Before You Praise Christianity Today

Everyone applauding Christianity Today, Evangelicals, and Christians for finally breaking with Trump, remember this: They KNEW Trump was a liar, a racist, a misogynist, an all out greedy and corrupt person. And they turned the other way when millions were suffering because of him. They DEFENDED him while the rest of us decried his behavior. They ONLY decided to cut ties and cut their losses after they realized that he was making them look bad. There are Bible verses that flat out describes these types of so called "Christians": 

 

"You hypocrites, rightly did Isaiah prophesy of you, saying, ‘This people honors Me with their lips, But their heart is far away from Me." ‘But in vain do they worship Me, Teaching as doctrines the precepts of men.’”

(Matthew 15:7-9)

“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name and in your name drive out demons and in your name perform many miracles?’ Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!’” (Matthew 7:21–23).

In the last verse, the evildoers whom Jesus does not to know are fake Christians, false teachers, and nominal adherents of religion. 

So before you praise them for doing the right thing, one needs to ask, if they really followed the teachings of Jesus: teachings of love, equality, helping the poor, helping the foreign as if they were your neighbors, and helping the most vulnerable, or did they simply use God's name to gain more power, enforce that power through deceiving their followers to worship a false idol, and allowing those in power to hurt the very people Jesus Christ himself said to help, respect and love?

They did not do the right thing. They are doing image damage control, and that is way different than doing what is just and right.  

Shattered Glass and a Cautionary Tale

 

   I have anxiety. It is not a big secret. Some days are better than others, and sometimes I need more help than others. Today was a bad day, and I have no food I can make in the house. This means I need to go to the store, and it being a terrible day for anxiety, I wanted to ask my mom if she would be willing to come to the store with me, just for support. I find going to the store with another person helps me because I can talk to them and not focus on the noise and lights and bustle that overwhelms me. 

     Well, my mom didn't want to go. That's fine, but then the questions and comments inadvertently berating me about my weight and food started:

"You have to have chili left. You already ate ALL of that food you made?" (This is a reference to a large pot of chili I made five days ago, to which I replied that I had after eating it for multiple days. She scoffed.)

"I don't have fancy food. I see what you buy. You're just picky. I don't need mayo I just put tuna on bread" (This is her way of critiquing my food choices. I have multiple rare diseases, and the meds really mess with my stomach. I can only eat certain things without getting sick at times. And it changes. One time all I could eat without vomiting was nutty buddy bars! That is why I usually buy Ensure because I know that if I have this problem, solid food doesn't work, and if it does, eating one thing is not nutritious. I buy what I can afford, cook when in pain, and can eat without puking.)

Then came this beauty: 

"I seen you eat. You shovel your food in your face and if you eat like that it is no wonder you have no food" (One day when I was running my mom around to help her, I had to stop and get a Burger King meal. I hadn't eaten in over 16 hours and was dizzy and shaky. I asked her if we could stop and we did. I was just eating at a normal pace, and the whole time she was making comments about what I got, and how gross it was, and how she doesn't understand how I can eat that fattening crap, etc. That whole meal I felt like a fat, ugly piece of shit. Like I am to blame for my condition. But I am not. I have a fat disorder called Lipedema. I will write a blog post about that later)

     So, I just hung up the phone after she said this last comment. I suffer from eating disorders. I alternate between binge eating and anorexia. I really do not eat a lot. Ask anyone who is around me a lot. They always yelp at me for not eating and force me to eat sometimes. That on top of my stomach being torn apart from my meds. 

     Now I feel like I am just a fat, ugly, useless piece of crap. I am looking at my body, the one I have worked so hard to save, and to love, like it is a disgusting blob and I am fighting those inner demons of self hatred and that little voice I worked so hard to stifle that tells me to do whatever it takes to prove I am worthy of love, love that society tells me I do not deserve because I am fat. Fighting that feeling that tells me I have to punish myself for being so gross and ugly. 

      I am writing this to tell anyone who makes little remarks, you may think you are helping. You may think you have a right to nitpick someone's weight. But you do not know their struggles. Your words may very well create a door for those demons they are privately fighting to walk through, allowing them to attach to the soul of the person.

     Your words are powerful. You have the power to heal, to help. To spread love and compassion. Or you have the power to tear down. To hurt. To mock. To harm someone. Words hurt. I implore you all, before you speak or type something remember that you never know what demons someone is fighting. You don't know their pain or struggles. 

