My Jonah’s Journey: A True Overcoming



Meet Jonah. He appears to be your average, sweet, curious, hungry, loves to poop his diaper 11 month old, right?

Would you believe that, on the day he was born, March 12, 2013 – this was Jonah:



Jonah Anthony is my son. This sweet, precious boy came into the lives of my husband and I by surprise.

I thought I had the flu. I struggled for days wondering why I kept getting sick – and then there’s this little clock inside your mind that only women understand that goes “ding” – and the light bulb brightens. You take that walk through the drug store aisles almost hiding your face thinking so many different racing thoughts. You see, I already had two children. I was divorced then re-married. My husband already has 3 children. We weren’t planning it – but after that little walk through the CVS I came home and I waited. Then it happened.



So of course. It began over again – pregnancy ,the cravings, the weight gain, the constant need to barf while sitting at my work desk because somebody decided to microwave fish for lunch (I curse you! I curse you!)

We finally saw his little heartbeat. My belly grew. We found out he was a boy. We named him almost right away. We saw him in 3-D.  We waited for our due date: April 5, 2013.









Out of the blue after months of anticipation – growing into the idea of being a mommy again, feeling his kicks, wondering about him – what would he be like, falling in love with the way he would roll around and cause me heartburn – wake me up at midnight before he was even born – something we did not see coming – happened.

On March 12, 2013 I went into labor on my own after long day at work. When I went to the hospital I felt for sure they would send me home. Within an hour – I was told it was time to go. Heading for C-section. It was his time, 4 weeks early.



Jonah was born on March 12, 2013 at 8:15 PM. He weighed 7 LBS even. I heard his first cry and I began to sob. I could see his red hair from the operating table. His sweet, tiny legs were kicking…

Then I noticed something different than what happened with my other two.

Jonah stopped crying.

I immediately knew something was wrong – I got to see him for about 5 seconds. I gave him a kiss. I cried at how beautiful he was – he looked just like his father but with my mouth. It was happiness – yet anxiety. I waited for word while in recovery.

My husband came in about 2 hours later. Jonah was not breathing well. He had been taken to the NICU. He had Respiratory Distress Syndrome due to being premature. His lungs were not ready to be born yet.

It was not until the next day at noon that I was allowed to see Jonah. I was taken by wheel chair to the NICU where I went to be by his side. I only had one picture of him since he had been born – this one:



I immediately broke into tears when I got to his side. The picture I had seen was not what I saw when I first came into real contact with my son. This is what I saw:



My beautiful boy – the one that had been kicking me, that I had wanted so bad to meet, that innocent little being – was covered in tubes, wires, monitors that kept blaring. I sat by his side and I sobbed like I have never sobbed before. The nurse came up to my husband and said “that is a normal reaction from mothers”…

What mother would not sob at the sight of her son in a tiny box – his eyes barely open, his skin pale, his hands penetrated with IV needles.

I started to wonder if it was something that I did wrong. Why did I go into labor so early? Was it because of the pneumonia and flu I had two months prior? Was it the medication I had taken? Was I not healthy enough to hold him inside?

Now this wonderful creation of ours – was suffering. I was not allowed to hold him immediately. I was, however, allowed to stick my hand inside his incubator and touch him. His skin felt so soft to mine. My heart was alive with love – yet petrified. A terror I cannot describe.



Jonah had to undergo a procedure where a breathing tube was inserted and lung suffactant was entered into his lungs artificially to help him learn to breathe on his own. It was 4 AM – on March 14, 2013. We waited and waited – my husband sleeping on the couch, my mother sleeping on a cot at my feet. The doctor finally knocked on the door – Jonah was doing well. He had taken great to the procedure and was learning to breathe. I could finally hold him.

Our first moments were full of blaring monitors and difficult wires – meandering around his heart leeds in order to get him to my chest. Yet it was beautiful. He raised his head. He recognized my voice. I immediately began to cry.

I was to be released a few days later. We were informed Jonah would not come home with us. He was losing weight, he was still unable to breathe room air without the help of Oxygen. He also became jaundiced.








Days passed. We would often come by the NICU in the middle of the night. We simply could not sleep wondering about our little boy. If we happened to time it right – we were able to stick our hands in and actually feed him ourselves.





Slowly, at least it felt to us, better updates were coming in. At first his blood oxygen level was only 40%. He was coming into the 70’s. His oxygen eventually made it into the 90’s. Whenever it would lower, the monitors would go off, and naturally, we would jump and wonder why. Each day meant, if progress was made, another wire would come off. I remember that I could start to see his actual features – he had been so covered, I could not see his mouth, nose, or cheeks.




Then there was the beautiful moment his father held him for the first time. I cried watching. He cried and smiled and laughed.


I left the hospital on March 16, 2013. I left on the elevator with no baby carrier – just my luggage, my husband, and a heart drowning in pain and an ill feeling in my stomach. I was leaving him behind. How could I? There was no space at the hospital for me to stay – so we would journey up each day to see him and be with him for hours upon hours until we knew our little boy could come home. I could not wait to introduce him to his siblings.

My hands were cracked and bleeding from washing with hospital grade soap each time I even wanted to merely brush my skin with his.

Then on March 20, 2013, we walked into the NICU and found this:



He was breathing on his own. He was free of monitors, tubes, leeds. His sweet face was so clear to us now. We could hold him at will, take his temperature, change his diaper, feed him, rock him, sing sweet nothings to him.

Lullaby…and goodnight…go to sleep little Jonah …

Our little trooper never gave up. From the moment he cried when he came out of me – to the moment he stopped crying because he could not breathe – through each moment we reached through a tiny hole just to touch our baby – grasping at a tiny bottle hoping he would eat even 10 little mls – this little boy fought to survive.

Jonah came home with us on March 21, 2013 – 9 days after he was born. In thinking of what we had been through – which we never expected – we were so blessed. Some wait months, some do not come home at all. We prayed and prayed. We said so many thank you’s, took so many crying breaths just wanting our son home in our arms.

And he came.

The Lord blessed us with this sweet surprise. From that moment that I saw the two pink lines (so not the flu)  to today – Jonah is such an inspiration. Our sweet, beautiful boy is thriving. He is high functioning – and registers on a full term scale – not a premature scale of development. He is trying to take steps. He says Mama with his face bright as he reaches for me in the mornings.

He plays peek a boo with dada.

