A Short Story by Donetta

Let’s Play

A short story

Opening the barn door she crept inside to find her children hidden away in the old steamer trunk. The barn was dark and dusty; the air steeped in the sweet hay and moistened with the morning midst. It had been so long. Play was almost a forgotten concept to her. She approached slowly with caution not knowing how they might respond when she let them out. What would they do or say. Would it be as if she had never left? Could it be? Longing for them her hand was on the hinged clasp. The key, if only she could remember the hiding place so long ago… so secretly and carefully preserved. It was under the heart shaped stone at the North West corner of the foundation. That was where she had hidden it in her desperation, knowing that when it was safe she could come back and retrieve it. The years had caused the stone to wedge tight. Searching for something to force it open with she stepped into the muck and soiled her foot. Repelled by the smell and the feel of it as it oozed through her toes she shuddered. She was hardened by the chill of it. The hay was course as she pawed her foot to discard the icy muck. It splintered and it pierced her skin. Her wound cleansed by her own blood. Fazed yet determined her search continued knowing that the stone must be displaced to acquire the key. She just wanted to play again so badly.

Exhausted she fell against the chilly cobble stone wall and wept. The sweetness of the hay was a comfort and a balm. After a long while she was all wept out. She had landed so hard against it that she dislodged some of the mortar and this gave her an idea. If only she could scrape away the reinforcement that held that heart so firmly in place. Perhaps trying to pry the stone heart out was going about it the wrong way. To chip out the mortar would take time and persistence. It would be difficult but she had always been a determined girl.

The old trunk had sunlight streaming on it through the cracks in the planked roof. The light invited her into a fight. That key must be recovered and the trunk has to be opened. She just had too! More than any thing she had to get that trunk open let her little ones out and play. Play with abandon. Relax and create and forget all that had to be done or accomplished. No work, no lists, no obligations to be filled or expectations to be met. The only pretense was within her imagination not for any one else to judge or accept.

What tool could be used? Then she remembered the old gardener who lived next door. The hours she spent just sitting and watching him. The long screwdriver like tool he used to uproot the weeds. He spent so many hours using that tool. On his face was always a look of great satisfaction as if he was better than those stubborn weeds. He knew the trick to pry them loose at the root. He told her once that that was the thing to do to stop them from growing back. His knowledge about the subject always spoke more deeply to her than even her school books. He said that the weeds broken off at the surface just developed a stronger root. She felt like there were so many strong roots here within the heart shaped stone. She just wanted to rip them up and make them let that stone go free. If only she could get to that key if only she had that long handled tool the gardener used.

As she headed out and across the pasture her hopes were high that the gardener would be there. She saw the flourishing green of his garden patch a long way off. His was the greenest and tallest of the entire neighborhood. He was often hard to be seen because of his work on his knee. Hidden by the thriving vivacity around him she learned to watch for the rustling of leaf. There it was and she approached the wise old man. “Hello I have come to ask a favor of you sir”

“Well now little Lady how can I be of assistance to you?”

“Sir, she began, I need a tool to help me get to a treasure.”

“A treasure it is, how could I rightly refuse to help rescue a treasure?”

“You see sir it is stuck behind a stone I hid it there a long time ago. I want to get it out and I thought if I could use the weeding tool that I might just be able to hew out the mortar. The stone is wedged so tight and the foundation must have shifted a bit. Please Sir may I borrow it? “

“It sounds very important. Yes child.”

Handing her the tool he smiled much like that smile of deep satisfaction he always had while pulling out those stubborn roots from his garden.

She raced back across the yards to the barn and within that place she fell to her knees at the base of the wall. With her breadth coming in gasps she began to chip at the lines that locked the door to her key. She chipped and struck at it for what seemed like years. Exhausted she leaned back against the wall to rest. The sun had shifted and now the trunk was in the shadows. Visions of the children locked inside creped into her mind. Those soft faced and questioning eyes of innocence before her, she could almost hear them ask her to come and play. She was missed and longed for. Yet only she knew how to find the key.

