Category: Crying

Spare Me Your Toxicity, I’ll Take Insight and Kindness Instead

This is the little story that caught my eye on social media the morning after Thanksgiving.

Thinking of the young woman walking in a dress and high heels on the cold Thanksgiving day; the young man that had the nerve to leave her at the gas station when she was in the bathroom; all of the people who passed her by; and my brother and niece who picked her up and went way out of their way to take her home.

Wow. Hmmm.

Until the heartfelt kindness shown by someone’s brother, it’s safe to assume there was no Thanksgiving spirit going on for that woman in the dress and high heels. No feasting on good food, family togetherness or reasons to feel gratitude, seems more like pain and cruelty. There are a good amount of people who don’t enjoy a Normal Rockwell family portrait no matter how much they want it or how hard they wish for it, or even pretend they have it.

shoesThere’s always one, or maybe a few, sitting or standing next to you who make you stop and wonder. You are just trying to live your life happily, peacefully, you know – the way you are entitled to by the simple fact you are alive. But like the noxious smell of gasoline, there are some who make you feel sick.

You ask yourself if it’s you. You look in the mirror again and again, maybe even for years, you have tried to understand why some people don’t see how they come across – or more like won’t see. Because to them it’s you, it’s always you not them. You are the problem no matter what.

But you know deep down in your heart of hearts that just isn’t the case. You’ve worked hard, learned, evolved, grown, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they will likely keep living from their own little closed-up space that prevents them from valuable soul-inspired insight.

It takes work – insight – it’s hard and uncomfortable, it’s so much easier to blame instead of waking up and really seeing who we are and what we are putting out there into the world. It becomes a right-wrong thing. You were wrong so I left you at the gas station. No you were wrong to leave me there.

A few minutes after I saw that little story, I heard a news report that statistics show more and more young people are having heart attacks and strokes. They didn’t say it was due to one particular thing because there are so many thingspeople…situations… that create stress. These physical repercussions, including illnesses like cancer, are sometimes referred to as “wake up calls” to living better – more healthily, more clean, less stress, less toxic whatever it is.

Wouldn’t it be nice if the wake up call came before our life was threatened? How do we feel better in spite of things or people who make us feel sick, who have no interest in addressing their own poison?

We’ll never really know what happened with the woman in the dress and high heels. But when you really think about it, truthfully it’s our journey and ours alone. Thank goodness for kind strangers who stop to lend a hand along the way.



Where Can I Find A Little Peace And Is There Room For It In The Budget


black-fridayOnly 17 days until Black Friday, the countdown has begun. There were years when my children were growing up that I had all the gifts purchased, wrapped, and hidden long before this enticing annual event. All it took was a trip to Toys “R” Us filling up back of the old Volvo wagon with the items on their lists, done.

Although it didn’t seem easy at the time, I had the time, energy and budget back then. Time only proved, that while the gifts got physically smaller, the price tags got much bigger. The boys got older, technology got newer, and gift-giving got harder.

vintage-christmasBut no matter our circumstances, my children have wanted for nothing really, despite my incessant frugality. To this very day I still prefer scoring the absolute best bargain on anything from clothing to food to holiday gifts. I’m far from extravagant but always provide a suitable stash for my kids.

This year though, we’re in a bit of a bind. We’ve had to shoulder some hefty unexpected expenses for the boys that required our hard-earned holiday stash. It’s no secret that our lives drastically changed after Mr. Ex revealed his gambling addiction, we ended up nearly homeless with empty bank accounts, retirement and college funds. That was 10 years ago, and he is happily recovered.

But unfortunately the boys and I have been unable to recover from his losses, even to this day. What they say about the lasting domino effect of someone’s addiction is completely true. So when things come up, like college tuition or emergency car repairs, we find ourselves hard-pressed. Sadly Mr. Ex says he can’t assist, so unless I find a way, my boys are on their own.

behaviorNot whining, I totally have their backs. Except, as the most wonderful (and most expensive) time of the year approaches, I am worried about how to manage. Like Charles Dickens writes in A Christmas Carol, it’s not about the gifts. But do kids really buy into that? Will they feel happy waking up on Christmas to a tree with no gifts underneath? Sure it’s about feeling the love – of family, of the season, of life. But how will it really feel this year when our small gift budget went to their emergency expenses instead? Let’s be real, they will be disappointed, and I will feel pretty bad.

Mr. Ex says he is at peace. That’s great, we all could use some peace.

