Y. Correa's Blog

My Week from Hell — A Journal Entry

Where to start, where to start ...? 🤔

Let me see ....

Sunday, August 18th, 2024 was an average Sunday morning in our home. My sista-bestie wasn't feeling too well that morning as she'd gotten up with a backache. I, on the other hand, was a little bit achy from my rheumatoid arthritis which was flaring up a bit. So, our morning tarried a bit as we got ourselves together enough to make breakfast for my son [The Beasie] and ourselves. Soon we found ourselves on the road doing some normal Sunday shopping and running errands. The plan that day was to make Arroz con Pollo for Sunday dinner.

A few miscellaneous things happen that morning as well, but in general everything was fine. Pretty status quo.

At around midday, my sista-bestie tells me that her back is still acting up so she was going to lay down for a while. I was fine with that and so I sat down to read for a bit. Just a few minutes after I'd started reading I began to feel a burning ache in my lower right abdomen which led me to believe that maybe I was having pre-period cramps, as I get those often.

The pain slowly began to increase and spread. Now my right side through under my ribs was burning and aching, and the pain was (according to the number scale doctor's give you) at a number 7, maybe 8. Just a lot.

I took 4 Tylenol and hoped for the best as I wanted to make the Arroz con Pollo and have family dinner with my family.

The Tylenol helped ease the pain enough to where I could successfully make what I wanted to make. We sat, we ate, we looked at a bit of television, and then the pain came back.

Unsure of what was happening immediately I thought to myself that maybe I had appendicitis or something like that, as the symptoms mimicked those of appendicitis. At that time I told my sista-bestie that I was going to lay down, because the pain was bad. I hoped that it would pass. Surely enough, it did not.

Within an hour of having laid down, I was crawling to my sista-besite's room telling her that I needed to get to the hospital. The pain was absolutely a 10.

"Please, I need to get to the hospital!"

We called 911. An ambulance came to pick me up and they took me away. Here is when shit gets really sticky ....

When the ambulance arrives at the hospital, they rush me in on the gurney. I am only partially conscience of what is going on as I was writhing in pain. But I could hear ... I could absolutely hear. Like, everything.

When the first responder wheel me in, they give the nurse a synopsis of what is going on. She asks how my blood pressure is, they say "stable" so then she responds as follows, "Put her on a wheelchair and take her to the lobby to register. We can't take her now."

Now, the issue here is that my blood pressure was stable because I take a blood pressure medication every single day to help my Fibromuscular Dysplasia. Not because I have actual blood pressure issues. Also, I am very good at staying calm under pressure. The harder a situation, the calmer I become. I don't know why, it's just how I am built.

Nevertheless, the first responders pick me up — whilst I am sobbing from pain and even the slightest touch sent electric shocks running through my body — and put me on a wheelchair. They roll me into the waiting room where there are some people waiting. Truthfully, I had no clue how many people were there of what their conditions were. I was too out of it and in too much pain to even think about it.

I slightly remember having had a hospital bracelet band thing put on me. I cannot remember who did it or when.

There I waited, in excruciating pain, for about an hour before the triage nurse called my name. I know that in that time I probably blacked out at least 3 times. No one noticed. When she called my name I raised my hand, as I simply could not speak. I know I was shaking. She comes around and rolls me back to the triage office.

She asks me a series of questions to which I respond as best I can. The nurse was an asshole, to be honest. Her entire demeanor left a lot to be desired. She had that aura of those mean nurses that one sees in movies. So ... she takes my vitals and is like, "You're okay. I am going to take you back to the waiting room until we have space for you."

She wheels me back into the waiting room where I waited for approximately another hour and a half before being called in. Imagine being in a level 10 pain and having to wait all that time.

Finally I am taken back and placed on a bed that was in the hallway. They didn't even give me a room space. Just an open hallway where everyone and their momma was passing by and scrutinizing one's pain and situation.

A nurse — this one was actually very nice — comes to see me about 30 minutes later and asks me the same round of questions. I respond and she says, "Okay, the doctor will be with you shortly." Another seemingly interminable 30 minutes or so pass before a doctor actually comes to see me.

At this point, I have been in harrowing pain for at least 3 hours from the time it started to this very second.

The doctor commences to ask me the same round of questions I'd already answered 2 to 3 times. He examines me and touches my abdomen. I screech in pain. Mind you, I am not the type to scream when I am in pain. I actually internalize it, so if I am opening my mouth to scream ... well, that says something.

The doctor looks at me and says, "I am concerned that this might be something like appendicitis, or something to do with your ovaries. Probably a cyst that twisted them. I am going to give you pain meds, and a CT scan to see what it going on."

I nodded. Waited another perennial, indeterminable amount of time before the nurse came back with an IV and a series of injectable medication.

An IV was inserted into my arm and delineates what medications she was administering. As if I could understand any of it at this point. My brain was only saying, "Take it away! I can't take the pain any longer!"

I'd been given a mixture of Morphine, Tramadol, and something for nausea. 

Once the medication had been administered, it rushed over me like a hot blanket, and suddenly the pain had somewhat subsided. Enough to be manageable. A level 3-ish.

Now, I was in Lala Land, so waiting the other perpetual several hours was okay and I was high and with less pain.

I cannot say for sure how much time had passed before someone finally came to perform the CT Scan, take my blood, and do a urinalysis.

Several hours later the doctor comes back and says, "You have a kidney stone. It's a good sized one. Looks like about 5-6mm. It might not pass on its own. You may have to have something done to help it pass. I'm going to give you more painkillers while you're here, and then send a script to your pharmacy for the same thing. I'm going to send you home. You'll have to call the urologist I list on your discharge papers to schedule a follow-up so that the doctor there can see what can be done for you."

