Look at the Love. Just Focking Look at It!

I know a lot of you don’t like these posts (they rarely get shares or reads), but I feel compelled to write them for the one person who does like them and needs them as much as I needed to experience them. The following story happened yesterday… I get more emotional than I usually do here… True Story…

I ran into the dollar store for Chef Boy R Dee, and a $2 angel hung on the Christmas rack with the word LOVE written across it. Two other wired angels with a beaded head had Peace. I wanted the Love one. I love angels, and it’s so hard to find Christmas decorations of angels anymore (I’m guessing it’s the anti-religious sentiment in all the demographic research). Everything in my house is LOVE and Angels, so to have the word LOVE written across an angel? Priceless. Right?

Except today is the day before pay day. I have $2 to spend on the angel, but I don’t risk buying stuff like that in case what little money I have left is needed for something else, and in this case, the school is having some sort of Christmas week, and tomorrow is Red and Green day, and my little Solma is really concerned about having something perfect for it. I might have to run out to Walmart, and stuff like that could be $100 easy if I’m not careful.

Now today has been a very sad day for me. Nobody died. Thankfully. But I take a pill now for my “moods” because a side effect of my pill for my focus issues is mood issues, and now I actually experience moods if I miss this pill. Well I was out of this pill last night, so I missed one day. I don’t know if it’s the pill or just me, but I spent the entire day crying in my bed for no obvious reason reminding myself how much I’m not loved.

So I got in my car thinking,

“Well if that last one is still there tomorrow, it was meant to be. What the hell am I saying? This is stupid. Wanting the LOVE one in particular is stupid.”

I could feel God nipping at my heart with,

“What’s so stupid about wanting Love?”

Like He knew it was more than just an angel decoration. He knew what I really wanted was love. To be loved. And I was losing faith in love by admitting to myself it’s the dumbest thing to ever want.

Then I was trying to say, with my heart, something like

Look around. Do you fucking see any fucking love anywhere?

But it came out,

“Look around God. What do you see?”

And for one half of a second, I looked around and I saw beautiful trees in the skyline off in the distance rolling off the hills of West Virginia, also known as God’s Country. The evening sky was an overwhelmingly peaceful blanket comforting all underneath it, and the air was full of so much potential and greatness. I felt like I was staring into a Hallmark Norman Rockwell, and I didn’t want to see that because I wasn’t feeling that. What I saw had to have been a lie.

I thought to myself,

“God, you see potential. I don’t. I gave up on everyone a long time ago. I see nothing but a bunch of lost souls wandering about, clueless, searching for YOUR love in particular, but since they can’t find it, they resort to being selfish assholes.

Yes. I did say the word asshole in prayer. I cuss a lot in prayer. God can handle it.

“Why do you think I try so hard to love everyone, especially those who hurt me? Why do you think I write so much about the importance of love? It’s because I can’t find it anywhere, so I make it up myself so that I can at least feel it once in a while.”

Then I got this feeling,

“What about my love? Don’t you see it anywhere?”

Half of me responded…

“Where? I can’t see you. I can’t feel you. Half of the world doesn’t even believe You exist and I can’t even experience You on a level to prove You.”

while the other half of me stared at the empty seat next to me…

“Your love is more of a hope and faith thing, something I hope to feel AFTER I die, something I have faith in that exists. I need something here. Right next to me. Someone I can touch. Someone who puts my needs above theirs. Someone who truly loves me. Someone who wouldn’t hurt me.” 

And that last part had meaning because most of the day, I focused on how people have been hurting me, and how they will do it again. How some are in the process of doing it again. How it doesn’t stop. There is a special place in hell where people go where they don’t remember anything but pain, and lately, it feels like that is all I have to remember… that the only memories I’m developing through experience are only painful ones, and some in my past are too painful to forget. It really felt like a child-like part of my soul, the one that still believes in magic, the one that still hoped for love, she was dying.

I wanted God next to me. I wanted God in the flesh. He’s the only one who hasn’t hurt me.

It wasn’t in words that He answered. It was in feelings. It actually took my breath away for a second in one of those ah-ha moments where I found another reason to love God as much as I do, one of the most beautiful things about Him.

Disclaimer to non-believers: I know I sound like I’m a fucking whacko crazy, and I assure you I’m not one of those holier-than-thou christian types, nor do I heal people in the name of God handle snake crazy motherfucker types… I’m crazy, yes, but not nut job crazy.

But to put those feelings best into words into a way you might think God would speak…

“You don’t fully understand love and how it works. Look at that tree. I made that tree with Love. I made everything with love no different than you put your heart and passion into the things you create. Look at that mailbox.

I know right? a mailbox? God? Really? A mail box?

“The craftsmanship of that mail box in particular was made out of love. It’s placement was designed with convenience in mind, an act of love. It holds love letters and greeting cards, sharing love between people. Even the postal workers put heart into their efforts working extra hard to make sure you get that gift someone sends you, despite their salary and workload… All these people, I created with all the Love I have. My love shines through them in their work and their deeds. 

If you want to feel loved, look at the trees. I made them for you. Look at the stars, I made them for you. Look at all the people. I made them for you.

Look at yourself. I made you for them.”

And I had an overwhelming sense of,

“Look at all the fucking love around you!”

And He’s right. I’m probably in one of those moods where a Prince could show up on a white horse, jump down, hand me flowers and 3 million dollars in cash and take me on a date he spent the last 3 weeks trying to prepare, sing a song he wrote for me with an orchestra playing a harmony, and I still wouldn’t feel loved because that’s how I feel. My feelings really are not dictated by anyone but myself, and God is the ONLY one who can jump in and show me how to feel better.

So I walked into my house appreciating trees and bushes like Henry David Thoreau’s Walden Pond, climbed up the steps admiring the hard work of splintered hands of a man who slaved to provide for his family, comparing those hands to my father’s hands. Walked in my door passed the coat rack of cheap coats imagining the callouses on a woman’s fingers in some place like Vietnam or Bangladesh and all the pricks she endured to feed her children and keep mine warm. I passed the beaded angel coloring my window that took more talent and patience than the dollar I paid for it at a craft show could ever afford.

My kids ran up to me curious of what was in my bags making all the cute faces they always make, and I thought how their smiles are so uniquely different between them, and then I realized the LOVE and nurture, the nights without sleep, every bandaid, all the love I put into my craftmanship as a mother.

 And my message from God on my Message from God App today was…

“Today, Michelle, we believe God wants you to know that the sun and the stars are reminders of God’s eternal presence, as are the ancient mountains and the deep ocean.

Look upon the stars, or sit atop a mountain, or swim in the sea to realize that the world is very big indeed and your problems, though they may seem big, are very tiny in the overall scheme of things. See things from this larger perspective.”

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As I’m writing this, I realize all the things people do for me, for a second time in the last 24 hours (remember, moods. Pills).

