stigmatized and marginalized by consent

Who cares what Pope Francis thinks about anything? I thought I wanted to have a dialogue with him about what it meant to be a priest sex abuse survivor, but now I really do not care. I just do not.

He has his path and his followers and they are free to worship him or revere him or whatever. I do not.

I do not care about the Catholic Church’s view on this or that because it just feels so hollow and vacant. It is one more fallen woman who is out to get me and kill my soul. It is not a spotless bride and it was not for St. Francis of Assisi either. It was in need of repair then and now it is way beyond in desperate need. Who will care to rebuild?

I know not.

It is just one more devouring mother to me. It just wants to swallow me up and destroy me. My soul would be no more and it would just be collateral damage. Image is all and my demise is necessary to maintain the image of perfection and the ideal of the one true church of Jesus Christ.

That’s alright, I guess. Whatever.

I am gone and no one cares and that is good. They can maintain their sanctity of their exalted path.

Their faith is intact and that is good. I do not want to destroy anyone’s faith. I just want to not be devoured by their hypocritical self-righteous appetite for souls demise at the altar of their worship of men as gods–the priests who repeat the sins of the Pharisees. And the Lord Christ Jesus is crucified once again and again and again in the victims who have perished. These fallen priests are perfectly possessed and are the Devil incarnate just as Caiaphas was.

The Magisterium is but another Pharisaical parasitical body of ravening wolves, truly.

Stigma of desire for the Divine

Some time ago I began this blog on stigma as I felt guided by divine direction. That same divine direction accessed through a novena had urged me to become a Catholic, at long last. Why, would become apparent to me.

I often wondered why after that because mostly I have had a very difficult time being in a Catholic Church. That was not always the case. They used to be places of great peace for me.

All that changed when I became clear that my psychiatric disability began in earnest after being sexually abused by Father Miles Riley in Mission Dolores in 1976 when I was 17 years old. I had not faced that before nor the import of that reality. And then things got exquisitely worse when the new wave of sex abuse crisis in the Church flared up once again and only became more infernal as the inferno raged last summer and beyond into the present.

I have said to numerous psychiatrists and therapists over the years that my real diagnosis was an Electra Complex for God. So how did that all begin? Of course, with the abuse by the priest.

I really was searching for love from a Divine Father. I recently realized the sex and love addiction I have been in recovery from for some time really could only be healed by a Holy Spirit, the true Comforter. I did not want an unholy father’s lust and the only way to cure myself of that memory was to find a Power far greater than myself.

Enter the Our Father and cue the Hail Mary for an holy Mother who could love me instead of an ill mother I had an incestuous relationship with when as a young child. This made the Catholic Church even more toxic to me because I was not going to stand for another sick mother abusing me sexually. I just was not and it was not healthy to remain in it. I just exited.

The holy rosary remains my touchstone of something holy in my life. I can surrender all my strange desires and weird longings and they just can go away. They just can and they can be transformed.

I become non-functional after attending a Catholic Church now and have for some time. I shut down and can hardly get even the most basic daily living tasks completed and my equine service animal cared for properly, who is also a treasured friend, heaven sent. My place is still a horrible mess, although not as bad as it was.

Why do I keep wanting to go back? Because I am a muckraker and that is the biggest mess on the planet by far. It just is. And I have no way to fix it because I have my own personal Hell of a mess which defies my attempts to order it.

So, today is a very significant day in the Church and for me also. It is day of consecration (and for me a reconsecration to the Blessed Mother) I do not know what the Lord has planned for me in the future but I can honestly say that for right now, this moment I know I am still called to be a reporter in some capacity.

I can report that I remain a handicapped reporter, unable to handle the war zone because I still have shrapnel embedded in my brain and am on life support. No one sees it that way but it takes everything I have to just minimally function and my functioning is not up to par because if the inspection were to happen today, I would fail.

I am determined to get myself out of the mess I am in. The Catholic Church is but one mess. The main one is the violation of my trust by the trustee and it handicaps me in a far worse way. I have become a source of income and a “mark” for the trustee, my brother, and his wife. I had tried everything I could to force them to do the right thing and obey the law and it did not work and it infuriated me to no end.

My psychiatrist said that the trustee’s machinations have only made my recovery stronger. I realized that I had to be able to live with him and anyone doing unspeakably awful things and trying to destroy every aspect of my recovery, steal from me and my trust and still be alright. And I got to that point. I realized it was my codependency that made me think I could make others do the right thing if only I did–whatever. I cannot.

Same with the Catholic Church and ditto for everything and everyone. I admit to my powerlessness over others.

