Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Just heard the weather forecaster say that 75% of the U.S. has snow on the ground right now. Folks wanting crisp weather? Oh Lord, Puh-leeze, let me sweat. Wool makes me itch, staying indoors makes me grouchy. Even Pinterest bores me with its winter themes, so unappealing. Trees are bare, all I see are greys and browns. Yuck.
I don't like cute boots, and I'd look stupid wearing them. I can't pull off the cool look.
Lee spoke of her dream, in a comment, to hike The Appalachian Trail. Oh, yes, that and the Pacific Crest Trail greatly appeals to me also, in warm weather, of course. Again, the blessedness of being retired, free of obligations, not chasing that buck anymore, yes ma'am, do I share that dream, or what?
Or should I go back to work when the kids are grown so as not to be completely poverty stricken? Most women my age, especially single women, have a nest egg, my potential egg cracked and exploded decades ago under the weight of 39 kids. I'm hand to mouth nowadays, but at least I don't owe any money, except for roof payments.
I believe I'd rather be poor and free, than to have to deal with human beings in a job just for money.
Anytime I have to go to Atlanta for any dumb reason, just reminds me how badly I do not wanna be a commuter, an employee, or a city dweller. Let folks think country bumpkins are bored or boring, it's an inexplicable inner freedom in which I greatly rejoice as I search out the elusive dream of serenity.
"Mom," CW began quietly, climbing the stairs to my room, trying to forewarn me, "I know you're gonna freak out, but the police are here." His bedroom overlooks the driveway, he's the troll that warns us of any arrivals.
I do not automatically scream swear words, but I do nearly black out from intense fear,
My heart slammed, I broke a sweat, my thoughts raced a billion miles per hour. What the heck? I'm always so deeply afraid of bad news, always seemingly bracing myself, trying to decipher how I'd emotionally survive the news of a loss.
It was 9:30, I was lolling on my bed, drifting off to sleep at that moment, but I flew downstairs, down the hall, through the living room, kitchen, and the short hallway to the garage door where a deputy stood with a clipboard. "Calm down Darlin,' " he told me, "I'm just UPS dressed in a deputy uniform."
I was shaking so violently from fear, PTSD, and trepidation that I could hardly stand there. This is what trauma looks like. I couldn't catch my breath, this is when I fear a heart attack will be most likely to happen to me. My knees were buckling.
He was just serving papers regarding a court date since my son had hired an attorney. "This late?" I practically hollered, still literally shaking like a leaf.
"Yep," he responded, "We stop at ten, or if the lights are off at a house."
CW had not yet locked the gate, all the lights were on upstairs in the boys hallway and rooms, and it took me hours to finally calm back down. Martin and CW standing there likely wishing we had a defibrillator handy.
Over re-act much? Well, sure I do. My inner coping mechanisms shot to heck years ago. I'm stone-faced in public, emotionally rattled at home, but I keep it together until I'm alone in my room.
I'd been quietly grateful, after the fact, that my house was clean, that it was super quiet when he'd arrived, back in the day he could've been greeted with overturned furniture and a kid raging. But just because it's easier now to deal with everyone doesn't mean that my heart can handle a night time, unscheduled visit. So many of my grown children participate in risky behaviors, setting the stage for disaster at times.
I wonder if I'll ever return to my old completely untraumatized self?
And then, oh my goodness, this morning deteriorated. The lock to the front gate froze, I had to make a three point turn in a 15 passenger van on top of a hill with no turnaround space, returning home to get boiling water or bolt cutters, one nearly 18 year old got busleft, and my 11 year old had a screaming meltdown, PMSy moment; rude, squalling and ridiculously dramatic over hair for Pete's sake.
Someone wanna remind me why the heck I'm not on any medication?
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Searching for happiness and fulfillment, I could go over each point discussed here, but suffice it to say this article makes sense, and it makes me happy. I, too, deeply believe it is a choice. Am I deluded? Maybe, but lemme have my happy delusions, allow me to believe that I'm so happy, because honestly I am.
Even though I melt down and carry one sometimes, even though I might bust into tears in response to a blow, I can usually pull my goofy self back up for air. I've started over and over again, I've recovered and overcome, I've fallen down and gotten back up, but don't we all? Or, shouldn't we all?