After this is all explained to me the doctor proceeds to give me a laundry list of the only reasons I would be permitted to return to the ER.

If the pain gets worseIf I develop a feverIf I start vomiting or get diarrheaIf I lose consciousnessIf my blood pressure is too high or low

No other reasons. That seemed to put a stamp on the situation leaving me blindsided. Unable to do anything else, I acquiesced and did as I was told. It was about 2 or 3AM on Monday morning by this point.

The following morning I call the urologist to try to schedule an emergency room follow-up. At that point I am told that they don't have any available appointments until November. But, the best they could do would be to put me on stand-by so in case someone cancels they'll call me to come in.

Shocked, as I was still in the throes of everything, I agreed again. The way I'd been approached by this medical facility from the jump was like, "What we say is it, no exceptions."

Bare in mind that the hospital that I went to was so big that it actually has clinics inside of the hospital on upper levels. So the ER was on the first floor, but the Urologist was on the fourth floor. Same building, different floors.

I waited all day for a return phone call, as they'd promised. No such thing happened. Again the pain returned, this time 2-fold. By nightfall, I was experiencing things like:

numbness in my feetthe inability to feel my side — it was numb to the touchchills and cold sweatsvomiting and nauseathe shakesand, my God, the pain ... the freaking awful pain. Even with the meds having been taken.I spent the next 2 days with way and only getting worse. By day 2 I couldn't so much as hold down water, because everything I consumed I threw up.

I called the Urologist again and they said, "Oh it looks like you can come on Wednesday. They'll squeeze you in. Come in at 10:30."

When Wednesday turned around I was basically a zombie. I could hardly walk, talk, move or think. I know I was only a shell of myself. I was pale, and clammy, and cold all the time. Not to mention all the previously mentioned symptoms as well.

I had not returned to the ER beforehand because due to what I was told by the doctor upon discharge that Monday at 3AM, I was not sure if my symptoms were serious enough to return.

So ... My sista-bestie takes me to urologist (I couldn't drive) and they call me in fairly quickly. My sista-bestie was with me the whole time, and I think she may have been leading me through everything because I can't remember how I got from point A to point B. It was all a blur.

The actual urologist was not even there. I met with his PA. Okay, fine. It is what it is at this point, I thought to myself.

So, my sista-bestie is sitting next to me when the PA comes in. Immediately the PA looks concerned. I get asked a series of questions. I respond.

"How is the pain from 1-10?"

I think about it, "I don't know ... a 9, maybe ...?" I reply.

"Even with the pain medication?" she asks.

"Yes, even with the pain medication."

After delineating all of my additional symptoms she begins to tell me that I am going to need surgery as soon as possible, and that she doesn't like the way I am looking right now.

Option A was wait for my insurance to approve the surgery, which could take from 1-2 weeks.

Option B was to go back to the ER and see if I could get emergency surgery. But that wouldn't be until the end of the day on Wednesday, or late on Thursday morning. But, they could keep me monitored and comfortable (with pain meds) until such time as the surgery was completed.

I was never explained what type of surgery would be done. Just that I needed one ASAP.

I deliberated with my sista-bestie. It was a hard decision because there was many important factors to consider.

My sonMy workHer workSome things going on in the home frontFinally, we came to the agreement that the ER option would be the best one. Mostly because by this point a nurse that was listening in to the conversation came into my room to give us some advise. He explained that the ER option would be the best. Especially considering my circumstances.

Within minutes I am rolled down to the ER in a wheelchair they had handy.

Again ....

This was honestly a wash, rinse, and repeat from my initial visit on Sunday.

I was rolled in, they made me wait about an hour and a half to be seen by triage, then another hour to be called back, and even more time to be addressed. However, in that time I learned several things.

The doctor that read the results of my CT scan on Sunday gave me the wrong information. The kidney stone was not 5-6 mm, but rather 8.6mm. It. Was. Huge.  The CT scan also showed that I have a bad heart valve and arrythmia.I should have never been sent back home in the first place.I should have been given some medication or interventional medication to begin to dissolve the stone, but I hadn't been.So now, here I am once again in the hallway of the ER, posted in front of the nurses station where I could hear everything going on around me.

The patients that were present were running a muck. Some literally screaming in pain, others moaning, others agitated because they wanted to go home already ... so on and so forth.The nurses and doctors gossiping and talking shit about the patients every time the met up with each other in the nurses station.First responders rushing back and forth.So freaking much.Thus, once again I am repeating the pattern of being in an uncomfortable place, dosed with large amounts of strong pain meds, asked to take a million other examinations (blood work, urine, ect., ect.), and expected to wait.

I did all the things and was continuously ignored. I was freezing cold, shaking, and just waiting.

Several hours passed before I was addressed again.

"Ms. Correa, we are going to have to monitor your heart because it seems to be acting funny. Also you are dehydrated, and your blood sugar is too low. It's at 53. We'll have to give you something to eat to bring it up."

"I can't eat anything. I throw up everything I put in my mouth."

"Then we'll inject you with some sugar water."

The sugar water did raise my blood sugar but it also gave me palpitations.

It was at 4-ish PM when I was told that I would be admitted into the hospital for emergency surgery. But that the surgery would more than likely be the next day. I was told that they were waiting for a room to become available so that I could be transported to it.

I got to the ER at 10:45-ish AM and was not "admitted" until 4PM.

