An Invitation; New Blog “”

Hello there! I want to introduce my new blog, ,anyone who is interested to follow. I just started it but I have a lot planned, and I am working on it every week. I decided to create this separate blog to examine motherhood while in recovery from mental illness and drug addiction; this is the main point of the blog, hence the name. However, I will also have posts that are simply about motherhood in general or recovery in general.

This current blog started years ago, and I don’t want to get rid of it. It has become a testament to the journey I have taken over the last several years. I got married while writing this blog, had all three of my children, experienced the pain of miscarriage and marital discord. My faith has grown, changed shape, and I have voiced my struggle to believe in the midst of my worst fears and life difficulties. I have shared some of the most intimate feelings and experiences I have had. Recently found my feet on much more solid ground, and I am thankful for the mercies of our Father in Heaven who forgives a broken and contrite spirit.

So, if this new blog interests you please join me as I grow it into something helpful and honest. If your in recovery, just know you are not alone!

Shalom to you all.

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Husband. (A Poem)



How many times will you die this death to me?

When I crawled up our stairwell, scrubbing days old

Blood off the steps and floors…walls; I spoke

A quiet eulogy to our love, and the man you were

A solitary funeral, my hands washed away our dreams

With those blood rusted rags.

You tried to slice that pain from the edge of your palm

Now your fingers just don’t work like they used to,

A pale scar runs against the crease of your hand

A reminder of what hurt looks like, of how deep

That ache goes inside of you.


But you came to me again, alive; breathing.

How many times have you resurrected yourself

To me? You necromance your heart to mine,

Until its beating and pumping blood between us.

I have no more room for faith in this life of ours

That religious hope has run its river dry.


But still, you come alive to me again and again

After I have already buried you;

Crying the bitter tears of a widow, longing for her

Bridegroom to rise from the grave and be real again.


But even as you come back to me living,

My eyes view you as if you were a ghost-

An apparition come to tease me, come to break

My heart for believing it was true

Your words are a thousand stinging lies,

They scratch my itching ears

Something you learned to do so well

Hitting all those tender, sensitive spots…

(only you know where they exist, where

I hide those fragile weaknesses…)

This time, I hope its true

I hope that you have rose to a final resurrection

An eternal love, unbroken by this disease

This illness, this sickness that takes you from me.


Please, my love, just breath in the air of that sweet freedom

Throw open your arms to the truth that sets the captives free

Not a blind faith, or one of the martyrs;

No, but the religion of my mouth open to your mouth,

Thighs spread, quivering; under your embrace

Hands held together, palms resting perfectly in place

The songs of faith that come pouring from

our open lips…

I Am a Reluctantly “Disabled” Student. This is a story of one day.

Today was a very difficult day. I woke up early and started my homework that I wasn’t able to do the day before because of back to back classes, a doctor appointment, and getting the children fed and into bed. I had expected to have more than enough time to do my homework, prepare lunch for the children, and get them to school/daycare. It turned out to be a very hectic morning, where I had to make multiple trips to drop them all off and I was running late for everything.

I got to school just in time for Spanish class, with incomplete homework. Then I sat in class, emotional and distracted, while all the information went way over my head. I realized in a panic that I am way behind, and I need to be studying much more often. I need to be studying much more often for ALL my classes, and I am not accustomed to this at all. As I sat there in class not understanding what was being said or taught, my anxiety started to rise and rise. Then I received a two phones regarding my husband (well one was from him) which only made me more upset because our relationship is strained badly right now.

So personal family problems, way behind in studying and homework, late for class and late dropping off the kids (I have an anxiety issue with BEING ON TIME yet never seem to be). After class this all exploded. I felt myself start to tear up and I was terrified of breaking down in the hallway and making a fool of myself around a bunch of strangers.

I went outside to try and study for Algebra since I was supposed to have that as my next class, with a quiz. I couldn’t think. My mind was swirling. My heart was pounding. My palms were sweating. I was feeling very depressed and then full blown panic attack set in.

I wanted to get in my car and leave immediately but I wasn’t able to walk there (I was parked, once again, in the outer atmosphere). I was supposed to be meeting up with a new friend I am making at school (the only one thus far lol). He is a really sweet, young guy (resisting urge to call him a kid) who noticed my clothing choices and stuck up a conversation about religion with me. He is Jewish, and very knowledgeable about many things I talk about, things most people have no interest in. He invited me to do a Tashlict with him (I had no idea what it was either, look it up).