And now I find I want to start writing my blog on stigma about being a Muslim reporter who is handicapped and a recovering addict with psychiatric illness and a brain injury. It’s true. I may be the worst combination of attributes of any reporter on the planet. Who wants this mess as a muckraker?

I’d like to show up at Mass in a burka and at a lot of Christian churches and see just what they’d do. I do not know if I have the guts because I really do not want to be lynched and I could easily be. I have often thought that the Lord Christ might in His Second Coming come as a Saudi prince and see how He is received by the so-called Christians. It would definitely test their discernment. I am not sure many would pass that kind of test. I could be wrong.

How about covering the White House and getting a press pass with that set of qualities? The truth is, I have been a Muslim since High School, just not really a practicing one. It was the first religion I believed in. My first elective in public high school was Muslim-Hindu Worlds (then called Moslem-Hindu Worlds) and our teacher was definitely not a Muslim and just taught us the facts of the religions. She said that if you can say and believe “there is no God but Allah and Mohammed is His Prophet” you are a Muslim. I said to myself, well I must be a Muslim because I believe that and so it was and remains.

After that I started to draw designs that looked like the ones in Mosques in ceramics and on paper. It was not so much a faith as an aesthetic. I did not do the practices that are called upon. In my last year of high school when I attended Sacred Heart High School and took a Comparative Religions course and we studied all the major source-books of the major religions, I read a bit of the Holy Quran. At that point I had come to believe in Jesus Christ and loved reading about Catholic saints, but I wanted to join an ashram and be a renunciant. Saints of all religions were honored there.

I do not know that anyone has expressed more beautifully his knowledge of the Christ than in these lines:

“I am a hole in a flute/which the Christ’s breath flows through/ listen to this music”

Thank you Hafiz, Muslim Sufi mystical poet for the most beautiful tribute to the Messiah I have ever encountered.

Namaste.

 

Stigmatized for a reason

Thank You, O G-d that you have given all of us a Guardian Angel so no matter how rotten a person we are, we always will have a friend and advocate. That is such a tremendous blessing!

There is a good reason I live in solitude and it lies within me, in the enemy within. I am in mortal combat with it 24/7. That is reality. What it takes for me to have even the semblance of recovery I do have is beyond comprehension. That is not to my credit at all. And I fully understand why it would repel all humanity.

And it does. And I am alright with that fact, for fact it is.

That is why I celebrate today. Today was the day River Island was born, known as Jack. He perished for a reason beyond my comprehension but part of it is because I went crazy and was unable to get him to a safe place. I now have to own that fact.

I was warned through awful premonitions and I tried to stop it but I could not because I was relying on people. That was my mistake and it was a big one.

Instead of losing my mind, I needed to just focus all my energy on getting him out of there, like another did with her mare, who is alive. She is a far better person than I am in many, if not most, ways. And Jack paid the price for my losing it and not having anyone I could turn to, as she did. I have to face my deficiency as a human being and I am.

Now I have learned to turn to the holy rosary, the Surrender Rosary when I have living, waking nightmares. And I take action to remove myself from the impending disaster or I report it. And I can and have been wrong, but I still will report it to whatever authority is in charge and they can check into the reality. And they do. And that gives me great peace because first responders really are trained to deal with anyone and everyone.

And now if Mel or I am at risk, I do not lose it so easily. I did last Fall but that was because I made the mistake of eating in a restaurant where the veggie burrito set off an inflammatory response and the first site affected in me is my brain. I lost it, but I learned I am not going to eat in restaurants now. I just won’t. That is A-Okay with me. It is a small price to pay for not descending into a hellish waking nightmare and scaring others with it and believing a lie.

I am learning how to adjust my life to my limits and one of those is my blood sugar level. I thought I was past low blood sugar but I found I am not, especially when under stress, which is all the time because I am so driven to get myself out of the bondage and abuse I am under. I have to be smart about it, though.

The most important thing is for me not to lose my harmony no matter how much my chain is yanked. That is what recovery looks like for me. I have to realize as a person how powerless this soul is over others. And for me, true justice looks like having seemingly totally unjust situations in my life not faze me. They are what they are.

Karma is real and all reap what they sow. It is written, Vengeance is mine saith the LORD, I will repay. I love to ask for the full-gathered momentum of G-d’s judgement upon me, personally and only me. That is what gives me peace and comfort.

My Guardian Angel who rides and is one with Jack, is my friend. Solitude is my soul’s etude or study. And I am learning that to be alone by oneself is a blessing because I am being stripped of my codependency and covert narcissism where I think that if I try to fix others then someday someone will help me and heal me who is not paid to do so. That is a sick, controlling way to live and it does not work. And all the world bears witness to it.