It all started actually when Lisa Nolan gave my book a good review. I didn’t really expect that kind of kindness or love from someone.

Then people left notes of some form of appreciation of me, whether as a comment or a private message.

Then I remembered all the posts people tagged me in, warm wishes and funnies they think I’d like, and not that they do that just once a year, but how they do it regularly for me. You know, it’s easy to take that in particular for granted, but to think I’m the one that popped into their head when they want to put a smile on someone’s face…

So I want to start a thing. I would love if you joined me on this. I want to brighten people’s day like they have mine. I want to remind myself of the love people have shown me by showing it back.

Copy and paste the following into your social media, and then do it.

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November was Gratitude Month with 30 Days of Thankfulness. December is Kindness Month.  #12DaysOfKindness On the first day, send a compliment, blessing or wish to someone in your social media. Something straight from your heart. On the second day, send two. On the third day, three. On the 12th day, twelve. You can send them in private messages, post on their media, or tag them on an inspirational picture. You can send them to friends or strangers. The important thing is you give kind words to someone; show them love. Give sincere compliments on what you appreciate about their value in your life.

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I started my #12DaysOfKindness with a compliment to someone who may never see it. Erykah Badu. Someone shared a video of her recently that just was deep, and awesome, and gave me happy feelings like she always does. She has always been a role model to me. So I wanted to share some love her way. I want to share it with you because it’s one of the best compliments I have ever given, and it’s straight from the heart.

@fatbellybella Fans. Friends. Artists. If I could make a woman for God to thank Him for making me, I’d make her just like you.

— Michelle (@DribblesnGrits) December 7, 2015

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If you want to up your game. Add #12DaysofGiving to your calendar. There are many ways you can show kindness this month, and many more ways, and you can also get your kids involved. Kindness has its own karma that exceeds Times Three (really click this if you want to cry happy tears; I read this while medicated). Remember, from the mouth of a child, “You should be kind all the time; Christmas is just a holiday that honors kindness.”  Don’t forget to be kind to people who don’t deserve it too. They probably need it more than those who do deserve your kindness. This is part of the #12DaysofBlogmas Follow Girl on the Move’s board 12 Days of Blogmas on Pinterest.//assets.pinterest.com/js/pinit.js

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And I did get my $2 angel…

I Suck.

My title has a lot of Freudian-based sexual innuendo there. They just simply do not make a pill for this. I’m sorry.

What I’m really trying to say is…

I know I suck, but I’m learning to be ok with that. Why can’t you?

When I drop my kids off to school late, the secretaries and assistant principal and everyone look at me like I just farted in the moment of silence during a funeral. When I say, “I’m sorry. We couldn’t find her shoes or her jacket, so after an hour of looking, I gave up and took them shopping,” what I’m trying to say is, “Look I know I suck. Get the fuck over it. There’s more important things than your fucking world.”

You know, those words are good for just about everyone and every circumstance in my life. Why is your house a mess? Why is your car so filthy? Why can’t you be on time? Why did you forget our appointment? Why can’t you find your kids’ shoes? Why did you send your kid to school without a jacket? Why didn’t you get me something to eat? Why did you overdraw your checking? Why didn’t you pay that bill? Why didn’t you plan in advance? Why are you buying something you already have? Why is it we can’t walk into a bar without running into at least one guy you fucked?

OK. Nobody really asks that last question…

When I respond with things like, “I haven’t slept in 2 days. I have PTSD and can’t keep track of time or memories too well. I can completely forget paying $700 in bills in a manner of a day. I’ve been busy writing a book or designing something for a client. Nobody helps me with anything. I married a Puerto Rican, so I don’t have a husband who cooks or cleans at all, like all my single mom friends have more help with their house and kids than I do. I had 3 kids back to back, like that’s a clusterfuck of FUBAR. This week I had 2 sick kids with 2 different doctor visits, a birthday, a Halloween party, 2 nights of Trick or Treat, and I still managed to write 4 chapters in my book (that happened in October by the way), please don’t call me lazy. You wouldn’t understand because you don’t have kids. So what if I’m a whore? I don’t like being alone. Not many people do.”

What I really mean?

Look. I know I suck. Get the fuck over it. There’s more important things.

But this is where I don’t suck. This is where I tap into more important things. This is what makes me better than most people, especially my haters… This is good advice for GOOD PEOPLE who are dealing with EVIL PEOPLE.

I’m more aware of your bull shit than you are, and I’m trying not to be an asshole about it, even if you deserve it.

The problem is the judgment I get from people is actually a direct reflection of how they see themselves. If you hate me, that’s because you hate yourself. If you think I’m a bad mom, you’re insecure about the type of mother you are or will be. If you are trying to talk me into doing something desperate, that’s because you are the one who is desperate.

Knowing these weaknesses about you, so obvious, I could really fuck with you back, and see my punches would hurt because instead of hitting you with my own insecurities, I’d be hitting you much closer to home with your insecurities.

I should delete this next paragraph but this is what I’ve been WANTING to say so bad now… SO BAD. I need to get it out… And it’s a prime example of what is really important.

The meanest bitch I deal with who judges me the most as a parent, as well as many other parents, well I’ve heard that she can’t have children and has been trying for years. Let’s assume for a minute that’s true, then her hating me has nothing to do with my ability to parent. It’s pure jealousy because I am a parent, and she has herself convinced she can do a better job and is thereby more deserving of children than the rest of us. The truth is, if you treat other people and their children like shit because your vagina tree isn’t bearing any fruit, then you aren’t going to be a good parent. You are going to raise an asshole just like yourself.

In no way am I saying she deserves not to have kids. Every woman deserves to have something to put above her own needs and wants for the rest of her life.

BUT… I so bad want to flaunt my crotchfruit in front of her snubby little prissy face like a cat waving its tail underneath the nose of a bitch chained to a tree because she has really fucked with me in ways that if this were on the streets of Mexico, she’d be dead, but I won’t because Jesus Christ. He wants me to be a better person than that. Instead, I’m going to send her a nice note in her Christmas card.

I don’t hate her for who she is. I hate her for what she’s done to me. That distinction is a tough pill to swallow sometimes, but like those Prenatal Pine Cone Sized Pills, we take it because it’s what is best for us and our children. While she really does deserve hell in the name of revenge, it’s hell that made her that way, and she won’t change if I bring her more hell.

That is what is important. It’s easy to be nice to nice people. It’s easy to give money to a guy who deserves money. What isn’t easy is caring for those who hurt us. Caring for those who don’t deserve it.

Scrooge was a dick to everyone, but that didn’t stop anyone from wishing him a Merry Christmas or inviting him to Christmas dinner despite that his presence would ruin their Christmas. That’s what’s more important.

Look. Some of you suck. I’m getting the fuck over it because there’s more important things.

