Ciao, Chanderdeep

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It has been a while.

“May,” you say?

Well, yes, and thank you for noticing.

 

Like you, I am scrunched, sandwiched, overwhelmed, isolated, lonely, frightened, alive and all of the things.

 

MrexH’s whereabouts are currently unknown, in case you were wondering.

 

I tell SonHerisme all of the things that would indicate that we are safe and everything will be okay.

  1. The last we were made aware of, MrexH was in Puerto Rico and riding out Maria (the storm, get your head outta the gutta), with his parents.
  2. Puerto Rico is far away from us.
  3. MrexH’s parents live at the top of a huge hill in a concrete house.
  4. Hurricanes do not blow down concrete (roofs yes, concrete no).
  5. They live across the street from a monastery full of nuns and their church.
  6. The monastery is concrete and built into the side of the hill.
  7. Nuns are helpers and community support.
  8. MrexH and his parents have been through hurricanes before (nothing like this, of course, but let’s keep that between you and me).
  9. As soon as someone has any news of MrexH’s whereabouts/condition and his parents’, they will phone us (it’s what I’m telling myself too).
  10. We have an alarm system on our house.
  11. We have our own community of support.
  12. Mommy is brave and strong (this might be a bald faced lie, but I say it anyway).

 

This, plus my mother’s continued health issues, plus her doggies had to have surgery (yes, I am caring for them as well), plus regular life crap, equals one stressed out lady (that’s me).

 

This leads me to how I end up on a screen chat with Chanderdeep from Xfinity Comcast, regarding my current subscription and how I am suddenly blocked from channels that I had a week ago.

 

Screen time at my house only comes on weekends and accompanied by SonHerisme, who is 9 and mostly wants to play video games with me.  Otherwise, I have perhaps 10 minutes on select weekday mornings, to watch a television show that is just for me.

I watch my rare 10 minutes on my first release vintage iPad whilst slowly inhaling the aroma from my coffee and taking lazy sips.

For 10 minutes.

10 minutes.

That’s all I need to start off my day.

10 freaking fracking flooming blooming minutes.

(cue doggies wanting out/walked/fed, HerismeMother awakening needing coffee/bandage change/pills, SonHerisme needing cuddles/stories/breakfast…)

 

Chanderdeep tried his/her best to help me, eventually implementing a temporary fix.  I told Chanderdeep how much I knew that the world was suffering, people are suffering, deep painful suffering, and my first world problems were selfish and stupid.  What I didn’t tell Chanderdeep, was about my sacred 10 minutes.  I didn’t tell Chanderdeep that SonHerisme and I have been at risk for murder and my brain needs a break.  I didn’t tell Chanderdeep how my mother screams and cries when I have to change her bandage twice each day and my brain needs a break.  I didn’t ask Chanderdeep how he/she was doing.  I didn’t ask Chanderdeep how I could alleviate some of his/her suffering or daily life pain that we all experience.

I thanked Chanderdeep.

I wished Chanderdeep a successful remainder of his/her work shift.

I wished Chanderdeep a lovely peaceful life.

 

Chanderdeep wrapped up the conversation asap, as you can imagine you might if some strange lady wanting cable access suddenly dived into a place of wierdo-schmierdo-I-want-validation-for-my-sellfish-needs place.

 

So, yes, I am struggling with more than cable access (which I haven’t even dignified with finding time to watch for those 10 freaking minutes as SonHerisme’s nightmares have returned post-hurricane convo), Chanderdeep.  I am sorry that you have to listen to looney tunes such as myself.

I might be spiraling a bit.

Truly, from my heart, I send you tons of peaceful successful vibes and my hopes that someday I will redeem myself to you.  For now, I say, “Ciao, Chanderdeep,” until another day, my screen chat Xfinifty guide.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

A Dime a Dozen

One of the most stark realities of going through the court system

with: divorce, protective orders, contempt of court, po violations, victim’s coordinators, witness coordinators, parent coordinators, parent evaluators, visitation monitors, social workers, Child Protective Services, therapists, Circuit Judges, District Judges, States Attorney’s Office, Best Interest Attorneys, Attorneys, Masters, Mediators, Detectives, Police Officers, Sheriff’s Officers, discovery paperwork, interrogatories, copies of every bit of paperwork that may potentially define you (bank statements, mortgage statements, medical records, bill statements, daily activity logs etc), and reiterating your story a bajillion times to everyone and anyone, as if you have never told it before…

it is F’IN exhausting, uber full-time and you are not one bit unique from thousands of other women and children trying to extricate themselves from an abusive situation.