I was sitting there outside, totally panicked and just wanting to disappear. I was going to text him and say “I’m sorry, nevermind” and run away as soon as I was able. Time went by and I decided I would go forward with our Tashlict, who knows, maybe Yahweh will help me. But the thoughts continued..

I am hopeless. I am foolish. I am stupid. I will never do this. I should drop out. It was a terrible idea to go to school. Who am I kidding? I am nothing but an addict. I am nothing but a street wise person who will never make it in the “real” world. God doesn’t love me. God thinks I am a horrible person. Etc etc etc

I met him, “R”, in the cafeteria. He wanted to get something to eat so I waited with him and we talked. I told him I wasn’t able to focus in class, that I was having some anxiety and really not feeling very well. He was understating, he has ADHD and autism. He knows how it can feel like the walls are coming in and you need to run. He doesn’t say too much in response but his manner and casual acceptance tells me enough. He talks about God, religion, people, politics. I enjoy listening to him and taking my thoughts off of myself.

Then it is time for Tashlict (ok I will explain, you take bread crumbs and throw it into a lake with fish, say some prayers, and it symbolizes God taking away your sins). As we walked across the lawn to the little lake on campus, I was still full of anxiety, but I was trying my best to keep it together.

We get to the lake and “R” explains some more about this ritual to me, and he discusses some things about Yahweh’s grace and love to us. Then he prays, mostly scripture, and this is the only moment that my anxiety goes mostly away. I close my eyes, breathe finally, soak up these words of encouragement, forgiveness, and love.

Time to “cast it away” or throw the bread crumbs. I feel good throwing them, imagining myself getting rid of these sins that wear me out, bring me down, keep me chained. “Amen”, we say in unison and walk away. I walk him to the building his next class is in and then I stand outside and ponder whether or not to go to Algebra class, and that that quiz that is giving causing me such anxiety. I decide “no”, I cant do it. I cant think. I will break down. I will panic in class, I just know it. I cant stand the idea of being around people right then, I want to be alone. I want to go someplace safe.

Most of all I want my mind to stop accusing me. Hypocrite. Liar. Loser. You will never be successful. You will never be forgiven. You will never be good enough. Just go back to the streets where you belong.

I go to my car. I get out of there. I want to cry. I want to give up. I feel so embarrassed. Why cant I just go to school or work like a normal person? Why cant I control this panic? Why am I so unable to do such basic things that everyone else seems to have no problem doing? How can I tell my family or friends that a simple quiz, or being late, or a disappointing phone call has the ability to throw off my entire day; make me want to run and give up? How can I explain why it’s so hard for me.

Disabled. That is the label I recoiled at ever since I was given it as a teen. I would yell “I am NOT DISABLED MOM!” whenever she used the word. I would get so angry if anyone suggested I use a service for “disabled” people. I hated it because the word implied to me “different”, “other”, “unable”. I didn’t want to different, I didn’t want to be on the outside of normal looking in. I didn’t want to be called “dis-abled” or UNable to do things.

Yet, here I was driving away from college, trying to sooth my panic attack without drugs (prescribed ones). Here I was, UNable to do simple tasks like take a quiz and study for class. Here I was looking awfully Dis-abled.

But now I am home, it took me two hours to calm down, and I am drinking tea to help relax and writing to get my thoughts out. Here I am and I am trying to reconcile myself with this label, disabled student. What does that mean? Does it mean I different? Is that so bad if I am? Does it mean that YES certain “easy” things that “normal” people do are in fact very difficult for me to do? I guess so. I just don’t think it means UNable. I don’t think it means I should never be allowed inside the “normal” world of people who don’t understand why anxiety can be truly crippling. They don’t understand why depression can cause someone to stay stuck in life, or even worse seek death. They don’t understand why I am going to ask for some adjustments to be made for me, like making up this quiz when I am not in the middle of a panic attack.