This has been part of Finish the Sentence Friday. For more, check out…

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Turning the Other Cheek

If I were a fairy tale creature, I’d be who I think I am underneath it all.

My soul is a beautiful woman with a scar on her right cheek.

My scar is not like any scar. It is far deeper and more etched as if a flaming sword made it. A scar that looks like the scar you will find on both cheeks of all the fallen angels in hell.

It is my cross I bear. I can fall from grace like the others despite my love for God. I too can be tempted into unspeakable blasphemy that can’t be forgiven as easy as the sins on a slate wiped clean by the blood of a human sacrifice upon a cross. A painful gash that He couldn’t take for me. That a part of all of humanity is divine enough to slip pass grace.

A vague relic that finds something I tried to lose in this life and reminds me of what I want to forget. The painful truth slaying my delusions and denial.

It is a blemish that humbles my beauty.

A birthmark I gave myself once upon some time.

If you trace it with your fingertip, it feels like a tear is falling from my eye, a salted droplet falling from grace, an impassioned hope falling to her knees to bow to the power of mercy.

Tis the mark of zee whore who sold a piece of her beauty for some sort of sin.

I don’t know if it’s a scar from disgracing God, or disgracing the devil, but it is the mark of some beast I fought. A crevice where I once stood. A rebellious opposition to someone I most likely love deeply and profoundly, most likely in the name of someone I also love deeply and profoundly.

It is a ribbon pinned to my uniform from the greatest battle I ever fought, within myself. A torn piece of my face symbolizing the tear within me of two opposing forces I deeply cared for.

It is most likely a souvenir of love.

My soul faces fear with an eye of a tiger. 

I once dreamt I was a woman surrounded by white tigers with no stripes, and I was at war against a black-haired woman with a bob, dressed in black, shiny, sexy clothes who was surrounded by dark wolves.

I later dreamt I was in a dark, steamy alley with rainwater dripping from rusted fire escapes, and I was cold. And deep in the alley in front of a crumbling brick building sat a bunch of cardboard boxes and a dumpster. From the rummage, golden eyes glowed in the shadows intruding my comfort and inquiring my worth. I froze in fear. And the eyes jumped out on the body of a tiger as it ran ferociously toward me. Atreyu’s words from Never Ending Story danced around my brain, “If we’re about to die anyway, I’d rather die fighting,” and I caught the tiger mid-pounce and twisted my body over his as we landed on the abrasive pavement, and I held him down with my hands pushing against his shoulders like the Lion King’s girlfriend, and I stared him in the eyes just to stare down my fear and see it for what it really was. The tiger relaxed his muscles, and I knew he was no longer a threat, so I let him go. We sat in the alley in silence before I woke up.

Then a series of dreams followed for years where the tiger saved me every time I was afraid. In one dream, I was in a convenient store being robbed, and the assailant shot me in my right butt cheek. My right cheek. I took off running, and he chased me. I turned a series of corners around the streets of this town, trying to get away, and once I reached the last street before hitting a river, I turned right, running, out of breath, turning my head to see the bad guy was still there keeping up, inching closer, and I had a little panic attack. Then a tiger breezes up to me on a motorcycle, and with a loud roar from the motorcycle, we escaped.

I told these dreams to a witch, and she thinks the tiger is me. I started off white, and as I found myself in life, I gave myself color, and then I faced myself and all the horrible nightmares within me so that I may save myself when I was in need.

The witch then sent me to a psychic for a past life reading, and I roamed the store of incense and crystals thinking I might of been a cat in a past life. Yeah. A fat housecat. I expected to hear things that felt foreign because I don’t think all psychics are that psychic. At best, maybe she’d hit one of my dreams. Maybe the one where I was a white daughter of a plantation owner who fell in love with a slave, and my father was executing him for the abomination our love was. I’ve had many dreams where I was a vampire slayer, one where I was fighting a vampire in a lake of cheese surrounded by approaching tornadoes. I’ve had many more dreams where some guy from high school was my true love, some of which were psychic about his life far away. Maybe he and I were lovers in a past life where death and birth and remarriage couldn’t break our spiritual connection. But no. The psychic said, of all things abnormal and irrational, I was a tiger guardian in ancient Egypt (because there were tigers in all the stories of Egypt). I was one of many guardians, and a handful were abusing their power. I didn’t know how to handle them, so I remained indifferent. God didn’t like my indifference, so I was punished, but not as harshly as those who abused their power. I had things to do on earth, and that’s why I’m here. Every life is a form of penance.

Recently I had a dream where I was being attacked by a very strong demon, one who looked beautiful dressed in armor standing strong with bulging biceps. He jammed his sword down my throat as a means to control me. He then let his wife have her way with me, and due to my PTSD with rape, I freaked. I attacked them. As I was fighting them, I heard a loud roar come from within me. A tiger’s roar, not to be confused with a Lion who has roared before in my dreams to send back demons who tried to cross some sort of boundaries.

I started out pure white, but then I found scars of color people refer to as stripes, and then courage. I may not be as pure as I once was, but I’m now strong enough to save what purity I have left.

My soul deflects darkness with light.

When in dark places, I seek light. I believe in it with faith that it will conquer the darkness. I find warmth in it when I’m cold. I feel safe when it’s on.

When I was a child, I swore demons were all around me, and I’d surround myself with an army of stuffed animals, hide under my blanket, and sing a praise song from the church, “‘Be bold. Be strong. For I am with you,’ says the Lord.”

When I shine the light on the shadows of the monsters in my room, I can see them for what they really are. That demon in my closet is a just pile of dirty clothes that need to be cleaned. The beast under my bed is the same stuffed animal I found comfort in the night before. The ghost glowing along the wall is just a reflection of the hallway’s light from a mirror, a passageway to the next room reflecting from another world just like ours.

And God (pronounced like a cross between good and gold) said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. And since that day, God shone His light upon the world sending a message of love with a choir of peace, hope, faith, and truth singing in the background. The witches will even tell you that the light is of these things.

Within the darkness, I am learning to be the light.

I dreamt I was in hell, and a big, strong red devil threw me into a thick, black river whose depth is unknown. And a whale like beast with razor, sharp, stalactite teeth and 2 rows of spider-like, black, shiny eyes swam up to sniff his food. In fear, in the dark, muddy waters hiding all that lurks within it, I desperately searched for any light. I closed my eyes and prayed, and then I started glowing. The beast swam off in fear because he had never known light.

I later dreamt I was in the same hell, and a man I grew to care for sliced me across the stomach and then kicked me into that same river. The same beast swam up to me, sniffing my blood as it poured into the substance, and before I could get a chance to pray, he left me be. The beasts of hell instinctively will not bother anyone who is good. For a minute, we swam together as if I were swimming with dolphins in the Caribbean. I still think back to that dream and find peace within that moment.

In my wake, I am learning what it means to be the light within the darkness. I am learning what it means to shine.