These are the moments that for days we thought – we may never see. Somehow through it all, God blessed our lives with this sweet boy that was able to fight almost the impossible – when he had just been born. Our hearts hurt for other families that never get to take their babies home. After going through this and seeing my boy through glass and wires – I pray nightly for others in the same position. We are so thankful to the amazing doctors whose knowledge, compassion, and care brought our son back to mommy and daddy’s arms.

In just 9 short days, Jonah will be 1. We are celebrating with a whale themed party for Jonah and the Whale. We joked I looked like one when I was pregnant with him. He will have cake. He will have love. He will be hugged, and kissed, and cherished. For this is the boy that came into the world and fought to live. This is the boy that to this day – inspires me to be a better person, mother, friend. This is the boy that has taught me to cherish ALL of life’s moments – big and small.

This is our Jonah. Our miracle. Our overcomer.

Happy Birthday, Baby. We love you.



A Mother’s Battle Through Dependence


Ah. The quote above. That’s exactly what I had to say to myself sometimes – and I still do. I have clearly faltered. I have made mistakes. When it comes to being a mother of three – and getting through this battle – courage is one way to describe it – the other – is to say I will keep trying – tomorrow. And the next day – and the next.

I often wondered after I revealed my struggles publicly – what people would begin to think of me as a parent. I was having a tough enough time coping as it was with chronic pain – cleaning, walking, simple things – like, say, lifting my tiny baby boy – my numero tres – now approaching 10 months old.

It is no secret that my two oldest (ages 6 and 4) live with their father upstate. They are two and a half hours away – so they are not in my house but every two weeks. This in itself feels like a failure. It has been this way since we separated in December 2010 – and my current battle was not even a glimmer in my eyes. It almost makes me feel worse that they are not with me around the clock – because clearly issues (ghosts) of the past took away my opportunity (for the moment) to parent them full time.

Flash forward to now – and this struggle – after the birth of my third who is with me around the clock – I know people wonder: how do you remain a good parent – if you feel you are not 100% a good person?

Who said I was not a good person?

I have to keep repeating this line in my head – because I believe it is my own brain that convinced me of that when I realized exactly the hill I was climbing – the grave I had tumbled into – let us not forget that becoming self-aware in itself is a huge milestone.

It has taken persistence, dedication, and above all: SUPPORT.

I was not afraid nor ashamed to ask for help from family members and friends – and especially my husband – for help with my children. This was an absolute must. If I am unable – I find someone who is able. I have always been that way – I am brutally honest to the bone. I think this journey as it began was the first time I ever considered hiding. Who wants to admit in public to hundreds, thousands, and then there’s family, friends: I had a problem. A huge debacle with dependence – that needed to be fixed – and I could not do it alone.

For the record, I consider myself an amazing mother. I feel my recent efforts to better myself and my body – my health, my mind – are clear signals that my love of my children takes precedence. This continued path towards full recovery comes at the price of admitting that I cannot do everything by myself – especially parenting.

Parenting is – and forgive my bluntness – not always fun. I get vomited on, peed on, snotted on, yelled at, kicked, smacked, “I HATE YOU FOR TAKING AWAY MY CHOCOLATE”….

These little innocent beings grew in my belly – they came out with those beautiful cries of life that changed me in so many ways. Who knew there could be so many moments where I would bow my head and want to cry – why do my children seem to not be able to stand me some of the time?

Oh – I slapped myself just then writing that. I know how much my children love and adore me – and how much love, passion, patience, dedication I give to them – and this current experience is what I feel certainly defines what true motherly love really stands for.

It’s the courage to become better – to admit imperfection.

If anyone so apt to read my blogs is a parent – you know where I am coming from. This is not an easy task. I remember those days of sleep, watching a football game uninterrupted (“I NEED A JUICE BOX NOW” “NO I WANTED CARTOONS!!” ) – I can break down over the easiest of things – “No you cannot have a juice box. Grab a water, and go read a book.”

It really seems so simple.

Then we add in that for 8 long months I could barely walk – let alone had the motivation to get out of bed – could barely stand in the shower for more than a day a week, did not even feel like brushing my teeth, washing a dish, cooking a meal.

And then we remember the events of Christmas week 2013.

How exactly did I parent while battling a substance dependence and withdrawals and my own mental demons – suffice it to say I had to learn another skill and it’s clearly a double-edged sword:


I asked for a rally around me for help with my children – other people’s time, especially my husband’s time. My husband, for anyone who does not know, works two jobs from home to support our family – and he works from home because I am seemingly incapable of going an entire day with a 10 month old (then add the other two on their visits) without help from another adult body.

“How are you not ashamed of yourself?”

What is there to be ashamed of in asking for help? Thus the point of my blog in its entirety – and the punchline here of this particular ranting.

I am a wonderful parent because I am so passionate about becoming healthy for my children – and because they are inspirations to me – their little bodies full of so much hope, imagination, and future.

I dig deep. Tonight I was not feeling great at all – tired, anxious, still having to run to the bathroom at times (could be up to a month for this, hey, at least it’s not as painful as before) – had some racing thoughts – then got my little baby boy up to find he had a 103 degree fever, could not drink or hold down milk, and was screaming in pain.

Off to urgent care we went – where we found this cute little boy with so much pizzazz – has strep throat. Instead of thinking about me, I held that child so close, and I almost wanted to cry with him – but I held strong.

It takes strength to let go of just wanting to take care of yourself –  this path will never be easy for anybody – single, married, alone, pregnant, mother, father, sister, brother – you name it. In 2010, the number of prescription drug abusers in the United States was quoted at 8.76 million by The National Institute on Drug Abuse.

It can happen to anybody – and it happened to me – and I happen to be a parent.

I find myself on some days still questioning my abilities as a mother – but who would not?

I’m sure others read my posts and see my plight and go “sheesh, her poor children.”

Don’t you worry. My children – they are beautiful little beings with bright futures – and their mommy will be there every step of the way – because I am putting myself in the forefront BEATING THIS – making this IN THE PAST – and bringing that bright future for them – into my own future – because I strive every day to be a better parent.

I would have strived every day to be better – even if I was not going through this uphill battle towards freedom.

I know someday my children may ask me – it could come up in a conversation, I do not ever plan on hiding it from them – if we’re in 2014 and we have Google – I can’t imagine 20 years from now what Google will really be able to do (will it be able to tell you if I’m in the shower if you Google my name and ask “what are her current actions?”)