Peace is an interesting concept. It’s easy to imagine, it’s highly desirable and naturally sought-after. We hear about it, read about it, sing about it, talk about it, and we’re even told it’s already there inside, so why, for some of us, is it so hard to really feel?

This is what I want to give my children this year – the feeling of peace – which could possibly be the best gift I could ever give them. First though, I have to believe it’s possible. In order to receive we have to believe, right? Just like in the beautiful story The Polar Express, believing is seeing…and feeling.

It is a special season, full of miracles and magic – and if we believe hard enough – even peace. Beginning of course on Black Friday.




A Name Is Worth A Thousand Words, A Friend Is Worth Forever

When the nurse called my name to take me back into surgical waiting for a minor procedure, my heart skipped a beat. “Dorothea” she said, looking directly at me since no one else was in the waiting room. “You mean Deborah?” I said. “Oh yes, Deborah. Sorry I thought it said Dorothea.”

That normally would have meant nothing – mispronouncing my name. But it mattered then, because my friend Dorothea just died — and her wake was that exact evening. Clear out of the blue, boom, dead just a few days earlier. And the nurse called out her name.

angel-starsIf that doesn’t make you believe in angels, or some sort of cosmic Divine, not sure what would. I could tell you about my bathroom light flickering like crazy although the bulb wasn’t burned out just as she was crossing realms and I didn’t know it. Or how I heard her voice talk to me as if she were right there next to me. Maybe she was.

I was sitting at a stop light adjacent to my son’s preschool, where he went 20 years ago, and could hear the wee ones playing on the playground, just like it sounded back then. It was an Indian Summer day, sun shining, the leaves on the tree-lined street turning shades of beautiful autumn. I closed my eyes and let the breeze drift through the car window as I waited, listened, and remembered.

“I’m ok Debbie. I’m ok” she said.

friends-for-reasonThat’s where I met my friend Dorothea – Dottie. We were young moms, similar in age, our boys were in the same preschool class. They became fast friends, and so did we. We spent the next decade as BFFs, just like our kids, and even our husbands.

When I opened my Facebook last week to quickly check messages there was the post by her son, only minutes old at the top of my feed. I burst into tears. It was visceral, I didn’t even know where it came from. I fell out of touch with her a few years ago, not by choice, sometimes life just gets so crazy. She was now divorced, I was now remarried, our boys are all grown up.

But I was excited to see her again – when we recently moved back home we were going to reconnect. Not anymore, I didn’t get the chance to say hello…or goodbye. This circle of life thing is something. But it is what it is. And life is life, in all of it’s joy, sorrow and baffling unpredictability.

true-friendsI wasn’t sure what to do with it. I have never experienced the death of a friend. Loss of friends, sure, but as cliche as this sounds, with life there is hope. Although I hate cliches, especially when there is some kind of tragedy. Like there is nothing but the present moment. We all know this, intellectually we all know tomorrow is only a promise (another one,) but let’s be honest. Who really lives like that?

They’re not really sure what happened, and I will never know. I just knew my old friend who had a big smile and an infectious laugh. Someone who loved her son more than life itself. Someone who was there with me for a lot of years, in all of our unrefined glory.

Anyway, peace to you dear friend. And as they say, life goes on.




Pleasant Days Are Ahead In Spite Of What We’ve Lived


lets be fairiesI’m ready to write about sunny days – this summer we had so many. But when it rains it rains hard. As I drove my youngest to school yesterday in the remnant downpours of the weekend’s hurricane, he sobbed. It’s not comfortable to watch your young-adult teenager cry like a baby. Nor is it the same as when he was a baby because consoling him doesn’t work as well. Or in my case, at all. No matter what I have done (or not done because sometimes we need to back off from our teens,) he has been resistant to our recent move, starting a new school as a junior, and our supporting him through this transition. I get it, I really do.

fineHe’s gone through way too much for his tender young age. It’s heartbreaking on every level. I haven’t done so well myself – sometimes it’s impossible to wrap my brain around our former years of trauma, even as an adult. And my body still reminds me via physical pain every single day.

So I dropped him off then drove home shedding my own tears. This isn’t something I can just “fix,” which is awfully hard. When we can’t fix our child’s upset, what can we do?

hilltopI reached out to his guidance counselors, we are fortunate he actually has two. Both are skilled veterans who know their game, my son is quite lucky to have this built-in support. Because as I tried to cope with his upset, I struggled with nowhere to turn. I can’t go to the guidance office…or keep moaning in my blog…or to friends. After all, I’m grown up, I have to deal with it. I knew that going into this role.