And that is the lesson humanity has taught me. And it is making me realize that I can really put G-d first because I do, finally.

He put Jack in my life, and now Mel, and in order to have them well, I have to step up to the plate because I cannot do it without Him. I just cannot. So, I have to “let go and Let G-d” and know that I have done my best and it is not enough, ever. But both Mel and Jack are in G-d’s Hands and He will not forget them and what their big hearts do and have done just by existing. And the love is real. It is just is and that is justice to me. That that love does not leave me, no matter what others do or say, that’s what recovery is to me.

Happy Birthday Jack! You are still the best therapist ever….Namaste.

stigma blog on a day of remembrance….

Today is St. George’s Day and the dragon is slain, in theory. What does that look like for me?

Everyone’s ego still struts. And I will never get an apology, yet I am blessed because “rejection is God’s protection.”

I lost my recovery that day and I had already lost my mind. I thought that all love in my world died with Jack’s death. It seemed like it did.

That’s what they wanted. Or so it seemed to me. I thought they were trying to get me to take my own life after they discovered I had not done so as they reported to others. I do not really know.

They’ve all got their lives and their freedom from me. That’s the way it should be. There’s not a single one of them that I want to be around. I can and do pray for them because I am supposed to “love my enemies.” It is still quite a stretch and I will never qualify as a saint.

I force myself to learn how to love them. And the best I can come up with is that I do forgive them all and they all have their freedom to follow their bliss.

I can address them directly now here. Ride on, dear enemies….I love you so much because you have taught me the best lesson of all. I am free of you, too, because I forgive you and I am not tied to you anymore. You can continue to deny reality and I get to write about being the worst case of stigma against a mentally ill person the then-director of the state’s largest mental health center and my then-psychiatrist has ever seen. And most of all, I get to choose not to become what you said I was.

Yes, I was mad for a very long time. Now I am just driven to run away from you and not look back–ever. That’s what Thoroughbreds have taught me:  running brings bliss.

Have a great life…or not–it’s up to you. You get to choose because mine is blessed with a mission now. I get to reach for the mark of the high calling in Him and hope to be able to ride with Him and for Him. Now I know I do because He is in the center of my life and my heart.

There is no greater trainer than the Faithful and True. Either He is on the throne of each one’s heart or the ego is. And I know for sure it is an epic battle to keep that ego chained so it’s slain in me. Whatever you do, fine.

You can live your mythic lives. Mine is focused on one goal.

I want to be wedded to the Truth forever. I am over trying to fix People of the Lie. Completely and totally. That is His job, not mine.

Bloated and self-satisfied you can remain as inebriated as you want. It’s not my business. I did not cause it. I can’t fix it. and I can’t control it–your sickness.

I learned a lot from you. Mostly, I know what kind of equestrian I do not want to be. And I will write about what I discover in how to recover by moving on. And maybe I will get better…leaving you makes that true already…Thank goodness!

Stigma blog: Off-The-Wall–a Street Survival Journal (8-11-18) forwarded to State Representative

Assigned the task of advocating for special needs trust recipients, I begin this journal of my off-the-wall crazy financial situation. I hope it will be used to make changes in the laws for special needs trusts. Here’s a scenario why:

A person with Down’s Syndrome has a Special Needs Trust and she needs her insulin ASAP but the trustee has refused to pay the health insurance and she can’t get the insulin. Her diabetic coma is ignored and she cannot call 911 because the trustee doesn’t want her to have a phone. If she dies, all her trust money goes to his kids.

He has a history of theft, but no criminal record because the family did not want the shame of calling him to task legally. They thought he grew out of his youthful larceny. They were wrong. The millions he was tasked to manage were too much of a temptation. She dies with no advocate and her life is forgotten. She was disabled but with assets and so was the biggest mark of all. No group advocates for her because she is a person of means and so has it all, in theory–she never has to work and her parents provided for her and she was left millions.

She was, however, a sitting duck for the modern-day Cain who lusted after the Dis-Abeled (sic) sibling. And she was slain for her assets because no one cared enough.

This is fiction, but it could well happen and probably has with some variation on this theme, because there are no checks and balances, nothing to stop unethical trustees who are not professionals in financial management firms from getting away with abuse and neglect and worse. Who would investigate her death? Who would care?

Indeed, who?

I propose street-smart laws to keep in check the white collar criminals who can get away with murder, potentially. I am going to have a contest to see what institutions care for those with special needs and write about what I find because I myself am in a fiscal crisis that is engineered by an untrustworthy trustee. The places that help will get future business from people of wealth who want to be sure the above situation never happens to their loved one. So, game on!