This article details the theory that happiness is a choice. It's on a Huffington Post page, The Third Metric, that takes us past the obvious happiness constraints like money and power. I have neither, yet I'm right happy.
I'm not sure folks can be happy concentrating solely on happiness as a goal, I believe it is, of course, inextricably linked to making someone else happy, content or fulfilled along the way, and maybe the trauma issues that I've endured have warped my thinking to some degree. You know what with me sometimes thinking I've earned a smidgen of gratitude for all I've done - but knowing no mom gets that, and I doubt that I gave gratitude to my own mom for all she'd done.
It's just the way it is, and has nothing to do with trauma, birth or anything else.
The pursuit of happiness is an individual goal, and shouldn't be based on that which anyone else does, says or thinks. It's up to me...and you.
Because I've known a few alcoholics, I've read up on Alcoholics Anonymous, thoroughly convinced in it's effectiveness - IF the alcoholic will properly participate in the program, a big IF when alcohol is allowed to control one's life. Yes, I know it's a disease and not necessarily a choice, I get that.
A lesser known fact regarding AA is that the founder, Bill Wilson, struggled with a paralyzing depression, using Vitamin B-3 therapy suceesfully.
I, being a finite human being, don't literally understand the lure, nor the disease of alcoholism, nor depression for that matter. In my limited experiences, depression is situational for me, not so for some folks that I've encountered. I've been reading up on B3 therapy and am cautiously optimistic, certainly fascinated in today's era of a pill'll fix ya mentality. I find long term use of medicines to be scary, I'm very frightened for the human race in terms of the pharmaceutical industry's iron clad fist-hold upon way too many people.
Maybe folks kin to me wish I'd used Valium to calm me down at times, but honestly then I wouldn't have been me. I sure have irritated people being me, but that's the price of doing business as a human being, right?
Imagine Bobby Cox, future Hall of Famer, on a sedative? No arguing with umps? No caring about every single play no matter how infinitesimal it may have seemed at the moment?
An hour plus drive each way, there nearly four solid hours today for a psychological evaluation plus counseling. Well worth it in my book, seeing progress as we go.
Monday, December 09, 2013
New research suggests that people who have experienced hardships in the past savor things more in the present.
Well, good to know for us trauma mamas. I'd been willfully striving towards a better mindful principle to rule my life. When Sarah was little one of our favorite occupations would be to Watch The Garden Grow.
Now that I no longer have Chicken TV to captivate my attention, not keeping hens anymore, my Rambunctious Dog Channel is still available 24-7, and I continue to search within to find elusive inner peace. Honestly, a great deal of it just comes with age.
Speaking of age, with soft kitchen lighting Tony can even take a decent photo of me with an Iphone. In real life my lines and wrinkles are so much more glaring, certainly well-earned, let's call 'em laugh lines, and like I've said a thousand times, I wouldn't wanna go backwards and be any other age than the one I am right now.
Tony, a month here before his 18th birthday, our resident and gifted photographer, sent me the collage below to use today as well, documenting his time here. His diagnosis of Cerebral Palsy has only held him back emotionally and physically rather than academically, he works very well with Dr. Mandy, but hey, who doesn't? She's a dream come true for a family like ours.
Living with ten thorny kids is nowadays very rewarding, with little violence, really only Allen and JoJo ever want to go at it, living with kids who have no memory of not living here with me, well finally my life seems to have more meaning. I'm not the robot, the broke down automaton that I'd had to be for so long, knowing if I showed any emotion it'd be badly used against me by a few who could nearly be classified as psychopathic, a very, very few, but they left their mark upon us, I assure you.
I feel for all those that they'll encounter in their adult lives, at the very least folks will be emotionally hurt, a few will be physically damaged as a result.
Now, that bothers me, but there's no way to warn others, they either won't listen, or worse, there might just be heck to pay overtly.
I wish now that we've survived so much, that I could write a How To Adopt manual, or rather How To Survive Violent, Raging Kids manual, but the truth is, it's so day to day unpredictable, thorny, and untriggered that there are seemingly no real answers, and you best believe, I've attempted everything and I've picked the brains of professionals for many, many years.