When I can’t find any good in this world, I try to be the good so that I can find some.

When confronted with hate, I love so that I am not without love.

When people judge others, whether in court or a Facebook wall, I stand up for what I believe is right, just so there can be some justice.

Through doubt, I find faith.

Through insecurity, I find confidence.

Through endings, I find new beginnings.

Through foolishness, I find wisdom.

In my weaknesses, I find strength.

In my fear, I find courage.

It is only within sin can I find grace.

But only if I seek these things… When in dark places, I seek light.

I’m a Beautiful Woman who is Turning the Other Cheek. 

When you bend light, you will find a rainbow.

I am bent, not broken.

My scar is not a symbol of my wound, but a symbol of healing.

My scar is not a consequence of unfaithfulness, but a chance at being faithful.

This scar is not a symbol of what was done to me, but a symbol of what I can do for them.

As the world tries to hurt me, this scar lets me know I can turn the other cheek and take another blow.

No matter which cheek you may see, I’m turning the other cheek so that you may see all of me.

All of us are trying to find who we are. All of us are trying to heal from who we were. All of us are trying to find the courage and strength, and freedom, to be ourselves. In your journey, remember…

“You are who you say you are.” Random entity, most likely a demon or an alien. His name might be Phil.

That is true. We choose who we are.

 

This is part of Finish the Sentence Friday.

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Breast Feeding in Public. Yay or Nay?

I normally try to avoid topics in the mom wars realm because I honestly think the petty mom wars that ensue from such controversy diminishes the credibility of women trying to be equal in a man’s world, but I have a unique perspective on this one, and I hope it will inspire others to be just as uniquely awesome as me.

The problem with breast feeding in public is that our saline noobs are bonerizers. They’re sexy. And the sexiness somehow pisses people off.

Of course, as a mom, there’s nothing sexy about teeth grinding down into our sensitive, swollen Lanolin Laced udders. To us, it’s “Shut The Baby Up Juice.”

But to the men, that Lanolin is like the KY glimmer on a set of Congo Bongos. Like this…

And because men can’t think with the bigger head they were given and instead use the smaller stubby head, the breast has become a “private part.”

Facts about breasts according to mainstream logic (warning, sarcasm coming. If you start arguing with me like I believe this shit, you are a complete moron):

♦ The cleavage is not a private part. Only the female nipple is the private part.

♦ Breast fat is sexy. Belly fat is not. See, the fat in the boob is totally different than belly fat due to its geographic location, like boob fat is like luxury high rise fat and belly fat is like the ghetto of the body. Proof that fat is not always fat.

♦ It is perfectly acceptable to show a country being bombed with innocent people dying on television to report the news. That has less graphic content than a nipple. Studies have not shown that nipples cause violence and are the gateway to immoral sex, which is simply why the FCC won’t allow them.

♦ Man nipples are perfectly acceptable to show. Only the woman’s nipple is evil devil vagina magic that must remain private. Women’s nipples are evil because Eve used her nipple to tempt Adam into eating the forbidden fruit. Man nipples are not evil because man nipples don’t produce milk, and they really just aren’t sexy, like if a woman was turned on by a man’s nipple, we’d probably medicate her for that. Because man nipples are as useless as the man’s logic, we proudly display it like we do all our ignorance and drama. It’s the American Way.

♦ If your man sees a breast from a woman breastfeeding her baby, he is cheating on you in his head. It’s no different than him fantasizing about beaver bashing celebrities like Jessica Biel, which if they love you, they would NEVER do. No. If a man loves you, and it’s a legitimate love, the male body has ways to shut that whole fantasizing about other women thing down, unless they see a boob.

♦ Covering a nipple with a baby’s mouth is totally different than covering it with a shirt. It’s not good enough because the baby will be removed as a shirt won’t.

♦ Showing cleavage in a Budweiser commercial is a requirement to get men to buy beer. They would never buy it without that cleavage. Why would they? That’s why showing cleavage with a baby’s mouth covering a nipple is an abomination greater than gay marriage. The woman isn’t selling her breast milk, so why show it?

♦ If you don’t believe all this about the breast, you’re a whore. Duh. The dictionary even defines whore as “Noun: Someone who thinks nipples are just nipples.”

The following blogger dared to explain to us why we should cover up when we breastfeed in public…

and to quote the brass balls on this woman…

The truth is, I don’t want to see your naked boobs. I don’t want my husband to, and come to think of it, my preschool son either.

That doesn’t mean I’m sexualizing breast feeding. It means that a naked boob, to most people in our culture, is a sexual thing. (Sorry. It’s true. Whether there’s a kid attached to it or not.) And, at least in my opinion, no amount of kids eating on a naked boob is going to change the fact that the breast is still considered a ‘naked part’ in our society.

Yes, your breasts are beautiful. Yes, they are feeding children. Yes, they are natural.

But you know what?

Your vagina helped make the kid, and I don’t see you flashin’ that around.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m ignorant. Maybe you’re just trying to prove a point, and I just don’t get it. We all do motherhood our own way, and I love that. I really do think it’s a beautiful thing that all moms are different.

So, for what it’s worth, this is just my own truth: Unless you’re my sister, my mom or my friend, I would really appreciate not seeing your naked parts. I’m sorry.

When I saw that blog post titled, “Dear breastfeeding moms, Is it really that hard to cover up?” I kind of thought, “I don’t want to read this. It will just piss me off.”

But it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. The writer did kind of hit it softly, in my mind at least. She carefully tried to empathize and agree with people, even though she disagrees on a major part of the debate.

Now when she says,

Your vagina helped make the kid, and I don’t see you flashin’ that around.

I personally don’t care if you flash your boob, your twat, or your man’s penis around for any reason. I can desexualize private parts.

I can watch a porn video and we assume everyone is all like Ooooh look at how big that is, and how she… and then SPLAT panty cream. And I’m like, “OMG, that guy could use some cream on his bum, like age defying cream that reduces stretch marks. I wonder if Avon sells something for that. They really should have used better lighting for this. I wonder if the producer woke up and was like, ‘Let’s try one with that position, and we will use this font for it…'”

I don’t get turned on by sexual parts. I honestly think the penis, vagina, assholes, and breasts are quite disgusting. As a child, I assumed they were private parts because it would give kids nightmares. I mean, only in our world does the things that produce some form of mucous or fluid become sex objects. I’m amazed picking our nose isn’t considered foreplay if rubbing a swollen asshole is.

But I get that people are classically conditioned to believe in the facts as mainstream sees them because that’s how it’s always been done.

Studies are starting to show that most people’s opinions on things are based less on logic and real facts and more on a personal identity and social precepts. As time continues, I swear most people’s opinions they share on social media aren’t legitimate opinions as much as their way of placing themselves in a certain social status.

But I don’t live in that kind of box. My mind is wired to think for itself, and my personal opinion is (which is the most practical of all I’ve seen)…

Breast feeding sucks.