What if they didn’t like who she had become? Or what if she forgot their names and they get mad. Would they like the ideas shared. Will they share their own ideas? Will they feel safe, will she feel safe? The art and skill of simply beings herself was now lost. Being; is a forgotten art. The craft of it lost. Found doing more and more in the pace of her daily routine. Where has the artist gone? This routine now has consumed her and all of the value she once found in innate simplicity. The innocence of youth she wondered, where have I gone? The eyes of a puppy are so inviting they speak of these things also. The voices of children with imagination spinning into form story telling in the purest form. It sounds like this…“Lets say he did this” and “then he will do this” so on with ideas flowing in the air as if the whole process was a natural law. Cues are taken and acted on as if the whole story was being pealed like a juicy orange. Mist of essences oils escaping into the air fragrant and pure. Oh the joy of it. Play where explanations flow without restraint offense or defense. Where have all the stories gone?

Within the trunk, there must be a place of magic where the defenses and offenses and fears of offenses can just evaporate into the essence of the mist. Peal afresh the fruit of creative flow. Get the key out and open the lock and play.

The mortar stung as it struck hands and face. In fervor the reinforcement failed. The rock began to shift ever so slightly and gave way to hope of a key. The Promise of freedom, of an escape, called to her. Children’s voices and laughter pined for her to continue her efforts toward play. She eagerly wanted to play. Play, be more and do less. With a thud it fell out upon the floor. There dull and antiqued in its finish was the key. Embracing it she rested a moment. With great courage and carelessness she walks over to the locked trunk. She bravely held out the key and touching the top of the truck with her other hand she braced herself and inserted the key into the hinged locked. The rust held it and made her force the issue. As it turned she began to hear laughter and a smile began to creep upon her face. A light began to develop in her eyes. She could see the promise. Yet, she was afraid. So many times her light was covered by the others, those who disallowed play. Those who had never really accepted her or her children, frightened them into the trunk in the first place. She just hooked the latch so that no one could find them. So threatened she even hid the key. That is why your in here she whispered to them. I don’t ever want you to be hurt again.

The loneliness suffered all to be safe. Sorrow and want for company was worth protection of innocence and wonder. So priceless, eyes tiered up at the want of friendship, a fellowship in play.

The clasp had become one with the surrounding metal. The corrosion made the key flex. Worried of the outcome she thought better than to force the issue. Metals locked tight against the action of the key.

Even with the displaced heart stone, key in hand, time had proven an enemy. Tears fell down. Oceans were born.

She just wanted to play, but always a battle a war to fight. Soldiered then recruited into action just to gain a simple freedom. Shadows grew darker. A chill came upon her. She was so close to the laughter those knowing eyes of youth.

Liniment for sore muscles was in the horses stall. It was in an old tin can; a disk, with a snap on lid. Once opened she could smell the camphor and tea tree oils. If; she pondered, so she did. It was like rubbing down tired legs. The clasps drew in the succulent oils. The dullness changed much like she had. It transformed into lush beauty. Hues of orange, pewter and pitted brass metal upon metal the components were defined clearly now. How the balm had awakened the truth of what they were. She rubbed the key as well and the antiqued silver tuned even darker. Glossy now it was no longer so rough on her finger tips. It had become somehow friendlier. O how this treasure now embraced felt warm. She walked all the way back over to the trunk and re-inserted the key She tried to turn it. The chalkiness of the clasps was less dusty now. Grains of debris made loose brushed away from the surface. It had become a bit grimy. That gritty grimy clasp held her back from the goal. Now she was forced to scrub and clean the surface so that the goal could be achieved. A face hotter and rouged with anger and frustration gave way. Voice raised into a desperate irritated growl. I just wanted to play! That’s all I just want to play!

She fell back into the hay and was vacillating between throwing an angry fit and just resigning into the depression that comes with giving up. For now she was exhausted and the hay was under her and the grime was on her. Sorrow apathy anger and loneliness blanketed her while the visions of those distant memories of long ago drew her into a better place a better world.

Dawn pulled her out of the peace of sleep. The children…, then she was drawn back into battle. There was a war at hand and she had her role. Rising to the challenge once again intent fixed and focused. Yet she wondered if it was all worth it or just wasted time.

It seemed cruel to have to fight so hard. Everything seemed to cooperate if she was pouring herself out like a cup of old tea, but a fresh pot was always a battle. Hunger was always dismissed into what ever was at hand. Horses’ oats were just as well as a feast with others who left her heart empty and wanting. So oats and barley grain was her feast. Water was another story and for that she would have to pay. Pay dearly she did for it would take hours to return to her goal her task. Once distracted into the grind she would have to lay in wait for an opportunity to return to her own desires.

