out of it as living proof that (this is going to be a big admission) Jesus is real.   I may have been breathing my last,  laying there soaking in my own blood when this feeling of calm washed over me.  I didn’t fuck it up this time – I was dying and the relief was better than any drug I ever took,  It was finally over.  No one would be mad at me when I really just wanted them to help me.  I wouldn’t spend my time holed up in my shitty apartment getting altered so that I did not feel the pain of mental instability and loneliness.  It was over.   I was being freed from the torture of living my life.

But it was actually something else altogether.  I was being saved.  I was breathing my last breaths and there was light, I felt a hand on my forehead, I began uttering something that sounded like “hurryhurryhurry”.  I did not understand God so I stopped trying a long time ago.  When I was at the end, He sent His Son to save me.

Don’t give up.  You are not alone.  God is there.  These are all little slogans that irritated the shit out of me because I was wildly bipolar and untreated and I was invested in my misery and loneliness.  If you are suffering like I was, you don’t want to hear that shit either and I will not say it.  But I will say get on the right medication so that you can plant yourself firmly on this earth and see how beautiful it is.  From there, God may make an appearance.

Keep your eyes open.

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 And it’s a matching set:

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FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. 

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The Whole Of It

In Psalm 139 it says “…even before a word is on my tongue, behold O Lord, You know the whole of it…”

This makes me feel so safe.  I can’t go wrong in prayer.  I can’t say the wrong thing or pray incorrectly.  Even when I have the hubris to con the Lord when I am praying He knows it.  But I am still loved. I imagine Jesus shakes His head and smiles at my prayers of negotiation.  I have realized that no matter what words come out of my mouth, He knows the true words that are in it, the true words before they become stained with my  thoughts.  And I am forgiven.

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How lucky am I to have found The Way, The Truth and The Life?  Now this post may seem to you to be the square peg of this blog but it is the truth of my life, the greatest part of it.  I was blessed in that my pastor has the gift of shedding light on the Gospel.  In church, I grew to understand and find hope in the word of the Lord.  But prayer and praise whether alone in my little prayer room or with a small group is so much more intense, personal, uplifting…

I have felt the hand of Christ on my head countless times from my suicide to last night when I was praying.  I do not have to kill myself.  I am not alone.  And Jesus will never leave me.  No matter how bad things get Psalm 139 tells me also that  “…behind me and before, You hem me in and rest Your hand upon me…”  “Hemmed in”.  I love that.  I am secure in the hands of God.  I am forgiven because of His Son.  I am writing this because of the Holy Spirit.

God is alive.

I am alive.

Blessings to you all.

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There Will Be Something

I have sacrificed too much to feel loved and I am not saying that I did it to BE loved because the truth is….I wasn’t.  I just made myself think I was feeling something that didn’t exist.  I  believed it because I needed it so badly.  I have been a lonely girl.  I am witty and funny, attractive (unstable?), talented , intelligent, lonely, and appear confident.  I am also submissive to men and believe what I am told very easily.  When a man gives me attention I think it is because he has strong feelings for me and maybe we will fall in love but it is usually just that he has read me for the type who won’t make trouble and can move on when he is done.  For all my intelligence I need a helmet around men.  large (14)

I have wanted to be loved so much that I have settled for things I am too embarrassed to write about.  I once wrote about them on a blog without a filter but it was only a gesture, an effort to get one man’s attention back.  Now that we pay no attention to each other at all, there is no need to write the details.  I know them.  I know what I did.  I know what my sins were.  I am ashamed of how I crawled for crumbs of his attention.  I compromised my sexuality to satisfy his.  I did this with a few men.  Oh,  I would make adjustments to please men even before I knew if I should- before there was any proof they were going to invest enough to see that I AM accommodating.   I have been pathetic.  I have been alone for years and am now so divided from my own sexuality that I can’t find it anymore.

Sometimes I wonder what will become of me.

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Tonight I had a wonderful long conversation with a man who was my last “real” (not internet and phone), but REAL boyfriend.  That word doesn’t quite work here but it will have to do.  He always cared for me.  Sex was kinky and fun.  I enjoyed waiting on him, cooking, looking pretty for him.  I think I loved him.  I remember there being interference from someone else, someone wrong who reached into that relationship to break it, to make me think he was the one I belonged with.  Once I left “the last real boyfriend”, that man stopped talking to me.  I was humiliated.  I am always humiliated.  I have been ashamed.  I have made a fool of myself in my desperate need to be romantically loved.

