Value of Life

The absolute bottom line, as it pertains to the violence we see in society today, is the lack or loss of the value of human life.  

This was the gist of a comment I made in a post pertaining to the violence/killings this past week in Louisiana, Minnesota, and Texas.  I have tried my best to limit my comments on such posts because it opens up a messy can of worms if one agrees with "Black Lives Matter" or "Cop lives Matters"; it seems one cannot agree with both sides of the equation; one must chose one side or the other.  And there lies the problem with society; we are always having to pick sides.  If you are standing up for black lives, then you are assumed to be anti-cop.  If you are standing up for police, you are seen as anti-black.  Let me put this as politely as I can. That, my friends, is complete bullshit.  But, I'll get back to that later.

The bigger issue, as I see it, is the value of life or the lack there of.  When was it, in our society, that we stopped valuing human life? That question isn't hard to answer; we never have valued the lives of others of different cultures, heritage, or race.  From the time this country was stolen from those whom resided here for hundreds of years before us, fair-skinned European individuals ranked higher in life value than those of other race, culture, or heritage.  Throughout the history of our society,  those of European decent, the Anglo Saxon majority, have hunted, slaughtered, bought and sold, and abused those with less life value than their own.  This is not a debatable fact; history has documented these events in an almost glorious light as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with what they have done.

We, as a society, continue to write and re-write the past in our present and future.  We hide behind political correctness as if it is a shield from the truth.  We glorify the firsts such as, "first African American President; first African American coach to win a Super Bowl; bla bla bla.  We glorify these "firsts" as a showcase of our progression but, in reality, we have not progressed at all as a society.  These are mere tokens; facades that hide the ugly truth.  Like putting a fresh coat of paint on an outhouse and believing it is a royal suite bathroom.  It's still a smelly outhouse that will splinter your ass if you don't sit just right.

Why is it that we need social policies such as political correctness and affirmative action?  Why is it that we continue to have check boxes that label individuals based upon race?  Why is it that we continue to glorify all the "firsts"?  The brutal and blunt fact is, is because our social norms are still based upon the cultural beliefs of the "white" majority; the Anglo Saxon dominance still rules our society.  These social policies are an insult; the equivalent to giving a small piece of stale bread to a starving individual who stands outside the expensive restaurant looking in on all those whom are privileged enough to sit and have a meal.  That is not equality; that is a handout by somebody who believes he/she is better than that starving person looking in from the outside.  Let that soak in for a minute; "looking in from the outside".  

I was exposed to the brutal truth of racism and inequality at the age of ten by an aging teacher whom told me, "good little white girls don't sit with the colored kids".  That was a defining moment in my life and I have never forgotten how it made me feel.  I understood immediately that I would be labeled a "bad little girl" if I sat or played with kids with a different skin color than myself.  I did not conform and refused to take on the labels I was given throughout my school years.

Which takes me back to my original thought; the value of life.  There is a credible, factual, and undeniable need to emphasize that Black lives matter.  Yes, all lives matter but, if you understand the history of our society, white lives have always matter more.  To rebuke the "Black Lives Matter" campaign with the "All Lives Matter" slogan, you are, once again, giving a scrap of stale bread to the starving individuals looking in from the outside.  If this society is to ever survive (honestly I am not sure we will) we must see the value of human life as humanity as a whole and not based upon the value as it compares to the white majority.  All humans are 99.5% alike as it pertains to DNA.  Socially, the variance is considerably more.  How is it that .5% makes such a difference between humans?   It doesn't and it shouldn't.

It isn't a coincidence that young, black males are the target of unjustified violence by police; we, as a society, painted this picture for as long as we have been a society.  We have maintained and nurtured the belief that their lives are of less value than the white majority.  Just as all American Indians were profiled as savages and systematically executed in astonishing numbers, young Black men are profiled as "thugs" and receive the blanket label as deviant.  Social assumptions are powerful; not only for those on the inside looking out, but also for those on the outside looking in.  It is impossible for the insiders to understand how it feels to be an outsider.  The insiders say, "I'm a good person because I give you bread to eat" but the outsiders deserve more than bread; they deserve the whole meal.  But more importantly, they deserve to eat the whole meal along with those inside.  It is not enough to give them a meal; you must be willing to share the space.  And this is where society has lost the value of life.  The belief that it is enough to hand out scraps but not willing to share the space and the full meal.  Generation after generation resentment festers.  The insiders don't understand why there is still so much resentment because they continue to handout the scraps.  The divide widens and that .5% difference might as well be 95%.