So I scroll through social media, hoping for relief, and instead see all the parents who posted their smiling kids happy on the first day of school. That’s hard – I don’t have that picture to share. I spent most of the day watching the rain out the window, feeling quite a bit of despair.

this too shall pass

But somewhere between dropping him off and afternoon pick up, a miracle must have occurred. He was like a different kid. Oh sure he said school was terrible, but then proceeded to tell me ok things about his day. He wasn’t shut down or miserable, he talked the whole way home. This may be the first time he’s done this in months, or possibly even years.

I noticed the sun had just come out, it was shining through rain clouds. What a difference a day makes, or even a few hours. It’s amazing when there’s a ray of light. He did it…I can too.


Is It Possible To Control Our Time Online When Life Is All Online?

It wasn’t the incoming rainstorm, or too much coffee, or a blood sugar low that made me sit at my computer and shake. I’m beginning to see a pattern now when I start to jitter. It comes on daily after I spend way too much time doing what we un-fondly refer to as “administration.”

wits endIt’s getting out of control. Incorrect billing issues, website technicalities, errors, glitches, wrong numbers, emails, documentation, scores of forms for whatever we need, Hippa this, privacy that, layers of security blips, spam, address corrections, changes, updates, by the time I come up for air, I’m fairly short of breath, not to mention half the day is shot.

documenting lifeBesides all the endless online time, there are just way too many “jobs” to take care of our basic needs. So I’m calling a moratorium. I simply can’t keep up. And I have some serious streamlining to do – well beyond the concepts of balance and simplicity – goals for which I continually strive.

There has to be a way to get it all done without it taking so long. But how? I’m ridiculously organized, process fast, am also efficient and quite thorough. The issue can’t all be me.

out to liveI started thinking about people I know who seem to “do it all.” You know who they are – successful at their jobs, look amazing, seem happy and healthy and fit – even if they have aches and pains. They’re graceful and kind and funny and fun whenever you connect. What is their secret? Because they must have administration too.

Do they end up at their wits end after hours on the phone with technical support, or billing issues, or redoing online forms that freeze and don’t submit? Do they delegate these tasks or just let them go regardless of any requirements for completion, compensation, registration or activation? There is so much administration required now to simply manage our lives.

unplugThe only answer I came up with after shedding a tear and some deep breathing, was to try to live more and technology less. Less texting, less emailing, less social media scrolling – just pay the bill and get off the device. Fill out the form and step away. Post the blog and go. It’s not that I don’t want to be social, I just need to lessen screen time.

I wonder if that’s even possible. Administration will always be there and it’s easy to get distracted by so much at our fingertips. But it’s more than a reconstruction of time, it’s also a mental shift. Less dwelling, less worrying, less ruminating – just striving for peace of mind. gritting teeth emojiRelax, read, get fresh air…breathe and of course also eat. Maybe then I’ll stop gritting my teeth when I sit down to administer my life.

offlineSo we’ll see how it goes to live more and tech less. I’m not the type to ignore emails or texts, mail or my friends, not to mention what news might I miss?

As good as it sounds to dial it all down – that may itself take time. winky face


turn off




Home Is Where The Cat Is

This post almost didn’t happen. As I was in the thick of a personal emergency I kept thinking, what will I write in my blog tomorrow?

Sorry, no post today… We had an emergency… Be back soon. If I can function. 

The day started out busy, we sent the teenager on the early train to his friend’s for a long weekend out of state, a locksmith came first thing to change the locks, a painter was on his way to give us an estimate, along with carpet cleaners who were going to remove the film of filth our movers left on it last week.

The new house to-do list is quite long. I am stretching it out, but getting the the upstairs carpets cleaned was a priority – mostly because it’s not our carpet – we rent.

After the arduous task of moving all of the furniture and closet items I possibly could to expose the carpet – the carpet cleaner arrived, giant hoses in hand trailing miles behind him, down two flights of stairs to his running truck outside.

IMG_1517So far this all seems benign. And in the great scheme of things maybe it is. But it also isn’t. Because for a few long hours in the midst of everything I thought my little cat escaped our new home and ran into the big world – gone forever. It nearly killed me.

There are certain beings in our lives who are part of our family as if they are human, who we hold in our hearts and feel profound love. My cats are those beings to me.

Some would say, ridiculous, it’s only a cat, get over it. But that person may not have experienced the unconditional love of a pet. Ever heard the phrase, pets are people too?

