Tag: Inspirational

Stop the World and Let Me Off!

If you could unzip my skin, you would see my wounds. But, unless you’ve walked a mile in my shoes, you will never know how much it hurts.

Sandi Staton

I have episodes when I feel that everyone I love has died. The feeling is so overwhelmingly dark and painful, that I just want to curl up and die. Sharing those feelings with my medical doctor a few years ago is when he diagnosed me with BPD (borderline personality disorder). I had never heard of it before, so I went online to see what it was, and discovered that he was right. And, for the first time in my life, I had a better understanding of my anxieties, fears and phobias, and noise intolerance. Why rejection feels like my heart is in a wood chipper. Why depression never goes to sleep. No matter how hard I try not to go there, I get sucked into the maddening cycle of ups and downs, of feeling okay for a few days, sometimes weeks, then falling back down to the pit of hell, and clawing my way back out again. It’s murderous! A never-ending torment of feeling good and then bad, and then like a demon from hell. I’ve been like this all my life. Social gatherings are sometimes so painful that I avoid them. It’s true, my home life was as dysfunctional as the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s. But through my own blood, sweat, and tears, I am crawling towards recovery. I dove into the murky river of lies and deceit in search of the truth, and a more functional way of life. It took guts. It tore my world apart. It opened my eyes to the brutal, emotional abuse that I endured. And there, in the deepest parts of my battered soul, I saw God. No judgement. No finger pointing. No demented glaring eyes. But, rather, I saw arms open wide, eyes filled with tears, and a smile bigger than the universe. And sobbing in His embracing arms of steel, I felt the depths of His warm and tender love.

I still struggle. I’m still learning and growing. I still take three steps forward and two steps backward. But I will never give up! I know God didn’t create me this way. God doesn’t maim, He heals. God doesn’t hate, He loves. God doesn’t laugh when I fall, He cries and picks me up. He brushes off the dirt of the world, takes hold of my feeble hand, and walks beside me every wavering step of the way.

Isaiah 48:17 NIV
This is what the Lord says . . . your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel: “I am the Lord your God, who teaches you what is best for you, who directs you in the way you should go.”

Did You Really Have to Go There?

Daily writing prompt
What’s your favorite candy?
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Sugar runs through my veins. Not blood. SUGAR! I’m a sugar junkie. Malted Milk Balls? I never eat just one. I eat the whole box in one setting. Milk Duds? Caramel Chews? M&M’s? Gummy Bears? Please, stop! Give me a truckload. No, a dump truck load, and I’ll scream for more. If I were a hoarder, my house would be bursting at the seams with candy! Am I diabetic? Nope! I’m just an insane, full-blown addict!

And, since Christmas, I’ve added hot chocolate to the list. Covered with marshmallows. So yummy. Then I ran into a problem. A big problem. I got hooked on the marshmallows! My brain wouldn’t shut up about it. Every time I started doing something, I’d hear, “Sandi. Come and eat us,” till I ended up eating two whole bags full.

I only wish my body liked candy as much as my taste buds do. But, it doesn’t. It suddenly got too big for its britches. Between the bloat and neuropathy, my feet and legs swelled like road kill on the verge of bursting open. I complained. I moaned and groaned. My poor body was suffering, and my brain didn’t care.

I had to make a decision: keep up the insanity, or straighten up. I chose to straighten up. Since this is not my first rodeo, I knew what I had to do. DETOX!

I dislike water as much as I love candy. And intermittent fasting is almost as bad. But, because I’m an all or nothing freak, I do better at eating nothing than going on a stupid, calorie-restricted diet that never works for me. Fasting is a beautiful word compared to the evil, diet word.