It was also around 4PM that I was told what type of surgery they would be performing but not why. I was told that I needed a ureteral stent put in because the stone was simply too big, and I had a severe kidney infection and UTI, and my heart was not acting right. Thus, I was taken off of the Tramadol, kept on the morphine, and hooked up to a heart monitor, with an IV constantly pushing fluids and antibiotics into me.

I was constantly cold and asking for more and more blankets. I think I may have tipped the scale at 6 blankets by this point.

Yet and still, it took them approximately another 4 hours before I was actually admitted and eventually rolled upstairs to my room.

The rest of the night was a blur. I can't remember most of it. Mostly because when I was not hopped up on drugs, I was squirming in pain. It was just plain awful. The kind of awful that I would never want anyone to experience.

The next day, I was told that I was scheduled to have the surgery at 3:30PM that afternoon. This was Thursday.

I agreed. I had no choice. I contacted my sista-bestie, my family, my son, my work friends and explained what was going on.

Meanwhile, back at home my sista-bestie was holding down the fort. She was absolutely amazing. She took care of my beastie, called my emergency contact, stood in touch with my job, held it down. I mean, just absolutely amazing!

I am so grateful for her.

It might have been around 10:30AM when I nurse came rushing into my room and said, "Guess what? The doctor just called up and said that he is taking you in right now! Let's get you ready to go. They are on their way up now to come and get you."

I was simultaneously relieved, nervous, scared, and transfixed.

The next several hours were like a foggy dream.

Then I woke up. When I woke up I was no longer in pain, but I was uncomfortable in my nether regions. I was not sick, but I was tired. And most of all, I really had to pee!

Since then I dealt with trying to figure out how much time I needed to take off from work, what I needed to do after the fact, and so much more. I am still stunned that the hospital never gave me proper directives in anything. Not before the surgery, not after. I was just patted on the butt and wished good luck.

Now I am stuck in a place where I am going to have to hunt for some information and a peremptory note that will allow me to go back to work. But at the same time, go back for another surgery in a month's time to remove the stent and blast the stone.

I was not able to have the stone blasted with a lithotripsy (a non-invasive procedure that uses shock waves to break up hardened masses like kidney stones) because I'd developed so many complications.

During my second surgery they are going to remove the stent and then hopefully perform a lithotripsy.

Suffice it to say, the saga is not yet over. I have many more steps to go, but at least I am not in pain. Although, I am currently going through the discomforts of the aftermath of a surgery, I am doing much better now.

Although, I do feel quite traumatized by the way I as handled by the medical staff.

I apologize if there are any typos in this blog post ... it was so much to write that I am positive that there are mistakes somewhere.

Peace and Love,

Y. Correa

Today ... A New Day

I can hardlybelieve that it has been nearly a year since I last blogged. But alas, it has.

When I sayso much has happened and changed since that last blog, and yet nothing has, I couldnot be any more earnest.

For a whileI struggled like never before in the financial realm and although that is not100% rectified things are better than they were.

We are still having a hardtime getting completely back on our feet, but slowly a shift is happening. Althoughfood insecurity is definitely a struggle, we have been figuring things out bybeing creative in and particular in what we eat. I don’t want to go into toomuch detail about the money thing so I will just say this … Though we are notwhere we would like to be, we are better than where we were.

By “we” Imean my family here at home (my son, soul-sister, and I).
We have lostloved ones, I made a shift in employment, and the best thing that has happenedthis year so far, by far, is spiritual growth. 

Especially inrecent months and weeks.

Depressionhad been at a fever pitch. Sort of to the point of me having entirely given upon the world. Everything seemed like a fruitless venture.

I had lostthe desire and will to even try to be happy anymore. My conviction and passionfor life, altogether snuffed out.

I’dconvinced myself that in this life Nowhere was the somewhereto which I’d be journeying to forevermore.

Thus, mylight had extinguished.

If life wascolor, I’d become a morose grey. This was hard for me. Mostly because themajority of my life I’d been the optimistic, bright person that always saw a silverlining.

Life hadbeaten me down so much that by this time last year, I was a feeble, sad wraithof who I used to be—a meat and bones phantom of the me that once existed. I wouldlook in the mirror and not see myself. I tried. Lord knows I tried. Yet, Icould not reach the summit of my felicity. I could not find love internally orexternally. I could not find contentment in self or life. I could not find optimismin existence or coexistence. There was just nothing.

Allthere was, wasthe get-up and go. And not the good kind.

I am surethat by now everyone has heard of the concept of autopilot. This was my everyday. Get up, do my daily due diligence, go to bed, repeat. Emptiness,withdrawal, and solitude was the new norm. This manifested itself in anger,resentment, and silence.

Nevertheless,I tried. Hard. I did. I considered going away. 

Disappearing. Because it feltlike the only thing I offered anyone I cared about was misery.

But a longtime ago, I learned the art of The Mask. So my mask-game was strong—it’s beenthat way most of my life. Yet, in this past year, even though I felt hollowinside the smile on my face told other people otherwise.

I’d lost my abilityto write. I’d lost my musical inclination. I could no longer hear Spirit’svoice. I had lost my spiritual connection. 

Basically, I lost everything. Everythingbut my love for cooking. But this was a catch-22 because food is comforting.And when you desperately need that comfort, you cook. You eat. Inevitably, youget fat.

Here is theeven bigger kicker. We’d been severely struggling with food insecurity (stilldo to some extent). Yet, when you need food not just to fuelyour body but to feel relief from depression, you become relentlessly creative inhow you get “you fix” if you will. So … I cooked, I baked, I did whatever Icould to eat. And of course, to feed my family.