I think coming to terms with my limitations, my struggles, my differences, is only going to make me a better student and person. I have to accept that certain tasks are very difficult for me, yet are not very difficult for the average person. I think I did my very best today. I tried to get through it in time for class, but I was not able to do that today. I have to accept that, and try again tomorrow. I will make up what I am allowed to make up, and every day I will simply do my best. That is all I can do.

And I know that I have to quiet those accusing voices in my head that tells me anything less than perfection is proof of my unworthiness. I have to accept and believe in forgiveness, and that God knows me better than I know myself, he “understands that we are dust” as the Bible says.

So, I will talk to the school about accommodations for my “disability”, despite being uncomfortable with the label, despite the certain disdain and prejudice from certain educators (I have heard some openly discuss their hatred of special accommodations, they don’t believe in inclusive education at all). I will likely wrestle with my identity as a “disabled” person for the rest of my life, and at times I will hardly struggle and other times I will struggle immensely, because that is the nature of what I deal with. I think I learned a lot today, maybe not in the classroom ( lol) but I did learn a lot! So that’s something, right?

Losing our home, losing you.

I have hardly been in this house all month, and it will be the last month that I rent it. We moved in here with such big dreams, such high hopes, such wonderful plans for our future. Zipporah was barely one month old. It has two floors, three bedrooms, one and a half baths; it was plenty big. The yard out back, the playground in front, just over the little red bridge that stretches over the brook.

I am crying for you. I am crying for our dreams and our family and the future we planned for that has dissipated in front of me like mist rises at dawn. You have left me here, again, but this time I am not going to take you back.

Losing this home has been a struggle for me. It is forcing me to accept that a chapter in my life, in our marriage, has ended. Losing his home cuts through my denial. I cannot live here and pretend that you will come home, repentant and ready to do right, and our lives can move forward as if nothing bad ever happened.

I wanted to hold onto this home. It is big, beautiful, and perfect for us. But now, there is no “us”. There is you, and there is me, and there are our children stuck in the middle; confused, hurting, acting out their sadness with pathetic displays of defiance against me, before melting into a puddle of tears in my arms. I want to keep it because I want to keep you. I want to keep it because I don’t want to admit this dream is over. I don’t want to acknowledge that after years of hanging on, trying again, picking up the pieces, missing you, loving you, visiting you, believing you; it is over..falling from my hands like the millions of little flowers you find and bring home to me (Dead, dry, decaying).

Can’t I hold onto you just a little bit longer? Can’t I believe you for just a little while more? Can’t I stay here and play wife in our house while it’s empty? Please? I just want a little more time to pretend. I just don’t want to let go. I don’t want to accept that once again, you have abandoned me.

Of course, you will find a way to blame me for this one too. You will accuse me of all kinds of wrong and evil. I will be the one who has walked away, the one who has destroyed, the one who gave up on our family. You seem incapable of understanding the pain you cause. You walk away from our family like a burning and ruined city, yet you shrug and claim its merely a little mess you can clean up and move on.

You have destroyed me, love.

It’s so hard to say this—to myself. The man I love has destroyed me. He has taken every single promise and dream and smashed them into pieces, I walk over them and slash my feet against the ruins; and you blame me for bleeding on you.

I don’t know how I can get through this. Each day I feel the pain inside of me. I am damaged in so many ways. I can’t even begin to express all the hurt and pain.

Yet I held on for so long, praying for healing and change and deliverance. I prayed, I begged, I loved, I tried.

I tried so, so hard.

So here I sit, in our home, and I know it will be gone soon. Some other family will move in unaware of everything that happened here. The joy, watching our daughters grow, holding each other, date nights. The pain, the sexual abuse and the emotional torment. The times I sat here, in this kitchen, in this chair, and hoped for a better tomorrow. I sat here broken, believing you would get better and heal me too.

Now I know better, but I am a slow learner with you. I have a hard time not running to your rescue. I have a hard time not believing the things you say, the promises you make, the accusations you bring. I have a very, very difficult time saying “no” to you.

And I love you. I love you very much. But my love cannot save you. I don’t even know who you truly are. I haven’t seen the man I fell so in love with in a long time. I kept trying to find him and bring him back, but I am mourning him now because I think he is gone.

You don’t seem to want to get better. You are still minimizing everything, casting blame on me, on others, on “the world”. You are still focused on what I need to do for you, what I owe you, etc instead of thinking “wow, what did I put my wife through?” “How can I make sure this never happens again?”