"Mom, do you have a chiffon scarf?" Tabby asked me, needing one this week for her school play.
Do I look like I have a chiffon scarf? This badly dressed, bugged out freak with a fancy scarf? I probably should buy one to cover up my neck wrinkles, but that's too fancy for an ole fart like me. I did buy her one at an upscale thrift store, with original tags on it for just a buck.
Croft and her team discovered that “individuals who had dealt with more adversity in the past reported an elevated capacity for savoring.” In other words, those who had previously experienced pain were more likely to appreciate life’s small pleasures.
I sure could've told them all that. I'm so happy, happy, happy to nowadays fall asleep safely, to know that my younger kids are OK, trauma is so deeply damaging. Our joint recovery has taught me that truth.
Reading about toxic people, but there’s another type of moody, negative behavior: that of the toxic bully, who will use his or her mood swings to intimidate and manipulate. Hmm, here the moodiness was too often related to severe mental health diagnoses, rather than choice, so I always had to factor that unchanging aspect into the unrelenting mix.
The toxicity with which we adoptive parents deal with comes from a much deeper place, not a deliberate choice to be so willfully hateful. I've been screamed at by my kids, "You're NEVER home," when the reality is I never leave home, one kid last year telling people he always has to cook his own food. The reality was that he blatantly refused to join us for supper for quite some time, slinking downstairs later to re-heat something just so he could b*tch about it.
If I was dumb enough to argue with him, there'd have been a screaming fight in which he'd then feel justified to damage something, as evidenced by many holes he'd punched in the walls, well not as many as others have done, but way more than what would be ever considered acceptable in polite company. And the rub is that he was a smart, popular, well-loved kid who reserved a great deal of anger towards me, yet I knew in my gut that it was all about the other issues, not me.
Step back mamas.
Thus the disengaging because they clearly want a fight. I'm smart enough, or sadly experienced enough, to comprehend that one fact. They wanna believe what they wanna believe which decidedly does not include ever comprehending what I've done for them. That does eventually emerge within their developing brains many, many years from now, as my other children have eventually demonstrated a remarkable sense of comprehension and maturity.
We parents best be mature enough to handle the very long wait - even though the provocation will rain down upon our heads for way too long.
Nevertheless, the takeaway is positive: "The present research lends some credence to the notion that bad days might make the good ones better," the study states.
Seriously Trauma Mamas, let's hang on to that thought.
I still dream about walking the entire east coast of Florida, my debit card and tooth brush tucked into my bathing suit, stopping each night to sleep in a hotel and pig out until I walk the entire length. This greatly appeals to me. I love being barefoot, I love beaches, I love the sun, and I love to walk.
And my cell phone? I'll have it for emergencies, but a new study indicates less cell phone use equals more happiness.
A Kent State University study found that people who are constantly connected to their cell phone are less happy than those who can detach.
Intense cell phone use is also linked to heightened anxiety and a feeling of obligation to keep in touch.
The rest of my dream includes walking up the west coast of Florida.
Maybe other women dream of their wedding day, dating Bradley Cooper, or being rich in a mall, I have no clue. I've always been secretly obsessed with living all alone on a remote island, or hiking long, quiet, rewarding miles. That's what floats my boat.
Sunday, December 08, 2013
I'd had something crappy to deal with yesterday, tossing and turning into the night, unable to sleep, what could've been really bad turned out to be not as bad, but my heart just about can't keep taking this many blows. The one who'd gotten in trouble was crying, "Well, I'm glad it happened so I can learn a lesson," not quite comprehending what a tough, tough lesson it really could've been.
I watched a free showing of Food Matters and I highly recommend it, watching it up in my room late into the night, trying to wind down. I'm actually rather antsy over several things going on, none of which I can discuss at the moment, praying that everything just turns out fine at some point.
Before I knew it I'd slept until 7:30 this morning, hollering for Tabby to get dressed fast for her Christmas Musical, knowing she had two performances this morning. She has yet another different musical in which there'll also be two performances later at her school this week. She loves stuff like this.
I stood there watching , remembering the Battle Royales I'd had over the years with some of my more difficult kids, Pepe muttering, "Watermelon,watermelon, watermelon," through one entire musical back in grade school, scowling meanly at the audience, clenching his fists the entire time.
