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My therapist Lee, is on vacation.  I didn’t I think it would bother me really not seeing as I have so many walls up and don’t share a whole lot of my feelings in my sessions.  I tend to speak about mundane things and not dig too deep.   I mean, I do talk about my mom and my grief and how hard it is to have my son gone.    I keep my feelings safely bottled up behind walls because of what happened before.  You may read that about that here:

Yer Fired!  

I sometimes feel like the floodwaters of emotions have risen too high inside me and the dam will break soon.  So many feelings have been percolating in her absence.   I must have felt some degree of safety in just sitting in her bland and  non-descript office.

I found myself walking through WalMart mindlessly going up and down each aisle looking for something to buy, even though I didn’t really need anything.   Just to I’m not sure, maybe get my mind off of my feelings? Like that one magic item could bring me a piece of transient joy, if only for a moment.  But search as I may it remained elusive.  It felt like I was shopping for comfort.  As if there is a hole in me, a friend I have lost who was dear to me has left a space I cannot fill and I was trying to fill it with a purchase?  How strange yet true.

Well just slip me in a straight jacket now.  So many losses makes me want to insulate more! So I can’t get close to anybody, then I can’t lose anyone anymore.

The last time I can remember feeling happy I was six years old.   First grade.   It was my second year of school following kindergarten  and I was so excited to learn.


Photo:  me first grade 

Things in my home began declining from then on.  Other than short periods of calm or transient periods of fun,  I haven’t been truly happy since around this age.  It feels like it’s been a three-ring-shit show ever since.

All I know is, deep down inside of me there is a burgeoning sense of change.  Of self-love.   It is never too late to start over.  It’s never too late to be the person you could have been.  It’s not too late for me!!!


Rest with Jesus

Rest in Peace,  Aretha Louise Franklin ❤️



The Lost Gnostic Gospel of St. Thomas: Heresy or Holy?


Photo:                                                      Pompeo Batoni -The Crucifixion 1762

In 1945 in a Village in Nag Hammadi, Egypt; a peasant stumbled upon an amazing find while searching for fertilizer for his crops. Buried inside an earthen vessel lay 13 ancient codices containing 50 papyrus texts that had been buried and once thought lost and destroyed to the world forever.
“Whoever finds the meaning of these words will not taste death.”

These texts once translated several times over, are now understood to be the early Christian struggle to define “orthodoxy” — scriptures such as the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Philip, and the Gospel of Truth.

The documents have been scientifically authenticated to be carbon dated to the time period in question. The author(s) considered themselves to be Christians however relied upon and often referenced the Greek Philosopher Plato. The documents were rejected by the Church as Heretic.

I have read 3 translations of the documents and they do parallel a good deal of that which is contained in the Synoptic Gospels.

Is this another case of the Church that Absolute Power Corrupted Absolutely?

Were they trying to suppress ideas that were counter to the other four established Cannonical Gospels in order to make a round peg fit into a square hole so they could keep their version of events? their propaganda spinning?

Or was it indeed a rogue counter-culture religious sect trying to pass on their twisted version of a “time capsule” they wanted to leave behind?

Where does the Truth lie?

78, 79, 80 Hike!!!