So I am getting off this wild train ride that you are so desperately clinging onto. You want to continue this cycle of abuse, pain, sickness, and suffering. I can’t do it anymore. I am getting off your train, and going onto a different one. I have no clue what it will look like, but I do know that I won’t let you abuse me anymore. That is done. I am learning to love myself and lean on God.

I am going back to Him. It is difficult and I am not perfect, but I am coming back to my Father in heaven and my Savior. I almost lost the most important things; my faith, my life, my children—because of you and my need to please you and be loved by you. Not again. I won’t leave my God or my children, and I will never allow you to nearly kill me again.

I still, despite it all, wish you the best.

But it won’t be in my house if you recover, because I am going to have my own house one day; a safe house. A house where abuse doesn’t occur, and blaming and shaming are not allowed. A home where our children will be safe and loved and protected from things like that. A godly house. A kodesh home.

Yah willing, it will be done.


Crawling (or, what this anxiety feels like)

Crawling- I want out of my skin

Shedding this anxious body

Like a creeping snake

This pit in my stomach feels

Like I swallowed a whole hive

Of angry bees

I am distracting myself with

Nonsense, mindless chatter

Endless clicks and webpages

But nothing stops this

Itch- Scratch- Anxiety

The reason escapes me

Something about the endless

Space of the universe

The ever fast running pace

Of time, slipping from my hands

Illusions- something I can’t put my

Finger on

Life is becoming a lump of clay

To me. Waiting for my hands

To shape it

Is this where the creeping fear

Comes in? The power to create

Leaves me breathless- afraid

What if my hands falter?

What if I take this clay and

Destroy it with my clumsy

Unskilled hands?

What if I make something that

I never wanted it to be?

What if…?

Can I….?

I don’t know.

Take my hands into yours

And make them still.

Place my ears against your

Beating heart.

You bring me down to earth

Again. You steady my soul.

Please, don’t leave me again.

I want to trust, I want to just

Have faith.

But I see in the eye of my mind

A different future, where I am


And then the bees start buzzing

In my belly again

The thoughts of eternity get

To big

For my mind to handle

You are the gravity that stays

My earth

Without you I just go spinning

Round, round, and round….

I want you to stay with me

Be here at night to catch my fears

And make them small again-

Insignificant, something I can feel

Powerful over.

Not like some child quivering

In the corner,

Scared of those big things life

Sends my way.

The world is changing, moving forward

Becoming something old and new.

Our world, we are creating it

And I only want to create it

With You.

You Cant Put This Fire Out (A female surivior of sexual abuse)

I am coming into my own now. I can see the start of myself rising from my core, shinning its light and chasing away the darkness of the demons. Those demons that have haunted my insides for years, sinking their shadowy hands into me. No. More.

The star rises, and the heat and flames burn the shadows and shake the darkness to its core.

For so long I was a girl who thought she knew womanhood. I became a Mother, giving birth to three girls like myself. But still, even as a Mother I was still in many ways a girl. A tortured girl, hiding secrets and pain inside her heart.

Christ promised to build me a room in his mansion. He likened me to a wise virgin who lights her lamp and carries oil to the wedding feast. The foolish girls left wailing, digging their nails into the eternally shut door, gnashing their teeth.

But now I, a harlot and a sinner, take up bricks and build myself a new home. Yes I, a silly woman, will make a room for myself alone. And I am tired of holding onto promises like one holds on for dear life. I am tired of these verses being my strength.

I am a strong tower, I run to myself and I am safe. Selah.

I won’t make any more excuses for myself, I have chosen to walk down this road. This isn’t hatred coming from my heart, I still walk my fingers loving over well-worn Bible pages. I still thank Christ for lifting me from a miry pit when I was too weak to escape and nearly died. But now, I walk on the legs of womanhood newly found and I find them solid, strong, and solitary.

But I am angry. And this anger is a righteous and holy thing. I am declaring my right to be angry. No more silence in the congregation or covering upon my head. No more submission, hands spread on the floor, begging. I am not in need of your forgiveness.

