I’ve been diagnosed with “post traumatic stress disorder”.  I’ve always thought that there  were too many diagnosis for too many issues.  Hyperactivity became “ADHD”, Depressive Manic became “Bipolar Disorder”, and everything comes with a shiny little pill.  Currently my nightstand has so many amber colored bottles with white childproof lids that it looks like the bedside table of someone suffering from cancer.  I linked PTSD with brave men and women who came back from the war and saw things that no one should ever have to see in their lifetime.  What bravery have I exemplified that deserves such a diagnosis.  Someone died, I’ve been a single mom, struggling.  So have millions of other women, many have been through worse.

The pain I feel, however, is very real and sometimes it feels like I might explode.  I didn’t seek much help after the death of my daughters father, but I am trying after my fathers death.  I am alone in this town and no family left that talks to me except my mother and even she only speaks to me begrudgingly! I have no choice but to remain strong for my daughter, suicide is not an option, not even suicide by alcohol.  Somehow I have to find the strength to not just be here for her, but be present for her.  Happy, energetic, patient, loving, kind, compassionate and a teacher.  That’s one of the toughest things to muster up when you are so sad and lethargic that you can’t get out of bed, can’t leave the house.   I keep hearing, “you’re strong”, “you’re a good mom”, but if people knew the truth they wouldn’t say such kind things.  I can’t tell anyone my truth because no one wants to deal with someone who can’t handle their shit.  And right now, I’m not handling my shit.

I’ve always thought the opposite of myself, that I wasn’t strong, that I was too sensitive for this world.  I even tattooed the word “strength” on my wrist to conjure up the very thing I knew I was lacking.  I don’t even want to do my work anymore.  I do, but I can’t.  I need a change.  I need to get out of this retired town and retire in Henderson.  A place I felt at home.  Maybe it’s just close enough to Vegas to be invigorating, and far enough away to feel normal.  The sun shines.  I need more sun.  I’ve tried to find my tribe here and they are nowhere to be found.  God get me out of here before I go totally insane.  I’m not as strong as people seem to think.  I am a survivor, and it takes strength to survive, but no one can be very strong for very long being very alone.  Everyone needs their tribe.  Everyone needs their friends.

I’ve been using Tarot cards to connect with my guardian angels.  To get answers to pressing questions of the moment.  So I don’t feel so alone.  I swear, though, you can read anything into those things and I always seem to get the answers I need.  Or, who knows, maybe I really am connecting to my dad, my nana, to my great grandmother, maybe they are the only people I can talk to right now.  Whatever gets you through it, right?

So until I find my own strength again, I will find strength in the queen of wands, the hangman, the eight of swords, or whatever card I pull for any given day that makes me feel hope, that keeps me from the driving force I am feeling to hole myself up in my room and never leave my bed.300811f10e0c3c8c4b42a20c607a2fab




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