That leads me to this: I am always going to be an honest and open mother to my children. I am always going to love them with every bit of me – and I am always going to try harder the next day than I did the day before – to be better, no matter my health conditions, current needs, medical problems, mental issues … blah … blah… blah…

I am a mother. I parented through dependence – and I parented through withdrawal – and I will parent through recovery – and during that time I will continue to learn how to improve whatever skills may be lacking (let’s get real: no one is the perfect parent – if you think you are, go ahead and take the gold medal – because I do not believe that exists).

As a mother my biggest goal is to never fail my children.

Do I feel I failed them by falling into this trap?

Absolutely not – because I vowed to beat it. And in beating it – I find that courage for the next day, where new goals, new things to learn, new games to play, and new lost toys to find become apparent – and I live for those moments.

I live for the little smiles that after they get their bottle, juice box, or piece of chocolate (or if I switch from football to cartoons, just for them) – look to me and say “I love you, Mommy.”

And I love them too – I always did, I always will – and nothing could have ever taken my will away from me to continue to be the best.

Mommies have problems too – mine happened to be a huge one – but one that I could overcome and use it in the future as inspiration to forward my children off into this world knowing that they are loved, supported, taken care of – no matter what.

Really. They are. They have been.

That’s a mother’s love – and nothing can take that way.


On Facing Death


If you read my original post …. what started it all, why I blog here on The Overcoming, you will remember specifically that during my experiences with withdrawals – I mentioned facing death.

I’m sure many wonder – if they haven’t experienced it – what that might feel, look, or resemble.

I did not always have to wonder. Previously in life, I experienced death in a different way. I do not mean seeing a body at a funeral (sure, I’ve seen that, three times) – I saw it that day at the hospital – the second hospital trip – when the withdrawals were so bad that, again, I digress – I felt like I was dying. I saw a man covered in a sheet – his soul recently taken into the other side. Yes – I believe in the other side.

When I was younger, as I recall, about the age of five, I felt something that most think is impossible – that it does not exist, that there is no parallel or scientific explanation that it could actually happen. Yes – I speak of the paranormal.

When I was just a wee tike – riding my bike, playing with Barbies, naming my Cabbage Patch dolls (I’m so sorry I lost you in the back yard, Cindy, during the Winter months) – I was often levitated. I am not sure where this came from, or why in my complete lifetime I have faced whatever has seemed to haunt me since I was a child. I would be fully awake – my body suspended into mid air – looking down – my sheets and blankets crinkled where I once had been embedded – but I did not see myself. I only saw where I should have been.

Were you dreaming?

No. I was not dreaming. It was the same experience to the same level each time it happened. My stomach would turn, I would feel afloat, I would look down – and while being suspended, suddenly drop and hit the bed, where I had been previously before I was ever lifted.

Of course I never said a thing. Who would believe a five year old? I kept that with me for years – until in adulthood I decided to continue my fascination with the paranormal and begin to research and investigate exactly what it was – what was the other side?

I’ve done investigations. I’ve read books. I have thousands of dollars in paranormal investigating equipment. I’ve joined groups – seen seminars. It’s not exactly a hobby – well it is a hobby – but it’s more like an infatuation – a passion – to encourage  the world to believe in what they may not believe could be humanly true (because facts do not support it) (unless you watch Ghost Adventures, that’s genuine evidence, I suggest just going On Demand or on Netflix – even the original documentary – and watching – you will not regret that experience).

When I reached my deepest levels of despair at hour 72 – I distinctly remember facing, and posting on Facebook – I had met death. At the time I referred to it as the Angel of Death – and at another point, The Grim Reaper.

My childhood dealings and continued research when I became older – I suppose it somewhat prepared me for what I was about to go through when I began this journey to recovery – but in all honesty, feeling like death – or seeing death at your door – is totally different than I ever could have imagined – or what I set out to discover when I started investigating the paranormal, death, the other side, myself.

My body felt twisted. I have no other way to describe it. My insides felt hollowed out, yet raw, wounded – like rubbing salt over a recent cut or wound. My heart felt deflated, my breaths felt short, tired, worn. I could have sworn in that deepest of moments – I was about to cross over.

I do remember balls of light – but it wasn’t as if I was being invited. My dreams of my Grandmother and Grandfather reaching to me, those were just that, dreams. They appeared motivational as if to say – if you are invited, don’t come – stay, face your trials, win. Even though during the dreams they would say “Come” – I felt it was more as if to say, sure you can, but you are better off with the living and sharing your story, recovering, and staying in the human mecca.

I distinctly remember inside just waiting – my eyes closed, shaking, breathing in and out, almost praying – when the moment hits, I will know it hits, and it’s coming.

It did not.

Most would say – are you not aware that part of withdrawals from drugs is – well, hallucinating. Shaking. Feeling sick. Shortness of breath.

Well, sure I am. I went through it myself. I talked to what felt like a gazillion doctors.

Yet, as a believer, I really truly feel my body felt what death may feel like upon its true entrance – its grand appearance – the charade that brings your soul above, in flight, levitating to cross over.

I had hoped really, that it would have been a more compelling experience – like an awakening – not a painful moment – but almost a happy one – a hello to all my loved ones who have passed, a pathway to Heaven, into the light, no more pain.

It was pain. I believe the reason I felt pain, and really feel I faced death and felt pain while facing death – was because it was not my time to go – not quite yet.

When it is  – it will be different – I can only hope. In my deepest of prayers during those dark hours, I begged and pleaded for relief. I wanted a break – a reason to get out, to stop breathing, for everything to go away – and it did not – because I am meant to live – here, in the now.

In all of my research I’ve never believed that an actual being comes to take you away when your spirit ascends from your body. To be honest, after my recent difficult times, I do not even prefer to use the word death anymore.

Sometimes even my favorite of investigators ask during EVP sessions (Electronic Voice Phenomenon) “do you know that you have died?”

I used to appreciate this question – but now using the word death, I associate with a painful, dark, horrifying, terrifying, psychotic trip into an oblivion where your body feels stuck, slighted, crazed, pained, and humiliated.

I believe now that this question should be rephrased.

“Are you aware that your spirit has risen?”

I cannot imagine, in all my years of my own hauntings, my own trials, and now this – truly feeling like I was dying – that death (in the scientific form of the word) could really be that painful. I believe if it’s time for your spirit to rise – it will be peaceful – it does not matter how you go (in your sleep, accidentally, other commonly “painful” ways) – I do not believe you will feel the pain I felt when I really saw the Angel of Death coming for me.

And so my life has continued on now to speaking out – bringing others into the conversation, supporting, giving resources, a shoulder, if even a simple “I’m thinking of you” – I am now taking on that role. While my evaluation of the paranormal will always continue (and of course, I will always follow, watch, and learn from my icon – Zak Bagans – and his quote above is so fitting) – and it’s not just fitting for investigation of the other side.