     Remember your words are like bricks. Will you use them to build someone up, or throw those bricks into the fragile glass door someone else has worked so hard to create that keeps their struggles at bay, shattering it, and the person? Your words. Your choice. I hope you make the right ones. 

On the Culture of Rape and Objectification

This may upset some people but I was asked before why I am against people who talk vulgar about women, and objectification of women. This is very personal and this is why. 

I've been a victim of childhood sexual abuse. The man acted like my body was his property. Commenting how I was beautiful and developing nicely just for him. He seen me as an object. I was objectified. 

I've been a victim of attempted rape by a man who bartered with someone I thought was a friend to use in exchange for a drug deal for them (a so called friend set it up for me to be raped by a friend of theirs as payment for them to get drugs). Again I was objectified. 

To both men I was property. They were very macho like. Catcalls. Talked vulgar and made jokes about women. And they acted like they owned my body. My body was an object to be used for them. It was not me being a human being with body autonomy.  No. I was a thing. A comment. A receptacle for their actions. Something to control. Not a human. 

That's why I refuse to condone males being pigs under the guise of boys being boys and it's just how men are. Not true. Abusers are that way. Bad men are that way. Good men don't act that way and do not see women as playthings. I also do not condone taking away women's rights to their own bodies. Doing so reduces women in the eyes of the law to property. A thing to be used for a purpose with no body autonomy and no rights. 

Anyone condoning that behavior of being vulgar "grab em by the pussy", taking away women's rights, "redefining rape", telling girls their clothes distract male students, slut shaming etc,  also condones what happened to me. Condones rape. Condones sexual abuse of girls and women. They also condone both men who abused me getting into less trouble legally combined than I did writing a bad check. Because what happened to me is a product of that thinking. The rape culture we live in. Women as punch lines. As property. As something to use instead of someone to respect. 

Until no more women are followed in dark parking lots by men looking to rape, until little girls are no longer considered sexual objects targeted by schools dress codes, until women can report abuse and rape and regardless of race or money, and the perpetrator gets harsh punishment and not a slap on the wrist, until women and girls are SAFE AND RESPECTED, I will not shut up. My body has been attacked. My psyche has been victimized by a culture that sees females as something instead of someone. I hope you stand with me to make our country safer for us. 

Thank you for listening and feel free to share.

Skeletons and Phantom Pains

Just like that the skeletons in my closet have rattled out.  So tired of fighting these fuckers and shoving them back into submission. Who’d have thought what happened over 30 years ago would still haunt me randomly? How the actions of others could have scarred me so deeply that I fear I will always be damaged. Don’t get me wrong. The wounds have healed. But like a lost limb, the phantom pains of  what was there but is no longer still attacks me at random. Leaving me to fight with myself, that little girl inside of me who just wants to be loved, but not like that. Maybe I just need to embrace her instead. She doesn’t deserve to be forever locked away in the dark. She is me and I am her. Once I can accept what she endured enough to fully love her, maybe we both can really heal. 

Just ramblings from a lunatic. 

is “living” with pain really living?

I just can not understand why some doctors, and obviously most politicians don’t understand the realities of chronic pain. I understand the need for me to wean off of the morphine, as it is not working well any more and I didn’t want to go up on it. That’s tolerance and a sad, yet true effect of taking opioids. But here I am, near the end of weaning, and I am hurting so badly I really and truly feel suicidal. I really feel like my life is not worth living. All I do is sit here. When I try to go out, like now to meet with my mom, the pain was so bad I am in tears and my mom is scared for me. She sees me struggle to move, walk, stand, drive. She sees me collapse in pain and barely catch myself. Even with my walker. To top it off my tooth is busted and infected and it is hurting so bad I can’t eat or drink. And I am scared to go to the walk in cause high wait times and the flu which, if I get, can kill me. I already had a bout with the flu, and don’t think my body can take another. 

      My point is, in weaning they need to do better to keep a continuity of pain relief. I get that on morphine days mixing drugs is dangerous. But now that it is every other day, on days without it it is like pure hell. It’s bad on days with it ffs as the dose is so low. Right now I sit here, suffering. Thinking thoughts about death being better than this and of going to buy alcohol just to numb this pain. I get there is problems with addicts. But do not cause suffering on those who need the meds for a quality of life. 