Oh, and one other thing. I started walking. Since I quit jogging after seventeen years (another stupid thing I did), I’ve gained weight and lost a ton of muscle strength till it’s difficult walking up just a few steps. And I fall. A lot. And I’m old. Real old (77). But, that’s okay. I can’t fix that, but I can fix what I do with it from here on out. I must admit, though, that since my legs refuse to support me at times, I feared falling in the middle of the road and getting run over if I started a walking program. My son, an insane hiker, marathon runner, and body builder, told me about trekking poles that athletes are using today. I bought a set, tried them out, and fell in love with them. It took me a few walks before I got the hang of it, but I won’t walk without them. Ever!

The moral of my story is this: If you value your body, no matter what your age, take care of it. It’s the only one you have, and it ain’t gettin’ younger! Trust me!

THE END!

The Red, White, and Blue

Daily writing prompt
How have your political views changed over time?
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One Sunday afternoon, a few years ago, the family was sitting around the dinner table laughing, and just goofing off. Suddenly, our oldest grandchild, Brandon, marches through the front door with our flag across his shoulder, working up a sweat to keep it off the floor.

At first, I thought, what on earth is this silly boy doing now? Then it all made sense when he explained, “Gideon (his then six-year-old) accidentally pulled on the flag, and it fell across the bush. It didn’t touch the ground, papaw, I promise!”

Every family member knows how my husband feels about the American flag. He fought for it. He risked his life for it, and nearly died for it while fighting the fire for thirty-six tumultuous hours on board the USS Forestall. https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwjzvYWZk7ODAxUMTjABHfKtC3YQz40FegQIDBAK&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D4CzS7gHLuLM&usg=AOvVaw2N9Sd_bnDMh1sODOzLV9Gz&opi=89978449

Now, more than fifty years later, he still cries for those he put into body bags, some of which only consisted of a wedding band, or a pair of glasses.

PTSD they call it. I call it a living hell. Blinded by grief, my husband can’t see that I’m on the receiving end of his rage, and grief, anger and frustration. That, like a vacuum, he sucks me on the ship with him, where we battle each other because we’re the only ones there. The only ones burning. The only ones trapped. Between the ghosts of yesterday, and stresses of today, our marriage of fifty-one years began to sink before we finally put it in God’s hands.

So, you can only imagine how explosive my husband becomes when he sees murderous mobs spitting, and stomping, and burning the American flag. It reminds him of how people spit and cursed in the faces of the men and women who went to hell and back to keep them safe and free. Instead of receiving a standing ovation of honor and respect, they were crucified, and crowned as women and, baby-killers.

Politics was my worst subject in school. Too complicated for my realistic, black and white thinking. I just trusted our leaders because I always felt they had America’s best interest at heart. But, today, I see a government consumed by recklessness, selfishness, and greed. And we, the people they promise to serve, are freezing to death in their cold-hearted lies.

Who can we trust when the government fails, when it sleeps with the enemy, when its main interest is in its own political gain? We can trust God. He alone has the world in His hands. He alone has our best interest at heart. He alone has the power to hold, to keep, and to save. He alone knows exactly how the story ends. So, I put my trust in Him.

John 16:33
In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.

The End

Let the Wild Stay in the Wild!

Daily writing prompt
Do you ever see wild animals?
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I had just let Pepper out when I noticed a weird-looking animal near my husband’s workshop about a hundred feet away. It was acting crazy, sticking its nose high in the air and prancing back and forth as if to impress its mate. Pepper was having a hissy fit, barking and pulling on her chain like a junkyard dog when suddenly, the animal charged toward her! I yelled and clapped my hands, scaring it away. A few seconds later, it charged after Pepper again! I’m scared for both of us now, because now this, seemingly harmless fox we’d been seeing in our yard obviously has rabies.

I picked up the broom I keep on the deck, and screamed for my husband to get out here quick! Quick is slow motion for old people, and I didn’t have that much time to wait. So, armed with my broom and terrifying screams, the fox decided it wasn’t worth fighting a little yapping dog and crazy old lady all in one day, so it turned and high-tailed it from the yard.

We called the sheriff’s department, and within minutes we had a Calvary of neighbors and police armed and ready to put the poor animal out of its misery, but it was long-gone.