It was past noon when she returned to task. She kept the scrub brush back from chores inside and with it she scoured both hasp and lock plate. Returned the key into the rightful place, hoped begged and promised loyalty and turned the old blackened key. Grinding in its’ place the vibrations of the tumblers gave way to hope. Her hope had been deferred for so long. The tumblers continued and the clasp came free. The grip it had on the hinge was firm and she used both hands to lift it free. She unhooked the safety clasps and laid the trunk gently down on its side and smiled. Bravely pushing through a little fear, she raised the lid. What she saw shocked her. She had forgotten about the consequences of time. Her dear ones once so chubby and full faced were now emaciated, cowering shivering. Eyes so tenderly trusting of her were fixed upon her. She gently led them out one by one. As they lifted themselves to feet muscles that were withered refused to function. They held fast to the truck wall for support in all thirty three of them came near. Near to starvation through the deprivations that fear, pain, sorrow and shock had afforded them. What once was thought her time to play had now become their time to be healed? It was up to her to bring them all back to health and to give the hope that they need.

For now this will be her play time to heal her playmates and bring a greater trust to the game. So that one day with vitality and joy the games can begin. Until then never will she lock them up to keep them safe again. Lessons learned gave her the wisdom to know that there is no safety to be found in the darkness of solitude.

She asked them to dinner a private feast just a small reception to get re -acquainted again. She had oats and barley. She rubbed their legs with the camphor liniment. It hurt them to be touched. It had been so log. They shared old stories. Talk of memories of provision and times of pleasure. With the perspectives that differed came a greater understanding of all things told. Thirty three minds together became the glue for her unity of thought.

They were sore of tooth and dry of throat. Water was longed for but it was not understood the price she had to pay to gain it. Her heart did not want to suffer them the details. So she spoke of her absence to be for a few hours but that she would hurry back as soon as she could. So torn and afraid to walk away that she might never return. They were so fragile and innocent to the greater world around them. They must not fall prey. She could not put them back in the trunk, no not ever. She must warn them yet not frighten them. She has to fill them up with wisdom so that the dependence upon her

changes into independence.

“Here’s the thing” she began……

“I have to go up to the big house. You were so little last time you were there. It is a better place now but you are still very vulnerable there. I have to go there to get us the water we need. I will get supplies but for now please keep sheltered in the shadows. You will be able to see and hear and smell the world around you but it is not ready to see or hear or smell your presence. They can’t understand you yet. Be wise my little ones we all have a lot of growing up to do.

Chapter Two

Day after day she went about her responsibilities. Each passing day she breathed them in and embraced them. Each one having unique personality; talents and skill sets were as individual as each child. She took it all in she grew in understanding. They missed her when she was at the big house working but she always came with water to refresh them. Water was their biggest thrill. During the long stint in the trunk the days were dry. They were so withered with neglect.
Each day came with the promise of play, but when? With the work that lasted well into the night. Sometimes just taking them supplies was playing in itself. Seeing the flesh coming back on the bone and the spark returning to their eyes gave her joy.

One evening she gathered them around the grand barn doors swung open wide. The moon was full and faces shone with eager wonder. They spoke of the games of youth; many she had never even heard of. Thirty three children all wanted to speak at once.

Georgia told about hop scotch and everyone chattered like so many starlings in a tree. Favorite hop scotch stones became a topic of much interest to them. Some liked them flat and smooth. They would keep them in the pocket and called them worry stones; rubbing them when the air was full of stress. Others liked it when the stone had weight to it so it would be easier to pick up while balancing on one leg. Some liked to count by two’s when time was short.

Rose was cunning with patty-cake she could induce the other into a race at break neck. Tongues would tie yet she would keep the pace. Rhythm was a joy to her. The sting of her hands made here feel alive and vital. Poetry was a power house and she could be the utility for a city. Words were a treasure. She could cut like a sword; or heal like a balm.

These are all games of childhood and mine is over now. How can I play like a child I am all worn out? I need others to help you now and risking that is a frightening thing. All of you will just stay this way without many more lessons that I am not equipped to give you.

What do they call you now, they asked her? I was once called Vivacious, I have even been known as tenacious. Once I was a White Raven but, they have just called me Donetta for a long time now.