It is fitting for my current journey – some may find my transparency, as I’ve referred to it before, as a fault – for being too honest, setting myself up to let in the negative, to look to others as a failure instead of an inspiration – but I do not find my situation to be scary at all. In the deepest moments of my sorrow on those days when my body was at its worst, my mind in the grossest and gravest of all gutters, I kept telling myself I was not alone – that despite how creepy it may be to others, how spooky, if you will, that this situation should not be so “taboo” (someone used this word today – I like that word, “taboo”) – I spoke out to inspire others, and to inspire myself as I write out my own thoughts, to continue this battle no matter how hard it may get it at times.

Do I still believe I faced death – even though my perspective has changed on exactly what it may be?

Yes. I do.

But I believe I faced death not to leave the living world – I faced it to become more in touch with my fears, to embrace those, and find that warm, comfortable, space that I once had before, and do what some believe is impossible:

Come back to life.

To come home.

My Path To Freedom


John 8:32

“…and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”

It all began when I least expected it – during a time that was supposed to be happy. It was a celebration of a new beginning – the birth of my third child, Jonah.

Shortly after marrying my wonderful husband on May 23, 2012 – I became pregnant again for the third time. I was not expecting it. To be honest, I thought I had the flu.

What I really had – were two pink lines. Welcome back to Mommyhood, I thought.

Flash forward. March 12, 2013 – my son was born four weeks early. After a battle for his life in the NICU – he returned home when he was 9 days old.

Shortly after his return – I noticed the simple things were getting harder. Walking. Cleaning. Getting out of bed. There was a pain – a pain that began to spread through my back, knees, and hands. I went to every doctor you could think of – test, after test, after test. No results.

It was during this time that this journey to where I am now – actually began. A resolution to become the best – now, and in the future, especially beginning in 2014. This was the biggest goal I could possibly achieve – I encourage you to read on to find out how my life changed – how this blog started, why, and my continued resolution – the path to freedom.

After having my third c-section I was given narcotic pain medication. It began with Dilaudid – and when the pain did not stop after the second week, switched to Percaset – otherwise known as Oxycodone. After several emergency room visits and visits to my primary care doctor (and oral surgery in between – yikes, my teeth hurt too!) – I finally decided to take the next step – pain management.

I could not get a hold of the chronic pain – let alone be a wonderful mother to my children. Wasn’t I supposed to be enjoying this time? I could not. Everything hurt – there wasn’t a reason. There was no medical evidence to suggest I had anything wrong. It was just that – chronic pain.

After initially meeting my doctor – I was questioned. My prescription records for the past ten years were pulled in front of me. “Look …” my doctor said. “You have been to about ten different doctors – and each doctor gave you a narcotic – do you not see this as a problem?”…

No. At the time I did not. I thought I needed those – and to be honest, I never asked for them. They were offered. I accepted.

After many a talk with my pain management doctor – and really pleading my case that I really felt I had done nothing wrong – long term opiate treatment was suggested. After a series of medication trials – I found myself on OxyContin and Oxycodone. I will leave out the details of how much and how many doses we tried til we hit the spot – but ultimately, I ended up on 120 MG of Oxycodone per day – beginning in May of 2013.

I wish, during the time with my doctor, I had just stopped and thought about what I was doing. Sure, the opiate agreement I signed – it said “you may experience withdrawal upon step down of your medications”. Sure. I’ve heard about that.

As it turns out – I had absolutely no clue what I was getting myself into.

Flash forward many tests later. I was becoming weaker. I was losing weight. I was not able to get around as much – auto immune disease? Could be. Something else? Well…

We finally discovered the chronic degenerative arthritis in my knees. Apparently I’ve been at this for years – it just did not hurt that bad until now. I thought whatever it was hit after the c-section – I really had no idea. It was bad. It would take years of therapy and maybe a total knee replacement. I’m only 34.

We moved from Northern to Central Virginia in September 0f 2013. I could not take the pain in my back and knees anymore – sure, the medication helped, but I had no family help or support in that area. I transferred my records to the same practice, different doctor, as they have many locations.

My medications stayed the same.

During this time it was discovered that my uterus was retroverted backwards – likely due to endometriosis or scar tissue from the three c-sections I had previously had. I would need a hysterectomy.

I let my pain doctor know this and it was at this time, at the beginning of December 2013, that we decided step down of medications would begin to take place once the surgery had been performed, depending on the shape of my knees.

…and then it happened.

On a cold winter day – as I remember, December 7, 2013, I remember thinking to myself – did I take my medication? Should I take more? My two older children were coming – I was feeling very depressed, very much in pain, I needed to be able to be there. I don’t remember counting – I don’t remember timing it. I just took my medicine around the clock.

Later that night, I found myself in the emergency room. My heart beat was so rapid. I could not breathe. I had noticed many anxiety attacks in the weeks prior to – and thought maybe this is it. When I was questioned by the doctor – about my medications and what I did or did not take – the OxyContin came up. I may have inadvertently tripled my dosage that day – causing the breathing and heart rate problems. I was told I was an overdose risk – and they sent me home.

Yes. They sent me home. No IV’s. No fluids. No pumping of the stomach.

They simply sent me home.

That’s when it hit me. What have I been doing and how much have I been taking? My refills were due but … wait.

I called my pain doctor that following Tuesday. The day before, I had seen my OB GYN and explained the depression and anxiety I had been feeling recently – that I had begun to develop stutters and tics – no Psychiatrist could see me until January at the earliest so he started treating me for those issues.

I immediately reported to my pain doctor at his request – on December 11. In pain I walked in – and he looked at me, hospital report in hand, and said – “no more”.

My OxyContin was cut cold turkey. I was given a short supply of Percaset to step off to prevent withdrawal.

The journey began that afternoon.

I found myself crying – in a panic. I wasn’t ready. I had been thinking back on it – over the months – how many of these pills I had taken, that when I had awoken without an overnight dose I was agitated and sick – that the anxiety disappeared when I was on the medications.

And then the light bulb clicked. I got it. I realized it – I realized that months and months of use – of pill … after pill … after pill …. had become my life.

I was chemically dependent.

I swear – as the Lord is my witness – this was not voluntary. I was not looking at these pills going “oh these are so fun – I think I’ll pop four or five at a time”  – I did however remember several occasions of forgetting when my last dose was – and taking one anyway instead of waiting.

What had I done?