I’m not a novice when it comes to protecting my indoor cats from escaping when workmen enter the house. I’m a mama bear – firmly telling them that we have two cats that cannot under any circumstances go outside. I fiercely protect my fur babies because I love and adore them. Maybe unreasonably so. Yes, I’m pretty sure I’m a cat lady.

cat copyBut when we saw her blur of fur race by at lightening speed so fast that we didn’t even see where she went, I panicked. The doors were open because of the big carpet-cleaning hoses. Her unplanned escape was inevitable, while the other cat hid under the bed.

My reaction to her disappearance began as a quiet panic, that quickly escalated into an uncontrollable sobbing – blubbering – whimpering – short of breath kind of crying where you can only get squeak sounds out in between the gasps for air. Not to mention she was stuck under the furnace last week when the movers were here and we thought we lost her then too.

IMG_0809I have had so much heavy, continual trauma in my life and especially over the last few years and even throughout our entire recent move that I just could not emotionally tolerate losing the kitty that snuggles with me night and day, rarely leaves my side, and next to my husband is my mainstay of support. She’s like my secret bestie, my shadow, my sidekick. We are truly bonded.

I’ll spare the conversation about cosmic connection – like maybe my cat is holding the reincarnated soul of someone close to me from lifetimes past – who knows. But I know that we can become quite attached to our pets, and vice versa.

This is about reaction to loss. Everyone responds differently, and I’m not sure there is a way to predict how we will react in any given situation. There are way too many factors – from who or what, how, when, where, why – what our circumstances are or were, what we can or can’t withstand, so many variables contribute to our reactions. Our reaction to loss is organic, it comes from deep inside having a life or span or cycle of its own that we must not only allow, but also honor.

IMG_2251 copyThe carpet cleaner guy and I turned the house upside down looking for her. We lay on the wet carpets to see every low-lying crevice, nook and cranny. We combed the bushes outside, crawled through the mulch to look under porches, searched every nearby open garage. I called the microchip company who activated her search. Animal control was on their way because they can scan a two-mile radius with the microchip technology.

Three hours of deeply intense upset later, I saw my cat’s little head pop up from behind the toaster in the corner of the kitchen. It’s such a tiny space, invisible to the naked eye, I would have never dreamed to look there. That started a whole different kind of crying. Reaction to relief.

We’ll save that post for another day. I’m off to pet my cat.

141203.kitties1a copy

From the Pen of The Fairy: A Mea Culpa

It’s rare that a person not only values your friendship, but totally honors your history and perceptions when you assume something about her that isn’t at all true. And so much so, that in spite of the hurt she is feeling from your assumption, she shows up at your door to sort it out with a meaningful two-way dialogue that lasts for over an hour.

They say that you will know when someone is real or authentic, and that may be the case. But when your own sordid past clouds that reality, it’s human to make a mistake. Like I did when I thought our friendship was based on my success or failure in a business venture. It wasn’t. And shame on me for thinking that.

I didn’t really think that, but I let that dark place inside – the one that has suffered over and over from the loss of people I trusted – take over. And what I wrote in yesterday’s blog was my own misinterpretation.

Through the years people close to me have wandered away because they could not handle the crap that went on in my life. And when I thought that was happening again, my history rose up to the surface and chirped in my ear that I was not worthy of maintaining her friendship because I was a pain in the ass.

I could not have been more wrong. But it has happened so many times in my past, I didn’t trust that she was different. She is.

Beyond understanding and compassion, I get that drama and chaos is exhausting and tough for people to endure. But when you put your faith in relationships with people you trust that end up going south from too much one-sided tragedy – and they tell you that – it leaves some pretty deep wounds.

My friend understood that.

That’s not to say I didn’t deeply wound her from my belief that she was like the others. I did. And she let me know with a knock on my door, tears, and that imaginary stabbing your heart action. Only I was the one holding the metaphoric knife.  <OUCH>  I hate that. I have been stabbed enough in my life to recognize it.

But even in her own woundedness brought on by me, she honored my sad history, comforting me empathetically that she could never, or would never want to, walk in my shoes. She reminded me that everyone has stuff in their life and when people turn away it’s because they are uncomfortable with their own stuff and don’t want to see it in themselves.

She is not one of those people. Kindred spirits in facing pain and conflict with resolution or closure, she wondered why I didn’t reach out to her directly and ask her what was going on.