      I am hoping I can get my doctor to at least get me something for the off days. The doctor knows I am not addicted to the meds. They also know I desperately need help. Hopefully they can help me soon before I do something dumb to stop the unending pain. 

      As for the acute pain, Medicaid, Medicare and tooth care are a whole other rant for another blog. For now I am going to hopefully not vomit as I go to be with my mom and grandma and try to get through it. Oh I took NSAIDS I was so desperate and the doctors said under no circumstances should i take them as they are a danger to my kidneys, stomach, and due to NSAID induced bronchiospasms, my lungs. I had to do a nebulizer twice to breathe. Lets hope it helps the pain and the asthma attacks were worth it. 

Crinkles and Boredom

All work and no play makes Tamara a dull girl. All work and no play makes Tamara a dull girl. All work and no play makes Tamara a dull girl. Seriously if I do not find something to do and someone to do it with soon, I am going to start hallucinating simply to entertain myself. My brain can only handle so much dull in one day.  I wish many of my friends, such as Maureen was closer. Never a dull moment around that girl! I am going to go stare at my wall. Maybe I can hallucinate a fun pattern or something. *grin*

High as a Kite, Low as a Grave

So, today my mood is better. The stupid thing is, now my body won’t cooperate. So here I lay, bedridden and alone. Nothing but my imaginary friends to keep me company. (Hands off my unicorn you ruthless trolls!!!) 

It is interesting to say the least, how a sound mind doesn’t always equal a sound body, and vice versa. 

I give up. I’m going to pour coconut oil over my life and hopefully that will fix everything. After all Dr Oz and that Avacado dude say it cures everything. 

I’m going to bed and if I’m not a sane, thin yet curvy, perfectly healthy and rich person, I am suing Avacado and Dr Oz for lying to me. 

Goodnight my friends, and don’t talk to strangers. Especially ones with imaginary friends!

The hardest post I have ever written.

 I literally have been thinking hard about if I should do this. After all, it is a secret I have held on to for years. Ever since I was a child. What would it accomplish? Who would it hurt? Is it really needed? In these questions I have decided that I need to speak out, to speak my truth even if it is hard for others to stomach. Even if it shatters the illusion around the person who literally ruined my life. 

     I am a victim of childhood sexual abuse. The perpetrator of that abuse was a well known, well respected musician in my state. He is even in the ND music hall of fame. His name is Jeff Mooridian. 

     When I was a child near 8 or 9 my mom and he were friends. I loved garbage pail kids and I would do chores for people to get money to buy them. Because he was a trusted friend I agreed to help clean his house. So he would pick me up and drive to Sabin, to that white house and I would clean for a few hours while my mom got stuff done. Seemed really neat and it was. 

     Then one day it wasn't. I was in the bathroom one day and he had a scale. I was on it cause I was a chubby kid. Not huge but I was called chubby. He came into the bathroom and told me "the scale will be more accurate if you take your clothes off. You'll weigh less". So I told him to leave and he did, and I got undressed. I got on the scale. He came in and I sat down on the toliet covering my body. He moved my hands and said "you are developing into a beautiful young lady. Don't cover up". Then he forced my legs apart. I fought but he was stronger.  He touched me telling me he was checking me. He moaned and said I was beautiful and felt good. I felt scared and alone. When he was done I quickly put on my clothes and sat there trying to process this. 

     Then it started. Regular abuse just like that. He was not violent or mean, and I was so confused. So scared. I became depressed and more isolated and angry. I was told that he would hurt my sister if I didn't do things he wanted. And he said my mom would blame me and hate me if I told her or didn't do what he wanted because I was supposed to follow his rules. 

     Another incident happened when he told me to take and clean out the box in the closet. I did and it was filled with pornographic photos and magazines of women. He walked in and said to me "do you like that?" Then he sat on the bed. He said "you don't have to if you don't want to but come sit naked on the bed with me." I told him no but I would sit with my clothes on. He tried pressuring me to take off my clothes, telling me I was beautiful, and touching me in my shirt and pants. He forced his hands in my pants. In my shirt. He put his fingers inside. After he was done, he said that I could make him feel good and he could make me feel even better if I took my clothes off. I told him I am not comfortable and after a few more minutes of tugging and begging he left. I now see he was giving me the illusion of choice, making me feel like I had control even though he had all the control. I now know that, had I taken my clothes off, I most certainly would have been fully raped. More than just with his fingers. 

