After the panic attack made my hands go numb I gave up trying to ignore it. I said, "Okay, fine. Let's boogie. Let's do this. Let's rumble, asshole! Do you seriously think you can kill somebody like me? Because I have several lifetimes behind me and before me that say otherwise! BRING IT ON."
And the feeling returned to my hands and I cried a few victorious tears and then I blogged about it.
Because that's how it's done in the twenty-first century.
"I have learned silence from the talkative, tolerance from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind. I should not be ungrateful to these teachers." - Kahlil Gibran
Apparently, part of the process of reclaiming one's life from a traumatic experience involves recalling anything positive you might have taken away from it. When I was given this advice, I remember thinking "What the....??!! The only thing I've gotten is a wasted decade and the desire to purchase a flame thrower!"
But then I got to thinking about the deeper meaning. Here's the thing: You can dwell all you want to on the bad things that somebody did to you yesterday, last week, last century....have you managed to turn the clock back yet? Or have you just managed to pick up where your abuser left off? I say, enough already!
Instead, why not be grateful for discovering how strong you can be? You have more compassion for others because you know what it feels like to be hurt. You are more open-minded because you have seen first-hand the stupidity of the closed mind. You have run the gauntlet of absurdity, sense of humor intact. So be grateful to the universe that these damaged people came into your life and turned you into a survivor....with a really good Bull$**t detector!
You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I live in the lap of luxury. We refined people of taste and breeding know better than to brag, but for my vast crowd of admirers I am willing to bend the rules.
Yes, I have an interior designer, and let me tell you, darling, he is priceless! His creativity is sheer genius. Of course, he has been given artistic carte blanche. What else could one do?
Who knew that Captain America stickers would look so fantastic on the recliner, the kitchen wall, the carpet, and the dog? Or that the end table in the living room becomes a handy TV-viewing nook when flipped on its side? A few scribbles with a ballpoint pen add a personal touch to the computer monitor screensaver. Couch cushions can become NASA ejection pods or a bridge across shark-infested waters.
There is a trampoline in my bedroom. Apparently it's been there the whole time. Again, who knew?
An entire roll of Scotch tape is just what my bedroom door needed. No refrigerator is complete unless one has attached a fully-functional mini basketball net. Paper towels and toilet paper make great rugs. This is cutting-edge stuff.
There is an intriguing sculpture underneath my oven. I call it "Still Life with Froot Loops and Yellow Truck".
I dedicate this post to my brilliant grandson, the best designer I know. I love him and love seeing the world through his eyes. Don't ask to borrow him, ladies...he's mine!
This post would probably piss off a great many of my in-laws if they ever saw it, but I just had to share a link to a certain book because you simply must read it! Ms. Abrahams' book is outrageous, funny, sad....and true. Recommended reading if you're curious about life inside a cult.
Check this out on AMAZON: I'm Perfect, You're Doomed: Tales from a Jehovah's Witness Upbringing,
by Kyria Abrahams
www.amazon.com/dp/1416556869/ref=cm_sw_r_an_am_ap_am_us?ie=UTF8
A dear friend of mine recently lost her mother to a long illness and we all rushed to comfort her and offer our support. As I watched the list of loving comments on her Facebook page expand past the double digits, I was struck by the level of compassion being shown by us "hellbound heathens".
I remember one fellow cult member's harrowing ordeal. This young man, I'll call him T.S., was a sensitive and intelligent fellow with a good sense of humor. I think if I'd known him "out here" we would have been pals. Poor T.S. was at his parents' house one night when his father succumbed to a heart attack. It was one of those tragic and all too common situations where Dad tells himself all night long that it's indigestion until he's suddenly on the floor. Mom is justifiably freaking out so T.S. takes charge and dials up the ambulance (this was the pre-digital age), but it arrives too late to save his father.
Did the cult comfort him? Oh, they "comforted" the s##t out of him. While his father is at the undertaker's, poor T.S. is on the "hot seat" surrounded by people telling him that :
#1- He is a bad son,
#2- Dear Old Dad is burning in hell for all eternity, which is T.S.'s fault, and
#3- He messed up completely by not calling the ambulance sooner, so his father's death? Yes, you guessed it...also T.S.'s fault.
"How cruel", you say? Just S.O.P. for them.
T.S., wherever you are, I hope you made it out of there and discovered for yourself, as have I, that what the cult insisted was a horrible, evil, Satanic world is actually a place full of incredible beauty with millions of kind, forgiving people just waiting to meet you!
Many, many thanks to my family and friends, "heathens" all, according to cult standards. You have taught me the true meaning of love.