But, my artisticand spiritual inclinations and needs had dissipated. They were mist and smoke,and intangible.

Yet, Ipressed forward with nowhere to go. If a meaningless life was the same as rockbottom, then I had unequivocally hit it. But I said nothing. Kept it all tomyself. I pressed on.

I repeat theword “press” because that is what it felt like.

It was like diggingyour shoulder into a concrete building and pushing against it with all of yourmight, trying to push it down.

Said structurewouldn’t budge but your body and ego were burnt out, hurting, bruised, andremorseful. Yet and still, you repeated this process day in and day out for solong that you’d lost track of time, place, space and your sense of self.Moreover, the reason why you’d started pushing against it in the first place.

I was,indubitably, a shadow.

 

For severalmonths I was working 2 part-time jobs back-to-back. This was my solution to nothaving a full-time job. If I worked 2 part-time jobs, I could essentially achievefull-time hours (more or less). However, this also meant much less time formyself, and even less time for my family. I was perennially exhausted because Iwas essentially working every single day. I only had one day off per week(Fridays) but since it was my only day off, I used it to take care of householdduties, thus it was really just another workday. So I fell deeper and deeper intomy inner funk.

Depressiondoes this thing where you are relieved when you get to the end of the day. Oneday at a time has a whole new meaning when all you see is darkness.

I yearned soprofoundly to find myself again and reconnect with the Universe/God/Spirit/Allah(of whatever you call the Highest Power). I desperately needed to reconnectwith my gifts, my talents, and my meaning and purpose for existing. I neededcommunity, connection and interconnection. I needed what was equivalentto my normal. If I could not find that, get there, then I felt likeI would be doomed for perpetuity.

Although, Icould not “pray” as such, my heart spoke … no … screamed for some level ofsalvation. Some relief from the devastation and despondency. For alleviationfrom a life not lived, and an existence without purpose.

Suddenly,and fairly recently the answer to that prayer came. And in the most unexpectedway ever.

Circumstantially,a full-time position became available to me at one of my places of employment.This position was offered to me. I accepted. Little did I know that this shiftwould also translate into the change I needed. The change I yearned for so desperately.

 

So much hashappened since I accepted the job and transitioned into this position. Somebad, but mostly good. Since I took the job, the depression has begun to lift. Ihave felt the sense of connection and community I needed. I have reconnectedwith Spirit, with writing, with myself. I have started to hear Spirit’s voiceagain. My abilities have started to manifest again.

I feelrelieved. I am finding myself again. Things, as of right now, are better. Notgreat. Not ideal. But absolutely better. I am grateful. One day I will sharesome psychic-medium experiences that have happened in the last couple of weeks.It is so beautiful to see, feel, hear those things again. To feel reconnectedto The Source. To know that I am not alone and have never been alone. Spirituallyspeaking, that is.

Once again …

I AMGRATEFUL.

Journal Entry — 7/2/23

It's been well over a year since I blogged about anything at all.

But ... I need a space to put these thoughts out in the ether, even if no one ever reads them.

1. I am doing everything in my power to not let the depression that I am feeling drown me altogether. It's just a lot. I feel so heavy, burdened, and useless. It's too much.

2. Life is far too stressful for me right now. I know that I have to "keep on keeping on" as they say but given the option, I wouldn't.

3. I may have a few hours, maybe even a day where I am okay enough, but mostly ...? Darkness.

4. The layers run deep. There is so much more to it than what I am talking about. On the surface it may seem like situational, superficial depression but it's not. Although, those things are the ones that are at the forefront.

5. Being tired of being sick and tired is miniscule to what I am currently feeling. Years ago, I used this phrase a lot. It no longer seems to fit. Now I am just plain old tired as well as repulsed by everything and almost everyone. Some very important people notwithstanding.

Lately I have been feeling like I should have ended things long ago instead of pressing forward. I know that I know, that I know, that it's the depression speaking. But it doesn't feel like a lie. I mean, deep down inside I know my life has value. I know that the people that love me also need me. I know that "this too shall pass" as they say. Nevertheless, currently, I feel like none of that is true because this state of existence has endured for years upon years. I need and want it to stop; for things to be better. Yet, the lights in my spiritual room have been off for so long that I don't remember what illumination feels or looks like.

Someone ... Help.

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A Letter to My Daughter — 4/10/2022

 Dear Daughter,

Yesterday was your 29th birthday and I missed it. More than that, I miss you. I have been bottling up some thoughts and feelings for quite some time, and through these means, I intend on speaking on them.

It’s hard to know where to start. I can’t really say that I know what to say at this very moment, so maybe I should just start from the beginning.

I missed you terribly yesterday. Your Sweet 16 came to mind and I thought about how I threw that together in such a short amount of time and how happy you were when it finally came to life. You looked so beautiful in your dress. I remember slaving over it tediously as I sewed it. You probably remember that too. I remember cooking all the food and then renting the location and all the hassle that came with that. But more than anything I remember your smile when you entered the party looking like a Precious Princess in Red and Blue.

But truth is, in retrospect, I feel like I failed you.

I failed to give you a sense of self-worth and self-esteem. I failed to show you that you deserved more. And I probably failed to show you that you were loved. Because of this, you chose such a glum life path.

I remember when we used to be so close. Like best friends. We did everything together. We laughed and cried together, we had our movie franchise that was “our thing”, we only had each other for the longest time.

Daughter, we grew up together— I was just a teenager when I had you and my family life was so heinous that I didn’t have very many tools in my arsenal to know how to deal with some of life’s struggles and hardships as a young mother. I certainly, was not equipped to deal with the men that I had chosen; from your biological father to the one that raised you. I am not making excuses … I am simply stating the fact of why and where I think I went wrong.