They pimp it out like it’s the greatest thing for the baby, and it probably is, but like everything else that’s the greatest thing for our kids, it sucks to be us, the parent. Car seats are a prime example.

I personally think ease of parenting, especially breastfeeding, especially breast feeding an infant while toddlers run amok, I just think ease of motherhood should trump people’s offensiveness. It’s ok they get offended, but they need to get over it.

I say this as the person who did cover her boob breastfeeding, but when I buckle my kids in the car as my hipster pants are sliding off my hips like they are designed to do, and my plumber’s crack is mooning the world, I let it moon.

Breast feeding is only a subtopic to the great topic of ease of motherhood. Motherhood is a tough gig. It will turn the hair on your head gray and put hair on your chest at the same time. Many mothers end up in a psych ward because they reproduced too often too fast for their sanity. Why are we so stuck on making motherhood more difficult than it already is? That’s the worst thing we can do for our children.

To throw it out there… According to Google’s Keyword Planner, the words, “Adult Breastfeeding” gets on average 33,100 searches every month.

The World Needs Love

The world really needs more love.

I know most of you agree with me on this one. Duh Michelle. But I say it because I don’t think a lot of people know love to give it.

Are we to love people who don’t deserve it? Yes. Are we to love people who we disagree with? Yes. Are we to love people we don’t understand? Yes. Are we to love the enemy? Yes. You don’t have to accept their thoughts, embrace their lifestyle, or even hang out with them to be kind to them and love them.

Peel away all the layers of what you don’t like, and look at the child-like soul that’s left underneath it. Love that.

The world needs more humility.

We seemed to be plagued with narcissism incapable of looking out beyond our shells and seeing the world around us for what it is and our impact on that world. Perception makes it hard enough to really absorb life for what it really is, for example, we see color when some creatures only see grays, but the narcissism has us doing the same thing on a spiritual and an emotional level.

The world needs more tolerance.

It’s so bad, a person can be like, “He’s an intolerant asshole,” having no idea they are being just as intolerant with that. The truth is, people want tolerance for their beliefs without having to tolerate someone else’s. The truth is, people’s tolerance for each other is much like their tolerance to whiskey…

You are allowed to disagree with someone. You are allowed to not follow their path. You are allowed to not do what they tell you to do. Just don’t tell them what to do. Don’t treat them like shit because they aren’t doing things your way.

The moment you find yourself thinking, “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard of! What the hell is this idiot thinking?” That’s the first step toward intolerance. Step back and tell yourself, “They may be crazy, but I’m sure they have their reasons. I’m just glad I’m not that crazy.”

You don’t have to enable evil to be tolerant. Just approach the situation where you stand up for someone or protect someone with love and tolerance. It’s not easy because it requires a lot of character to do, but like riding a bike, you learn eventually, and before you know it, you too can ride your bike with no handle bars. No handle bars. No handle bars.

The world needs more equality.

We deny people things privileged society has, like marriage and a job, and then we blame them for not having those things. Yes, the black man is just a lazy asshole who refuses to work. Nevermind that 5 opportunities passed him just because he’s black.

You know what would be nice? To see less minorities in the ghettos. This world of white suburbia avoiding colorful ghettos has got to go. I would just love to see one black man afraid to go to that area of town.

But even better? To see a place with no ghettos. The 1% is hoarding the wealth in America and taking their money (as well as spending it) overseas. They bank overseas. Their corporations pay for labor overseas. Then on top of it, their banks they own fund more terrorism and war than building a regular society. And they think that somehow makes them better than you, because they have a higher paying job which in no way has proven its worth, which turns most people into suck ups trying to get in their good favor, which is why these people do what they do. Stop sucking up to the rich.

The world needs more freedom.

Despite your dreams of being too good for the animal kingdom with your tea-time pinky finger in the air, the salute of civilized society, we are still wild animals. We need to stop caging ourselves with rules.

People want the government to make more rules because they have a “feeling,” a tingle, that the rule will solve a deeper problem despite all the studies that say otherwise. We are caging people in the name of a “feeling,” that it will provide them safety. What is the quality of life of a caged animal at the zoo? He’s safer than the ones in the wild, but he will never know what it’s like to kill his own dinner or play in a natural lake.

I personally refuse to be domesticated.

The world needs more intelligence.

I believe ignorance is bliss, and I would love to know that bliss sometimes. But the fact of the matter is ignorant people need to be led, and there is no superior species to do that for us. The rich, despite their educations, are not intellectually superior in the slightest because they lack experience only the poor have to survive with limited resources. They don’t know the culture of every day people. They are not qualified to lead us anywhere decent, and neither is anyone else.

Until we improve our education programs to shift the focus back to learning and away from conforming, where we listen to the studies that show improvements in learning as opposed to listening to studies that show improvements in graduation, and make it worth everything people claim it is, we will only continue to breed stupid people.

Teach your children to question the system and improve it. Teach your children to think things through.

The world needs more Jesus.

Pretty much all the crap I just said here is the same thing Jesus was all about. Most of you will deny that because you hate Jesus, and the rest of you will deny that because you follow Jesus. Makes no sense to me. Those who agree with Jesus hate Him for being a religious icon. Those who disagree with Jesus pretend to follow Him and uses His name in vain to satisfy their evil hatred against the world.

But because we don’t have all the things listed here, because we are in a world without love, without tolerance, without equality, without freedom, we need a Savior to save us from the hells we ignorantly create. I can’t tell you for sure if Jesus existed or not, and I can’t tell you if He was really the son of God if He did exist, but I can tell you that I won’t stop hoping for Calgon on Calvary to take me away from the world’s bull shit.

This is part of Finish the Sentence Friday

 

Read more about what the world needs more of with Finding Ninee. Links at the end of her post to more.

I also added a new spirit voice. Do you hear a man saying S’il vous plait? French for Please?

A Walk Down Luminary Lane

That moment is still etched into my brain like a scar. That moment when my father, the strong-Marine who knew no fear, was sitting in his hospital bed trying to figure out why he had back pain. The moment the nurse walked in and said, “It’s cancer. You have 6 months to live.” The moment I saw fear and shock, for the first time, strike my father’s face. Only cancer could wipe off that 1,000 yard glare.

As I walked through the luminaries at the Relay for Life this weekend, 16 years after his death, his fear-stricken face surfaced into the observable parts of my brain.

I’ve lost quite a few family members to cancer, and I have a couple who survived, but the only time I got really up close and personal with cancer was when my father had it.

It’s funny, these luminaries. You can barely see them in the distance during the day. They are just specks of dust hiding behind the trees, the water fountain, the houses, the cars, the living. Like ghosts, I knew they were there, but I could barely see them.