 

We are a dime a dozen to all of those professionals.

They see us multiple times a day.

 

We are overwhelmed and out of balance because our situations are so real and unique to us.  This belief that we are unique, is a great lie that we tell ourselves.

We are not unique.

 

Do you know how many women you personally know who have been sexually abused, emotionally abused, physically abused, financially abused? I challenge you to ask in your family, or your closest friends, if you cannot think of anyone off the top of your head.  I guarantee that you know someone who has been abused.

 

We follow in the tragic footsteps of countless women who have gone before us.  Some in situations where they found justice and survived.  More in situations that bent towards whichever way the current power and control swing was going.  Others ending up dead as a result of abuse.

 

As we continue on this great human shift away from a patriarchal society, which I believe we are on (another post, another day), I hope that we all continue to speak our truths and share our stories loudly – even when we have no hope for justice, even when we have no hope for safety.

 

This is our war and I am betting that, despite losing battles here and there, we win the long race.

 

We are a dime a dozen, but each of our dozen wield mighty and powerful voices, deceptively couched in that lowly dime.  We are slowly building, stack by stack, until we outnumber those lone one-in-a-million voices who attempt to stop us.

 

I am cheering your truth on!  Good job, YOU – go, YOU, GO!

 

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

pssst… Donate to your local domestic violence shelter today and reach out to a friend today

*POOF*

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Hardly anyone phones me up.

This is NOT a plea for anyone to call me on the telephone.  I am horrible on the telephone.  Without physical conversation cues, I’m all flustered with silences, weird pauses, speaking over each other, dropping the phone and then explaining how the phone dropped, wandering mind, etc

 

Actually, even with physical conversation cues, I am quite awkward.

 

Anywho…

 

When my telephone buzzes (I rarely have the sound on because the noise is too jarring for me – and, yes ALL the ringtones are jarring to my sensitive ears, including harp, but thank you for the suggestion), and I do not recognize the incoming number, I do not answer the telephone.

 

There is always this lingering worry that it will be MrexH, or someone in his family, and they will be angry and horrid with me, MrexH might express his interest in murdering me again.  Or something awful has happened and a Police Officer, State Trooper, or even worse, my attorney, is contacting me with the bad news.  I am not ready for any of those things – again.

 

Or, it could be a telemarketer, and I do not want to speak with them either.

 

Last week, my telephone rang in the morning, with an incoming number that I do not know – however, this was a number for my city/state.  ALARM BELLS went off in my brain and I let the phone ring 4 times before I decided to bite the bullet of fear and answer the telephone.

 

It was the assistant from my attorney’s office.

Uh-Oh

As soon as I heard her voice, my stomach split in two and dropped into my legs.

 

The call was benign, as calls go.  But, it took me a while to calm down just from the stress of contact with my attorney’s office.  The office assistant is a lovely person, and has gone out of her way to be kind and welcoming to me.  It’s the whole idea of knowing why we have a relationship at all, that is upsetting.

 

She wanted me to stop by the office and pick up some hard copies from my divorce case, and decide if there was anything that I wanted to keep.

We set up a time for me to do that.

I drove into my little downtown, parked in the courthouse parking deck, and walked to my attorney’s office across the street.

 

By this time, my mind was completely blank and numb.  I have to go into this space of, “What would Oprah do right now?” and just keep moving forward.  Oprah would just jay-walk across that one-way street in front of the courthouse and all of those parked police vehicles, and be confident in her stride into her attorney’s office.  Or was it Dr. Phil’s office that she strode confidently into?  It was somewhere, and Dr. Phil was there, the cattle farmers lost their case against Oprah, and Dr. Phil got his own show as a side bonus!

 

I did the jay-walk thing, minus the confident stride, and plus twisting my hair into a giant knot on top of my head as I walked because it was ridiculously hot and humid – so also minus any of Oprah’s presence or finesse.

 

The paperwork consisted of a 5 inch thick stack.

 

It was too nervewracking for me to stay in the office and look through the daunting stack, so I said my, “thank-you”s, and skeedaddled out of there.

 

I felt more confident walking back to my car, because I had an impressive stack of papers to hold – like a comfort blankie.

More Linus than Oprah.

Out of that stack of papers, the only piece that seemed worth saving was the less than 1/4inch bound deposition of MrexH official transcript.