Needless to say – the step down was useless. I found myself needing my medication on a regular basis – not on a limited basis. The pain was so bad – I could feel the anxiety and the withdrawals brewing. I began becoming fearful. Scared. Not getting it – why me? Was this my fault? How did I allow this to happen? Why was the step down so improper? The cold turkey cut from OxyContin (that means stopping completely with no step down) had already been brutal – it had taken away the extended relief from the pain – it had brought on insomnia, night sweats, panic attacks, depression, low energy, and diarrhea.

I sat there scared, helpless, and petrified. How was this going to happen? The Percaset was out. It was December 20, 2013. Five days before Christmas. My two oldest were coming that night – to stay for a week – and I had no way to function knowing the drugs were gone.

They were gone. Every one of them.

And I faced the truth. I took to Facebook for my journey. I thought back on my actions. I was angry. I was in a rage that my actions had been misperceived by my doctor as me purposely abusing when in all honesty, I was not pill popping – I was self soothing because that’s all I knew how to do when the pain hit, when the depression from the pain hit. Had I taken too much OxyContin on that fateful Saturday?

I decided not to hide behind the curtains anymore. I wanted to confess. I wanted help. I sat in a fetal position on the bed – screaming – “No, I cannot do this” as I watched my husband stumble to me … “then we’re going to the hospital.”

Prior to this – I had posted my events on Facebook for everyone to see –  I opened myself up for negativity, for backlash. Instead – I found myself garnering more support than I could ever have imagined. I also found that I was not alone in this fight. The overwhelming amount of messages in support I could not even respond to – as an Apple iPhone person, I easily could, but I could not keep up.

There was the original post that started it all … and then it progressed. I began counting in hours. As the withdrawals began I realized what these drugs had truly done to me. And what could have happened had it kept on going. I was furious with my doctor for step down. I felt it was very inappropriate. My brain was raging with anxiety – I could not sleep. I could feel it burning in the back of my head. And here we went.

An example. In the beginning – I went to a hospital that Friday, December 20, that said they specialized in drug rehabilitation. I knew I needed support. They declined my entrance. After intake, in a cinderblock cell with no food or tissues, or even my husband by my side, I was finally told (and handed an ibuprofen and a Zofran) – I just needed to go home. I did not qualify for their program.

My children began their stay at my parents home instead of mine. I sat there and cried harder than I’ve ever cried in my life. What had I done?

The next morning the convulsions started. My husband had gone out. I was home alone. I had no one to help. I was in and out of the bathroom – sicker than sick. It felt like the flu, but a million times worse, added with depression, anxiety, panic attacks, restless legs, the inability to sleep. No – no way. I could not do that alone. My husband called my brother and off we went across to downtown, another hospital with a detoxification program.

This Facebook post was after my return home:

“This news being posted finally. To those whose messages I have not responded to yet – I will. The love and prayers are overwhelming. My brother who is amazing came and picked me up at 11 am – I was home alone, diarrhea, sweats, convulsing. Time for hospital attempt number 3: St Mary’s. After witnessing a man die, his wife being told and she hit the floor, the body covered in a sheet and his daughter and son sobbing, the nurses sobbing, (he was DOA – but they didn’t know) – this made me feel worse but at the same time blessed. I was wheeled to a normal emergency room bed – given fluids, top notch attention. The doctor examined my records for over three hours before coming back. During that time I was given anti nausea and Tordol for the pain and headaches (not a narcotic and doesn’t work but a sweet gesture). I continued with the shakes while my husband transferred Jonah to go spend the day with my brother and future sister in law (his Godparents as well and certainly shining that light). I cried and cried and cried. When the doctor came back – he reached to me with compassion and said my doctors messed up and who dares give a patient that type of medication for so long. He said based on my blood work, body function, and timing of last opiate – I’m HALFWAY home from the worst. Unfortunately no I would not be admitted for help with detox – they rarely do it he said – but he sent me home with Ativan Zofran Ibuprofen 800 and a drug called Clonidine – to help ease the withdrawal as it begins to taper. I’ve already stopped convulsing with the first dose. My blood pressure and heart activity were clear signs that this was taking its toll. My pulse got to its highest at 167. BP lowest of 80/60 then came back up. I have not yet had diarrhea again but I’m certain I will – I’m still very nauseous and hot but we are only one dose in to easing it. I’m taking the Ativan every 8 hours and the Clonidine every 6 hours for 5 days. By the time that hits – I should be completely through the worst of withdrawal and I’m to sleep and rest especially the next two days. My mom has my two oldest and hubby is on duty with Jonah. No I don’t feel well yet. But piece by piece it begins to take shape and on Monday I will sign up for outpatient help for chemical dependence due to chronic pain with an office here in Midlothian. I am now home and in bed – still waiting the worst to be over – but the compassion that I experienced today made me remember that there are real doctors. I won’t lie I begged for opiates – of course denied – and I know for good reason. I feel foggy and sick – but those magic words HALFWAY THERE – stand true. Onwards and upwards – those dark moments are dark – but I sought help and will continue help even after symptoms pass to be sure I never relapse if I somehow have to take an opiate again. You know – January 9. A hysterectomy.”

Yes – that’s right. I was supposed to have a hysterectomy on January 9, 2014 – but after opiate withdrawals and what I was going through at the time – I knew in my heart of hearts – this would not happen. I would not touch another opiate so soon, if ever again. I did not want the mental trauma of menopause either because the hysterectomy was complete, not partial.

On December 22, 2013 I acknowledged my husband on Facebook. This man is an angel. He never leaves my side – at the same time, I’ve never seen him cry as hard as he did during this time of peril – during the hours of the worst of the worst of the worst. I love this man – more than I could ever imagine loving anybody. He has been my rock – from when the battle began, to what I will get to at the end of the article, to the future, he will always have been and be my everything.

Facebook circa December 22, 2013:

“To my dear husband: thank you. For never leaving my side. This is me at my worst. My eyes dark and swollen. I see the toilet more than you. You give up everything to get me healthy. You hold me and despite it all tell me I’m beautiful. You bring me hope in the darkest of times. Without you, I don’t know how strong I would have been. We both know this isn’t over. Could be a few more days. A week. Depends. Were 2 days in and you haven’t left my side. I love you more than anything. You are my Prince Charming. I’ve always dreamt of you and here you are”

Later on that day – I had contemplated taking up my battle in a private Facebook group with just close, close friends – but then I thought about it, no. I had started it this way, I’ll end it publicly – everyone can see. Everyone can speak. Everyone can support – because I knew deep inside, I was actually not ashamed. I was scared – more fearful than anything I had ever faced.