After that I ran away from there but I was in Sabin. Where would I go? i couldnt run home. He chased me and when he got me he threatened me saying he wouldn't take me home, and that if I told my mom would hate me again. 

I stopped going over there after awhile. I told my mom I didn't want to. So he came to the house. He offered to take me to Hardees and I said I don't want to but he gave me that look and I went cause I knew mom would blame me (now I know my fears were from his lies. If my mom knew shed have killed him). We went to Hardees and I got a pound puppy doll and a meal. He drove over to where 30th Ave S in Moorhead was and parked in a lot. He put his hands in my shirt and pants again. Rubbing and grunting. I screamed at him no and I want to go home. He said I got you the puppy doll you wanted. I owed him. I said bring me home and he did. 

I never seen him again because one day my mom was playing duling banjos, a song Jeff used to play on his banjo. I came downstairs and took the tape out and screamed at her to turn it off. I hated that song. She got mad and I started to hit and become violent. She held me and asked what was wrong with me. I started to sob and curl up (about 10 years old or 11?) and I said I hate it because he plays it, and I spilled everything. My mom was livid. She busted the tape. She held me and told me he wouldn't hurt me again. She called the police. I had to give a statement and go to the hospital. I cant recall if they examined me or not. 

He was arrested and admitted to it all. I never knew what his punishment was. But mine was lifelong. I tried to kill myself at the age of 11 and 12. Hanging with a belt and overdose. And that abuse led to the situations where I became medicated, depressed, panic stricken and more. I am 41 in a few months, and I still have nightmares. I am nauseated typing this. 

     He was forgotten except by my subconscious until I seen a news story. Local Musician died. Jeff Mooridian. And I went into a panic attack. I curled up like a baby again and cried. My sister couldn't believe what she was seeing with the story. How great he was. How he was an amazing man. Friends of mine who did not know this or me at that age taking prt in tributes to him. He was in the ND rock country music hall of fame. He went on to do great things for himself. Remarried. Dunno if he had kids but I pray they were safe. And my life has been pure hell. 

      I haven't spoken this truth except to my old therapist when I brought up his name. Turned out my therapist knew who he was. I guess from the community. I never went back to him as I was ashamed for speaking his name. Like I was a bad person for speaking my truth. 

     Despite what he has done, I forgave him. For myself. But I can't hide it any more. I may lose friends because I spoke his name. But I am a survivor. What do I hope to gain speaking this. Saying his name? I hope to gain freedom from this hellacious secret that has been carried all these years. Hope that others will have the courage to speak up way before I could. 

    Say their name. Jeff Mooridian. He hurt me. I shouldn't carry his guilt and shame inside of me. And I am done doing so. If you know him I am sorry. I held it in because I didn't want to hurt others. But I can't hang onto it any more. It is killing me and his actions took most of my life already. 

     Jeff Moordian I set you free from my thoughts and my heart. You no longer have power over me. I'm not going to let your actions be my legacy. That is your legacy and even though you are not here any more it is time you owned it. I am done carrying it. 

     Thank you for listening. 

My Journey Out of Madness, Day 1

      First a disclaimer. I use the term madness to describe my symptoms, not my illnesses. I do not see mental illness as "crazy", nor those who suffer them as "mad". I am describing, for my own self, how it felt being in the condition I was in, my own internal experiences. While words such as crazy looney psycho or madness may be okay for me, in history those terms have been used to exploit, and isolate Mental Illness sufferers from society.

      I use them to take back my power. Take back my dignity. Take the bad out of words and use it to empower. While that is my way of dealing and coping, please remember that others may find these word degrading. This blog is my journey, and I ask that you remember every person coping with illnesses of the mind are very individual. Find out what is comfortable for each person before using words like these. 

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     So, I started Partial Hospitalization Program again on Tuesday, May 22, 2017. Partial hospital is an intensive mental health treatment program that runs from 9am to 3pm (other programs nay vary, these are my program hours), and I go home at night. It is for those sick enough to need more support than outpatient treatments (weekly or monthly appointments), but not sick enough to require 24/7 round the clock care (inpatient hospitalization). Often it is a bridge between inpatient and outpatient, but can also be used for my purpose, to not deteriorate into needing full inpatient care. It incorporates med nanagement, skills training, activity therapy, group and individual therapy. 