That transcript = $640

Just for the copy of the transcript.

 

This amount does not include the cost of my attorney’s time, SonHerisme attorney’s time, or my time, or my severe emotional strain, or the stupid (yet delicious) take-out tomato soup I stepped out to eat at our lunch break, OR my parking costs…

 

Ugh

So. Much. F’in. Money.

Just gone.

*POOF*

 

The rest of the paperwork?

I shoved it into the chiminea at 10am and had myself a lil’ ol’ bonfahr

*POOF*

 

Sadly, no marshmallows were consumed.

This fiery episode sounds like it should have been cathartic.  It was not.  I did not feel anything other than now I did not have to file the remainder of the papers.

*POOF*

Do not panic if you are unable to reach me by telephone.  I have not disappeared, although some days I would like to do so.  I am only nervous and awkward and frightened and concerned.

 *POOF*

 

I wish I could magic all of that away too!

Love, Ms. Herisme xo

ps.  Thank you, oh great tribe of friends, for sticking with me!

 

 

 

 

Que Sera, Sera

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Standing outside of the karate studio, watching my niece’s belt test, after SonHerisme’s belt test, the thoughts that flew through my mind:

 If MrexH were to show up here and threaten to make a violent scene if I did not get into the car right then with him, what would I do?

If I went with him, would this be when he kills me?

If I somehow pulled away from him, would we survive whatever scene he would make?

How fast could those karate instructors get to their telephones to call 911?  Would the karate instructors use karate?

Would whatever was about to occur, ruin the emotional health of everyone present?

How would SonHerisme be?  Who would make sure he got home?

 

I became so eerily frightened, that I ended up pushing my way back into the over-filled karate studio, so that if MrexH did show up, I would not be able to hear him, so there would be no decision for me to make.

Que sera, sera…  Whatever will, be will be

 

Last night, I received two Facetime calls from MrexH’s former company’s Vice President.  How odd.  Probably mistakes.  While we were in professional communication during the initial crisis, once MrexH was arrested, we have had no professional reason to maintain contact.  With all of the legal issues surrounding MrexH, it is understandable that his former company (whom he was also threatening), needed to maintain distance from me.

With the unusual Facetime calls, my thoughts spiraled into:

 Is there any reason this VP would be at the workplace in the evening, and MrexH has gone there?

Does MrexH know where VP lives?

Since I did not answer the Facetime calls, if it is MrexH, is he going to show up at my home in an agitated state?  Is this the night that he is going to kill us?

I became so frightened, that I double checked all the locked doors, set the house alarm early, and left our future to fate.

Que sera, sera…  Whatever will be, will be

 

(spoiler alert– we were not murdered)

 

As I no longer have a therapist, (which might be an issue because, like, anxiety and such from this and that) during an update meeting with SonHerisme’s therapist, it did come up that one of the most difficult things about our situation, is the not knowing.

I do not know what is going on with MrexH.

I do not know if he is still interested in killing us.

I do not know if he has access to a vehicle.

I do not know if he comes into our town on passes from his facility.

I do not know if he is well or unwell.

I do not know what he is capable of.

I do not know anything.

Mental Illness can be very unpredictable – especially with MrexH’s history.

I just do not know how to hope/predict/plan/prepare etc.

So, I figure out ways to cope with moving through each day, hour, minute and onto the next (with a safety plan).  I go through all of the things this moment actually is –

we are safe in this moment,

we have a roof over our heads in this moment,

we are cared for in this moment,

we are clothed in this moment etc.

And if he does arrive to murder us, I have no control over that.

Isn’t it always something odd, something seemingly benign at the time, which turns out to be the foreshadowing of tragedy?

Perhaps I read too much.

 

Que sera, sera…  Whatever will be, will be

The future’s not ours to see

Que sera, sera

What will be, will be

 

Love, Ms Herisme xo

ps. Those of you having similar experiences, please know that I am fiercely holding you in prayers for safety, peace, and comfort

pps.  I love Doris Day!

Milk and Car-line Pot

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It breaks any parent’s heart to see their child’s feelings dismissed or bruised.

My child has been exposed to this from infancy due to my poor mate selection.

I am no saint.  I do feel like I have a healthy strong bond with my son, however, so we are able to communicate, apologize, and move forward into compassion and forgiveness.  This is hard work.  It is hard to know that the reason your child got into trouble with you, was your fault.

For example

Me: did you finish your milk with your lunch at school today?