“I decided against the private group. I decided to simply share my journey with everyone – and somebody it’ll be a blog… Maybe a book. About overcoming. Some see my transparency as scary – humiliating – wow your family must think you’re nuts. Nah. The inspirational messages I get compound any negativity. And then I realize that I indeed produce negativity myself. Everyone is allowed an opinion. Even if I don’t like it. But this is up and down. I never thought an innocent person would have to go through such a horrendous battle. I still have yet to see Ayden and Mina. While they are safe – my heart hurts. They only know that mommy has a tummy ache. I talked to them once. And I cried. They can’t hear or see me this way – and it’s with continued faith and prayer that I can beat this before Christmas. The odds are not in my favor – however – there is a God I strongly believe in. And that God wants me here. He wants me to live, and speak my journey. I am not ashamed of this. Becoming chemically dependent on legal medications is common. But my fight is real. There are hours of weeping. My husband and I cry together. We pray together. We hold each other. He is up overnight making sure I get my medications. He stays awake if I’m awake. I have made huge strides. 56 hours opiate free. Seem small to you? It’s not. For 8 months daily I was taking 120 mg of oxycodone – that’s 56 hours that I haven’t – that’s 56 hours of pain, shaking, diarrhea, nausea, panic, depression, overwhelming fear. Oh Percaset – how can I live without you? All those times I was able to cook and clean and hold my children – the mistake I made was giving you credit for that. Anyone who knows chronic pain knows it takes more than medicine to function. It takes inner strength, patience, dedication. It takes faith and prayer. Opiate withdrawal I could compare to death – ever had the flu? Multiply it by about 20. Add panic. Restless legs. No sleep. Depression. Pain. More nauseated than the flu – I would prefer the flu. Then add in the mental block that you must have your meds to live. You know what, Percaset. I never needed you before and I was happy. You only masked pain and you never improved it. I did. You never made me a happier person. You made me agitated, tired and moody with like a two second high that made me want to take more again because there was no pain. A huge breakthrough today 56 hours in. The shakes came back. The anxiety. I’m so worried I haven’t seen my kids. Anything I eat comes out. Painfully. My entire body hurts. And there’s a bottle of narcotic cough syrup my husband got for his bronchitis. I’ve known about it. I knew where it was. A break I said – I could get a break – but no. No fucking way. I’ve come too far. 56 hours is FAR for opiate withdrawal – and I joked with my husband about it. His eyes lit up. “You mean you didn’t realize I moved the medication?” – and my heart leapt a bit – no. I never looked. I refused. And he smiled. Because that’s MY victory. I did that. I refused to give in to one of the worst parts of withdrawal – cravings. My body thinks it needs you – it DOESNT. Yes – I’m in Hell. I’m struggling to beat this so I can go to Christmas – I didn’t get that last year with my kids as they were with their daddy. This is Jonah’s first. I battle this hour by hour praying – Lord help me just feel even an inch better and praise my milestones. If there’s any miracle I want this Christmas besides a cure for cancer – it’s a cure for THIS. I ask you all to pray – and my heart is with those who have or are or will ever suffer with this. If I’ve ever faced death – it’s now. And I will not let him in my door – it’s just a tiny white pill. My heart is so much bigger than that. My heart lives for my kids, my husband, my family, and I know now after this is over – for making a difference. I will speak out. I’m not afraid of the glares, the “wow how could you” – I’m speaking for those who need to know you’re not alone. I’m facing my biggest fear in being so sick – and no matter what – I will prevail. It may not be by Christmas. I may not see Ayden and Mina at all – the looks on their faces with Santas gifts in the morning – but I will give it my all to be there – so pray with me – it’s a dark hour – but it’s the 56th. Tomorrow – I’ll be in the 60’s. Every minute counts in recovery – I am scared – but I am willing – and a fighter.”

56 hours in on this post. I was so looking forward to the 60’s. Then the 70’s.

I had heard that hours 72-80 were pretty much death – facing it head on. Whomever told me this or wherever I read it – they were right.

I hit hour 72 on December 23, 2012. Two days before Christmas.

At this point – I did see the Angel of Death. I posted about it on Facebook. I posted about a light I kept seeing – dreams I was having. My grandfather reaching his hands out to me – telling me to come. My grandma. She looked so beautiful – next to him. “Come” they said.

No. I had to stay. I was too far in. There was no way I was backing off. I was shaking so bad. I was screaming to my husband for drugs. “JUST GIVE ME THE DRUGS” I said. I was convulsing – my hands in weird motions like something out of The Excorist – if I had just had some pea soup and thrown it across the room, I could have passed for Linda Blair. My husband knelt beside me. Clutching me. His eyes streaming tears.

I screamed, and I screamed, and I screamed.

Psychosis. It felt like psychosis. I felt like I was hitting a brick wall a million times and I wanted to give up.

JUST GIVE ME THE DRUGS. I yelled for an hour at the least. I was screaming through the saltiest of tears in a fetal position. Just one white pill … one. A Percaset. Please. Let me have a break.

But I didn’t do it. Christmas was so close. I thought that night would never end. I still had yet to see my children. There had to be a miracle – I could barely move. I was so tired. I was so sick, dehydrated. My normal weight: 156. My weight at hour 72: 114.

It was at this point that I felt the Grim Reaper staring at me. “You did this to yourself … you will die at it … alone.”

No. I would not. Had he not seen my Facebook? The battle I took public – for everyone to see – for everyone to witness – friends, family, old colleagues…

They were SUPPORTING me. They were giving me ideas – friends bringing me things to the house in an attempt to help – love, hugs, so many different things – posting songs to inspire me. Just posting a “thinking of you….”

I kept thinking of this.

And my children.

And my husband.

…. and my children …

…. my children.

And in hour 99  I went to the hospital again for hydration.