Chuck and Yolie came to get Tabby, then Ray and Hazel, as they all, including Mae and CJ, needed to be there at 8 this morning, the rest of us not until 9. We've had a gullywasher rain deluge, more to come, and this delightful tin roof makes it musically a high note for me, a kind of reverse lullaby as I was so dern restless.
Nando remembered a project due tomorrow which necessitated forcing me to run to town to get wood cut for his project. Either we suck, my entire family, or the guy made improper cuts, because seriously we now have a very ghetto birdhouse. "Lily can paint it to look good, right?" Nando asked skeptically, thinking what a dump for sure.
Some of these projects are gonna push me off the ledge someday. Allen's needing pictures for his powerpoint, Martin wanting to print, this is not a relaxing Sunday afternoon.
Kandy, the deputy, had seen my van and drove up in a Sheriff's car wearing an Elf Costume. I busted out laughing, Tony took a picture, Tabby's treasuring it, thinking Deputy Kandy, who teaches a drug awareness class at the school, hung the moon.
"I missed her class last week getting my dadgum cast off my ankle," she fumed. I'm wondering how many Mexicans say, 'dadgum.'
Saturday, December 07, 2013
Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a type of anxiety disorder. It can occur after one has gone through an extreme emotional trauma that involved the threat of injury, violence or death. Imagine after years of this? Factor in daily repetitious threats, perceived threats, danger, and violence. No wonder bed-wetting is often a result, and no, I'm not talking about me here, but in children who join our families. Our own need for Depends might come later with the territory though. Just sayin.
Again mamas, your recovery greatly benefits from reading and re-reading Dr. Brenda McCreight's been there, done that book, Healing From Hazardous Parenting.
See over the heads of my pretty daughters how chunks of my outdated popcorn ceiling are falling off? There's my winter project, scrape it all off.
Several days of 75 degree weather pushed me into an early, yet super major, overwhelmingly needful bout of Spring Fever, something I'm extremely susceptible to at all times. Last night until dark I was weeding around the stone pathway, menial labor that might send a smarter lady into extreme boredom, yet it truly enervated me, filling me with an indescribable glee. Seriously y'all, what's wrong with me?
I'm asked, "Why write so much about mental health?" But I'm never asked that question by an adoptive parent, only by outsiders who, like I once was, just don't get it. If a child didn't have a diagnosis by the time they entered foster care, they likely had one upon leaving foster care into an adoptive family.
No one can endure what they've endured, no one can suffer so much grief and loss, abuse and neglect, and come out on the other side grinning, giddy, and grateful to be adopted.
Hello, everyone? Real life knocking on your door?
And Honey, you will need therapy. Count on it.
You will receive it under the guise of getting it for your children, it's not called family therapy for nothing.
I'm in the middle of reading about PTSD in women who've been in combat in Iraq, a free ebook I'd downloaded, and I'm finding myself relating to it completely, which is scary as I live in an ostensibly quiet rural area - yet the violence, the unnerving danger, the ever-present threat of explosive rage disorder has left an indelible mark upon me. How could it not?
For the past 25 years my only emotional relief has come in the form of watering houseplants or weeding, thus my shattered internal emotional compass. I do not self-medicate, I'm not amused by wine jokes on Facebook nor Pinterest, if anything the fact that my peers have time to joke about imbibing really only irritates me, much as these ladies of combat are relating about in their own stories. They are flat out aggravated by 'normal society' after what they have been through in war time.
When in danger, it’s natural to feel afraid. This fear triggers many split-second changes in the body to prepare to defend against the danger or to avoid it. This “fight-or-flight” response is a healthy reaction meant to protect a person from harm. But in post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), this reaction is changed or damaged. People who have PTSD may feel stressed or frightened even when they’re no longer in danger.
PTSD develops after a terrifying ordeal that involved physical harm or the threat of physical harm. The person who develops PTSD may have been the one who was harmed, the harm may have happened to a loved one, or the person may have witnessed a harmful event that happened to loved ones or strangers.
Bottom line is that PTSD survivors find themselves exceptionally emotionally isolated from the rest of the world.
Well, that's interesting and true, but again, for the billionth time in my blog, how much so for the children with PTSD who we have adopted? No wonder many of them cannot make, nor keep, friendships, nor play well with others.