People are good and people are bad in all facets of life.  To blame the whole for the actions of a few is ignorant.  I support the maintenance of  the law but will always hold those accountable for their actions.  I will always be a voice and advocate for Black lives and all minorities whom still stand on the outside looking in.  If you do not believe this is the truth about our society, I suggest you be careful on your perch because at some point in life, you will have to come down from it.

I love you all!

Oh Baby, Baby!

Since my last entry, a great deal has happened in our country and I am sure most bloggers/writers put in their two-cents-worth on each of those topics.  I, on the other hand, reserve my blog writings to be completely personal so that I can appease my narcissistic side.  So, there will be no talk of gorillas, Orlando, or alligators.  I take that back; there is one thing I will say:  Shit happens; bad shit, to good, decent people and none of us are immune to it.  Resolution to issues will never come about by submitting inappropriate comments from arm-chair-quarterbacks sitting behind a computer screen whom believe they are perfection wrapped in a pretty bow.  Wake up people; our country has gone to hell and all the Twitter and Facebook posts in the world will not change that.

So, back to the more important subject; me.  As of today, the most prevalent topic on my mind is my very pregnant daughter whom is about to give birth to my fourth grandchild.  

   I had been with her for a week, expecting it to happen at any given moment, but this child is holding out; content to stay nice and snug where he or she is.  My daughter and her husband decided to let this baby be a surprise.  They did not find out the gender as they want that "television moment" where the doctor announces "it's a boy" or "it's a girl".  I have to agree; it is quite exciting to finally get to meet this child with all the months of not knowing who it is we will be meeting.  My daughter and husband have names picked out but are not sharing those with us until the arrival.  This only makes me nervous for the fact that I hope it is a name that doesn't take time to get used to.  "Meet your granddaughter, 'Flower Pedal'" or "Meet your grandson Armadillo Blake".  I would have to fake a smile and quickly come up with a nic-name suitable for the child.  I have faith they wouldn't give their child a names like that, but in the age of "North West", you never know.

My first ex-husband is in town for Father's Day.  I have not throat punched, cussed (to his face anyways) or shown my ass...yet.  

 After several years of complete silence, I was finally able to re-connect with one of my most favorite people in the world.  My persistence paid off and we have picked up right where we left off. This is somebody I truly care about and love and over the past few years, I have felt like something was missing.  I feel like that something is no longer missing.  It is very nice to have that person whom will listen to my rants, without judgement, and then return a comment that makes me laugh out loud.  We all need "that somebody" and I am so very happy to have my somebody back.

Short and sweet this blog; daughter is calling and needing her mother.  I'm getting her up walking or, at least, putting her on the trampoline and seeing if gravity will work.

Love to all

Pig Roast, Hospitals, and Murphy's Law

You know what they say about the best-laid plans...

For four months my brother and I had been planning a big birthday celebration for my father.  One month in I realized my brother thought this would be my fathers' 90th birthday when, in fact, it would be his 89th.  Right off the bat, Murphy and his stupid law came into play.  We should have aborted the whole deal right then but we decided to move forward with our plans.

I put in for a vacation day the day before the party.  The pig had been ordered and supplies were purchased.  I got off work Thursday at 8:30 pm, got home, and at 10:30 pm dad needed to go to the ER.  Spent the next four hours hoping to get the situation sorted (and they thought they had) got home, slept for two hours, got up, and headed to finish the shopping.  Two carts of supplies later, I emerge from the battle field of Walmart to the hardest rain I have ever seen.  I waited for 15 minutes because, in theory, there is no way it can keep raining that hard for that long.  Wrong!  It was not letting up...so off I ran, pulling two carts and getting soaked.  Groceries in trunk, I return the cart to its proper place (because I, for the life of me, cannot leave it lingering in the parking lot) I jump in my car, and yes, the rain eased up.  F'you Murphy...you sick SOB.  As I pull into the driveway, I kid you not, it begins another torrential downpour and will not let up.  Soaked again.