Facebook circa Christmas Eve 2013:

“Hour 99: just home from the hospital. I went back to St Francis and got the same doctor that gave me the shaft two weeks ago lol. He was much nicer this time. I was simply so weak I gave up on hydrating myself. Worst 4 day stomach ache I’ve ever had. I felt faint. Overwhelmed. In pain. Scared. Despite the horrible pain in my back and knees I let them know the purpose of my visit. To please rehydrate me – the withdrawals were taking their toll. I sat there and cried. “Is it the pain?” The nurse asked. “Yes. And knowing that I can’t have my safety blanket.” And I cried not only out of pain but out of being proud – for not begging. Honestly I just wanted water. I received no pain medication at all – got some more Zofran and 2 bags of fluids. My electrolytes looked good they said. And I asked the doctor upon discharge – I used to call him Dr Dickhead – “how much longer?” – he handed me a prescription for more Zofran and said “young lady – You have gone over 90 hours. You are almost there. The most I’ve seen it last is 6 days. You’re at 4. You are so close. Keep doing what you’re doing.” And I cried again, part of me just wants a break. The other, huge part, just wants it over and to know I did it without the need to take opiates again. I’m signed up for methadone treatment on Thursday. If I win this battle beforehand – it will simply turn into a support session. 8 months – 224 days roughly of daily opiate use – and I’m almost 100 hours without. Seems so small. Yet so huge. Yes I hurt so bad – I know I’m a very good candidate for an opiate pain medication. I need a hysterectomy and a total knee replacement. But instead I am saying no. Goodbye to you Oxycodone. Forever. The pain I’ve experienced in losing you – is far worse than any benefit you ever provided. As I sit here and try sips of water. Drops of rice. Vitamins. Gatorade. Imodium. I think of what you’ve put me through and how I’m beating you – and in those dark moments when I think I can’t do it without you – I hide my white flag – you will never see it. I am now home and resting. I’m taking some Aleve and trying to get myself to move around somehow to get energy. I’m very very very tired. But there’s two babies that have been here since Friday that just want to see their mommy. Merry Christmas, my loves. Mommy will see you very soon.”

It was with this post that I realized this would not stop me. It would not take away my Christmas. I wanted my babies. I wanted my life back. In hour 103, I showered.

In Hour 104 – I posted on Facebook the miracle I never thought would happen.

Christmas Eve. Seeing my two oldest babies for the first time since their arrival four days prior. I still cry watching – because that moment was so huge to me in recovery.

I made it for about four hours on Christmas Eve. I got up on Christmas Day – still ill, and continued to my parent’s house again for Christmas festivities. I made it about three hours. I went home and cried. I sobbed for hours about how I missed the moment they saw their Santa gifts. I missed them going to see their extended family to open gifts and have dessert. I think that is only the second time my entire life I’ve ever missed that Christmas festivity as well.

I felt so useless. Worthless – but I knew. I knew inside I could beat this.

Hour 150 (December 26, 2013) From Facebook:

“Hour 150: my friends – what a relief. After two hours of speaking with addiction specialists – it was determined I’m not even a candidate for methadone or suboxone. My entire pharmacy history checked out. I passed every single test – love peeing in cups and blowing into machines lol (sarcasm). The worst, they say, is over. My biggest issues will be psychological. I have a lot of anxiety because of surgery next month. I cannot start their outpatient program until that is done but they are going to work with my doctor to be sure this doesn’t happen again. I’m just afraid that because it’s so soon – my body will remember. My blood pressure is really low and my head is pounding so I quit taking the Clonidine. I no longer need Imodium and haven’t taken a Zofran since Christmas Eve. I’ve just drank a bottle of water in its entirety and going for number 2. I’m eating Goldfish crackers and kind of want Perogis or something. I’m EXHAUSTED. They were honest – the psychological effects will be longer term and for that I am going to classes and support groups and will continue counseling. They shook their heads when they saw what I was prescribed. She looked at me and said I had done the worst part on my own – that looking at me she sees anxiety, but a healing person. I am so fucking proud. There will be moments of fear – the worst part is feeling pain and then craving – but I will not crack. They make OTC meds for this reason. I will never ever let that happen again and I’m taking every step to ensure it. She looked at me and said she suggests NA for me – for support – “but you don’t qualify as an addict.” So I walked out – head held high but HURTING – knowing I HAVE GOTTEN THIS BEAT! The moments of frustration and anxiety will be there as my brain continues reset – but the worst is almost over. It could be two years before the flashbacks stop they say. It’s its own form of trauma. But let me be the voice for those who suffer and don’t speak – YOU CAN BEAT THIS. I believe I just did …”

I did – I had spent over two hours in a substance abuse center, a methadone clinic, that could not get me in until December 26 – I had called several days prior (or shall I say my husband who had done it for me) … they had no openings – I had to wait.

Once again, I did not qualify.

Still fighting on my own – I knew I had an appointment with a psychiatrist on January 2, 2014. I could make it … I had to keep going. I could not lose this battle. I was so close. I could feel it. My brain hurt. My body hurt. My body had no idea how to process pain anymore because my Cortisol level was so low (natural pain relief made by the brain, that is decomposed and almost nullified by the use of opiates) – until your brain resets, your body will feel extensive pain – even if the pain is not actually present.

How scary was this revelation – this entire time, putting these drugs into my system, and maybe they were the culprit – this could have been fought in other ways – but now – now I had depression, what I felt was psychosis, moments of mania, and the worst anxiety I had ever had in my entire life. My first full meal after December 19, 2013 at my brother’s birthday party – was not until Friday December 27, 2013.

I barely took sips of water in between.

I even remember I was so excited eating a meal that I posted a picture of the meager plate on Facebook:


Yes, that’s a Capri Sun. Don’t judge.

At this point my ribs were sticking out – I had lost so much weight. I could not hold really anything in – nor did I have any desire to eat.


Fast forward to Janaury 2, 2014. I saw a doctor finally who got me on the right track with the depression, anxiety, insomnia, and lack of energy. At this point I was off Clonodine and Ativan. I was going purely on human soul – faith – and the will to live, the will to beat it.

Facebook: Janaury 2, 2014:

“My husband is so amazing. New meds cause drowsiness the first few days – and he didn’t even question me (also a bit of a queasy stomach but I expected that too) – told me go right to bed. No baby duty. No nothing. Just go rest up. He’s so sweet. He knows I have to get back as much energy as I can with the kids coming tomorrow. There hasn’t been much recovery time in between their last visit and I need to be on my A game. I don’t want another Christmas week repeat. I’m drowsy but calm. Not sure if I’m hungry for the Alfredo I wanted or if that’s the urge to vomit. I hate not being able to tell LOL! Didn’t realize the Salon Pas arthritis pads have NSAIDS in them – feel like I’m cheating using any meds at all for pain (NSAIDS aren’t narcotic but still lol). Here’s to hoping for a restful night and not too many side effects. Sleep yes please. Stomach issues – please stay clear! I just feel like I moved a huge mountain though going two weeks opiate free and learning how to manage and handle on my own. I don’t feel bad at all for needing psychiatric medications – I’m not only traumatized but my brain isn’t functioning correctly. Now some people love opiates because they feel “high”. I needed them for chronic pain and it nearly cost me any chance at being a normal person. So I’m learning again – and I’m PETRIFIED of narcotics. Literally scared. I never thought I would feel that way but after this – the mental and physical effects that could take years to fix – I have to say I’m pretty damn proud. I beat it to Hell where it belonged. And now I learn to live again. Maybe not pain free – and maybe with nightmares and anxiety. But I LIVE – and that’s huge. I will never forget hour 72. I literally saw and felt death. I can’t describe it – but it wasn’t like seeing balls of angelic light. It was basically like living through psychosis, with pain, with the begging of your insides to just stop breathing so you can have a break. That my friends is gone. I survived. And I did what – in that hour – I didn’t think was possible. I forgave myself and let myself begin to heal and endured it. I’ll never go back. Unless you amputate my leg of course…”

Yes, at this point. I was in days.

