The Morning Goddess: enthralling throughout summer due to the unusually cool nights.

Talk of ‘healing’ makes my stomach turn. There is no healing, only managing the damage done. Well, there is, and isn’t.

The horrific feeling of being abnormal has mostly healed, though left with struggles of self-esteem permanently. But my internal ‘home’ offers more welcome and understanding as to why that exists accepting it with a more loving embrace.

And yes, admittingly there is healing in many areas, yet much damage was done by silencing me as a child causing irreparable damage than cannot be healed, changed, or reversed in any way, only coped with daily.

These are the truths of my life. To silence me at age 8 after a violent rape. To not administer medical attention. To leave me all alone with it stuffed inside for decades, because you and your cohorts (your sons) couldn’t bear that truth be told- that caused irreversible damage. Not what they did but silencing me and forcing me to be alone with it.

An 8-year-old child? Pummeled again and again by your other sons as they satisfied teenage lust on my little body? All alone. Suffering. Holding it in then- and for my life to come, until you died. (in my fifties)

By then it was too late. Though it all came out in my writings, every egregious ghastly detail, and with it the joys that were stuffed too, the damage was done. Repression represses joy too, creating a walking robot without feelings.

After you died I started to live, learning wholeness and love for self. It was my choice to remain gagged so that the little crumbs of love you gave could sustain me because I had not yet learned to love myself. How could I when who I was had been locked away?

The chronic severe C-PTSD is here to stay. There is no denying it, or if so, as with much of my life trying to keep up with others, unhealthy ramifications occur. There isn’t fear to jump in and try, but rather an outcome of disease. In trying to do things my body cannot cope with the severity increases exponentially.

Like camping. As the camper left yesterday swirling panic almost descends watching Samuel get it ready for the buyers to take it. Neither of us want to let go of over 40 years of camping in the woodsy mountains- campfires, biking among the pines down to the pristine lake, canoeing, our paddles softly licking the water’s surface as the loons near-by take a dive, sunsets of salmon, rose, and magenta, so many pleasures let go of.

But good-bye it was, along with all the gear, because my body cannot cope with being anywhere but home. When not home, finding my own home internally is about impossible.

So many years of pretending because that was required to be part of a ‘family.’ That caused the damage. Traumas kept inside caused physical ailments that worsen with age. The spirit, mind, and body are connected, and so much has been injured due to forced censoring that no amount of therapy of any kind will relieve or fix.

Only loving care to manage it. All the many things that need attending to are only attended to in the safety of my own home. And it does not have to make me weep, it can be decided on instead to bring me joy- joy in living, joy in finally feeling I have a right to be here too, joy in the little things which sweep me away with their beauty. Joy in that I finally honor the reality of where I am and why, learning who I am and liking what I find.


Tears fell driving home from a simple one-night camping trip to the glen where we’ve camped for over 40 years, especially fun and exiting when the boys were growing up. Now it’s for sure, we sell the camper.

Thinking the possibility of the miracle from the last month’s delicious ability to sleep at home might also occur in the camper, well, no way. A double dose of the dreaded narcotic was needed, and that was completely given up many weeks ago.

The depressive lethargy from the after-effects still linger along with sadness accepting my limitations which means no more over-night stays anywhere. And that’s OK.

The joys, pleasures, and overwhelming beauty on this little plot of paradise when sleep has finally come without using that drug has brought the peace craved. Like Dorothy in Oz, “… If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard…”


The day so cool, like all last week, then warming, so warm off go the leg warmers and sweatshirt. After a solid 9 hours of sleep there ought to be more energy, yet the day is so still, so am I.

Just slowly down the meadow path to absorb the change in season, the once white meadow of Queen Anne’s Lace, browning, now magically evolving, yellow with dandelion look-a-likes on tall stems mixed with mustard. (Samuel says it’s Golden Rod) Soon it will be all yellow.

Photos by Patricia

Listening to my body means if today is needed for more quiet activities, then wait on the bike ride, and take these meanderings a little at a time.

Though dreading fall, or change, it is becoming more appealing in its beauty. Nostalgia drifts in among the warm currents mixing with the evening’s coolness.

The sharp edges of it fading a little every day after accepting the fact that it’s there rather than running. Pain, or a nostalgic sadness with the coming of fall?

Not surprising as this drop in mood is a yearly occurrence. Yet joy abounds too in Autumn’s gentle arrival kissing summer good-bye.


The chronic PTSD, like a hidden lurking scary intruder melded into my wiring, takes off without permission. When my new computer, only 8 months old, went capooey once again only after a few weeks since the last time, my stress level rose. and the C-PTSD invader took over. The thought of talking to that fast talking guy in India again with the thick accent, so thick no one could understand him, my body went places beyond my control.