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The Relay for Life had me in a state of mind where I needed dollar bills to cure cancer. Even though I knew approximately 10% (according to their 990) actually goes to cancer research, I was there to raise money. I wasn’t raising money like it was a disability. My feelings were like a box of cake mix that needs oil and water, two things that don’t mix, and you are supposed to mix them together, despite that they aren’t supposed to mix. I was supposed to grab people and suck them into a raffle ticket purchase or something when I felt like that was the opposite of what I should have been doing.

Right after the diagnosis, my father ran and took out a life insurance policy. They explained to him, “If you die within the next 2 years, your wife will only get this small percent. If you die within 2 to X years, your wife will get Y more percent.” Sounds a little weird, putting a price on a year of life like that. We were battling deep, spiritual things, coming to terms with death, saying goodbye to life, and this company walks in and treats it like its a Black Friday sale.

“We got a corpse here. Starting bid is $200. Do I have two hundred dollar dollar dollar! YES we have two hundred dollars. Do I have $250 dollar dollar dollar!”

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The overwhelming emotions walking around these things and reading them… You grieve for every “In Memory Of,” and in the midst of your sadness for that person, you find hope in one that says, “In Honor of a Cancer Survivor.”

My aunt survived breast cancer just months after my father lost his life to cancer. While asleep in her hospital bed, my uncle and mother sneaked out for some dinner, and when they returned, the nurse said, “It was lovely your mother came to visit her daughter. She just sat there holding her hand the entire time you were gone.”

Curious, my mom asked her to describe this woman. After enough convincing descriptive words, my mom responded, “That’s my mother, that’s her exactly. But she died last Christmas.”

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All the people I met at the Relay for Life had their story. They had a story similar to mine, but unique in their own way. I wondered which luminaries belonged to them.

It was a long journey to the moment my father needed someone to care for him. He refused to be vegetable as long as he could. He sold radio advertising for a living, and he probably sold more ads from a hospital bed than he ever did driving around. Eventually, his boss knocked down his duties despite my father’s arguments. Eventually, I started doing those things for my father because he wasn’t making sense.

Like one day, sitting on the kitchen table, looking at credit card statements full of prescription charges we couldn’t afford, my adamantly non-alcoholic father freaked at all the liquor purchases.

Another day, my father was shaving his face with an electric razor at the kitchen table and asked my mother to hand him the cat.

My mother asked, “Why do you want the cat?”

“Just hand me the cat.”

“You cannot shave the cat.”

“Just HAND me the cat.”

“I’m not giving you the cat. Get over it.”

“Fine, then get me one of the kids.”

At some point, morphine makes you not make sense.

It was from moments like that to his moment of death that he needed someone 24/7 watching him. My mother was working full time as a school teacher, and my sister was still in high school. My father’s other children from a previous marriage lived hours away. I was the only one wasting my time in college. I took off a semester to care for him. I know other families don’t have that family member who can escape their life to help. Some cancer patients don’t even have a family member who is willing to escape their life to help.

Now I did refuse to change any diapers. I managed to make it through all of cancer without seeing the actual loins from which I arose. Some adult children are not granted that luxury. I told you, Cancer is up close and personal. But I still had to leave my comfort zone to care for a man who I only knew as my caregiver.

I remember one time, my mom and sister were home, and I laid down on the sofa for a nap. They left without telling me. My father must have needed something, but I woke up, and the first thing I saw was my father hobbling toward me with strict determination to make every step. He fell forward within a second of me opening my eyes, and his face landed on a drinking glass sitting on the coffee table.

I helped him up, and he sat Indian Style on the carpet, and I started to look at his face, and he had a huge honker chunk of glass sticking out of his eyeball. Like a child with a nightmare, he was looking down at his hands freaking out at all the blood trying to figure where it was coming from. I pulled the glass out of his eye. Checked his face for more. Grabbed a towel and doused it in cold water. Washed his face and told him to hold it over his eye while I called 911.

But all those moments, we bonded. We bonded every time we watched Animal Planet all day, and every time I spoon fed him the way he fed me as a baby. We bonded in ways Marines bond in a time of war, and cancer is war. It’s the kind of war where you are sitting in the middle of an ocean in a row boat with one oar trying to fight off WWII fighter planes bombing you from every direction. You know you probably aren’t going to survive it, but that doesn’t stop you from fighting for just one more day.

All the people I met at the Relay for Life had stories like this. Stories where they bonded with their family members at those moments before death, moments they almost didn’t get to have when they were taking life for granted. Moments they would have never had without the crippling effects forcing them to spend more time together than they normally would have.

One woman I met told me her story, and you could hear her holding back the tears in the back of her throat. Her daughter was diagnosed with a neuroendocrine tumor. She was healthy and fine with no symptoms, and then she started to develop nausea and made it 6 months, out of the blue cancer. There was only one other person diagnosed with the same cancer in the entire world at that time, and the only place who could make the diagnosis was in Texas. The mom’s team was comprised of all her daughter’s friends. She said, “All her friends still check on me all the time. I may have lost a daughter, but now I have a lot of daughters.”

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I had to leave the luminaries of the day to go back to the circus auction of raising funds. At one point, on stage, they shared the most unique survivor’s story.

Cancer Survivor

A man was diagnosed with a tumor at the same time his dog was. They fought their cancer together, and together they survived. Both of their tumors relapsed at the same time, and they both overcame cancer a second time, together.

It’s stories like that which gives you hope in the darkness. The darkness. It was settling in at this point, which marked the time to start the Luminary ceremony.

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The sun had set and the people gathered to the miniature lake-like pond lined with luminary bags. By the time I managed to make my way over there, it was dark. It was so dark, the dark didn’t have any shadows.

My father’s last week with us was spent in bed. He didn’t move for anything. The morphine wasn’t working anymore, and he suffered in pain and torture for a long couple weeks. He stopped screaming in fear and anger at the ghosts in the bathroom. He stopped eating and doing all the things we do to live. The black cat laid at his feet the entire time. Yes. The one he wanted to shave. She only got up to use the bathroom and eat.

He laid there for a week with death sitting next to him holding his hand waiting for him to let it go. He wouldn’t. He fought it for a reason. A reason that we still can’t figure out how, HOW. Forget why God created the world, or why God lets people suffer, when I die I hope to find out HOW my father did this.

The cat got up. Where she went, I will never know, but she got up and left and never came back. My mother called us down. “Your father has died.”

She made all the phone calls she was supposed to make while I pillaged my father’s secret black box of dog tags and memorabilia to harvest the best for myself before anyone else could get to it. I was daddy’s little girl, and in my mind, deserved it more than everyone else for that reason.

When my mother called the insurance company, she experienced a little obstacle. They called the morgue and made us all prove he died that day in particular at that exact hour. They actually asked the morgue what color his skin was and how cold it was. They think we harvested a dead body for a week. In some ways, we did because while he had a heart beat and brain function, he was a dead man.