Him: I’m not sure

Me: check your lunchbox, please, otherwise the milk will be spoiled by the time we get home tonight.  Milk is expensive and we cannot afford to just let it spoil.

Him: okay, Mommy.  Whoops!  I did not drink my milk

Me: drink it right now

Him: okay

 

This is not the first scenario of this kind, which is why I ask him to check his lunchbox immediately after school.

Later that evening, I rush to empty his lunchbox as he rushes into the shower because we are home so late from after school activities (argh!).

Inside his lunchbox is a ½ full container of milk.

Holy Freaking Moses – I am ticked off

 

Me:  I am throwing away the milk you said that you were drinking.  I am throwing away our money (full-on angry tired mommy voice)

Him: I was confused and I forgot and I thought that I drank my milk.

Me:  You were not confused, you did not forget and you did not think that you drank your milk.  What you are doing is called lying.  What you are doing is being wasteful of food and money.  What you are doing is being disrespectful. (still angry tired mommy voice)

Him: Oh.  I’m sorry, Mommy.  I did not know.

Me:  You did know and you are sorry that you are in trouble. Mommy is not going to put milk into your lunchbox anymore.  Do you understand what I am saying to you?

Him: Yes, Mommy (super sad, worried and tired boy, walks away to bed)

 

Sometime in the night, I awaken, thinking about the milk in the lunchbox.

I give him full-fat heavy-duty organic high caloric goats milk in his lunch because he needs the fat and calories.  I begin to scramble my brain for what I have in the house that I can put into his lunch, that will provide him with those good fats and calories.  As I am working through resolving that issue, I think about bringing the milk after school, in the car for him to drink, instead of packing the milk.

 

That’s when I remember what was happening in the car the day before,

when I asked him to check his lunchbox.

 

Because of the inane timing and ridiculous bureaucratic restrictions on pick-up from the school, on that day of the week, not only are we in a rush to a sport class, but LittleMr also has to use his amazing flexible powers to change into his sport uniform, while buckled in the car as I drive. Even his pants.

EVEN HIS PANTS, people!!!  And he does it with unexplainable skill and finesse.

 

I remembered my rushed reminder to LittleMr, to stop what he was doing and to quickly change into his sport uniform, because we were running so late and were almost there.

 

And he did what I asked.

 

He carefully closed the container of milk he was drinking, put it back into his lunchbox, zipped up his lunchbox, and changed his clothes.

 

When we reached his sport activity, he jumped out of the car, ready to participate, and joined his group.

 

He did very well in class.  He always does.

 

I remembered it was my fault that he didn’t finish his milk in the car.

 

I remembered he is overwhelmed

 

I remembered I am overwhelmed

 

I apologized to LittleMr as soon as he awakened, and I gave him so many hugs.

I did not pack milk in his lunchbox.

I am bringing the milk to him afterschool

 

Parenting is hard.

Being an asshat is harder.

 

So, to the dad showing off on his lame hoverboard at the park that told my son to, “go away,” because, “I’m spending time with just my son right now”– f you

 

To the dad who pointedly ignored my bleeding crying son at a mutual friend’s party, when he volunteered to watch over the kids outside (three smaller children had to help my child into the house while you stood there with a blank stare) – f you  Also, everyone sees you shrinking down in your car to smoke pot after you drop your kids off in the morning* – double f you

 

To the male teacher who screamed at my child at his first schooling experience in first grade and told him he was not a reader, did not protect or help him with active bullies who were physically and emotionally hurting him – f you

 

To his own father who constantly berated him, threatened to leave him, told him he could never spend time with him again, called him a “giant pain in my neck” “your mother’s spawn” “brat, stupid, dumb” – f you

 

To all narrow-minded selfish people – f you

 

We are all struggling, I recognize that. 

It is difficult for me to recognize the struggles of people who are hurting my child.

Including myself.

 

*sigh*

At least I get the opportunity to recognize, apologize and move forward in my relationship with LittleMr.

Parenting is hard.

Love, Ms. Herisme xo

*not judging the use of pot, judging the smugness of doing it while driving around a school

Room 703

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In June of 2014, I began seeing a therapist.  She is now retired.  She is a lovely person, and I miss her understanding.

 

As I am without insurance and unemployed, I gots ta figure dis out on me own, matey (argh!), for the time being (as you may have gleaned from prior posts).