I have reconciled so many things since my suicide attempt.  I have found the Lord.  I have found patience with my family and with myself though that is in its infancy.  I have my bipolar under control.  But I don’t know what I am supposed to do about love.  There is nothing wrong with wanting to be loved.  I was fooled a couple of times.  Horribly fooled.  I have a little box with a few cards from someone who, in the beginning, paid me much attention though the relationship was full of secrets. His. Because while I was in love, crumbs and all, he married someone.  And I never knew.   Two women at the same time:  I was the girl you cheat with.  She was the girl you marry.  My confidence has never come back. 

I once had affairs with married men.  I have accepted once a week “dates” that never left my living room and lasted one hour and a cigarette.  I have known how to make a fool of myself with men but not how to make them fall in love with me.  You know,  I sometimes feel shame in front of my father.  I don’t know why.  I think he knows maybe what a pathetic girl I have been with men.  Men can read that stuff, even fathers.

I tried to end my life over a man once.

I think I have been hurt too much and have been embarrassed too frequently to fall in love now.  I don’t think men will love me.  They will want me maybe.  But they won’t love me.  This is no longer maudlin thinking, the kind of self-pity we indulge in at the end of a disaster with a man.  I think I am just protecting myself now from the thing I want most.  I have only proof that it will go badly for me.

Sometimes your hand isn’t good enough even for a bluff.   You just have to get up and leave the table,

There will be something else for me.  I just know it.  Something that will make be forget how much I groveled, how pathetic, how fooled I was.  How ashamed I still am.  Something will come.  God has given me so much.  There will be something.  I just know it. 

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rape

I told you about “the literary low road”, tumblr.   People post a lot of sick shit there.  Girls being pissed on, having cigarettes ashed into their mouths, really just being sexually assaulted and I suppose some of them are down with this  and aren’t confusing what is happening to them with love.  But I know that some of them are.  They will end up in therapy.  It will not go well.

There are “rape fantasy” pages for men who can’t get an erection without committing a felony and girls who have probably been sexually abused and can’t find any substance in sex without somehow reliving it.  Of course there are always girls who just like that kink.  It all makes me nervous.

Today I found a long GIF file, like 9 frames, of a man anally raping a girl with captions on each installment, the first of which is the girl screaming NO and trying to get away.  He rapes her and says violent things in each frame one of which is “are you bleeding or are you just wet?”.  I broke down crying.  How?  How can people do this?  And I suppose some of us should not even look at this kind of blog but the guy had “reposted” so many of my pictures that I went to see why he couldn’t come up with an original thought and there it was.

8,889 people reposted it or commented that they liked it.  8,889.

I’m not stupid and I know that it was a performance and the “victim” was a paid performer or simply just a performer.  But there are very young people on that site who will see this and be influenced by it. There are girls and women who are already being sexually violated to a lesser degree and will see this as the way to please their abuser.

I wrote a note to the blogger (anonymously) telling him he really ought to take it down.  He is endorsing a felony, a violent sexual assault. He will not take it down.  The only thing that will have happened from all this  is that I will cry, pour a glass of wine and relive a part of my life that is better left hazy.

When I called tumblr the low road I wasn’t aware of how bad it has become.  It is much worse than I thought.

Cheers.

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the literary low road

Posting images and little commentaries on tumblr is truly the literary low road.  I have a lot to say, as you know by now, but I am too lazy to say it in words.  There are too many key strokes involved.  tumblr is road kill and here I stand over it with a fork.

I become obsessed with posting the right images in the right order and soon it has nothing to do with what I am posting but whether or not the color scheme works and there are enough contrasting images:  a porn picture against an Anti-Rape Protest…and of course I’ve sneaked in a few Jesus-related pics.  Oddly, a few people have reposted them. And there I thought I was a saint among heathens.   I’ve reached the point where I am just hording pictures to meet my warped mental requirements like people horded can goods in the 70’s thinking the world was going to end.   In my house we ended up with cases of Dinty Moore stew which, because the world did not end, we had to gag down for over a year with never ending sides of wax beans.  WHO EATS WAX BEANS???

My tumblr blog should be called Wax Beans.

Tumblr is like a crush on a stranger at a bar:  you really like them until it’s closing time and then you feel creepy and are they REALLY worth the effort?  Well, they just flickered the lights at tumblr.

There is only one good shot on my whole blog – and of course I shot it a couple of weeks ago:  “American Blasphemy” featuring Glenna Mugavero, Daniel Mugavero and a naked baby doll that’s so old when you pull her string it sounds like she is speaking ancient Aramaic with a Mississippi accent. 

american blasphemy

God bless us all.  

 

 

 

 

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