I felt victory.

The trips to the bathroom were over. The convulsions, the cravings, the psychosis – they were over.

I was left with trauma. I began to have flashbacks of withdrawal – of seeing death, of feeling it, of three trips to the hospital – of what this could mean for my future when a doctor questions my records. I was remembering the hours being analyzed by substance abuse professionals, addiction specialists. I was still recalling the proud moment when it was told to me that I was not even a qualified person for Methadone – I had done it on my own.

I still sometimes count in days on Facebook. The posts here aren’t even in the spectrum of how many I’ve posted about this topic, or what I went through – to be honest, some of them I cannot even find – they may have actually been removed by Facebook.

Have I ever been banned for what I posted?

No. I have not.

I have received so much thoughtful, loving, support, advice, kindness, overwhelming appreciation for my being that I cannot even begin to depict the way it affected me – fighting this in public, having no shame for posting it for all to see, not being ashamed to admit it – I had fallen into the trap of chemical dependence.

Mom of 3. Master’s Degree. Loves football, nachos, taking walks, the ocean, watching Ghost Adventures (ah, that Zak Bagans, he’s the best, most adventurous … love watching him and being inspired) … oh, and I was once chemically dependent on Opiates.

I admitted to myself, as the first step, I needed help. I could not go at this alone – I wanted to so bad. I wanted to journey into the unknown and go through the worst phases of deathly psychosis ALONE …

It was the worst idea I’ve ever had in my entire lifetime.

I have learned so much. We now stand at day 16.

Maybe this does not seem like a long time to some reading – but it is.

It is a huge milestone to go from 8 months of daily opiate use – to zero – and to keep it that way for over two weeks – and for me to not crave it, and to be completely honest, to hate it – is a brilliant beginning to a wonderful life.

Today I sit in front of my computer typing – recalling these moments – and I can feel my brain beginning to work and process. I can feel energy coming back – I can feel my non-anxious, wonderful, generous, giving, love to change diapersy self – coming back.

For sure in those deepest darkest of hours I was convinced – it would not happen. I would not beat it. I would beg and beg and beg for drugs – I would get the drugs, I could delay this. I could avoid it over Christmas. I could just simply continue until I really felt ready to go through the pain of letting them go. By them, I mean pills – as if they’re people.

They’re not even souls. They’re tiny, white…. pills.

Chemicals that have changed my life in a way I cannot describe to you as anything but dramatic. I’ve learned how to cope with my chronic pain in 16  days. My surgery is canceled until a later date. I’ll be in physical therapy for my knees and on birth control for endometriosis. I have not used any substance besides Excedrin in 16 days – and that was only twice – for pain.

I really, truly, honestly, patiently, albiet at times, angrily, BEAT IT.

Have you ever hidden in a corner and cried? You don’t want anyone to know why – or how – or what it’s about – you just cry. No one asks. No one digs deeper to know.

Do what I did. Cry out. Do not be afraid.

I am a living, human, breathing example:

Dependence can be beaten.

I am a kind, caring, innocent example:

That falling into a trap – there IS a way out.

I am a strong, able, AWESOME example:

That you can live without it. You can go through it. You can get through hour 72 – that you can beat it when and if professionals are not available (but they are, please see the footers at the bottom of my page).

Do I sound like you? Because I am  talking to everyone – if you haven’t experienced it, if you have …. if you are …. or if you will – please pass this message along from my mind, body, and heart, to yours, or to that person’s soul:

YOU CAN DO THIS. There is life afterwards – there is a way to become that human being I’m sure you are missing – that you never thought could exist again.

In my hands I have now a picture of my three babies – a picture of my husband – and a picture of myself – and I put them all together – and I see inspiration.

I see a mother who tried so hard not to fail her children.

I see a wife who put in her heart and soul to come back to her husband – emotionally.

I see a person who dug deep into her soul – with every single solitary bit of my last strength – my last of breaths, my last bit of power – and pulled myself out from that dark, lonely grave.

It does not have to be that way. I could suffer damage mentally for years – it will take professional intervention for quite some time. Intensive outpatient therapy, psychiatric medication and help, counseling … and true soul searching – but I’m ready.

I already feel over the mountain – that I beat the worst, and became the best, and continue to strive for the best of the best.

For those who want to know – there was a post from a friend asking people to post inspirational songs to me. I already had one.

“…just remember, you are not alone…in the aftermath.”

– Aftermath (Adam Lambert)

Ever watch Susan Boyle’s audition? The way she came out, strutted her stuff, and shocked the Hell out of the audience and judges? I watch that constantly now – for inspiration. I watch for her – and her moment, knowing that mine was walking out on my own stage to face the music – impressing. Beating.

And then I remember the song she sang. I dreamed a dream ….

And while my journey is not concluded – and will continue – it is uphill.

It was ironic that it happened to be that song …

“No song unsung
No wine untasted
But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame
He slept a summer by my side
He filled my days with endless wonder
He took my childhood in his stride
But he was gone when autumn came
And still I dream he’ll come to me
That we’ll live the years together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms we cannot weather 
I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I’m living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed
The dream I dreamed”

No. Life has not killed that dream I dreamed.

I’m allowing that dream back in – and it is true.

I am me again. I am whole.

And I’m alive.

…. and the truth truly has set me free.

Dreams do come true. Miracles do happen.

Live yours – and let yours – in.

Believe – and you shall rise.

I, my friends, have risen.

(I encourage the sharing of this post on Facebook, Twitter, to everyone. Speak out. You can speak to me. My contact information is available on this site. Take note of the resources. Spread the Word.)