I unload all the groceries and start cooking...baked beans, mac'n'cheese, and marinated vegetables.  I have to go back to town two or three more times, between cleaning and cooking, before I get settled in for the night.  I finally get to a place where I can relax for a bit and dad realizes he has another problem.  This is something we can monitor for a bit so at 11 pm I tell him to wake me if the problem persists.  At 3 am (just 2 hours after I fell asleep) the problem persists, so off we go, back to the ER (the same ER as the night before...1st mistake).  They (the doctors) resolve the issue (or so they thought) and four hours later we are on the way home.  My brother is less than an hour away with the pig, so there would be no sleep for me.  I hate you Murphy.

My brother arrives with the pig...they get the grill fired up and the pig goes on the grill.  (PETA will love this picture)

This little piggy went to market

Everything goes well for the next 5 or 6 hours and then the problem we thought was resolved, wasn't resolved at all.  I finally put in a call to my fathers' urologist and explain the issue and he insists that I bring him to the hospital he is with, 30 miles away.  So at 3 pm, as guests begin to arrive, the guest of honor and myself take off to yet another ER for the third time in as many days.  I did manage to get a bite of charred pig ear, (which was tasty by the way), as we headed down the not so yellow brick road.  Murphy, I would stomp your ass if I knew who you were and could find you...or a distant relative of yours...jerk.

Seven hours later he was finally admitted and in his room. I tucked him in, wished him a happy birthday, (in a rather sarcastic tone), and drove myself home to a smoldering pig carcass and a dirty house.  If there was ever a time I wished I could drink alcohol, that was it.  I stared at a bottle of whiskey like it was a naked George Clooney but then decided it wasn't worth the hang-over.  I went into my room, shut the door, and collapsed into bed, too exhausted to sleep.  I flipped through the channels to find something to help me fall asleep and came upon "Sex sent me to the ER" and literally laughed so hard I peed myself.  It was as though Murphy was laying right beside me saying, "I created this law just for this very day".  I punched the pillow beside me and swore, if I ever meet anybody with the name "Murphy" I would punch him in the throat.

That was a week ago, almost to the minute as I type this.  I have spent the last seven days spending the entire day with dad at the hospital and then coming home to make sure mom wasn't trying to do anything she shouldn't be doing.  I have eaten Subway every day (except today) and haven't lost a single pound.  I call bullshit on the whole eating subway to lose weight diet.  But I guess that diet didn't include the three chocolate chip cookies I had along with the sandwiches.

The original issue in which dad was admitted for was resolved after two days but then a new issue came to light and that has not been as easy to fix.  Every day the doctor says, "one more day".  The first few days I was pleasant and patient but now I'm like the worst case scenario of the patient family member that nurses dread most.  I have too much medical knowledge, hospital administrative knowledge, and a nose for bullshit.  By day four I was throwing out clues that I'm no dummy and I want information.  Don't just tell me his sodium is low; I want the numbers.  Don't just tell me you are trying to resolve the issue; I want details of how you plan to do this and what medications you plan to use, how often, and why you think that is a good plan of action.  If I call and ask how my father is doing, don't try to pacify me by saying "not much has changed"; I want to know the lab results from the most recent blood work.  I am my fathers voice; literally, because he is experiencing hospital psychosis and is not completely oriented and can't really speak for himself.

So yes, the best laid plans...bla bla bla...that's life.  Not everything can always go as planned.  Bumps in a road that is also curvy, twisting, covered in snow with a bridge out...but we still find a way through.  I made this commitment to my parents three years ago; to be here for them no matter what.  It doesn't feel like a chore or something inconvenient I have to do.  It feels like the natural and right thing to do.  Nobody should worry about how they are going to get along when they get too old to do everything for themselves. I am not their babysitter.  I am a care-taker/safety net.  I am here when they need me and that gives them the peace of mind they need to enjoy their golden years.  Life is what it is; it's all about making navigation changes to maneuver around the obstacles.  

I still hate you Murphy.

Life as a Single Woman in her 50's

"Are you single or have a significant other?" I say "yes" to both.  They ask, "How can you be single and have a significant other?"  Well let me tell you, but first, a little back-story.