It seems every time I tried to play something bad would happen. I was always told that it was my own fault. I could do nothing right, and I am angry about it! When ever I would even think of just letting go just relaxing for one minute as soon as she let her guard down some calamity would roll in. Nothing was different now it all sounded the same inside. As soon as the thought of letting go of diligence occurred, something would happen in my world.

When the children asked her why it took so log for her to search out the key, a pregnant pause left the air still and breathless. Her breadth has been held like that for so long it felt familiar and normal. Suffocating, she blurted out “I’m afraid they will find me if they hear you breathing.” Gasping she refused the fear and was provoked so that she choked. She held her own mouth so that the silence might keep her safe. You know this gets harder as you older she told them.

But... He's done nothing wrong.

Good Easter Morning to all of you.

I awoke before the dawn within a dream.

I was in a high powered office building. I had been at a conference table at the end. It was hard to hear the lead counsel for he was at the far end and I strained to listen. I found myself in the lobby looking for the rest room. I discovered by accident a seamstress boutique. I entered. It was wonderful. There was soft music playing and the fabrics were so beautiful. I stood and took it in. Then I was approached by the proprietor Who was very suspicious yet eager to please my money out of my pocket.
She lead me over to a group of ladies looking at fine silkens that were intended for bustia's and undergarments. I admired the fabrics rich texture and colors and then offered to share my knowledge of color analysis. The proprietor then refused such information and dismissed it as faulty knowledge she did not subscribe too, and walked away.
I again searched out to find a rest room and entered. In stream I looked up as she opened the door with her suspicious key. She began accusing me of thieving from her. I said that I just needed to relieve myself and that was all I was doing. She then called a man in to guard her and I was exposed innocent and embarrassed. Her accusations continued. I emptied my purse that was a very small, then and she opened the small lip gloss of ointment and polluted it with her touch.
Then she ruffed me up and proceeded to throw me out of her shop but she had taken my sewing machine and it was scattered on the ground as I learched to protected it the man and the other was damaging it. I called it my singer (however in real life I use a Phaff). It was not mine. I just thought it was in the dream.
Then I awoke. I was angry because I had done nothing wrong.

Those who have so much to lose will be threatened by our innocence. Just as they were by Christ Jesus. He had done nothing wrong. Look what they did to him. Only He did not open his mouth to defend himself.

I have been very angry. I had done nothing (?) wrong. Yet I am letting go of this house because we can not or choose not to afford to live here any longer. This is a fine luxurious home. Yet I have always felt deep inside that I did not really belong here and that it was temporary. I have been angry about the upheaval of my life. The loss of time with my children (who I had waited so long to have). Angry with God, who has done nothing wrong. Angry with my husband, who has done nothing wrong. Angry because I am suffering discomfort although temporary I grumble. I thought of those Israelites being let free from bondage and in their discomfort they grumbled! I do want to enter in to our promised land. I do not want to annoy my leader (in this case my husband) into utter frustration with me. I do not want him to miss out on entering in because I exasperate him to sin.
It is our dream, it is for us to reinvent ourselves into a life of what we honestly afford. A home without mortgage. A home that is an absolute privileged to even dream of owning, yet it is hard for the rich to enter into the kingdom of heaven...I am getting a little glimpse of what that might mean. Like the tax collector of Luke who gave away a third of all he owned and shared his wealth so it is that Mr Uncommon and I are doing. It is our way to give and yet for several years we have held our excess out of fear. When we lost our lucrative employment we also lost our open hand. We held back what we feared we may never again afford to own. We have made a choice to let go of this home to reinvent ourselves.
Let me tell you that this is no easy task. My flesh has risen within me full of anger at the inconvenience of it all. Although I have known that this home was only for a season, known this deeply within my spirit, I have resented leaving the luxury of it. I have grumbled and belly ached until my husband has hit "the rock" almost. I do not want him to miss entering in because of me.
It is a very hard thing for us to lower our selfs in status, in comfort. It is far easier to raise our selfs. It is the one who is at the lowest place at the table who has opportunity to be lifted to sit closer to counsel.
It is those who have much, who fear the loss of it. We are threatened by those who come in innocence for the suspicion of theft is everywhere.