Thus, you grew up in turmoil, in treacherous waters, drowning in misery. Seeking a lifeline out of the sea of despair in with you were sinking.

But the choice that came was not a good one, and you latched on to it. I tried to accept that choice. Even cared about this person to an extent. Probably because the face that he showed was one of humility and concern for your wellbeing. He was a lie. A fallacy that eventually stripped you of any tidbit of self-worth you may have had. Still, you held on.

I’d even decided to intervene and gave you both the opportunity to live with me. But in time, you both threw me out of my own house and forced me and your two little brothers to live in a room no bigger than a single bedroom. That hurt me more than words could say because not only did I feel betrayed, I felt robbed of my life once again. This time, by my own daughter and her significant other.

Yet, I moved on with my life and let you move on with yours.

You stayed with him, continued to suffer hunger, homelessness, poverty the likes of which you’d never experienced with him. I never wanted that for you. I never wanted you to suffer the way I did. Much less become an addict and a person of a bedraggled nature.

When the day came that you told me that third party individuals were being introduced into your union, I flinched — recoiled in concern for you. I knew, in the pit of my stomach, that this would be a huge issue.

Then you became pregnant. I would lie if I said that I was happy. I tried to be … for you. But I was honestly petrified. Terrified at what this would mean, not just for your ability to care for a child, but for my grandchild itself. I distressed that he would be caused to endure a life of chaos. I knew he would be loved, for I knew the amount of love you had to give and how much you desired to have a child of you own. What I fretted about was the pandemonium that surrounded you — the life of a vagabond and an unsavory union, at best. A despicable one, at worst,

Your state of living was vile, repulsive. The smell of your home … putrid. The dirt, the uncleanliness, far beyond anything I’d ever seen. And though the stench permeated your skin and clothing … you stayed. You stopped bathing, stopped caring for yourself. Began to live under the same beliefs as he had, that bathing was only needed if you were dirty in excess. Meanwhile, there was cologne/perfume. Retched.

By this point, you and your husband had a live-in girlfriend.

Shortly thereafter, my grandson was born. My beautiful, precious, grandbaby that solely reminded me of you. Not of his father. Period. Soon your husband claimed to no longer be in love with you but to be in love with your mutual girlfriend instead.

Though broken and downcast, still you hung on. Yes, there was a trail separation, but could it really be called that when you decided to live with his mom and refused to be away from him? No. Because for better or for worse, although you suffered an agony that I could feel in my bones, you held on. You agonized day after day seeing how he was treating her, yet still coming back to you for sex and counsel whenever he had an argument with her.

I kept telling you, you need to leave that place. Just go to my mom and dad’s house. Leave that place. Since I lived in another state altogether, there wasn’t much I could do. But you refused. It was like you’d become an all-out glutton for punishment.

This is when the begging for help started. On a weekly basis you would reach out to me for financial help. $20 here, $40 there … this, that and the third. Diapers, wipes, food money. The seeming “need” never ended. All because he refused to work, and you couldn’t find a job either, supposedly. I honestly thought that that was not the reason at all. I thought that you both were either too high or drunk to hold down a stable job.

Nevertheless, whenever I could, I helped. Even to my own detriment because I was under severe financial straits myself. Many times I found my bank account in the negative all following having helped you because “my grandson was hungry”.

But with all that, nothing would prepare me for what I would see the day I went to visit your home when I traveled back to our home-state upon my dad’s heart surgery.

I wanted to give you a great surprise. I think I succeeded in that. What I did not expect was what I witnessed when I got there.

When I knocked on your door, you were not there. You and your husband’s girlfriend was there, as well as my grandson. When she opened the door, I gagged. The smell smacked me instantly — it nearly knocked me off of my feet. It was abhorrent. And the space was so, so dirty and in disarray that the hairs on the back of my head stood and the thought of my grandson living in this state.

I greeted your girlfriend, and then hugged and kissed my grandson. I even attempted to hold him for a bit, but he smelled fowl. The fetor that came from his skin made me ill. Sick to the point of having to put him down. It broke my heart in a zillion piece.

Heavy is the heart of one who cares; none heavier than that of a mother.

I stirred for day, weeks, even a couple of months on end with what I should do with these findings. I lost sleep, stressed in ways that I could not explain. Sometimes the stress caused me to over-eat, other times, I couldn’t eat at all. Some days I could do nothing but think about it. “It” being how you and my grandson were living. Other days, I tried to put it out of my mind to no avail.

There were times when I could not understand why someone closer hadn’t contacted the authorities already? Why hadn’t this been reported? Because, in ever sense of the word, it was child neglect. It wasn’t to say that you didn’t love him, but he was not being properly cared for.

So, for better or for worse, and knowing that someone had to break the generational curse of abuse … I took it into my own hands knowing the chance I was taking.

I am still in awe that the first person you called the day the authorities came to your house was me. I was a thousand miles away, and yet you called me. Why? Because in your heart of hearts you knew that I would be the only one that had the heart to stand up for what was right.

And now you hate me.

I took that chance. I knew what I was getting into. That doesn’t stop it from hurting any less. It doesn’t stop my heart from breaking every time I see your picture of look in the mirror and see your reflection looking back at me. It doesn’t stop me from agonizing when I see pictures of my grandson and wished wholeheartedly that I could just hold him tight and never let him go. It certainly doesn’t stop the nightmares or dreams where I see you and relive those terrible moments. Or you come back into my life.