Not a good thing later in the day when winding down is so critical to a good night’s sleep. It dosen’t take much to set off the alarm bells, despite my mind saying this is NOT a disaster. There are far worse things. Knowing this to be true did not stop the rockets from setting off. They already went off.

Up after midnight, the best help is being off Xanax. The experts do have some knowledge. Leave the bed if not sleeping. (instead of laying there 3 hours, then getting up) So after a second try back in bed, sleep came. Not as lengthy as usual, but enough.

Then a Buddha post (THE BUDDHA MIND) about taking pain with pleasure the following morning. Sometimes one receives just what is needed. Like a horse and carriage, you can’t have one without the other. Without the grogginess left behind from Xanax, an uplift in spirits took hold.

First, a son who had gotten back on my computer remotely after trying to help me earlier despite three children under 5 running around getting ready for the night-time routine. He did have to leave to attend to them, yet after the children were put to bed, and after I did too, he got back into my computer as the connection was still open.

What a son. The next morning my surprise filled me with gratitude. No more sobbing on the phone with the guy from India. Last time that’s exactly what happened; the stress of a new device not working, then the dreaded voice of someone in another country that cannot be understood talking fast caused my body to sense DANGER, then the automatic take off.

Thank you Cory, dear son.

The new regime of not using a narcotic, but instead a tiny amount of pot oil mixed with pure CBD oil, along with Melatonin (the Doc says 10mg is safe) – is working! Not perfectly, but a great improvement. As the Buddha post reminded me; good with the not so good, pleasure with pain.

Faults & Flaws

My walk this morning!

Even if restless after waking, uncomfortable in my own body, or mind, it’s important to sit still starting the day feeling what is there. Sounds easy but takes focus and a willingness to just be.

Stay unstirring while sipping dark, strong coffee even when wanting to escape. Face the day by facing myself.

Being with myself this morning is a struggle due to the fact of having faults, my mind dwelling on a common theme over the years that probably won’t change much, mistrust. Accepting it is there may bring needed gentleness and a capacity for wholeness.

These faults grew out of the early sexual abuse committed by various siblings. Mistrust compounded with an inability to protect myself from others makes for an extraordinarily painful combination. Taking just so much then barking out something without grace has happened burdening the existing sadness.

My critic says it’s a fault, a terrible unforgiveable fault, especially when the other person holds it over me and becomes vindictive. That leaves me with a great sense of failure. Why couldn’t I have handled that situation better? These thoughts invade the start of today, wanting to flee my own body, mind, and spirit… but stay. Use some discipline and stay.

How do you love yourself if there are things about yourself you don’t like? Mistrust is embedded, cemented into my personality. When understanding how and why, gentleness allows for compassion towards myself.

Keeping others away with doubt, mistrust, and judgement helps me feel safe, yet yields for a solitary life. That won’t change. By accepting the damage done, I’m learning it’s OK to live in a way that keeps me feeling safe and peaceful

To like myself is to accept that the barriers I have are not only necessary but need reinforcement. Others have basic internal shields to keep them safe from others ‘shit.’ When you come out of childhood intact, you have that.

Everyone has feelings, thoughts, problems, and interests. If I’m not capable of protecting myself from it I’m sunk. And it hurts, other people’s shit all over me most of life because I had no way to keep it out has caused so much pain- daily, hourly, minute by excruciating minute.

To have my own life, my own feelings, thoughts, and needs, then honor and try to meet them? All new. My ‘shit shield’ needed pounding out to reflect others bullshit, to have it bounce off, not sink in as it has most of my life.

Whatever you say must be truer than anything I might because of feeling worthless since childhood traumas occurred… growing as I grew. The concave shape of punctured self-esteem leaves an enormous gap for other people’s shit to penetrate.

My shield is becoming convex with other’s ‘stuff’ reflecting off. Understanding I’m not alone in pain, others struggle too. But I don’t have to absorb the pain of others, just try to be more gentle with it. And that begins with gentleness to self.

Love It All

Photos by Patricia (over the meadow)

In dreams they are there, this family that isn’t safe and who have insisted on my presence with my caving to it. As each day passes from inviting others to dinner without a response, safety is felt deeply allowing sleep, deep peaceful sleep.

It feels like sticking to a healthy eating program which during times of equilibrium, or even shakily so, happens with grace, persistence, and determination. But when PTSD strikes stealing my sleep, all bets are off. Eating away anxiety crops up like a volcano erupting. So too the never-ending craving for family and love.