I survived, the best I could. The first time a man ever touched me I said “NO”. I was 14, he was 40, and I had barely kissed a boy. So many men took hold of me, noticing I was a tainted girl, an easy target. I fought them, then fell into them; I held my despair like a heavy rock in my trembling hands.

I. Am. Not. Sorry. Anymore.

I survived, the best I could. I gave myself to men for money, for food, for shelter, for the drugs that took the pain away (the pain they gave me). I had no other way, and I knew nothing else. I had fought enough and realized it was folly, much easier to spread your legs and disappear. Give them what they want and will take regardless.

I am tired of apologizing for my lack of virginal sweetness. I am tired of saying “I am unworthy of your love”. God looks to me now like yet another man who demands my approval, my submission, to gain his love. A “free gift” that requires only your whole being. But just believe, have faith, the suffering is a gift he gives to you.

You should be honored to suffer for HIS name. Your name is nothing, something he will replace one day in secret on a rock (if you get to Heaven). A new name, a new spirit, a new body; yours is evil. Say your prayers, beg forgiveness, you’re a woman gone astray.

I’m not sorry anymore. The word “sin” leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I dare you men to walk the shoes I have walked in. Christ reaches out to me and says “but I love you, if only you would humble yourself again.”

I am tired of being humbled. The truth rolls off my tongue, and my lungs feel like I spoke with fire instead of air. I am tired of my head bowed low, my feet dirty. I want to know what it feels like to stand tall, chin up, like I’m finally proud of something.

My. Body. Belongs. To. ME.

There, I said it. Again the truth is more like a dragons roaring than a real human speaking. What a truth. What a marvelous, freeing, exciting, daring, dangerous truth. Mine? Really? But my “No” has never meant anything to the hands that wish to grab me. Mine? Truly and totally mine?

But you belong to your Husband, and even more so, to Christ. Remember what he did for you. Think of those stripes, red angry gashes against his sinless skin. He did it for you, girl. Be thankful. Always, always thankful for not being punished.

Your unclean, remember? Your best efforts are filthy rags. You are nothing, and no good dwells in you. You heart is a wicked thing, leading you astray.

I don’t want to be washed in your blood, Savior. I am tired of always seeking to be made clean. I was not impure when I was violated, it was their hands that carry the dirt of being unclean. I am thrilled to relish in all of my unloveliness. It is called “human”.

And, I am not sorry. I made my decisions, and they are what they are. The person most hurt by anything I have done, is me (and I forgive myself for that). I have come to understand myself, and find compassion for all of me. I refuse to carry the weight of shame around my shoulders any longer, I cast it off and walk away for good.

I am becoming a woman. I am getting stronger, finding the voice that was sucked out of me. I see my daughters and know they could never be unloved, unworthy, or unclean. I will teach them to stand, and to love and be loved and to accept themselves in all the messiness of the human condition. Not sin. No, just life, and the choices we make and learn from.

I see the star rising in the core of myself, and I see that it is beautiful.

You can’t put this fire out.


The Quest(ion) of Freedom or Love

I pour myself out as a libation for you

Satisfy the hungry gods in your heart

Sometimes I don’t understand if I love you

Or need you; is it the same?

You cup my face gently like

One holds fine china in their hands

You tell me promises of life, love, and happiness

I drink in your words and eyes

This isn’t simple, my love

This union is one worked like iron through flame

This isn’t a quick fix, my husband

This union makes us travel many lands and sea

You create a garden with your words

A peaceful stream runs through it

But you pull me down to take me there

You hold my hands with a fervent grip

Am I your lovely possession?

Am I the greatest thing you love?

Am I the one worth dying for?

The one you dream of?

I am; you tell it to me in the bright of day

And in the dead quiet of night

My heart stirs uncomfortably within me

A question grows, gnawing at me

Can I still be your woman,

And a person of my own?

Can you love me with your passion,

And let me fly alone?

Will you clip my wings and

Break my freedom asunder?

Pease, man of my dreams and

Lover of my heart

Don’t make me choose between you

And my discovery of self

Don’t force my choice between

A dearly loved slave-girl

Or a lonely freed woman

To my grave

Open your eyes

Release your grip

Set me free

Because you’re the only one with the key


And I would return to you

With willing lips and generous heart

Free, as true love should be

Trust me, trust me.