The first prize goes to Montana Governor Bullock who answered my plea for help with an email the very next day. He has a mission to get the State and the country back to work and I am in Vocational Rehabilitation and am determined to work again. So, kudos to Gov. Bullock and I hope and pray to be able to find a way to use my training in writing to effect change. It takes someone who has some street experience in navigating these landmines, and I do qualify for that task. I’ve lived through homelessness and yet am determined not just to survive but to thrive, Go-d willing…

And so begins this oddity of a Homeric, epic quest to get my own financial house in order and drive out the money-changers all at the same time…it’s time for a sea-change, indeed…All aboard this ship of foolishness–necessity is the mother of legal intervention in the dire straits of perilous trusts sans protection for the innocent marks…Ahoy!

stigmatized anonymous–brain injured

The Crown of Thorns pierced His Head. “Let that mind be in (me) which was also in Christ Jesus,” it is written. How did He manage with that particular pain?

He was tortured and beaten a killed without good reason. He was hated and despised, but He did not go mad or become violent. How did He do it?

Being homeless did not faze Him either. He was able to provide for all His needs and for others, too, feeding 5,000 people from a few loaves and fishes and changing water into wine at the behest of His Mother for a wedding.

He did not want His Mother to be homeless, though, and while He was on the Cross, He gave John the Beloved the task of taking care of her.

What would Jesus do about my neighbor Amanda who lost one-third of her brain to cancer surgery and the rest of it is slowly dying because of radiation and now she is being evicted because—why? I do not know the whole story at all. What I do know has me sleepless right now because we are going to be inspected soon and I too could be evicted.

I have made some progress in tidying my place. I have put the books in bookshelves of sorts, as the manager said I needed to work on getting my books in bookshelves and my tubs full of papers sorted. I saved some grocery store boxes and stood them on their sides and stuck the books in them. The papers are much harder to deal with because I have to go through each one and it takes me forever.

I used to be really good at filing papers and I still have in storage my files from college, which contain my writings. Unfortunately I threw out my file on Afghanistan when my mother came to move me and called herself “the great motivator” in getting me to clean house. My file on Afghanistan was mostly from when I was at Stanford and typed on my portable typewriter a number of letters to the editors of various newspapers, including the Wall Street Journal imploring them to help the freedom fighters. I received a reply from the editor of the Journal and I wish I still had it. It meant a lot to me. I tossed the whole file because I was under pressure from my mother and not really thinking clearly and did not ever think I would write again.

Why, when I clean house, do memories of abuse surface? This is what makes me avoid it as much as I can. I told Amanda the other day that when I was cleaning it brought back memories of rapes. I am sure she did not need to hear that but it came out of my mouth.

Every time I have been homeless, I eventually get raped. These inspections always have the threat of eviction with them for me and eviction means homelessness in my mind, which is not exactly a sound mind right now.

Lord, help Amanda get help as well as myself and all who need help. Please give us peace of mind that You will not abandon us in our hour of need. Thank You! Amen.

 

 

stigma blog–in memory of a feline friend

Diesel was a feline professor of love. I miss him so much.

When I would arrive at the Ranch, he would come and greet me with his incessant meows, wanting to be fed, yes, but he loved attention. I am not a particularly lovable person to other people. I know that and I accept that as a reality. I can live with it.

I have a deep mistrust exacerbated by extensive trauma and no doubt people pick up on that fact. Somehow, Diesel saw past that and made sure he said hello to me every day. I tried not to become too close to him at first because I still carried the grief of losing my feline friends in a horrible barn fire from the past. I used to give them fresh water every day and switch out the frozen water for that which was room temperature from the heated office. They would greet me and meow for the water. I really loved them.

I could not handle losing them and so many others. I really could not.

My doctor at Warm Springs State Psychiatric Hospital said I would only really mourn the devastating loss fully with another horse. That was true. I only came close to dealing with the grief with another person who was half horse himself–a veterinarian/chiropractor who knew my beloved equine partner well. I broke down in front of him but never around any other human being.

It took Mel coming into my life to have a partner in grieving because he was so saddened by the separation of no longer living and racing with his friend. He’d lost his last race, too. I just hung out with him at his off-season home for a while. And I was able to cry. He understood.

Where we were going had no cats because the Akitas at the barn killed cats. It was only much later at a Ranch where I encountered Diesel. He really was the best-natured cat I have ever known. When he was with the vet, he would just purr and be sweet no matter what she would do to him. We could spray medicine in his eye to treat it and he would not claw or bite.