Eating trauma since age 8 is my anchor, the time of the first attack still repressed due to it’s horrific violence. Going to my core, staying there despite whatever scary feelings are there is a new, magical adventure, feeling wholeness for the first time.

Parts cannot be cut off even though wanting to, the whole shebang needs acceptance as that’s my history, my life, my reality… like it or not. It isn’t easy digging in, inspecting these feelings of jealousy, resentment, and the whys of viscerally not liking somebody.

Taught that is wrong, the badness needs shoving away to really look at it. Pay attention to the feeling of unsafety with certain individuals. It is a warning bell to listen to. My empath abilities need respect, rise from the core, and are there to preserve and protect me.

Feelings of being left out crop up since before my dad died at age eight. With 8 kids and two parents who liked to party hard, there was not love and attention for everyone. Food and shelter, and those types of essentials, but a child needs so much more, and not one of 8 received it.

Be tender with what you find inside. Now is the time to provide what wasn’t provided, not scorn it. Bring it into your arms, love it, rock it with warmth, acceptance and attention, petting the hurt places tenderly. Let soft grasses make your bed, blue skies brighten your day, and rainbows make you smile. That is what to glue the broken places with…


It feels so magical, the freedom of accepting flaws yet love still sprouts. Waking in the nighttime with worries infecting my brain, a habit of mine, or a predisposition passed down by both mother and grandmother, (if passing down a worry gene was truly scientifically possible) …  soothing comfort flowed like a warm bath. I almost smiled before going back to sleep from the deep core relief.

This hurdle has been faced many times before, every day in fact when challenging the harsh critic thriving in me. Scenarios of others casting blame and shame on me in almost every interaction still creates much self-criticism automatically.  

That started so very young when dearly loved brothers attacked me sexually. By attack, I mean manipulate. After using force once it was far better to lie still and pretend sleep. To fight meant feeling suffocated.

But after, a pool of shame surrounded me everywhere others were. Hiding way deep became the only way to survive and protect what was left. Young children take blame for this and many other tragedies if no intervention is provided.

Now? No hiding within myself. The pieces are brought out to the sunlight to inspect, seed the good stuff in the earth of my soul, and work to improve the not so good stuff. Decades of daily cortisol bursts due to a PTSD startle response from even a leaf blowing suddenly across my path has caused chronic fatigue issues draining energy especially if adding social activities.  

It still feels dangerous to be around others. Space and aloneness with nature is my chosen occupation. Accepting my limitations (and flaws) leads me to fully love with joy.


Thoughts are as dark as winter; emotions too tend to run dryly negative. It takes extra energy to keep afloat. Little things submerge my emotional well-being, tears fall more easily. There is still peace if focusing on all the goodness right there to bring home.

A phone call to the bank’s customer service brought volumes of tears, the strong, gentle, CALM male voice on the other end while his customer broke apart unable to get on the banking site.

His calm ease helped wipe the tears away, success occurred rapidly. And this time criticizing myself was not allowed. The freedom to me with all my quirks, faults and GOODNESS… isn’t that what we all want?


From Cory- delivered to my door the day of…

Why has it taken so long to love life, being alive, and to feel freedom possibly for the first time in 68 years? Wounds that don’t air fester. They develop pus, gangrene, and worsen, sometimes a body part needs hacking off, or death occurs.

Pretend you care, but you insist, ‘don’t tell.’ One cannot heal from trauma when the trauma is vaulted in tightly. When air, light and the hope of healing is withheld. Wound after wound, does it matter after a while, or does each wound compound upon the other?

And that’s what families do, pretend… victimizing the victim. So much healing yet to do. To go deep to find the black rot still there, evident in the way others still are allowed to take advantage of me. Because feeling poorly about one self does that.

And though some light of self-love is beginning to grow in my core, there are more doors to open and windows to rise. Corners well-hidden where parts still hide, cowering in fear of what others would think if they knew… more importantly what my thoughts are of myself.

The forgiving of self for past perceived crimes, even if only a child, still fester. Because what’s done in childhood came along like a fungus affecting all relationships negatively, like pus oozing out.

The only thing that would bring me back to the hell my life was, would be to become a better mother. To have my sons forgive my mistakes which were many and sorrowful. When asking forgiveness for my transgressions they say they have none to forgive.

They do even if they don’t know it. And isn’t that true of most childhoods, that we must heal some of the damage well meaning parents inflict? But most importantly it is powerful and relevant to be better now, and for me to forgive me. Bring light to the dark pockets still existing. Dig deep, see the truth with acceptance, tolerance, kindness and love. Let the newly found love for self grow.

From Shane– along with a happy dinner of chicken pot pies…