1978- Dr. Hook -Sharing the Night Together

1979- Poco-Crazy Love

1978- Ambrosia- How Much I Feel

1980- Robbie Dupree- Steal Away

1979- Cliff Richard- We Don’t Talk Anymore

Into the Mystic✨🌙

The Manchurian Candidate

“Do you realize, Comrade, the implications of the weapon that has been placed at your disposal?……His brain has not only been washed, as they say, it’s been dry-cleaned.”
Doctor Yen Lo
The Manchurian Candidate (1962)
It had always been the thrill of the chase where I got my adrenaline rush.  If I could have easily attracted a man, I didn’t want him. It was always that forbidden fruit, the one that was just out of reach was the one I wanted.  The distant, distracted, “hard-to-get”, down right disinterested guy.  Now that was my candidate.  That’s where I used to set my sights.
A man’s intellectual complexity always  piques my interest, however it’s the power exchange that kept it.  How boring indeed would it be to color neatly in the lines, follow all the rules.   Ah, but to attempt a coup d’etat! To usurp the power.  And that’s what I always had done.
Our brain is the largest sex organ we own.
The mind fuck had been at the center of what drew me to D/s.  It needs to be stated that for my mind to be tapped into, I knew I would need to find a worthy adversary.  A Dominant I surmised, that could perhaps surpass my own intellect and psychological savoir faire.  A Napalm lover that had the power to blow my fucking mind with the possibility of me sustaining damage drew me like a moth to a flame.
Back when I was living the lifestyle, I was surrounded by a community of people who believed that BDSM was some kind of higher evolution.  That the lifestyle was a more evolved way of being.  Practically proclaiming to be near the pinnacle of Maslow’s hierarchy of self-actualization for fucks sake.   That through the lifestyle, a “deeper” level of intimacy and trust can be achieved; a richer bonding experience takes place than in a standard “vanilla” relationship can possibly bring to fruition.   Almost sounded cult-y if you weren’t already entrenched in it.
It took me a few years on a therapist couch to discover that most of these blokes are re-enacting their own trauma histories, myself included.   Most of the Dominants  I find, have childhoods riddled with victimization of merciless bullying at the hands of their peers and/or sadistic caregivers.  I also found that most Dominants have major control issues which is why they need to be the one in the position of power wielding the crop, cane, flogger, or paddle.  You won’t find them being hog-tied, bound, or otherwise put into a position where they will be made vulnerable.  Submissives paradoxically, are the ones who are more inherently dominant, they are the ones who are more risk takers, able to be bound, caged, suspended, lit on fire, clamped, whipped et cetera.   It’s not about trust, they have brass balls.
But knowing all this information is useless.
Recently at 3:00 AM on a quiet evening while watching TV, I received an unexpected text on my social media account from my ex-Dom years after he dumped me.   “ How about passing the time by playing a little solitaire?
Although his question differed it  activated me in the same way as Raymond Shaw.  Hypnotically,  I began to pinch my nipples hard and tug at them over and over, the way he used to, until my pussy was dripping wet.  When I could bear no more I grabbed my dildo and in doing so  I instantly became his whore once again.  Screaming in pain, screaming in bliss, screaming to no one but the empty space around me as I came, just as he taught me to do.
Maybe my brain has been dry cleaned.
Where are those dudes who grab you in the middle of the night and throw you in a van to an undisclosed location to de-program you?  Oh yeah, that was the 70’s.  Nowadays you go and talk to a therapist about your feelings and sit with the distress and Linehan your way through life.
Shit, nothing says lovin’ like hired goons.   And it sounds so much fucking easier than sitting with this shame.




It’s been a little over six months since my mom passed away.   My sister and I went through her clothing rapidly and put them into bags because her husband was threatening to donate them to a local church.   We wanted to go through them. We wanted to be able to have something to remember her by.  My sister lives halfway across the United States from me.  So it was agreed that I would take them home with me so they wouldn’t be lost and go through them at a later time.

They have been sitting in those same bags ever since.   Every so often I take out some of her pajamas, especially the ones she had just worn once, the week before she died, out of the bag and just hold them close and smell them.

I burst into tears because they smell just like my mom.  It’s like she’s almost still here, in a way.

My sister is in town this week and wants to go through the clothing.  Realistically, some of my moms clothes I would never wear.  I mean, we just didn’t have the same taste in clothing.  It’s the process of giving up yet another piece of her, another little bit of what’s left of her that I dread.

I don’t feel ready.

My sister should be given an opportunity to take some things of my mom.  My mom would want her things to be donated because she was like that.  Charitable, giving, generous, kind.

So I feel very selfish not wanting to face this.   I feel cowardly.  More so because my mom faced the disease of ALS she got sentenced with, the most treacherous disease I have ever witnessed,  with grace and courage. Yet, I cannot part with her pajamas.

I wonder what is wrong with me.  Where is my courage?  I wonder if I can ever be even a fraction of the amazing woman my mom was?  I miss her so much.

As the house was quiet 3 nights ago, I felt the little girl inside me who missed her mom, just for a moment fully feel the realization that her mom is never coming back.  It felt as if I had been left on a street corner all alone and I felt as if I was only about 2 years old.   Strange to say I know.   This pain rose up in me from a place I didn’t know existed and I just wailed.   I cried and cried.  A sorrow I have never felt before, a sorrow I wouldn’t wish on anyone.  Alone with this sorrow as the whole house slept.   No one to comfort me, but me.

The existential loneliness which has plagued me my whole life,  I feel it more deeply now than ever.


Every one who

has been cheated on will go through Kubler Ross’s 5 stages of grief:

1. Denial 

2. Anger 

3. Bargaining 

4. Depression  

5. Acceptance

What the good doctors fail to mention in the beginning, is that you may not go through them in this exact order or that once you feel like you have arrived at some sort of “acceptance,”

there will inevitably be something that will send you into an emotional tailspin on some idle Tuesday that you never saw coming, which sends you back to the beginning to repeat them.

Rinse. Wash.  Repeat…..

Like say a stranger’s number that you don’t know suddenly rings on his phone.  He doesn’t pick it up.  You later Google the shit out of and reverse look-up said number until you find out that it’s a telemarketer or some shit.   And that’s a “good” outcome.  When you can’t find a solid lead for the number in question, you begin to have a panic attack thinking it’s happening again, but knowing you’re supposed to take it on “faith” that it’s just a wrong number and that it’s not a new woman he may hiding.  But what’s faith when you’re running on empty? Ha!

Or I dunno.   You may see him minimize the pc screen when you walk into the room and ask,”what are you up to?” and he just powers it off and says “oh nothing much just checking my email.” and there’s a part of you that wants to yell “ you lying fucking bastard! You were fucking talking to someone weren’t you?!!” 