I need you to know that it all came from a place of love. Profound, unending, unconditional, true and sacrificial love. A mother’s love. The same type that you have for your son. And in the same way I don’t want to see you or my grandson suffer anymore, I believe that you would never want to see him suffer.

I wish I could get inside of you and make you see things from my perspective, but I know that will never happen. So today, I write this letter knowing that I missed your 29th birthday yesterday, remembering the precious baby I held in my hands that late Good Friday night on April 9th, 2003. And more than anything hurting because I wish I could hold you, kiss your face and tell you how much you mean to me.

Forever and always your mother,

Me.

2021 Summary and Thoughts

Once in a while I come here to give an overall look at the year that has passed. I don't think I actually got around to doing this in 2020, although I wanted to.
I mean, I might have. Who knows? I frankly don't feel like looking it up. 😄
At any rate, moving on .... 🤸🏽‍♀️ 
Truth be told, I don't know that I have the energy or inner strength needed right now to go over all of the ins and outs of this past year. Suffice it to say that it was trying beyond measure.The funny thing about my life is that just when I think shit can't get any harder, it does. 🤷🏽‍♀️
There is always that saying that people default to, "God won't give you more than you can handle." Besides being tired of hearing it, if that's the case, than by spiritual measures, I should be a heavy weight, champion, Gold Medal, pro body builder by now.🏋🏼‍♀️
But, "C'est la vie," as they say. Right? Right. 😒
With all that said;

Here is my hope for 2022 ....
1) That God/Spirit/Allah/The Universe/Higher Power (or whatever you call it) has my back—that I don't feel spiritually orphaned, such as I have been for so long.2) That things, to one degree or another, start to look up. Whether that is health-wise, financially or in my love life ... I can use a great degree of Transcendental Light in all of those areas.3) That I find all of the Inner Gladness and Fulfillment I need to carry on.4) That my children and grandchild be safe, healthy and happy and FIND INNER PEACE .5) That the people I love and care about the most are embraced and covered by Transcendental Light and be suffused by contentment in everything they do.
Basically, 2022, I need you to help me recharge my proverbial battery. That legit is all I want and need from you because my aspirations are big, and my heart and mind are even bigger.

Journal Entry 10/31/2021

No this isn't about Halloween, even though what I am about to share is truly harrowing. At least to me; in my heart and soul.

Several weeks ago I shared a Journal Blog Post about my daughter and how she and my grandson are living. At the time I was severely grappling with what I should do—how this should be handled. Because the situation could not continue as it was. Furthermore, no one locally—the local family members in their area—were stepping in to help make a change.

If you'd like a little more on background on this story, you can read more by clicking HERE.

It took me several weeks of contemplation of possible repercussions to finally come to a decision. Since no one else was stepping in, and through ongoing contact with my daughter in that time allowing me to see that the situation was only getting worse, I stepped up.

I called DCF (The Florida Department of Children and Families).

Now why, you might ask, did I do it? Why would I betray her?

I don't see it that way.

But that didn't stop my family from coming down on me like a flood. I'll get more into this in a minute. First I will delineate the reasons why. At the end of this post, I will let YOU decide whether what I did was the right or wrong thing.

1) One day when I had returned home from Florida, my daughter spoke to me and told me that she had gone clean from drugs and alcohol. She said that she'd stopped smoking weed and drinking because she wanted to do better for her child. Reason being, that she realized that she was high and drunk more often than not and that as a mother this could not go on.

However, at some point recently, she backslid. She started smoking weed again. So often in fact, that she was calling me while so high that she couldn't get out of bed. And posting pictures online of herself so high that her eyes looked like fireballs. She also went back to drinking. I don't know what the catalyst to her backsliding was because she would not tell me. 

2) The living situation—whether because of the fact that she had gone back to being high and drunk, I cannot say, but only speculate—had gotten wore. I know and attest to this because of the several video phone calls she had with me where I was able to see the conditions of the house. It was, and I underestimate when I say this, unsavory.

3) During several video calls that I had with my daughter and grandson, I could see how unkempt he was. His hair had not been brushed in God knows how long, and it was so outgrown that it was mated and had lint stuck in it. His clothes looked dirty and he was back to wearing diapers when he had been potty-trained.

4) Most of the time, the floors were covered in animal feces and urine, dirt, and only God knows what else, but the baby often sat on the ground to eat his food.

5) My grandson had no real schedule or discipline. He sometimes went to bed at 1 and 2 in the morning, woke up whenever he wanted and just was neglected and wayward as a whole.

Please understand that I AM NOT saying that my daughter and her husband do not love their child. THEY DO! And HE LOVES THEM! 

 I DID NOT CALL DCF DUE TO A LACK OF LOVE!

I CALLED BECAUSE MOST PEOPLE DO NOT UNDERSTAND NOR DO THEY WANT TO ADMIT THAT NEGLECT OR ALOOF DISREGARD IS ALSO A FORM OF ABUSE!