She was right. That would normally be my first step of action, but I’m worn down, just worn down. When we moved here under advisement from clinicians and police a few years ago to get away from a dangerously hostile person who put us at risk, we have not had the opportunity to heal as we had hoped since that person is still at it from afar. But I should not have let my exhaustion override the reality that my friend here is a rare gem.

And for that I’m sorry – for both her and for me. This is my public apology although we’ve already hugged and made up. Thank you for understanding, and for helping me change my life.

angel friends


The Past Just Sometimes Hangs On

For a week we watched hearty men bundled up in winter work clothes take snow off of our neighbor’s roof and put a new roof on. Who does that in the winter, and amidst a few snow squalls.

The worst things seem to happen at the worst times, even when you know they’re coming. That roof has been disintegrating for two years. Every day more shingles fell off, exposing the 20-year-old worn structure underneath. If that were my roof I would be worried sick, and try to fix it fast.

It’s not a mystery that people hold on to things until the last dying gasp. Sometimes it’s a tattered, old shirt, sometimes it’s an unhealthy relationship, sometimes even a roof. It’s for reasons beyond the known, that we tend to hang on to the death – letting go can be quite hard.

But what about when what we’re hanging onto isn’t tangible, and we can’t just throw it away. What if it’s microcosms of invisible history that’s settled in our cells, altering our chemistry and even DNA. We don’t really want to hang onto them, but short of not being alive, these imprints are always there.

Sir Husband and I were in a favorite lunch spot, where Euro-style bakery meets New England cafe. Happy as a clam, I was enjoying a lovely lobster sandwich on this rare opportunity outing for the two of us. We had just dropped off my boy with his father, so we were celebrating the beginning of an empty-nest few days.

Then I received a text from my child, telling me that his dad had just unrolled a thousand dollars cash at a store where they were shopping. Without words I held the phone up to show Sir Husband the text. Sure, it was the dollar sign that took me back, Mr. Ex secretly gambled the children’s and my former lives away and broke more than just our bank. Being on the receiving end of someone else’s torment doesn’t always leave us, no matter how hard we try to let go.

I excused myself from the table and went to the ladies room. A BeeGees song was piping in, one I didn’t recall but knew. The Bee Gees are a Mr. Ex favorite, it was if the music was cued. I tried to stop the rush of my cells just popping alive. Can I really help this upset I wondered, in spite of his refusal to pay us back, I have moved on. But the rush of painful happenings just sprung right back to life, triggered and unresolved. Time, health and money are mysterious things, and when they’re taken it’s hard to forget.

I looked in the mirror and watched the tears stream down my face. I don’t want to live with this imprint anymore but it’s part of who I am. We can’t just erase our life in the face of who we are because of it – or the people who helped form it.

So I pulled myself together and got on with my day. Some stuff simply hangs on and maybe can’t be fixed at this exact moment in time. When the shingles fall, sometimes there’s nothing we can do except notice, and trust that we are just fine.

cat roof

The Painful Lesson of A Broken Toe

Just when you think you have mastered the tricky balance of a broken toe – which by the way seems insignificant and you wonder why you are struggling so – you crack. Not just the psyche but the even the damn toe again.

What on earth caused me to wake up after the midnight hour with such debilitating pain I felt like a boulder had just smashed my foot? It certainly was not the light of the full moon glowing behind the sheer curtains and shades that cover our big bedroom windows.

I actually love moonlight. I just wasn’t planning on soaking it up as I quietly whimpered and wept in the wee hours from the pain. I actually did re-break my toe in both places, from simply moving around in my sleep. I didn’t know that our toes are fairly mobilized by our calf muscles, and when we flex them it pulls on the old metatarsals.

I’m perplexed why toes seem discarded when it comes to fixing them. My doctor was less than helpful, “There’s nothing you can do,” she said. So Sir Husband and I spent days after the unfortunate incident trying to find a way to splint the fourth toe on my right foot, which became maddening as we exhausted my options. A walking boot – didn’t help. Special tape – not so special. Buddy taping – made it worse. Ice, ibuprofen, valium, elevation, rest, wine. Nothing.

It’s now worse than ever and I’m getting worse for the wear. Typically a tough cookie, I’m feeling broken to the bone. A tiny toe…such big pain…I don’t get it.  What do you do with that when there is nothing you can do. No options? No choices? Now what. Please not a cast, I’m claustrophobic.

Even the simplest of functions, the ones I took for granted, are now hard. And I feel like such a wimp to boot.