I have been married and divorced three times.  As hindsight goes, those failed marriages were as much my fault as theirs.  I had one long-term relationship since my last divorce and would still be with him if the geography were different.  We had a wonderful relationship but there is too many miles between Michigan and Kentucky; his kids are there and my kids are here and one cannot be in two places at the same time.  In the end, my responsibility and heart-strings pulled me back to Kentucky and that was that.

Since that split, three years ago, I have not dated; not even once.  I haven't even played with the idea of getting into another relationship.  But that does not mean I do not have a significant other.  In fact, I have many significant others.

I have my parents, whom I live with and care for in their golden age.  I have my three wonderful, beautiful, and sometimes demanding grown children.  I have my amazing, loves-of-my-life grand children whom fill my heart with so much love that I sometimes cry because the love is so strong.  I have my brothers; one older, one younger; both very close to me.  I have many nieces and nephews and great-nieces and great-nephews.  I have my friends, co-workers, and many, many acquaintances that make every day memorable.  These are my significant others and honestly, my life is amazingly full.

However, some people ask me, "What is it like to be single in your 50's?".   It is liberating, freeing, and pretty damn awesome 99.999% of the time.  Honestly, the longer I am single, the less I think about being in a relationship.  I joke around about wanting to date but when it comes down to it, I can't even imagine starting over again. The investment alone is daunting not to mention all the other responsibilities that come with having a "boyfriend".

These are a few of the questions people ask me about being single.

Don't you miss having somebody to sleep with at night?

No! I rather enjoy having the bed all to myself, hogging the covers, and watching what I want to watch whenever I want to watch it. I do not miss the snoring, farting, and having to be ever-so-quiet because somebody else is trying to sleep next to me.  At those times when I am feeling nostalgic about having a bed partner, I have my oldest granddaughter come stay the night.  She reminds me of why I like sleeping alone with her grinding her teeth and the need to sleep as close to me as she can possibly get.

Don't you miss getting all dressed up and going out on the town?

What? Really?  By 3 pm I am counting the minutes until I can get home and get out of my bra and make up and put on my comfy clothes.  Getting all dressed up sort of sounds like one would have to shave her legs which is not something I do routinely and see no real need to do unless I am having a pedicure or going to the gynecologist.  At this stage in my life, (post-menopausal) the most prevalent body hair I am concerned with grows on my upper lip.

Don't you want somebody to grow old with?

Yes, my kids and grand children.  When I am old, demented, and refuse to shower, I want to live with my children to show them what it was like when they were growing up.  I think it is only fair.  I want them to change my diapers, feed me, and hold me when I cry.  The circle of life and all.

And the inevitable...

Don't you miss the sex?

What part of the whole not shaving thing didn't you understand? I would miss chocolate and Dr Pepper more than I miss sex.  I am devoutly abstinent and am perfectly content as such.

What do you miss then?

I miss him and how he was my best friend.  I miss how we laughed and how we got each other.  He was and still is a good man and a part of me will always love him.  What we had was real and perhaps I don't want to tarnish what that was with something that can never measure up to what that was.  Perhaps I want to end that part of my life on a high note knowing that I did have true love at least once in my life and that is enough.

But life is strange and one never knows what can happen from minute to minute.  I do not plan nor do I seek a relationship but that doesn't me it can't or won't happen.  I am fulfilled in my life.  No love will ever be stronger than what I feel for my grandchildren.  No touch will ever be sweeter than the touch from my grandchildren.  I am perfectly content "single" but not really single.

Talking To Myself

I have been known to, from time to time, talk to myself.  Ok, I talk to myself daily, many times a day.  I give myself positive feedback, praise, scoldings (when needed), and make myself laugh.  I like myself and I do not see anything wrong with talking to myself.  My co-workers, however, will say, "Debbie's talking to herself again"; this makes me smile but I'm not sure why.  I kind of like being the weird one in the office; I do different well.

I have been a self-talker for as long as I remember.  I believe it to be a strong quality of self assurance that as enabled me to problem solve throughout my life.  I have talked myself through times of extreme grief and over-the-top stressful situations.  I have told myself to stop dwelling on past events that have caused me regret and remorse.  I have spent a considerable amount of time explaining to myself why something is or is not a logical decision.  I have stopped myself from falling prey to whatever BS somebody might spew by telling myself, out loud, "Leave it alone Debbie".  I have complimented myself when I achieve a goal or complete a difficult task.  I will often, and I mean often, talk myself through an everyday task at work to ensure I do not become too complacent and miss an important detail.  I talk to myself a lot and I listen to myself a lot.