I've very clearly talked about on here how when my children were little I did not have the tools, nor the direction on how to raise them properly. I was raised in a level of chaos, abuse and dysfunction that left me scarred for life. Then I was unfortunately married to a man that capitalized on those scars and made things worse.
Yes, I spanked my kids. Sometimes, lost all control that I whupped them so bad I would feel like shit afterwards. This wasn't a common occurrence, I assure you. But it did happen. I admit that it affected my kids. It hurt them. I am still trying to make amends to that. Because I honestly didn't know any better. I admit that those butt whuppings probably messed them up really bad.
But, my house was always clean! They were always cared for properly! They were never neglected! I never displayed traits of aloof disregard! I did the best with what I had and what I was given! I did my best raising my kids and I promise you that there were a great many good memories that I created for them! Even if they might not remember them ... I do.
I had 4 kids at a young age and I did the best that I could for each and every one of them. I stand by that. I loved them all with every fiber of my being and they never went to bed hungry, or having eaten of a contaminated floor. I gave them love, attention, and care, as much as I did discipline. When I was hard, I was really hard. But when I was good, I was really, really good. And when I loved them, I loved them hard as fuck!! I STILL FUCKING DO!!!!!!!
No one but me knows that sacrifices I made for them when I could have been selfish, or indifferent. But I always put them first. Always.
At one point I sent Pipo to live with my mom and dad for 6 months when he was 9. My kids think that it was because I wanted him out of the house. But it was really because my ex-husband had threated that he would kill him if I didn't send him away. He said, and I quote, "If you don't get that kid out of here, I swear to God Yasmin, I will slit his fucking throat tonight!"
Most of the butt whuppings I did give my kids were because my ex-husband told me that if I didn't do it, he would make sure to break their fucking bones. Then after I did beat them, he would gaslight me. He'd say to my kids, "You know, I keep telling you guys not to make your mom mad. I try to calm her down but she doesn't listen to me." When in actuality I was sparing them from his wrath.
Yet, they have NO IDEA. None of them do!
So after I contacted DCF, I had this sort of vision. I herd my daughter's voice so clearly as she called me screaming. She was saying that DCF had taken her son.
Wouldn't you know it. That's exactly what happened.
At first I received a call from DCF confirming my report. They asked me a further set of questions and then said that they would go visit the residence.
Next thing I know my daughter is calling me screaming. The vision had come to pass. The only difference was that in real life she asked me if I had called them on her. I said yes. I could not lie. That was the last time I hear her voice. It will probably be the last time I hear her voice forevermore. The screeches of her bellows are recorded in my mind. Branded there forever. I contacted my mother after the fact. My heart was in pain. And all I really wanted was (1) to tell her myself before anyone else did. I wanted her to hear the news from the source. (2) In some way, I wanted some motherly compassion. Maybe I wanted too much, I don't know.
Instead, all I got was judgment. Words of blame. Finger pointing. As if what I had done was the most terrible thing to do to anyone.
Giving up on that conversation, I concluded it with, "I just wanted to tell you myself before anyone else did." and hung up.



Later that day I got this text message from my daughter.


Yes, she has no real clue.
But ... I LOVE HER SO FUCK MUCH! SHE IS AND WILL FOREVER BE, MY PRECIOUS STONE!
What I did, I did for all the right reasons. I want a better life for my grandson, I want my daughter to get clean, and I want a better life for her. That's it. That's all. I just want to break the cure of abuse, neglect and have them break free into a beautiful future.
Once again, I am willing to make a sacrifice. I am willing to sacrifice never seeing them again as long as I can rest in knowing I did the right thing to ensure that they will have a brighter future.
Now ... you decide.

Journal Entry 9/30/2021

I need a Spiritual Release—a Soul Cleansing.

Have you ever just felt like you needed to see the Universe/God/Higher Being seeing you ?

And if I could, and if It did, I would ask a multitude of questions. Seal all of the hole which perforate my soul. Satiate my desire to connect with something bigger; grander and more magnificent than myself.

In recent weeks I have learned a Universal secret—one that I would love to share, but first have to master.

But I am getting ahead of myself, for this post is not about this topic, but something else.

With that said, let me dive into the meat of this post.

Hell, this may not make sense to anyone else but me. Frankly, it doesn't matter as long as it makes sense to me.

When I was younger, I found a place inside of myself, where I could go externally in order to fulfil the need to be heard by the Cosmos. Though it might seem like a contradiction, I assure you, it is not.

However, time has lent itself to loss; thus, I have lost my ability to tap into that space like I used to. And it hurts me deeply.

The place?
Music.

For those of you who do not know, I used to sing. No, not just in the shower. I used to sing in churches, in concerts, and out in the open. I sang Gospel, for having grown up Christian, it was what I knew. But I in so doing I learned that I could beckon, through song, the expanse of Creation and it would hear me, feel me, see me, and respond.

About a decade ago, I lost that ability. I can narrow it down to the very time and day. But I will spare you the specifics.

I can remember with so much accuracy that I can recall the sensations of living waters running down my spine as I was lifted into a realm that was far beyond this plain.

I've lost it. I called that ability "My Beloved," for it was pure, unadulterated, unconditional and exponential love that I felt whenever I opened my mouth to call upon the name of Jah through song.

There wasn't, and never will be, anything like it. I was transported; flown above the macrocosm and into a pocket of space where time, material, superficial and all relative things did not exist. It was just Totality and I. And it was wonderful. There I could speak to It, ask things, receive things that money could not buy. It was my Sanctuary.

Nowadays I yearn to regain that lost gift. Especially in times of need and anguish, such as I have been experiencing lately. But it's so far from my grasp. I can almost taste it, but can't quite grab it. I want it back, My Beloved. I want to open my mouth and call upon it once again, for it is where my peace lies.

Journal Entry 9/29/2021

The last week has been really trying for me.

I injured my back whilst getting out of the shower and since then I have been in massive amounts of pain.

There is a reason I am bringing this up. It's gotten me thinking about some stuff.

In order to make things clearer, I have to rewind a bit.

Through this blog I have slowly but surely divulged many things about my life. It's been, in a way, my variation of an autobiography.