“It’s tough to keep plugging away when life should be a damn bit easier,” a good friend texted when I told her my plight. She hit the nail on the head.

All I do is plug away but I think we’re supposed to plug in, to both our bodies and our lives. Ancient teachings of both East and of West talk about the body being a temple of sorts, one that is to be revered and respected, cherished and honored. I thought I did that, and I do, but maybe not enough. We’re a culture so focused on beauty and simultaneously on excess, so the message gets lost in the mix. Be sure you do all you can to be thin, but supersize everything else. I don’t do either, moderation is key, but it’s easy to get carried away.

Since the body houses the soul they say, which itself is a wondrous being, we need to honor ourselves as the vessel for which its contained. That’s a pretty big deal, housing our soul – a piece of the Divine – we are not separate from the Source.

So why do I keep plugging away, pushing and pulling in a tug of war with my body, its pain sending loud and clear messages. Slow down. Pay attention. Notice the stuff that I do for you – I keep you alive for crying out loud, did you forget about that by chance?  I’m actually a miracle.

Well now, that’s pretty significant and soothing. But so was the text from my friend. Sometimes all we need is a shoulder to lean on, and a soul prompt feels pretty good too.

toe walk

Dear Diary, Lost My Jolly Today

Ever write in a diary when you were little? You know the kind that had a pretty princess on the front, with a little lock and the tiniest little key that bent when you tried to lock it? I had one but never trusted it was safe from anyone’s eyes, and when the key bent with the lock locked, I quit. Not sure where it went. Probably in the trash.

Then in adolescence I tried journaling, but it seemed so laborious. Little irony here, I’m a blogger now…and all grown up. While I write from the heart in my posts, I choose my words carefully, pay attention to grammar, always think about the readers, and the message I want to share.

But some days I just want to write in a diary – a faceless, blank piece of paper that is both ready and willing to take on words and absorb feelings. So I googled “how to write in a diary,” and find it pretty funny that I needed directions on that. Here’s what I got:

When you’re writing in your diary it’s important to just write whatever you feel like, without worrying about who might be reading. Simply writing 100% honestly about your feelings or your ideas can help you work through them. This diary is for you. It is to help you remember.

Helping to remember is key, especially when the memory bank is sketchy. Too bad I didn’t try it sooner.

Here’s another one:

Diaries are great ways to keep track of your past and think about your future. Diaries have also been shown to help regulate mood and emotions. Keep your entries honest, detailed, and authentically you.

Honest, detailed, and authentically me? Check. But here’s the validation:

Writing your diary daily can get repetitive and discouraging. However, fret not for a diary provides a record of your life, in only your view. It is the safest form of communication as there are no limitations. 

Ok then. Here goes.

Dear Diary,

There are times that I don’t hear from my busy college boy. But it seemed odd that the last few of days he wasn’t returning my texts at all, which sparked some upset and worry. So I sent him a text sharing my concern about his silence, and then I found out why. 

It’s official. Apple won’t give him time off to come home for Christmas, they told him that it’s impossible and he can’t even swap his shifts. As I read his text I started to cry. It was a long one – his text that is – and he was crying too. He said he had a stern talk with his manager who told him sorry, but he has 3 days off the week after Christmas, so that would have to do. But Diary, he lives 9 hours away. 

My mind raced for hours before it wore itself out, darting from one thought to another, along with plenty of tears.

My boy won’t be home at Christmas, or anytime really since he has to pay his way through college because a while back his father gambled away his college money and won’t help with tuition now… We had to move away from where my boy still lives because of Scary Mrs. Ex and her big fat bag of unleashed crazy… How does Sir Husband cope with not seeing his own kids due to her parental alienation… How do people who have kids in the military get through the holiday season… What about all the lonely people in the world…   What about his brothers, they will be so sad…  Christmas is off.

You know what else dear Diary? I don’t expect anyone to understand, unless they’ve been through it, and I don’t expect many to care. I am not looking for sympathy, just for a break – where everything works out for once. 

I don’t need any “be grateful” dribble. Honestly that isn’t the point. All I am is grateful, every single day. So I can be hurt every now and again, I just have to work my way through it, like I’ve had to do my whole life. My son won’t be home for Christmas and we’re all very sad. 

Love, Me

I’d sure love to see what I wrote in that little princess diary of mine. I wonder what it said, or if its imagined future was like reality is now. Because little girls dream and hope and believe, wonder and dance and sparkle.

Hmmm. It’s never too late as they say.

Dear Diary…




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