Entering into the kingdom just might be the absence of such fear of loss.
In it might be the gain of caring more about the other person than to withhold who we are. It is in all these riches that I have closed down to the open handed life I once live and will surly live again.
People are drowning in the accumulation, that is what we are taught we are to do. Accumulate and archive the sure signs that we have arrived. What a target for my anger. That I was deceived into the trap of it. Now ...and now I am to let it all go. All the "Stuff" that took so much of my effort and energies to acquire. The stuff that gave me status. Boy when you stop to really look at it it is so sick and perverted. All of that stuff began to drown me. I was suffocating. I had cried out to God on more than one occasion to help me be free from so much stuff. Now I cry out in frustration because it is so hard to shed it!
He has done nothing wrong.
We are drowning. It is a journey to freedom to entering in to the freedom. The kingdom that I am being gifted with. It is not about me...It is about the kingdom. Freedom from the fear the consuming trend. For all around me the consuming is eating the people alive. Eating every waking moment with the greed for gain and status. It is a hard thing to let go of it too. My flesh has had fits over it. Fear of the loss of all the privileges is hard too (smaller yard, smaller house, older things, closer buildings and so on and on).
We are so very fortunate to make this choice while we are able.
I have to remind myself and convince myself. Egypt is not better it is just what I have known. The promised land is taken by force it takes a lot of effort!
So this Easter Morning perhaps it is for me to walk around those walls of "Jericho" and just keep walking around those walls until all those ancient foundations are loosened up enough so that on that perfect morning I can just blow those trumpets and watch that wall just fall to the ground. All those obstacles and images of everything that is not welcome in, are abolished in my life. It will be a clean city of hope and a land of freedom.
A promised land of life more abundantly.

To Mother of many

Dear Blessed Mother...
I have considered what little I know about your situation and this is what came to heart and to mind.

Of course this comes with some disclaimer (at my husbands insistence) as I am not a professional.

Here goes...
What first came to mind is that this has nothing to do with the item of food in question at all.
I saw a kid who possibly is relating to a food as a trigger to feel something "familiar". Some sort of something that is creating a possible sense of security or affiliation or playing out of a role of some kind.
The Other thing I suspect is a power struggle and a need for so sense of control to establish a sense of security and self hood. Perhaps if these things are not in place trying a technique like this...
Giving a choice of two things (within your peramiter you choose the two things) so she can have the self hood. This can begin with even the very simple of things like a choice in shampoo or a blue napkin or a white one. And reinforce it with "you make good choices". If any child is left without option they will struggle for it. Now this could be a deeply ingrained struggle for self hood never met.
For example if a kid who is abused and controlled and forced and made to do or be other than what is true to their own heart... they will look for provocation because it is scary to have life change rules mid stream.
If this sweet kid..."Militant" finds her security in that there are some things that can help her
every kid needs these basic 5 things. They are layer upon layer.
1. security
2. a sense of self
3. affiliation
4. mission
5. competency
This is what makes us able to be adults and not just "grown ups"
When these things are skewed and are attained in a twisted dysfunctional way then that way is what the kid will use to gain it, or the "grown up" will continue to use those methods even into adult hood. Self Esteem gets a bad rap in Churchianity because it is confused with pride or the ego centered on self. That is what happens if all stops and affiliation or a sense of belonging never occurs. this little girl is relating to you in a way that is in effort to gain an innate need. She is not Evil just messed up and broken. She is a good kid with a great heart that is terribly wounded. I do not know the child's age that is also a factor in the developmental milestones and delays. Regression is a common for those who have not developed but just survived.
It is so hard to explain in type I will comment and leave a way for you to contact me. I am not sure that what I am explaining is making the message I intend it to.