 

She once asked me to make a list of what I wanted for myself.  Not for my sweet little MrBearwhois8, but just for me.  I still have that list in my fancy, almost empty, journal.  Here is what I was able to pull out of my brain and put on the list:

 

I would like to eat a meal without my stomach hurting.

 

Fast forward to April 2016, and a sweet woman that I know (professional life coach) offered me a step towards self-guidance by suggesting that I write down everything I am good at, no matter how menial (“even if it’s wiping baby’s dirty bottoms” said she).  I still have that list in my fancy, almost empty, journal.  Here is what I was able to put on that list:

 

I am really good at letting my son know and feel how much he is loved.

 

It’s so strange to reflect on this, because I am a HUGE list maker.  In the past, I made lists all of the time.  List-making relaxes me and allows for comfortable brain space relief.

 

I am the person who makes lists of what to pack, what has been packed, labels all of the bags, and carries the list just in case the suitcase goes missing.  It is my way and it has worked for me.

What kinds of lists do you make?

 

Now my brain has been ptsd kerfuffled, and I am re-learning it’s parameters and myself.

 

I am determined to allow myself to make lists again.  Pinteresting lists, notepad lists, room-by-room spreadsheet lists.

 

If you don’t hear from me in two weeks,

I’ll be at the Nationale Hotel in Mexico City, Room 703!

( Victor Velasco)

 

Love, Ms. Herisme xo

Inspiration

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I am reading all of these lovely inspirational, moving, deeply thought, resonating articles and books from lovely empathetic/sympathetic peoples.

 

I’m just not there yet, y’all.

I feel that you want me to be there. 

Believe me, I WANT me to be there. 

 

The best I can hope for today, is that I have trudged through the deepest muck of MrexH situation, and am passing through the bit of squashy junk before emerging out.

 

Also, I hope that I have some sturdy boots on.  I can’t even tell if I do or not.

 

It’s also okay if I have on an off-white trench coat, which is so gunked up from the muck, that it has frayed at the bottom.  Uh-oh, now I’m picturing an old-timey leather car-driving cap and ridiculous goggles as well.

 

It occurs to me that I should reconsider finding a new therapist to speak with and work through some of the emergence from muck. The screaming in my head might be a big clue for me…

 

I am really not interested in going through my back-story with another person, though.  I have told this tale over and over and over and over and over and over and well, over and over

 

Can you give a therapist a document dump, or at least Cliffs notes, to avoid speaking those words again?!!?

 

I just want to walk in, have a gentle greeting, and listen to sage advice from someone who knows stuff and can see me enough to help me reveal myself to myself.

 

I can pay them in tea, blueberry zucchini brownies, and a hearty companion for The Philadelphia Story viewing.

 

Meet me at the corner of close and soon, wise sage!

 

Love, Ms. Herisme xo

Super Anxiety Powers

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I am currently in the throws of experiencing the strength of my own Super Anxiety Powers.  I am unable to pinpoint the specific origin this time.  Somehow I feel that if I could define the cause, I could zero in with some laser precision and knock it out.

 

Power and control, baby

A dangerous illusion, I know

 

I’m not sure how anyone else’s anxiety takes over their being, but mine has such a grip on me right now, that I am finding it difficult to control my fingers and hands as I type this.

 

My Super Anxiety begins with an overwhelming feeling in my stomach gut, which then travels outwards through my body. The feeling is very intense through my thighs and up to my chest regions.

Perhaps not unlike butterflies on cocaine… 

super intense tainted death cocaine, I think.

 

Once it hits my heart region, I can hear every sound every piece of my heart arteries and valves make.  This is so overwhelming and intense in my eardrums, that it feels as if my heart is going to explode out through my ears.

 

Sometimes I can take a few naproxen sodium (like Aleve) to bring the intensity down to a manageable level.  Sometimes soothing hot tea brings it in check.  Sometimes playing a mindless computer game and taking a rest, does the trick.  I have been trying all of these, and my Super Anxiety Power is all ‘honey badger don’t care’ on me.

 

I had to stay perfectly prone and still for 10 minutes the other day

in order to just make some muffins.

Muffins, that’s all

Not even scary muffins, just muffins for my sweet puffin muffin bear boy to eat

because that is what he had requested

 

I am currently in the naproxen/hot tea and rest mode – yet, still experiencing barely controlled Super Anxiety Powers.

 

Over the past few days, I have heard myself screaming over and over in my head, kind of like a waking nightmare with blood curdling screams.  It has been so bad that at least twice I have had to look carefully around to see if I was screaming out loud or if it was just in my head.  So far, it has been my imagination (knocks on wood and crosses all fingers and toes).