Us trauma mamas might feel guilty for comparing our feeble existence to ladies in the armed forces who've survived mortar rounds - but the fear of death has been fairly equal overall. Or maybe, worse for us, has been the fear of attacks upon our children by other children who have no moral boundaries, and are ruled by unmitigated rage that is technically understandable by us, as we contemplate what they have endured. Ordeals that would've shattered a grown man.
Oh me, oh my. I'm literally still quaking in my bare feet.
Ladies, we went into this endeavor wide-eyed, excited and oh so stupid, so ill-informed as to what we'd encounter. I'm almost thinking a degree in psychology should be a prerequisite, although I don't like regulation demands placed upon our naive hearts that're gonna soon be sand-blasted on a daily basis.
I'm not resentful. I'm just observant. A daughter has been telling me of her friend who has a very young stepmother - not a legal one, a shack up at best - who is almost the same age as the teenager. I sweat for this upcoming generation, seemingly without morals or values, even character issues strain credulity. This young girl is without role models.
"Where's her mom?" I asked, like a dummy. This mom is, of course, 'finding herself' at the expense of an almost grown kid.
Because we live in such a solidly conservative county there's not many rentals within the entire area. It's my strongly held belief that parents should provide stability for their children, usually including home ownership by the time the kids are teens, at least. Call me old school, everyone else does.
So am I judgemental and elitist? Because I want parents to parent? To put the needs of their children over their social life or their need to do, I dunno, anything else?
I believe that Me Time is over-rated. We will have plenty of Me Time when our kids are grown. Me, after 50 years of having a child at home, will get my own 24-7 Me Time when Tabby graduates from high school. If I craved Me Time then why would I have adopted 38 kids?
Where is it written that Me Time is a given?
I do admire men and women who've chosen to be childless rather than caving into pressure to have kids so their own parents can be grandparents. It should be a choice, not a rite of passage. What about accidental pregnancies one might ask? Deal with it. I was surprised by a pregnancy six months into my own first marriage and I dealt with it, she's 40 years old now. She wasn't considered by me, nor her dad, to be an accident, she was supposed to be our child, even if we were surprised.
I was then too immature and selfish to stay married, I totally own that. I had no good reason to leave, her dad was a nice guy. It would've been better for her if we'd stayed married, but again I admit to my own failures. I've certainly had my share of those, but now, at a much older age, having seen so very much, I feel fairly qualified to spout off a few opinions, especially in the adoption, and even in the parenting, arena.
If I offend anyone, then just delete me from your Blog reading device. I know I'm conservative, religious and opinionated, I don't need comments telling me the obvious. This is the foundation from which all my mouthy opinions spring forth, if you want a liberal stance, find another writer.
I speak from my own experiences, my own observations, and I know the old school slant is nearly foreign to the younger population, but I'm not gonna dumb down my opinion to attract readers, nor a fan club. If I don't care that my own kids think I'm not cool, I sure as heck don't care that others are positive I'm not cool because, truthfully, I'm not cool.
If I were a betting woman, which I'm clearly not, I'd wager that all y'all trauma mamas will continue to read, I know I'm singing your song. You are why I write, and also, selfishly I write for me, to process my own thoughts, feelings and e very thorny experiences.
Friday, December 06, 2013
The wonderful, seemingly selfless nurses that took care of Grandma yesterday worked within a warren of rooms in the back of the hospital, a windowless maze of a dozen rooms branching off one long hallway laden with equipment, a fully-equipped outpatient catherization lab, no way to know if the sun was shining, or if it was night time. I'd have nutted up if I'd spent much longer there, one of the nurses telling me of her three day 12 hour shifts, 9-9, thus four days to call her own, and know weather conditions.
That just can't be beneficial for one's mental health, that disconnect from nature. But, at any rate, what an awesome staff there, I was so impressed with Grandma's care, thanking them all effusively.
Waking up to 67 degree weather in December always makes me happy, another warm day today, some rain, and then next week, more regular, consistent temperatures. But anything I get done now just speeds up my next highly anticipated garden season.