Inventing myself

Most children or perhaps at best many children experience the options that they may have for their adult lives. Some follow in the steps of a parent and never consider what they might choose, such a child is never given the choice. While others leave the decision up the the "all mighty dollar", for no one wants poverty. The whole of life is often centered around the fear of it ( poverty that is).
As a child the only thing I ever wanted was a home of my own. A place where I could be safe. Where someone would make sure I had my needs met for food and shelter in a loving atmosphere. That was the "big goal" I had for my future. I had a class in high school that opened the world of writing where the teacher was kind enough to let me sit out on the cement near the door. I had such severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that the class room was just too much. It was calm and safe there. I took a print shop class in high school it was more of a creative experience. I remember a science class that was very fascinating (biology) I got an A in it. Beside that I never really had much opportunity outside of school and working every other moment at the family gas station or at the house cooking and cleaning for my parents who worked 80 hour weeks. Just fed them and cleaned up after them.
Here I am 46 years old. I have spent the better part of 25 years+ making a home. Doing what I thought that meant. I decorated it with needle and thread and trinkets that were my best attempt at adding beauty. I have Made that safe home for myself and my husband and children. I had dreams of entertaining in it...but alas my husband is not to much for that. I had ideas of a garden and homemade subsistence...but alas the culture we live in does not bend itself too far toward that and it became very limited. As I dismantle the house that I spent years decorating and acquiring things for I see that I am removing myself from it. It is like I am putting myself , my old self into boxes and closing the lid only to wonder if I will still have want of those things in the future. My husband is loving the master suite that is cleared of nick knacks and such. He likes a few but we had too many. It is so much lighter somehow. Like a lifted weight but it still feels absent of me.
It is my attempt to create a naked home to be able to better market this one when the time come (and it is coming quickly) that we shall put it on the market for sale. I see how I am saying good buy to all those things I made often with just what I had on hand or was able to acquire at a discount. I am a grateful woman not one to be picky. I created beauty out of what was supplied me. I am left however to wonder who I am now. When I begin again will I reinvent me?
I wonder if I were to allow myself to ponder what I desire...who I desire to be and become will she be so much different than this me I am so familiar with?
In my youth I was re-invented out of trauma...Can I now be re-invented out of intent to BE?
What could that even look like. If I just was who I desire to be? I felt very lost this morning for a short time. I stayed in silence and prayed during the electric therapy on my neck. I asked lights out and just stayed quiet. I remembered that I am. I am a Vivacious, tenacious, White Raven! I am and I am who and what I desire. It is the desire that is within me from the design of my Creator.
I think it time to consider my design...more than just wanting a safe home, a Man that loves God... These things have come to be. I am a Mother...I am an artist in so many ways...Now it is time to begin to open myself up to the possibilities that await me.

An unwelcome guest.

There once was a woman who had been married several times with a long list of children by different biological fathers she again had conceived. Although she had had one daughter by the present husband the second child was not welcome. So much so that the fetus within heard a hell through the wall.
Today a friend posted about the rejection of the fetus in the womb.
During the time of gestation the woman and the man had drag out ,pull the shot gun blow out fights. One ended with my mother being kicked down the stairs with she was 9 months pregnant with me. That was how my entry into this world began. They raced in his car to the hospital and I was then born...Those first words spoken over me were such a curse. "Geesh such a fattie" and My god she sure is fat!" were the first words spoken over me. I spoiled their party.
Through a process of theophostic counseling I realized the message I heard loud and clear was that I spoiled their party. Well I should of been the honored guest. This took a lot of healing but once I saw why I tend to apologize for my existence it made a lot of sense.

I believe that our feelings in there pure form are a gift from the Creator.

Each having a purposed gift to it. When a feeling is appropriate you have...
Fear =wisdom to respond accordingly (fight /flight)
anger=strength to effect a solution
sorrow=healing by seeing the wound for what it is and grieving it (grief is a process).
guilt=amends, apologize identifying the error and owning it. Then change the way you respond in the future.
shame=a change in behavior (what you do) Knowing who you are is vital. A child of a loving God.
loneliness=reaching out to God and to others. Admitting that you can not do it alone. Learning to chose who you trust and who not to trust.

But under the authority of the perverse it is turned around to a harm...
Fear=terror or powerlessness. Inappropriate fear causes us to give our power over to another.
anger=violence getting the result by force.
sorrow=crushing, crippling wounding. The wounds that run so deep as to never surface to be healed.
guilt=rebellion or "I am bad verses What I did was bad" Can not own it or rejects the self and not the bad action.
shame=loss of self worth (shame of who you are verses what you have done)
loneliness=isolation from others with intent to punish.

This turning around of what was intended to make us dynamic causes a broken down mess.
When folks are a mess the gift is missing and all become human doings (apposed to the human being we are created to be).
Then occurs a triangle that is a prison.

The Rage triad

anger
fear of loss/or loss
inappropriate shame/or guilt

When you find yourself raging, your just stuck in feelings that are handicapped from a normal function. But this is a disability that can be turned into a normal ability with knowledge and skill.
By Identifying RAGE when it happens stepping back you then can identify

1. What your angry about so that you have the appropriate energy to change it

2. What it is that you are afraid of losing or what you lost and the wisdom to respond to it on purpose with appropriate intent. Letting go of the loss.