You see, your heart and emotions will sometimes cause you to do or say things that your brain knows better than to do or say.  When I talk to myself, it is my brain self that does the talking because the emotion and heart self can't be trusted.  My brain self is calm, logical, and damn smart.  My emotion and heart self is often just plain stupid.  Thankfully, over the years, my brain self has become the strongest of the selves and will almost always get me or keep me out of trouble.  With exception to the self-tanning lotion I used a few years back that turned me a brilliant shade of orange and lasted way longer than it should have.  My brain self still laughs at me about that and is often one of its strongest logical points as to why I should always listen to it.

Aside from talking to myself, another quirky turret-type behavior I have is to break out in song at any given moment.  I have this uncanny ability, from any conversation, to pick up lyrics from any song ever recorded and then blurt them out, in song and in perfect tune.  It is an impulsive and, to be honest, impressive quality I have grown to love about myself.  Don't think I haven't noticed the strange looks I get from others when this happens; I know it's weird but it is also fabulous and I am sure, by the time I reach the full onset of dementia, I will spend 80% of my time singing one song or another.  Dang, it will be awesome to be 90 years old and break into "Who Let The Dogs Out", "Baby Got Back", or "Purple Rain".

Life is seriously difficult so much of the time.  We all walk a fine line between sanity and the edge of insanity.  Sometimes, some of us, step over the line, just for fun.  I call these my moments of pure delight when I let go of inhibitions and social norms and just be a human dancing close to the fire and enjoying it for all it is.  As I get older, that fire has become ever-so-comforting and I find myself tinged, smokey, and happily exhausted by the dance.  I hope you dance.

The Breaking

She cuts all alone just to quiet the demons that try bending her mind till it breaks

She's wearing long sleeves in the middle of summer so no one will notice her pain

And with every drop the pain almost stops and she almost feels normal again.

But she knows it won't last, it always comes back. She knows it will never end.

He's socially awkward with nothing in common with anyone he's ever known

His own private hell is the world that he lives in that he has to walk through alone

Every day he considers the ways that he could make it all end.

It's a matter of time before he makes up his mind, to never wake up again.

Chorus:

They're broken and they're waiting for someone to silence the pain.

And they live their lives, one beat at a time, wrapped in a blanket of shame.

viewing the world through a lens that's distorted so nothing can ever make sense.

the truth becomes lies and their lies are what saves them from ending it all.

At 16 years old he came out to his parents and that's when the breaking began

His father called him a fag and a queer; his mother could not understand.

They got in his head with the things that they said and they tried to pray it away

They broke him that night, oh what a price..their only son had to pay

Listen to the song I wrote for mental illness awareness 


My passion in life is to bring more awareness to mental illness; especially among children and adolescents.  I want people/society to stop considering it as deviance and start realizing how mental illness should not be treated any differently than other medical conditions.

One of the major stumbling blocks we find as clinicians is removing the shame from mental illness.  Patients tend to want to hide their illnesses and don't seek help because they are ashamed of it.  This has to end.  We, in society, need to make sure every person seeks and receives the help they need.

You can help that process by sharing this blog to highlight the struggles so many go through.  Thank you.

Things That Drive Me Crazy

One thing I have discovered is that the older I get, my list of pet peeves grows longer.  Things I once tolerated are now fair game for my WTH look.  I fear that with each year that passes, my filter will betray me and I will no longer be able to stop my brain from transforming my thoughts into actual words that spew from my mouth without restraint.  Perhaps that is the beauty of getting old; you can finally say the things you've always wanted to say but are too polite to say them.  Politeness becomes over-rated in the golden years.  I suppose we know we only have so much time left to finally rid our souls of the words we've held in all these years so we might as well start letting them go.

The following are some, but not all, of the things that drive me nuts.

People who are habitually late.  When people are habitually late, that lateness becomes their "on time".  Stop it...please.  Don't be late just because you know people know you are always late and that makes it alright because that's just how you are.  No, it isn't alright and we don't like it but we like you so we don't say anything...except when we say something in a passive aggressive way and you just laugh and think we are kidding.  No.  We are not kidding.  We do not like your tardiness.