Then, one evening, as my husband was locking up his shop, he nearly collided with a skunk that had wandered by. Motionless, they stood eye-balling each other, wondering who was going to move first, and it wasn’t going to be my husband. After a few long seconds, the showdown was over, and the skunk waddled off into the woods.

And speaking of skunks. When we were kids, my brothers found three baby skunks and snuck them in the house to play with them. When mom and dad found out about it, they said we could keep them in a box outside. It was so cool having skunks as pets. But the next morning, my fickle brain decided that Florence, my animal-lover friend down the road, would rather have it instead. I was wrong! As Florence stood wide-eyed stammering like a child learning to read, her mother stormed into her sparkling clean kitchen and yelled, “Get that thing out of my house!”

Feeling stripped naked on Time Square, I hurried out the door and headed back home. Suddenly, the skunk bit me! Determined to reunite him with his siblings, I started to jog. Then, he bit me again! And then again! That’s when I dropped him, and when he sprayed me, and when I choked, and gagged, and coughed my head off. It’s a smell from hell! A smell that can penetrate your car and stay there for miles down the road. But when you encounter it close up, and your entire being is melting and dripping in a cloud of skunk spray, there are no words to describe it. You’ll just have to find out for yourself.

A normal kid would have left him there, but normal isn’t in my DNA. Dazed and confused, I reached down, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and like a drunk on a three-day binge, staggered the rest of the way home and straight into the kitchen, where my dad sat quietly eating a bowl of cereal. He probably thought he’d seen it all in WWII. But that was before his idiot daughter staggered through the kitchen door with a skunk dangling from her hand, smelling worse than a cesspool and crying, “He sprayed me, daddy!”

He probably wished that he had kept the skunk and put me on a slow boat to China!

THE END!

I’m Not the City Dump!

If the only reason someone wants to be your friend is to dump all their problems on you, then run! They don’t love you. They don’t even like you. You are just a dumping ground for all their stinking garbage.

~Sandi

I thought I was just a nice person, that’s why people liked me. Everyone likes nice people, right? Nice people that allow them to use you. To keep you on standby. To cry on your shoulder and pour their guts out. To dump and run, leaving you with all their mess to clean up.

I’ve had lots of friends like that. I guess I just had that look about me, or a sign on my head that said, “Use me! Abuse me! I won’t fight back, because I’m nice!”

It all started with my mother. Wow! My own mother! But I loved her so much that I was blinded by her destructive narcissism because I was so busy trying to please her. To fix her. Being her little scapegoat. Her little performer. Her little shoulder to carry all her childhood scars and wounds. All her anger and disappointments. All her stinking trash.

Without going into a fifty-thousand-mile marathon, let’s just say she really did a number on me. She crushed my spirit before I could read, and continued ripping and tearing and jerking, and playing with my emotions to adulthood. Until finally, I said ENOUGH! Until I finally walked out of her life. For six long years. To pry her fingers loose from my life that I served her on a silver platter. Because she was my mother, and my mother would never, ever hurt me.

I wasn’t born with mental health issues. I was a happy, sweet-loving little girl. I remember that clearly. How I loved romping in the woods along trickling streams, swinging on the swing my dad hung on a tree limb, singing and chasing butterflies and playing with turtles, lizards and giant bullfrogs. I was a free spirit. The world was mine to explore, and to be swept away in all its glory and splendor.

But, after years of being dragged through the mud with people’s garbage strapped on my back, I started looking and smelling bad. My attitude changed. My thinking changed. My heart changed. I am no longer that free-spirited sweet little girl that I never had to try to be. I just was. But, today, I still struggle with my identity. Maybe because I’m older now. Maybe because I look in the mirror and only see my mother staring back at me. Maybe because I am my mother, after all.

Run! Run as fast as you can from the people who try to drag you down. Draw from your inner strength and scream, “ENOUGH”! Tell yourself you are good. You are sweet, loving and kind. Be yourself. Never give away your soul. For, if you do, you will die a slow, agonizing death.