The reason? My father died around 1 AM on day one of year 3 with that life insurance in particular. We didn’t notice, but the life insurance company sure did. The man was waiting for a bigger insurance check for my mother. Only my father.

But he knew. His corpse was given a monetary value based on the length of zombiehood, and despite the superficial rudeness of such a notion, he knew my mother would need that money. All the ghosts of cancer knows that when we pull you aside like a barker and beg for a dollar bill for a cause despite the fact that those you love with cancer don’t have a price, cancer research needs that money. Your dollar bills might give something more important than money to someone else, whether it’s more comfort with new pain management techniques or lobbying to fight Big Tobacco to help prevent someone’s child from picking up a cancer-inducing habit.

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The same luminary bags that were specs of dust in the background are now the foreground. You can’t see the houses, the cars, the trees, the pond. All you could see was a bright light. Every single statistic is unavoidably noticed. Every moment of death and survival comes together and paves a well-lit runway for those who are lost.

Maybe when I die, I will see a bright light to walk towards, and as I head for that light, maybe, just maybe, I’ll see a luminary. Maybe I’ll see my father.

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This week is Finish the Sentence Friday, and the prompt is, It started in the line at the grocery store… I’m sorry I didn’t write about that. I hope you all don’t mind, but check out the other Finish the Sentence Friday bloggers at Finding Ninee!

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Mary Tyler Mom has been writing about her life after cancer. After losing her daughter to cancer. Check out her daughter’s story. She does a lot of fundraising for the Saint Baldrick’s Foundation also known as Donna’s Day and Donna’s Good Things.

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An Inspirational Story about Nobody

The story could be a novel, but since it would be called, “The Big Book of Whininess,” I don’t think that novel will ever be written. This is still an inspirational story though, at least to me it is.

No one was around when it happened…

When I lost my mind.

Even though I was surrounded by people, no one was there.

No one was around when it happened…

That night I woke up to a crying baby and sat with her crying for 3 hours straight trying to get her to calm down. To go back to bed for 20 minutes and awake to another crying baby.

The night after that when I did it again.

This keeps going for years.

Nobody was there…

That day I was scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees with a migraine vomiting in a trash can I dragged along with 2 toddlers fist fighting 2 feet in front of me.

Nobody was there for that. Nobody believes me either.

The day my sleep deprived migraine had me vomiting in the toilet and toilet water splashed back into my mouth with a kid screaming for me.

All those times I stayed up for 3 days straight to only sleep four hours before another 3 day marathon taking care of kids trying to write for money and clean the house at the same time.

Nobody was there for that. Nobody believes me either.

All those years I spent sleep deprived, anemic and a zombie, a real life authentic zombie with purple eye bags, powder white dry skin that sucked behind my skeletal frame, and a glaze in my eyes. I would have cried myself to sleep those days had I gotten to sleep.

No I don’t have cancer. I was just sleep deprived for a few years.

The day I ordered McDonalds from the drive thru because I had to feed my kids despite not sleeping for days. I was so tired, I couldn’t see straight. As I was driving from Window 1 to Window 2 at like 1 mph, my kid screamed at me, “WATCH OUT!” I almost drove into the building. Came out of no where.

Nobody was there when I tried my hardest to do this motherhood deal.

Nobody was there when I pushed passed the pain and kept going. When I believed pain was the weakness exiting the body. When I believed there was no limit to what the body could do except in the mind. When I believed in the bull shit the military fed me, no one was there to see that it’s bull shit.

The fact is, the better the soldier, the crazier he becomes as a result of it.

But nobody was there to watch me go crazy. To know that I didn’t ask for this. To know that this wasn’t something that resulted of selfishness, but a result of selflessness. To know that this happened because nobody was there.

Their voices were there though.

I could hear them telling me what to do, and that I’m doing it wrong. I can still hear them accuse me of child neglect if I don’t mop my floor.

“If you can’t handle this, why did you have 3 children? Stop whining. You did this to yourself. You have nobody to blame but yourself.”

…and don’t forget Susie Stepford-Wife

“Motherhood is a joy. If it’s not a joy, you’re doing it wrong. I can clean my house, take care of the kids and run my own business and still be in the mood to make love to my husband in ways whores couldn’t, why can’t you? I guess you CAN’T turn a whore into a housewife can you?”

Nobody was there when they were screaming at me all morning to get my kids to school on time when my kids weren’t cooperating.

“There’s just no excuse for tardiness. The milkshake your child sat on getting into the car is not a reason. It’s an excuse.”

“Control your children!”

“Quit blaming your children for your irresponsibility.”

Nobody was there the day I actually did stop blaming others to realize that most of my tormenting suffering was trying to live to their expectations. That my life would be so much better without all those people who just weren’t there.

Nobody was there with an inspirational story…

But someone showed up when I stopped living to their expectations. I stopped living their expectations so that I could instead enjoy my children. Someone always shows up to “give me a swift kick in the ass to get back on track to convention.”

They disappear again without helping. Without a kind word. Without an inspirational story. Without anything supportive of me. Without caring about my needs and wants. Without caring about my children’s actual needs and wants.

They disappear without ever really being there. Without ever knowing the truth.

Nobody was there to know how much I love my kids.

That that love was the only driving force keeping me going.

That that love saved my life, many times, from suicide.

That that love is the ONLY reason I’m being nice to these human obstacles.

That that love keeps me from giving up, still.

That that love is my biggest inspirational story when I need one.

Nobody was there but me and my kids. Nobody made me realize who my real family is. Nobody else matters.

 

Check out More Finish the Sentence Friday!

Stop with the Fat Shaming

Sitting in the kitchen nook of my mother’s house waiting for Easter dinner, I proclaimed that the strawberry pie looked so good, I might steal it like the Purple Pie Man and disappear to Porcupine Peaks to eat it by myself, the entire pie, without sharing. Don’t think I can’t do that. I’ve eaten an entire strawberry pie before in one sitting during a Lifetime movie when pregnant with my oldest. I think if we had to proclaim a fruit forbidden due to its sinful deliciousness, strawberries would come in second place to maraschino cherries, both of which can be covered in chocolate.

A family member, who shall remain nameless, accidentally blurted like a loud burp, “I wish my stomach was big enough to eat an entire pie like yours.” She actually did cover her mouth after saying that as if to say, “Sorry. PAR-DON Me.” I don’t think she was trying to be malicious, but she’s not completely innocent either because the subject came up again.

During dinner, she apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry. Everybody is probably jealous.”

I knew where she was going with it, for some psychic reason I knew, but I needed confirmation. I just don’t like assuming people are that negative. So I asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m just the type who can keep eating and eating and not gain weight, and here I am eating and eating in front of you. I just can’t help it, the food is so good.”