3. If it is shame, change a behavior. If it is guilt then make the appropriate amends.

When you do so the triad loses a corner and the rage is defused. It is a good trick to use when your being raged at too.

Life with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (P.T.S.D.)

Life with Post traumatic Stress Disorder PTSD

We know about this response to trauma because of our war veterans, but there are other kinds of veterans as well. We who survive, whether we overcome or not have a condition often that can really hinder us. Although we can see great progress in a life time it is still a "knee jerk" reaction that often can leave us "different".

Case in point

Beloved and I like to watch a show called "The Office" it is a sit com sorta true to life and very funny. It is also at times very poignant. We come together in his office after story time and just share an astonished glimpse into the mind of some very insightful writers and some very talented actors and actresses. It has always been a safe show with a few boarder line sometimes just over the line moments. Until the night before last. "The Beach episode"

The office team had a beach party with fire walking to try to make a point by the goofy lead character. The character Dwight decided to do the fire walk and try to acquire the bosses job, (the boss was to be promoted). In the scean Dwight stood in the coals and I just locked up. I managed to pull the blanket over my head in hopes that beloved would stop the show. Well Hubby was engrossed and did not see me. I could not make my voice work and I began to rock and was trying to sit it out then they began to scream and I just bolted out of the room seeing Dwight laying in the coals as I ran out of the room. Beloved was crushed that he did not see it. He knows what happened with Carolyn and the murder. It did not happen to him though so he is not effected in the same way I am. He is however very understanding.
We have within us a flight /fight mechanism. In a person with P.T.S.D. we sometimes loose that ability to govern that at will. I really hate it when my voice wont work. I cant speak and I can become unable to move. I become "The Stone One" that is what I always called myself. I just turn to stone. That night I ran, I RAN! that is so big (I have ran before), but there was a day when I just could not move!
I was able to stay present in the moment. Years back that trigger would of taken me right back to the murder scene. I had to go get in my bed and was not able to converse however for the rest of the night. Sorta "dear in the headlight" and very nauseous. I can't speak of my friend here. It was one of the last things I had to address in my recovery. I did contact the police in that town years after the fact. God is so merciful. Another witness my age had called and reported the same event that took place during the same time period in history. I wonder if it was the girlfriend who had made contact with me some months back. I'll maybe never know for she promptly stopped contact when I spoke of being abused she asked me why I did not do or say something and I told her how I was told they would hurt her. Whoever it was really took a great deal of courage. You see when evil is in the upper eshilons of a community it is a very powerful force. History untold will repeat itself.
Well I spent the day yesterday sorta locked up. I sat here and then tended to my son the rest of the day It took me several hours to let my shoulders down. Stress disorders are insidious! They effect every part of your life. The idea of trying to sell on ebay or etsy becomes bigger than life and the annoyance of it is frustrating to say the least.
P.T.S.D. is a very difficult thing to live with. You can gain more authority over it through kindness. Being kind to yourself and remembering that it is ""NO WONDER"" when you have an event really helps to reduce the stress. The hormones and chemicals produced through the adrenaline rush is exhaustive. Be kind to yourself.
I need to be very kind to myself.
My friend died by torture through fire a the hand of that bastard. She was a runaway who was trying to protect me, that night it was my turn on the stone table. She died trying to save me. I saw her murder...I try to do everything I can to stop seeing her murder.
Whenever someone burns on the TV or movie is is so hard for me. Hollywood likes to show those things and it is so hard to avoid it. So many things in life are horrid but I wish I could go through my life never seeing it again. I know that it will not be the case...but I wish those images would be invisible to me.

Those who have experienced torture or events too unspeakable need kindness.
You know what you should just be kind to everyone
for you never know who we are among you.
Be sensitive,
if you see me flinch
don't raise your hand at me...you know.

I just had to vent.

Guys I just had to vent.
I was too tired, angry over memory loss problems, and lonely for those who have passed on.
If I vent and grieve it does not mean I need a psyc.

Bob It just means I ran out of myself.
I have spent many a year with the support of a psychiatrist , meds and intervention. Not ashamed to go to one. I just needed to vent.
I needed to just let it out. I have been patient and thoughtful and forbearing and kind to a breaking point and I just hit that wall after a very frustrating day.