I'd read of a book about The It Factor, how to get it, or whatever, the author, a lovely woman who's probably famous for something, described all the pictures in her book as a prolonged Instagram output, but what sprung to my mind was the word narcissistic.
Jeepers, women, this emphasis on looks, on objectifying women as a rule, I'd tried to explain how I feel about this pornification of women recently, feeling as if feminism has helped us make no progress, all that work and attention on our brains and abilities, but look where we are now? Women debasing themselves to sell record albums. Men don't get naked to do so, why should women stoop so low? Massive sexism, yet young ladies don't see it that way?
This actress said it best. I salute her, a Harvard grad, for having the guts to speak out like that. Her parents were famous people in my generation, they must've gotten the 1960s mentality across to her nicely, I salute them too. Matter of fact, her mom, Peggy Lipton, was the coolest woman ever back then. I'd have loved to look like her, but my inner klutziness, my hopeless goofiness, and complete lack of style prevented any feeble attempts at it.
"I'm not gonna lie. The fact that I was accused of 'slut-shaming,' being anti-woman, and judging women's sex lives crushed me," Jones, 37, wrote. "I consider myself a feminist. I would never point a finger at a woman for her actual sexual behavior, and I think all women have the right to express their desires. But I will look at women with influence—millionaire women who use their 'sexiness' to make money—and ask some questions. There is a difference, a key one, between 'shaming' and 'holding someone accountable.'"
I'm appalled on Facebook often at what I see - from some of my own daughters, and even my sons who speak with ugly words, or brag about getting wasted. I'm ashamed and embarrassed. I hate when my girls flaunt themselves, rather than working on their issues, or trying to improve their lot in life by pursuing higher education and/or better jobs. Hello? Y'all, I raised you to have a better life, to make better choices, to depend on your wits and your brains, your potential and your abilities.
And that dumb duck face? Don't even yank my chain. Why can't girls just smile their young gorgeous smiles?
Narcissism is a no-no, as is flaunting. Why isn't Kate Middleton the main one our girls want to emulate? A very classy, incredibly beautiful woman, such an everyday girl overall. Sure Miley Cyrus is very pretty, but why can't our daughters see past the naked wrecking ball idiocy? Why can't they see the desperation? The pathetic bid for attention? Folks would get arrested for that in real life, duh.
The Bible said it best about us not thinking of ourselves more than we should, putting others first, or simply the Golden Rule - do unto others as you'd have them do unto you.
Narcissism is actually a personality disorder - albeit celebrated on social media nowadays, thanks to clueless celebrities that our daughters want to emulate for some unGodly reason.
Narcissistic Personality Disorder is characterized by a long-standing pattern of grandiosity (either in fantasy or actual behavior), an overwhelming need for admiration, and usually a complete lack of empathy toward others. People with this disorder often believe they are of primary importance in everybody’s life or to anyone they meet. While this pattern of behavior may be appropriate for a king in 16th Century England, it is generally considered inappropriate for most ordinary people today.
Has a grandiose sense of self-importance (e.g., exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements)
Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love
Believes that he or she is “special” and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people (or institutions)
Requires excessive admiration
Has a very strong sense of entitlement, e.g., unreasonable expectations of especially favorable treatment or automatic compliance with his or her expectations
Is exploitative of others, e.g., takes advantage of others to achieve his or her own ends
Lacks empathy, e.g., is unwilling to recognize or identify with the feelings and needs of others
Is often envious of others or believes that others are envious of him or her
Regularly shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes
Call me old school, but seriously I believe that the key to happiness is in thinking of others and their needs, being obsessed with my own would be as yawn-inducing boring as H E Double Hockey Sticks.
Besides my 39 kids, or the 26 grandkids, even the needs of my plants or my soil is more fulfilling than me worrying about if others think I dress well or have aged well. I don't and I haven't, but so freaking what? I'm happier than the average bear maybe, too busy dragging in enough groceries to worry about the black (or grey) roots in my hair. Being goofy finally paying off for me, it's made me silly and happy.
Girls, there will always be taller, thinner, prettier, better employed, richer, smarter, and everything else better, but so dadgum what? Celebrate who you are, what you can do and be.
I've read volumes on fulfillment, goal seeking, motivational aspects, and forging forward, overcoming adversarial issues, and every single one of them tell you to help others in order to feel whole. I so agree, even though I melt down and carry on sometimes, but isn't that what makes me human? You know, human nature being what it is and all.