So, in that spirit, here is a little something else you didn't know about me ....

I was an underdeveloped infant at birth. I was not premature, I was just underdeveloped due to some major health issues that my mother was having whilst pregnant of me. So, while I was full-term, at birth I was the size and development of a premature baby.

I was all of 2 pounds and 3 ounces, and a whole 12 inches long. Literally the size of a baby-doll toy.

As a matter of fact, my mother and grandmother used to buy baby-doll toys just to take their clothes off in order to dress me. This was because at that time premature baby clothing didn't exist.

My mother's attending doctor and my pediatrician gave me a less than 30% chance of survival. After only 1 month in an incubator and still very fragile, but against doctor's advise/orders, my mother decided to take me home.

The issue was that I was still underdeveloped and taking me home would mean that I would have a smaller chance of survival and a bigger chance of developing immediate and future major health issues.

Well, here I am, and as per predicted, I survived but my health is absolute shit.

During my childhood I was a sickly child, and now, well ... I mean, I am in my mid-forties and there isn't an ailment in the world that I don't have.

At least it feels that way sometimes.

Now that that's out of the way, back to the point I was trying to get to.

For several years now I have been dealing with increasingly declining health. Throughout this time I have learned of various congenital defects that I was born with that I had no clue existed. Earlier this year it was something in my brain. There was something else before that which I cannot recall at the moment. And this time, I've learned that I have even more congenital issues with my spine. This was discovered during my visit to the ER when I hurt my back.

Like, what more do I need? Seriously!

This causes an inner debate, and it isn't all peaches and cream.

It gets me to wondering;

Why did I survive if I was going to have to live a life full of physical pain?

Why didn't I fall into that percentile that didn't make it?

Why didn't my mother just leave me in the care of the attending physicians? Maybe I would have had a chance at a healthier life.

There are so many questions. My fear is learning later on that I have even more issues that I had no inkling of.

There is so much more happening in my brain right now regarding all of this that I don't even know if I can get it on paper. My mind is a scramble of "what ifs" and "whys".

All I know right now is that life is so fucking unfair.

Journal Entry 9/22/2021

 Every day I feel a little more like a broken individual who just can't get fixed.

Call me "Ms. Glass".

I tend to think of myself as a once beautiful porcelain bowl that was dropped, broken into a thousand pieces, then mending itself with Crazy Glue. The cracks still show, and it is slowly coming apart and leaking.

Last night I learned ... like, deeply learned, that I have a tenuous and unhealthy relationship with money. But only as it pertains to myself. Not others.

This might not make any sense to anyone but me, but there it is. It's my truth. So it doesn't matter if it doesn't make sense to anyone else.

Through a very enlightening conversation with my soul sister I got to the core of why I had so many issues and anxiety with managing my own monies. When it came to me—very uncomfortably, I might add—I nearly had a full-blown anxiety attack before I could even get the words out. It was then that I realized that this truth was dug so far inside that even I couldn't see it until I allowed myself to do so. I had hidden it from myself.

My truth, my dubious relationship with money started ages ago when money became the focal point of everything. My dad was a gambler. A very good one I might add. He would bring home hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars in just a weekend of gambling. The monies were just tossed atop the bed like candy falling from a piñata. It was then that my mother's shopping addiction started. My mother has always had an addictive personality. When she wasn't addicted to one thing it was another.

This made the finances incredibly unstable. We might be dancing in dough today, and fending for scraps tomorrow. There was the rollercoaster of having and not having; of hand-me-downs that were ill suited for anyone, to extravagance that was far too much for the hood. And we indubitably grew up in the hood.

Then ... my dad stopped gambling. He cleaned up his act. That is when poverty came and stuck!

The rest, as the say, is history. The proverbial rollercoaster, turned into a full-on haunted house.

Then came my adulthood. This too led to a perpetual instability and struggle with money. Always ... struggling. Always, fighting. Always.

Having tied myself to an incredibly horrid man who intentionally belittled me at every turn, he made it clear that my worth was only in as much as I could provide financially. It didn't matter how perfect of a wife I was (and I was a fucking perfect wife) if I could not produce the monies he thought I should be producing, then I was worthless. Period.

One day he said something to me that stuck. It stuck like nothing had ever stuck before. I think these words changed my life entirely when it came to my relationship with money. 

We were having an argument about his constant need to indulge in expensive things and have fancy stuff, and the extents to which he would go to in order to get those things. I said, "Life isn't all about the money."

He said, "Yes it is."

I asked him, "So you would rather have money than your wife and kids? No, wait, what would you choose ... money and fancy stuff, or your family?"

He said, with the most serious look I had ever seen before, "I would ALWAYS CHOOSE THE MONEY."

Those words broke my soul.

When we finally broke up, the struggle of poverty continued. Always fighting, always trying to make a way. Always trying to make ends meet. Always.

The money was never enough. And whenever I thought I was finally breathing from the struggle, something else came along.

Eventually, money became poison.

It was fire and ice. I didn't want it even though I needed it. It was my best friend and my worst enemy. Whenever I had it, I wanted it to go as fast as possible. Whenever I didn't have it, I needed it right away.

I've learned that I am damaged. Sometimes I feel that it is beyond repair. I wonder, is it even worth trying to continue working to my enlightenment, and through this chaos, or jus do like most and say "this is me"?

I want to say the former is the most beneficial route, but the latter seems more convenient. Mostly because, despite writing this blog post without shedding a tear, I am hurting inside. Why? Because the route to enlightenment hurts like a son of a bitch.

Of course I will keep working, but just for today I am feeling quite tired.