Phone conversations in public.  There is a difference between talking on the phone in public and having conversations in public.  You should not be discussing your sex life, your bodily functions, your arguments, your appointments with your doctor, your hemorrhoids, or any other extremely private issues while standing in line at Wal Mart.  For the love of all that is good, shut the hell up while I am standing less than 4 feet behind you in a line that is moving slower than a sloth.  I have talked on my phone in public but it is always quick and casual.  Even worse, is somebody talking on a blue-tooth earpiece.  You catch their eye and they say something and you walk up to them and say, "excuse me, I didn't hear you" and they don't even say "I'm sorry, I was talking on the phone"; they point at their ear and look at you like YOU just invaded their privacy.  Now that is one of those occasions that eventually my filter will fail and I will blurt out some type of obscenity while extending my middle finger.  Yep, that will do it.

Using the last of anything and not replacing it.  Anything that can be replaced and the replaceable part is there, replace it.  It's easy...takes a few seconds and everybody is happy.  My co-workers know that this is a pet peeve of mine; I leave notes reminding them. We've all been there; the empty roll of toilet paper staring at us as we are at our most vulnerable times.  Oh, and don't get me started about those who get a new roll of toilet paper but are too lazy to actually put it on the roller.  For cry'en out loud, you're sitting there, with nothing to do until you are done.  Is it too much to ask to just take the 15 seconds it takes to put it on the roller?  And make sure you put it on so the paper falls over the roll, not under.  I will also change this in anybody's house if it is put on wrong.

Sweeping while I eat.  There is nothing more rude than eating out and somebody starts sweeping the floor or carpet beside where you are eating.  Disgusting actually.  I have, more than once, asked them not to sweep until I leave.  Most of the time I can see them coming and I'll give them the look while shaking my head "no" and they will scurry away.  Should they not be sensitive to my body language, I will politely ask them not to sweep until I am done.  Should they ignore both clues, I will eat free that night and get a gift card for my next meal.  As I get older, I am sure that my subtle body language and politeness will give way to blunt honesty.  I almost can't wait until I can get away with that.

Phone solicitors.  I really don't care what cause or item they are trying to sell; they are annoying and disrespectful and I have no use for them what-so-ever.  There was a time when we could have some fun with phone solicitors.  There was a time when they could not hang up, no matter what, unless we hung up first.  Those were the times when you could ask them to hold on for a second, put the phone down, go watch a movie and come back to find them still there.  There was a time when I asked one if he liked the music by The Eagles and he said "Yes".  I asked him to hold on and I proceeded to play the Greatest Hits album.  Good times!  But now, they aren't any fun.  Now they ro-bo dial or even worse, they ro-bo dial and then the solicitor is a recording.  Those are the worse.  The worst of the worse are the ro-bo dialed, recordings that tell you to call them back because they "really want to talk to you".  Yeah, I'll do that right after I fly to Paris for brunch, you morons.

Nose secretions.  I have had babies.  I can deal with poop, puke, pee and blood.  I cannot deal with any form of snot or the conjuring up of said snot and that disgusting noise people make when they are trying to conjure up that snot.  As I type this my gag reflex is in full mode.  I will come completely undone if somebody blows their nose anywhere within ear-shot of me.  If, by some unseen demonic force, I am standing within eyesight and said person blows said nose and then opens the tissue to view the prize, I will, without any ability to control it, projectile vomit.  The same response will follow if I hear somebody conjure up a luggie and then spit it out.  All you tobacco chewing, dip dipping people, please be respectful of all those who have a low threshold for anything spit or snot related.  If you spit into a bottle, please cover that bottle so the spit can't be seen or (gag) mistake it for the actual cola drink they might be drinking at the time.  Do not spit into cups that can get tipped over.  Do not spit on sidewalks.  Do not discard your used cud of tobacco on the sidewalk or sink or anywhere I might happen to come across it.

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I could go on but I think you get the point.  We all have those things that get under our skin and make us want to run screaming into the night, pulling our hair out.  We learn to tolerate most things but we all have those one or two things that we cannot ignore no matter how hard we try.  Then we get old...really old and we get to throw away our filters and just blissfully spill our thoughts out of our mouth to make up for all the times we were too polite to say anything.