My daily goal, from the moment I open my eyes in the morning till the time I close them at night, is to be free. To stop beating myself up for every wrong that I do and every word that I say. For the real me to break through the filthy, stinking garbage and prove to myself that my deceased mother, and all my once-upon-a-time fake friends were dead wrong about me. Because, I’m not the city dump. I’m a person. A real, live, human being that is still trying to break free.

Thinking

Like a zombie he sits
In crypt-like silence
staring into space
Smoking a cigarette
Drinking coffee
Thinking

His wife
Is cooking and cleaning
Skinning her knuckles on the washboard
Bringing in firewood
As he sits in the shadows
Thinking

The bills are behind
The cupboards are bare
His wife is crying
The kids are misbehaving
As he sits in the shadows
Thinking

The kids are all grown
The boys are breaking the law
His wife is working
Cooking and cleaning
As he sits in the shadows
Thinking

The years pass by
They’re both old and gray
His wife is lonely and afraid
But in silence he lies
Between snow-white sheets
Thinking

He closes his eyes
He breathes his last
Leaving only behind
Fragmented memories of a man
Sitting in the shadows
Thinking


Broken Wings

These words came to me this morning as I thought about my son and the struggles he’s been going through for the past year. He travels the world to rescue children from sex-trafficking. He trains insanely hard to stay in shape, to be strong, to be ready for the next call. But, for personal reasons, he no longer works for the organization that sent him on endless missions to train the police in different countries, to teach them how to better rescue children, as well as him personally breaking in and rescuing a child. Many times, however, it was too late. For a year, he has been healing, praying, and longing to rescue as many children as he can. Pay or no pay, he is driven to rescue children from Satan’s den of sadistic torture, hopelessness, and despair. So, my son is waiting, healing, and longing with all his heart to spread his wings, and fly again.

There is pain in his eyes
His soul is restless
He longs to fly
But his wings are broken
How long he cries
Do I have to wait
Before you speak
Before you open the door
Heal my wings
And let me fly again
To rescue one more child
To tell her about you
How you can heal her wounds
Her mind
Her shattered soul
The wait is long and painful
Where are you
Don’t you need me anymore
Does the world not need saving anymore
There is pain in his eyes
His soul is restless
His wings are quivering
Healing
Unfolding
It won’t be much longer before God whispers
My beloved, faithful child
It’s time to fly again

Hanging Upside Down!

John 16:33
“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world!”

Stress! Who isn’t feeling it these days? As a kid dealing with parents, two brothers, and school, I’d run bawling to my bedroom, slam the door shut, play my accordion, and sing until my tears dried up, and my heart felt happy again.

Today, dealing with a husband, two dogs, and everything in between, I still run bawling to my bedroom, and slam the door shut, but my accordion is too heavy to pick up, and I rarely ever sing anymore. And when I do, the dogs run and hide!

One day, at the brink of insanity, I glared out my bedroom window and noticed that our birdhouse on the old maple tree was hanging upside down. Just like I’m feeling, I grumbled to myself. Upside down! Inside out! My world is falling apart and everything in it is screaming, “Fix me!” and I don’t want to deal with it anymore!

I took a picture of the broken, upside-down birdhouse to use in my digital art, and as a reminder that ugly things can become beautiful when we see them from a different perspective. The ugly mess on the outside may not change, but the ugly mess on the inside; our rotten attitudes, anger, and resentment will change when we ask God for help. When we read His Word and listen as He speaks, and do what He says. He never promised He’d make things easy for us. He promised that He would always be there. That He will never put on us more than we can bear. That His yoke is easy, and His burden is light.

Things in my world are still broken, but today they don’t seem as broken as they were yesterday or the day before. I’m even thinking of leaving the birdhouse hanging upside down. It’s not so bad. I kinda like it that way. Maybe the birds will like it that way, too. Maybe they’ll want all the birdhouses turned upside down. Okay, stop! One broken, upside-down birdhouse is enough!