And you know it’s the wrong thing to do and that you will be perceived as bat-shit crazy, but you can’t help it.  So you do scream because seeing him minimize the screen triggers in you, the time you found emails from him and the mistress of the week.  Suddenly, you are flashing back to the crap he did, it’s dancing ‘round your head but you just can’t purge.


You may find yourself playing Crouching Tiger Hidden Woman in the bushes stalking his ass because he said he’d be at the blah blah place and you don’t 100% believe it.  Oh but you swore you’d never be one of “those girls” who do that sordid craziness.  But there you, are donning your best black ninja clothes and sneaking stealthfully up to said establishment to have a look.   At times you may even borrow a handy girlfriend or two to help you follow his car to do a bit of picket surveillance.  Mark out the choke points and bing bang boom, operation “Balls-to-theWall.”

Yeah, shit like that.

There will also, be moments where you will come into your own power.   Gone will be the meek woman who used to take some shit you may have before.

Nah.   This stuff.  This stuff builds brass balls.  Something in you that develops that wasn’t there before; a new sort of person.  That girl you were before?  is gone.

Like it or not.

And once it happens…. oh girl? Look out.  You’ll know it because you will be able to sing this anthem and identity with it somehow.  It just seems to resonate in a way it didn’t before.

You’ll watch and say privately,

“that’s right mutha-fuckah!



Processing — A Couples Journey of Recovery from Sex Addiction

We hear a lot about processing, but what does this mean in terms of infidelity? It means: Sitting in the pain and allowing yourself to really feel it (but please don’t stay too long) Thinking about the acts and visualizing what they did Looking at your partner in disgust Looking at your partner with compassion […]

via Processing — A Couples Journey of Recovery from Sex Addiction

This blog blew me away because I went through every single thing she has listed when I was processing the trauma of the multiple infidelities I have been through.  Brilliant post!!! Many thanks to Spouse of a Sex Addict ❤️

420 friendly



The first joint I ever smoked was around 13.   My brother sold it to me for a dollar, cut-rate seeing it was in the family and all.  It was on the day I received the Sacrament of Confirmation.  I was stoned.  I smoked before I went to church.  When I went up to the alter, the Bishop leaned in and whispered,”you have a wonderful mother Mary.”  I felt paranoid wondering how he knew my mother’s first name.  It took a day or so to realize he meant the Blessed Virgin Mary.   Of course he didn’t know my mom.  hello…

My brother used to grow the pot in our backyard behind the shed and rapid dry it in the microwave when our parents weren’t home.  My mother would have never been able to distinguish it from any of the other weeds growing behind the shed.  Then again she never traversed that area for anything.  It got the right amount of sunlight and shade making it perfect growing conditions.

When my parents went away out to dinner or for a weekend, we’d sit around the kitchen table all four of us siblings.  I was only about ten when that operation started.  I was donned “stem girl” as the name so implied.  The pile of pot started with my brother who then pushed my way to pick the stems out, then I passed it to my sister a year older than me “seed girl”, she’d push it over to my older brother who would place the right sized clump on the rolling paper and then he’d push it to my oldest brother who’d lick it into the finished blunt.   Then we’d all file into the back of his Chevy Nova and he’s spark it up.  We had no particular destination, just drove around til it was smoked.  Although I never smoked it, I certainly got a contact high from all the smoke and fumes.

I saw my first 8-ball at around ten as well.  White powder on a mirror with my brother’s friends with a 20 dollar bill up their nose.  I watched with morbid curiosity as he yelled for me to go back upstairs.   When my parents came home I told them what I saw.   It was completely innocent, not snitching as I truly didn’t know what to make of it.  He got sent to some juvenile rehab where we had to drive to visit him on Sundays and he had to earn points to come home for a visit.  When he finally did come home, in the dead of night where my muffled screams couldn’t be heard, I paid a very dear, price for opening my mouth.  And I didn’t know it then but I would continue to pay a price.

The one advantage of having older brothers was they could buy booze for me at the package store, which is what they did.  I tended to but a liter of vodka, a liter of rum, and then a couple of 1/2 pints of Buttercotch Schnapps or Peachtree Schnapps.   The half pints were easier to hide.  I also bought a dime bag of weed at a cut-rate from my brother.   I started smoking cigarettes because all my siblings did.

My high school years are a haze of black-outs and a two times of alcohol poisoning.   I could drink most of the football team under the table and for some reason I felt proud of that.  It was always important that I not be perceived as weak.  Maybe because my sister who was a year older and stronger than me, was throwing me up against the wall at home to intimidate me could easily kick my ass….  at least outside the house, I wanted to present myself as “tough.”

Even though Massachusetts is now a state where it is legal to smoke marijuana, ironically I lost the desire about 20 years ago.  THC and me just don’t mix anymore. I don’t get that nice chill feeling, I get all anxious and paranoid.   If l could try a canbabidiol or CBD, than I just may give that a go.

Even former President Clinton aka Bubba admitted he toked one up but just “didn’t inhale” but we all know he did 😉

What are your thoughts on pot?

Have you ever imbibed?

Would you do it if was legal where you live?

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