Recognizing that the issue is probably ignorance more so than your average asshattery, I preached for a minute about how everyone’s bodies are just shaped differently. When she implied that her body is “normal,” and anything bigger than her stick-figure form is not normal, I explained if I were a dude, I would date big women because skinny women gross me out, well actually, skeletons gross me out. If I wanted to make love to a skeleton, I’d be a pirate.

Later, we started discussing someone who had depression. This woman couldn’t understand why someone with such a perfect life and lots of friends could get depressed. I was like, “It’s about perception. She had great things going for her, but she didn’t see it as great. Kind of like how an anorexic person can be as skinny as you, but when she looks in the mirror, she sees my body.” The girl almost choked on her food shuddering, “Oh God.”

My weight has fluctuated from every weight in the last 15 years, I don’t really care about weight. It doesn’t define who you are. People who are skinny are not necessarily healthier or living a healthier lifestyle than people who are not.

I can tell you the top things that affected my weight, more so than diet and exercise, as those haven’t really changed in the last 15 years.

• Getting pregnant (for whatever reason, everyone gains a little weight doing that)
• Having a baby (for whatever reason, everyone loses a little weight doing that)
• Sleep Deprivation with Migraines (I lost 80 pounds in one month with migraine inducing vomiting trying to keep my house cleaned with a baby and 2 toddlers and no help anywhere).
• Crazy Meds (I gained 80 pounds in one month by losing my mind trying to keep my house cleaned with a baby and 2 toddlers and no help anywhere, so they put me on these meds that made me fat and somewhat more sane than I would be without them).

I wasn’t really insulted that the idea of being stuck with my fat ass scared this woman more than a giant cockroach trying to eat her soul, but I did get insulted when she rolled her eyes at me when I brought up how ONE of my 3 kids is more round than the others, like it’s just her body type, because all 3 kids have the same genetics, same diet, same exercise. She rolled her eyes like there’s something wrong with my “fat kid.”

Call me fat all you want. I am fat. I’m also grown. I can handle the negative implications surrounding the word fat. But my kid? My innocent kid who loves everyone, no matter what is wrong with them? That sweet girl who is overly sensitive if you yell at her much less call her a name?

My daughter isn’t the only one my heart weeps every time someone implies she might be fat like it’s a bad thing.

There’s a teacher at my kids’ school who is one of the best teachers at that school. She started off working with special education, and I think that’s the reason she has the patience and understanding to deal with young kids. She’s also a mother, so she knows what we go through in the evenings at home. It’s not easy. Motherhood sucks the soul and your next 3 lives from you. She deals with kids on their level, and teaches in ways that don’t require them to feel uncomfortable. While that sounds like a no-brainer to me, like all teachers who work with that age group should try to be that way, it’s very rare you find teachers for that age group who are that way at all.

If you need to know why? Because you might be one of those other teachers who thinks making children cry is challenging them to learn, well read up on Erik Erikson and Abraham Maslow. If a kid doesn’t trust you or feel safe, the kid is not going to cognitively develop in a healthy manner.

So I ran into this teacher at Walmart recently. We actually talked more about our personal lives than ever in that half-hour of chit chat hogging the aisle at 10:30 at night (nobody was inconvenienced, it’s ok). I loved hearing her stories about her life. She’s just one of the most beautiful people I know. But I couldn’t help but to notice how often she referred to herself as “fat,” in a despicable manner, like she just loathes the fact that she’s just fat. A couple times, she almost broke out into tears talking about it. She is a bit more Cherubimish in shape than most people, and I’m sure her dot on the BMI Index Chart is a bit out of the normal range, but to me, that’s like saying her hair is kind of brown.

She has a thyroid issue, but I think more importantly, you can tell she has been told by society that her weight somehow makes her less of a person. To me, the society issue is less healthy than the thyroid problem. To see such a pure, innocent soul as hers be defeated by the demonic HUMAN voices that surround her invoking insecurity and self-hate… I’m sorry, but to be one of those demonic voices to me is a greater sin than 2 gay men incorporating a gerbil into their sex life. To endure those voices is more unhealthy on the mind and soul than a physical thyroid problem, and issues of the mind and soul always manifest themselves physically at some point, probably contributing to her weight more so than her life choices.

Being fat is less deadly than feeling fat.

We don’t ACTUALLY know how many people die from obesity. We don’t have that statistic. We are told that obesity contributes to deadly disorders, but we don’t know if obesity CAUSES those disorders or CAUSED the death of those with them. We also know that mental health ALSO contributes to those disorders. Depression and stress can be just as damaging, sometimes more so, than obesity.

We know for a fact that people who are bullied SUFFER from it in ways morphine can’t numb. Yet, nobody has jumped on that cause. Instead, they use the “obesity is unhealthy” angle to bully and cause someone to be more unhealthy… And to boot! In the name of their health! Because America can’t do anything without hypocrisy.

Weight discrimination can make people gain more weight. So realistically, people don’t fat shame in the name of helping fat people. They do it because they are assholes.

The problem is ALL people define what’s normal for a body by society. Rounder people take that information and judge themselves with it, but it doesn’t stop there. The family member I brought up earlier, she’s kind of sheeple in nature. She was only spitting out what society told her. Society defined her idea of normal for her. The only way to shift society is for each of us to shift our thinking and make it go viral.

This picture is a real campaign. tsk tsk tsk Georgia. You have awesome gas prices. Idiot PR people. No wonder obesity is high there, the way you make fun of people. Try hiring a Psychologist to help with your next campaign.

It’s really no different than this…

I can’t go to Facebook without seeing at least ONE post in my newsfeed mocking someone for being fat, whether it’s a picture of a fat girl at Walmart or a video of a fat person dancing. The worst one I saw was from a page who posted a picture of a 14 year old girl attempting to be sexy sucking on one of her fingers, and because she probably weighed 180 pounds, the ADULTS of the page continued to mock her, “Kill it! Kill it with Fire!” Adults blatantly bullying a kid for being fat. Not one adult, but ADULTS: the bullies outnumbering nice people.

You don’t have to have any morals to know, in this society, it’s wrong to mock fat people for being fat, yet people do it like it’s ok. If you try to stand up for fat people, you are accused of lacking a sense of humor. I’m sorry, but if you need to make fun of people in order TO LAUGH, then you are the one who needs to get a new sense of humor.

STOP MAKING FUN OF FAT PEOPLE!

I promise you, you won’t catch the obesity from a hug or kindness. It’s ok to be ok with their bodies.

Some people just have a body of a goddess. Just because it happens to be the body of a fertility goddess doesn’t change the goddessness.

I have a dream that my three little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the plumpness of their skin but by the content of their character.

Speaking of which, making fun of fat people or black people shows very little character.

You know, if you have to make fun of someone, find something else to make fun of, like their football team. And if you are skinny, please do us all a favor and eat some fried chicken to give your curves something worth boasting about.

Here’s a REALLY GREAT ARTICLE about the subject.