It ain't about me. Even though I whine childishly at times, call me an wah-bulance, treat me for the selfish disorder of my grumbling ways sometimes. I'm human. I get over it though, I stomp it out, or weed it out, moving on, one rickety step in front of my other fat foot. I'll trip up again too. It's just the way it is.
But, I know who I am, and I don't need the world's applause. I need to inject super strong positive character traits embedded into the psyches of my children - a challenge in traumatized kids certainly, but do-able.
There's some catchy song about 'you don't know you're beautiful' that I wish all girls would tattoo on their brains. There's so much beauty in everyone, we need women to recognize this one fact. Sexy, hot, or provocative is insulting, it objectifies a woman, depersonalizes her, we need to teach this to our sons as well so they don't exploit females.
I have 21 sons, all so unique, so very, very different from each other, even within their own sibling groups. Some are so terribly challenged by behavior disorders, diagnosed issues, and intense emotional disabilities, but I see such a core of goodness within each one. It's going to take the rest of my life to get through to some of them, their hard shells, their defensiveness, and their terribly off-putting behaviors that's gonna cost them a great deal in present and future relationships.
I pray that the women who date them will have a sliver of understanding of what my son's must've endured during their traumatized childhoods, that these behaviors carried over into their adoption, and also into their relationships with everyone else.
I have 18 daughters that are fantastically beautiful, every single one of them, yet self-esteem isn't their strong suit due to their past, or even due to the way society inadvertently portrays a false portrait of real life.
It's just the way it is. It's why I wanna live to be 100, it's going to take just about that long to get through some of my children's iron clad emotional defense systems. I've started here with their self-confidence, years later I do see progress, but also the need for much more work that they'll have to do on their own in order to keep moving forward. I'll still supply, no I'll pour in my annoying emotional support as they stumble along - but it is forward momentum, and I hope that encourages y'all too for your own traumatized families.
A good video that I couldn't upload but (hopefully) can be found there, about what the media is doing to us women. No one looks this good, why do we believe it is attainable, and why do we despair when we aren't, nor can't, be like this? I did get it linked properly on Facebook, thanks to the easy peasey 'share' button.
And Marcela, my super lovely Banker daughter, just helped Vince Dooley at her bank branch. Oh my.
How cool is that?
Thursday, December 05, 2013
Dr. Lieff graduated from Yale College with a B.A. in mathematics and from Harvard Medical School with an M.D. He is a practicing neuropsychiatrist and a specialist in the interface of psychiatry, neurology, and medicine.
Impressive credentials with profound thoughts on our health and well-being. Here are 13 small choices that can change our lives. I printed them out, need to keep them in the forefront of my thoughts.
I'd 'liked' this MindBodyGreen page on Facebook because Sarah had initially done so.
Left here at six this morning to get Grandma to the hospital for a renal artery stent. She had major blockage in one artery, 90% shut, resulting in high blood pressure, the top number around 150, down in the 90s after the stent - an immediate positive result.
Sarah'd come over here to be me, waking each kid up because, God knows, they'd never get up on their own. "That's all you kinda hafta do," I'd told Sarah, every kid here old enough to dress themselves and pour cereal in a bowl. Most families wouldn't even need a babysitter for kids who are 11, 12, 13, 15, 16, 16, 17, 17,18 and 19, but we're not most families.
An adult on the premises is always a good idea to prevent fist fights or other mayhem that we rarely see anymore, but why tempt fate?
I'd tried to get Mae and CJ to fall asleep last night after church, up in my room so their parents could attend a work related Christmas Party obligation. Mae crashed, after giggling for 15 minutes, CJ wouldn't even take off his glasses so I sat through Bubble Guppies for 15 loooong minutes, then it was my turn with the remote.
After six hours in a windowless hospital room we returned home, me so glad that Grandma's well, and I joyfully worked outside, sweating because we're in a warm spell. 72 degrees this afternoon.
I'm so very, very far behind after the past decades of my demanding family life inside the house, the gardens always coming in second, it's gonna take me just as long to get them all the way I want 'em to be, but it's such a joy to work outside for me.