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Why am I doing this....

Oh right. To keep a chronicle/journal of sorts about our life. Or my life. Or life in general. Or Sargeant Major.

I'm sure that was funnier in my head than it is here.

At any rate. I dashed off to school this morning to teach my little darlings and then forced them to march down to the school office to show off their newly learned skills in singing Christmas Carols in Spanish.

Boy were they embarrassed, but they did a fairly good job. Their Cascabels could have used more work but they brought the house down with a rousing rendition of Feliz Navidad if only because they've heard it on the radio so often and it does contain some words in English.

I was ever so proud.

Then it was on to home to pick up the Wee Girl (as she shall now be known) and take her to her swim therapy lessons at Children's Hospital. As I was sitting there I took out my cell phone and looked at a video I'd taken of her when she first started. The difference in her swimming is amazing! She's doing better and better all the time.

Then I picked up her seizure meds at the pharmacy while Wee Girl and Daddy traipsed off to the cafeteria for some pudding. I'm made to understand that pudding is an essential part of each hospital visit. I believe it was vanilla today. Then we took her to school and dropped her off.

We came home and hubby went upstairs to nap while I got his dinner together for him to take to work. He needed a nap as we ddin't get much sleep last night. Don't ask.

Now I've been sitting here laughing with my father as he reads through the things in his Diabetic Notebook. You know, things like how he's supposed to be controlling his portions and how to cook without sugar and how to make sure he never again enjoys another morsal of food as long as he lives. (That last part is what he believes)

As a newly minted diabetic, we all have a lot to learn to help him. To that end, I shall be attending yet another three hour class with him this evening. Right after I make dinner, clean up dinner, take girls to swim lessons and right before I collapse into a coma.


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A Poem to an Abusive Man

I've been doing a bit of research on abuse, domestic violence and how it usually ends. It's not pretty and it's painful and I hurt every time I read another woman's tale of horror.

Did you know that emotional abuse is as detrimental as physical abuse? And that most emotional abusers continue on to become physical abusers? I didn't. I do now. I found a site where formerly abused women, on the path to recovery from their abusers, have written poems. This one below is one that haunted me.

Thank You

You wooed me with poetry
I bit on the hook
Had I only first read
The name of the book

I would have avoided
The very first page
For pages kept turning
Revealing the rage

The ups were a great high
The ride was a bash
But I rode with my eyes closed
To avoid seeing the crash
I knew it would come soon
But I never knew when
The rage and the leaving
And the path to the end

You had to control things
Determined you would
Emotionally destroying me
Every way that you could

Elderly Abuse

I heard a loud thud the other morning around 3:30 a.m. I checked my monitor but he'd once again turned it to the wall so I was unable to see if he was still in bed. I went downstairs right behind my sweet husband and dad was on the living room floor moaning and holding his head. He'd fallen. Hard.

The first picture is the day of the fall. The second is the day after. The black eye keeps blossoming. He has a gash on his head, hidden by his silver hair and he skinned his shoulder/arm. He's a mess.

Was he using his walker? Nope. 85 year old toddlers cannot be told what to do. Or rather, they can be told what to do, they simply won't comply. Ever. In fact they get down right angry and throw fits. It's not pretty.

His physical therapist came to the house the next day and strongly told him to use his walker EACH TIME HE STOOD UP. Has he? Nope. Nyet. He was very angry with me yesterday because I kept asking him to use his walker. Also, I asked him i…



Back on the horse
Monkey on his back
I see no light
Not even a crack
Back to delusions
Back to the lies
I see through his words
He can't hear my cries

Back into his soul
Back into his veins
The poison he pours
Dark liquid his chains

Backed into a corner
Heartbroken and torn
Back into the needle
The eye of the storm

Back to the wall
Soul bruised torn and broken
Back to my pain
His eyes half open

Back into the horror
Will he ever come back
Back into the nightmare
A needle in a sack

Back into his childhood
I loved him with fury
Looking back on his life
His choices my jury

How did this happen
Back to evil and sin
How can he do this
Lines on his skin

Back to my weeping
Back to my sorrow
My son, my love,
Has no more tomorrows
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