     For me, my life has been slowly spiraling out of contol for awhile. Usually, I get this way because I do not follow through with some aspect of my care. This time I did everything right, but circumstances became more than my coping skills, and medication can only do do much, so I spiraled downward. 

     If you view my blog post called My Twin Flame is Lost , you will see that one of my biggest supports, my first love, and my best friend, passed away quite young and tragically. I haven't dealt well with it at all. Combine that with an increase in my medical issues (I suffer with two rare autoimmune diseases, Microscopic Polyangiitis and Behcet's Dise ase, as well as a fat disorder called Lipoedema. I also am recovering from an Acute Pulmonary Embolism secondary to the Behcet's.), the loss of my grandfather, the loss of my job, feeling like a burden to others, and isolation due to my illnesses, it was all bound to flare up my mental health problems. 

     Over the past few months, I found myself slowly losing interest in things I enjoyed. I made plans with friends and family, but just could not follow through. I just had no will to participate in my own life, let alone the lives of others. This avoidance turned to isolation which turned into a full fledged phobia of leaving my home. I felt artificially safe in my house, eventually that safety narrowed to my bed. I was now a prisoner in my own head. Fear, self hatered, paranoia, and extreme depression led me to neglect my appointments. I cancelled them citing various reasons. None of which were "I am losing my mind, my head is full of horror and I am being held hostage by my own brain!" 

     When I did manage to override the fear and go to an appointment, when they asked "do you feel safe at home?" I wanted to say no. That my brain was slowly beating me down, and holding me hostage in bed like some prisoner being forced into solitary confinement. I wanted to say "the only danger to me is myself ", and that I was being held hostage by thoughts of suicide and my fear of acting on them. So, do you feel safe at home? My answer? "Yes". 

     My medical health declined rapidly as I barely ate, couldn't shower, stopped or missed meds, because I couldn't go get them, and that further dragged me into darkness. My body became the warden, my mind a prison. My soul was the prisoner. Pain, both mental and physical became so perversely prominent that I debated even why I was worth saving. I felt like I would be better off dead, and others could be free of my burdensome existence. I went numb. When I lose ability to feel, the next step is suicide.  Having recently lost a person I looked up to to suicide, as well as one of my best friends in 2003, and a man like a dad to me as a child, to suicide, I eventually reached out. Funny thing is, I cancelled the assessment more than once, but that teeny speck of hope sonewhere inside propelled me to go the third time. So here I am. 

      So I have a few days in at PHP. That's three days of not isolating. Three days of support. Of course last night I ended up in the ER. My months of neglect for my health caught up to me so I couldn't go today to PHP, and programming doesn't resume until Tuesday due to the holiday. I am feeling better medically. (I was drowning in fluid, and thanks to the medication I have peed over 30 times in the last 35 hours, which is good!). I can breathe and pain is decreasing some. So is my headaches and other things. However I have four days to wait until I can go back to PHP and I am scared. 

     My goal is to go to any event on Memorial Day I can. Usually my NA groups have a picnic. If I can my goal is to try to go. At least for an hour. Or at least do something. Will I be successful? I hope so. Time will tell. I have to pee again so this is bye for now! Stay tuned for daily updates!

     

My twin flame is lost

When will I ever be able to go a day without the day I lost you running through my head. It rises the bile into my throat, the panic, the fear as I watched them run into your room. Hearing the sounds, lights, running. Them bringing us to a room. Numbness prayers. Disbelief. I replay every second of that day, could I have done anything? It looked so good. But it took a wrong turn. I always end up with tears streaming down my face, broken hearted. I feel like you took part of me with you. There's a hole inside my soul that can't ever be patched. I tried. I tried to numb it. Work, until I got fired for losing it at work, psychiatric hospital for a month, desperately hoping to help myself. I just don't know how to go on without you. Still. Tears. Swallowing pain, trying to get by without the twin flame that I lost. Losing, you, losing me. God, why is that lump in my throat so big today? Everything I see or do reminds me of you. I want to escape but I can't. I will cry until the tears run dry, and I know I will be okay. But I need to know you are still out there in some form, watching over me. I need you.