He was a fantastic mouser and even caught mice just to give them to the pregnant cat Premium who was always hungry. He was totally gregarious and loved attention, except he would leave if small children came around. I was sure he’d been harassed by one at some point.

He had gotten quite portly because he’d convinced people that he was famished when they would come in the tack room and they’d feed him. Sometimes five people would feed him in a day. He was quite the operator.

One day he almost was caught by an eagle, I was told. I decided to take him to the vet and have him evaluated and prescribed a regime that would get him to an ideal weight where he would survive and thrive and be able to get out of eagles’ crosshairs quickly.

He did and he moved beautifully and was able to jump up on fence posts easily once again. Dr. Tierney thought he was 13 years old. He’d been diagnosed with a heart murmur before but then she said after his new regime she could barely hear the murmur and that most vet school students would not be able to detect it now.

I fed him some Wachter’s Sea Meal, too, when his coat started to looked washed out and it grew back fully black and shiny again. Others remarked to me how well he looked.

He used to follow me around as I was doing chores at the barn. He loved to hang out in Mel’s paddock, too. When I would go into Mel’s shed and pray the rosary, Diesel liked to sit on my lap and be petted with his Diesel engine purring.

When I left, I had premonitions of something bad happening to him, but then I was not in my right mind and had been wrong about Dr. Mark in my living, waking nightmare, too. I wished I was wrong about Diesel, also.

They said he disappeared when I left. The rosary I said each day with Mel must have helped him, too. I would never have thought that I mattered that much to him. I wish there was something I could do now. He’s gone perhaps forever, but the Lord knows where he is and I know He cares. Diesel taught me with his incessant meowing to persevere in praying. I know that his feline heart is loved by the Sacred Heart and I hope he is on His lap purring because the Lord could use a faithful friend now. They don’t come any better than Diesel. He bore witness of his Creator,  and professed that God of Love, truly.

Stigma of solitude: Christmas blessing–alone and yet not

When all seems to be a blizzard of chaos, it is time to rejoice. The first Christmas was not nice and settled with cheery decorations and festivities. The stable birthplace was not a sought-after destination. It was an hardly ideal setting to give birth.

They were an holy family, though, and they did not bemoan the circumstances. Their priority was fulfilling duty and preserving life, not looking for presents and worldly acclaim.

What should it matter to me then if Christmas is a time of utter solitude? I had animals around for a bit, and I was able to ride. It was a lovely ride, really, and I was able to repeat the mantra, “In the Name of Jesus Christ, peace be still, peace be still, peace be still, peace be still” as a way to bring peace to Earth while on a Splendid High.

In meditation, I had really felt the Holy Child in the manger of my heart. He was truly there and I felt His peace.

I did not have any face-to-face contact with another human being that day and I did not have to, either, to be alright. I heard no other person’s voice at all. It was not planned that way, but that was how it worked out. And I did not despair. Although Church was off-limits for me because I just become nearly non-functional after attending, I survived. I had the best Christmas ever, really. He was safe in my heart and no one could harm Him there.

He could remain an innocent Manchild without being abused or made to be a source of income. My place was not prepared. It was and remains a disaster of epic proportions. It is and was filled with hours and hours of prayers, though, because that is what it takes to keep me safe in recovery each day and to have a stable enough heart to receive Him.

He was present and He is and was the only Present needed. And He is more than enough. He is the best Gift ever. Why would I even need another present at Christmas? I didn’t and I don’t. And that was the best blessing of all.

A counselor once said that the aged residents she visited at the nursing home were often in despair, that no one visited them. She told our group that we ought to learn how to be alright by ourselves, to prepare to be able to cope with that possibility.

I have learned that lesson. And I am at peace with that reality in my life. Nothing is open on Christmas in the small rural town I live except bars. I have not the slightest interest in them, in general.

People are with friends and family and they have their special get-togethers. In truth, I really did want to fast on bread and water that day and spend most of the day praying. I had a real chance to become closer to Him and for much of the day, I had to pray my way through the heavy weight upon me. But the blessing came in meditation and later while at the stable, with a Splendid High, also known as Mel. He enjoyed his bran mash with applesauce and molasses and he greeted me with a nicker.

All was well in my world, as well as his. We prayed the rosary together, as we do each day. And we celebrated the birth of our Saviour in a barn, as I dredged out his manger from the dusty remains he does not like to inhale. And we could both breathe freely in the sacred space of the stable. As is said, “the world needs a stable influence” and I agree. The most important part, though, is a stable heart, where there is room enough for Him. Then there is peace there and with it comes joy to dispel all gloom of not being part of whatever others are doing in eating, drinking and making merry…What a blessed lesson to learn!