 

I am wondering if this is my brain waking up from some of the protective numbness or disassociation from my experiences these past few years.

 

Regardless, I have to keep working on figuring out how to cope, manage and take responsibility for this Super Anxiety Power so that I can keep Mr8 and myself healthy and safe.

 

Here’s to the hope that my Super Anxiety Powers can be used for progress!

Tap that SAP

Hold up – that sounds gross

 

I will consult and suggest that this SAP get to work on the basement

 

Love, Ms Herisme xo

Eyeballs

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“Eyeballs” is a funny word to say.

Say, “eyeballs,” ten times in a row.

It IS weird to hear, isn’t it?

Now you will want to avoid saying, “eyeballs,” for at least a week.

Check this truth off of your bucket list.

 Goofball eyeballs

Recently I was invited to a friend’s home for a little get together (all ladies, with kids – don’t get too excited). When I arrived, it turned out that the party was mixed company, gender obvious-wise.  It also turned out that a few attendees were noticeably single, myself included.

 

Eeek!

 

This creep freaked me out.  Not because I might attract unwanted attention (middle aged, unemployed, and looking it over here), but more so because I just cannot even make eye contact in general with people that I do not know (unless they are children, or very very young adults, or very very old adults, or service industry people).

 

I am just that super uncomfortable.

 

I send my deep apologies to anyone and everyone who may encounter me and think that I am wholly not interested in recognizing you as another human needing human connection.

My soul recognizes and acknowledges you, but my eyeballs are not yet prepared.

 

Maybe trauma made my eyeballs goofy.

 

Thank you for your patience.

 

Love, Ms Herisme xo

‘Aint’ aint a word…

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I have had many awesome work colleagues throughout the years.  Most of whom should be richly rewarded for having worked with me so gracefully (I put in ‘good karma’ points for all of you!).

 

One colleague in particular comes to mind these days.  She of humble infinite wisdom – although I believe she would accept the ‘humble’ part, I feel sure that she would ascribe her ‘wisdom’ to anything other than herself.  But, she IS so wise.  She knows what to say, and just when to say it.  Even if you do not want to hear it, she confidently speaks what you need to hear anyway, and in such a way that you are thankful to receive the message.

 

I have been fortunate to know one other person like this in my life.  They are both from an intersecting life place.  They both know each other.  They are both women .  Their similarities end about there.  One of them is very practical and pragmatic, the other is far more spiritual and mystical with her messages.

 

It is the practical woman who has been on my mind.

 

When I would bemoan some seemingly critical work decision/process/event etc to her, while trying to place my appropriate political chess pieces on the work board to best suit my group/employee/department, this woman would patiently listen to me.  And she really listened: eye contact, nodding, asking reflective questions.

At one of these moments, when I was seeking her advice,

she replied, “You know, aint none of us getting out of this one alive, so you go ahead and make the best decision you can today.”

 

That has been a truth bomb for me.

 

Aint none of us getting out of this one alive – do the best you can today

 

Which then leads me to thinking about what is happening with mass shootings, bombings, trolls, outrage memes, and the extreme ridicule of our political system.

 

I know that some of the extremism is coming from a place of ideology supported after-life rewards.  I know that some of the extremism is coming from a place of fear and hate.  I know that some of the extremism is coming from a place of comfort with debasement due to anonymity.

 

Doesn’t it seem odd to you that in the thousands of years of modern human development, we continue to miss the mark in understanding and nurturing a way of communication beyond a fear-based disenfranchised model?

 

Or, perhaps, as humans, the “fight or flight” instinct is too strong for us to move beyond.

 

Don’t hate me – or, do hate me…  whatevs… Isn’t it alarming that here we sit with all of our insights into science, space, human emotion, power of love and positive thinking, and yet we continue to be subject to very base instincts?  I am not suggesting that becoming emotionless robots is the answer.  I am suggesting that having the ability to live by “aint none of us getting out of this one alive – do the best you can today” mentality is the complete opposite of shame and blame fear mongering, and I am wondering why we have not made more strides towards better understanding, better nurturing, better support, better respect, better acceptance and better love.

 

Can collective humans even do that? 

 

Does it truly begin by loving your family and friends?

 

Love, Ms Herisme xo

 

ps. I am well aware of the irony that I am not using my birth certificate name on this blog