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To the Mother Who Stabbed Her Children, We Failed You as a Society

Shanynthia Gardner…

My heart goes out to you.

We failed you as a society.

Although I truly want to, I cannot really fathom the depths of despair which caused you to commit such a heinous act against your children; your flesh and blood.

I can only imagine that you must have been in such turmoil with your mind and body having gone through so many pregnancies so quickly with no time to recuperate. You probably have not slept a full night in more than 5 years.  Your pregnancies probably depleted your body of all of its nutrients that allow for someone to think logically and with reason.

I do not know your circumstance and I can only speculate about what kind of person would continually get you pregnant so quickly after having so much strain on your body.  I truly hope you were not also in an abusive relationship.  A person like that to me could not have been a loving and understanding father, husband, or partner.

I cannot imagine what it would be like, but I do want you to know that I am mourning the lives of your children and hoping for the best for your surviving son.  He is going to have to endure all of the ridicule that you receive and his heart will be tortured for many years to come.  Some people do not think about these things when they quickly judge someone else’s action.  For that I am truly sorry.

I really hope that the other partner/s involved in this tragedy do not exploit these circumstances for financial gain when he or they are culpable in this matter.  Women do not have babies alone and real fathers have compassion for their wives and partners.  Real men help with the children and try to relieve stress on the mother.

I too have been in the deep shadows of the depths of despair where psychosis lurks. It is not enjoyable to rise from those places back into the light and realize the pain and destruction that you have caused.  You can never go back.  You must now forever live with this guilt and for that I am really sorry, and I do not judge you.  My heart goes out to you and your family.

Human beings whom are reading this, if you know a mother who too has had this many children in such a short time period please give them some stress relief!

Cook them a good dinner.

Clean their house.

Watch the kids and give them an afternoon off.

Hang out, laugh, and do laundry together.

Do not make them feel bad for having gotten pregnant yet again. It happens.  What is done is done.  The least we can do is help make life a bit easier so that the next generation of human beings can grow up to make this world an even better place where tragedies like this, that are preventable, do not occur.

We can learn from this.

We are all in this together.

http://www.survivingppp.com/2016/01/postpartum-psychosis-can-you-forgive.html#.V3gGUDVRKAU

View story at Medium.com

http://thehealthcure.info/this-chilling-story-of-postpartum-psychosis-will-make-you-rethink-maternal-mental-illness/https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/isnt-what-i-expected/201202/postpartum-psychosis-scary-treatable

*Edit Note: I was informed via Facebook by George Brown of WREG that his understanding is that not all of the children were Shanynthia’s biological children and that we do not know if her husband was supportive or not.  He also added that we do not know if she sought, turned away, or was turned away from an kind of treatment.  I wanted to add these because I wrote earlier from the heart after hearing such negativity about this story.  I did not do any research and did not claim that I was reporting in any way about this story.

I would like to note that women can have postpartum psychosis from only one pregnancy.  It does not just occur after multiple pregnancies.  Also I would like to note, that I thank all of those fathers out there that do their best to be supportive, my husband is one.  You guys rock as well as any aunts, mother, sisters, friends, and the like that support our mother’s in this world.  We need people like you.  We need deeply caring and compassionate people to support us in any way possible.

A Wandering Soul

A Wandering Soul…

I love to wander.

I love to wander through thoughts which ponder
of experience and understanding
of the many possibilities.

Wander through things that are imaginable
because I have had the ability and seen
and had the ability and did

and wander through things that are unimaginable
that only peek through bits and pieces
small gestures and fragments minutely perceivable

I love to imagine all the multitude of possibilities
and then to know that I still cannot fathom it all…

This understanding pushes me to wandering more
wander through the thoughts of others
not just in present day

but to travel into the past
to experience the lives
to imagine the exasperation
to feel the emotions of times before
yet ever so present

I love wandering through my gratuitous thoughts
things that come freely with experience
many memories of that which I have lived

My thankfulness of the language that humans have created
My gratefulness for the humans whom created the tools which recorded it
…and for the many hours spent and lifetimes used to document and record
so that I may wander this vast universe of possibilities

Thanks be to so many humans
throughout so many ages
influenced by so many cultures and ways of lifetimes
…for the thoughts of which I love to wander.

Serendipitous Blessings – #Blesstival 2016

quotesgram

photo via quotesgram.com

My mother and father divorced when I was 9 years old. This is the same age my father was when his mother lost her battle with cancer. Within the first year after the loss of his mother, my father also lost a brother to drowning and his grandmother to old age. Not long after these losses my father’s other siblings left home, and he being the baby was left to survive this devastating string of events with an emotionally and psychologically unstable father.

My father was never equipped to create and raise 3 girls, let alone 2 step children along with a wife who had untreated thyroid problems that caused a whole slew of psychological trauma on its own.

I am not real sure how we as children survived much of this. Thankfully, none of my siblings lost their lives, but we were all disturbed none the less.

We were, however, blessed with the presence of a man who walked into our loves so simply serendipitous. My mother was eating by herself at a restaurant one morning and was approached by a young man asking for a cigarette. This young man was accompanied that morning by his uncle who had noticed the petite woman dinning alone. He didn’t care if she had a cigarette or not, he really just wanted to know more about her.

Within a few months my mother and this man would be married in the living room of our home. She was in a mint green dress and he in slacks and a button down. It would make a third marriage for the both of them. Last summer they celebrated their 23rd anniversary.

In a few days, this man turns 56 and I have so many life lessons attributed to his sweet and kind spirit. He taught me not only how to play chess and to cast a fishing line, but he also taught me that among the chaos of life there are still waters.

I do not know much about where he came from and how it was that he made his way into our lives, but he was the bastion of hope that our family needed. He may not have been my biological father, but he was father to me in so many ways. I am so thankful for his being in my life and my family’s life.

He was the age I am now when he was given the choice by my mother to take on a family or move on. He chose the hard path, and he walked into a damaged home filled with broken hearts and managed to patch some things up by setting a good example.

I often contemplate where my life would be without his guidance and acceptance. He was the memory in the back of my mind that allowed me to see the good in the world. When my heart was broken by detestable men, I had the hope there were good men out there because of his representation.

I owe him so much for showing up in our lives and maintaining a place in our hearts, and for all of the effort and love that he put into my growth as a being. Just knowing the struggles he faced as a surrogate father encourages me to push forward when things get difficult in my own life.

I was and still am truly blessed by his presence in my life, and my wish as we begin our journey into 2016 and beyond is that others receive such a great blessing in their lives as well.

 

This post was created as part of a Blog Blesstival created by Sophia’s Children.  I would like to thank Jamie for opening up the windows for these blessings to be brought forth.

The Inherent Goodness Found in Domestic Violence

I began this as an exercise to help me emotionally heal from past trauma, but what started out as a short exercise quickly turned into many hours and pages of writing with no sign of stopping. It just poured out of me.

I was a bit unprepared and really should have been working on my commissions, but the universe had other plans. I feel deeply that sharing my story will bring forth more healing than I could have imagined.

The result of my Exercise:

“Get in the truck!” Mike yelled at me from the doorway of my friend’s house.

He had driven his truck through the yard, and parked right in front of the porch. This wasn’t an unusual event. Mike parking his truck in the yard. His urgency and tone however were a surprise to me.

Everyone I knew used the yard in such the same way. The small property usually was filled with mud covered vehicles some of which were filled with 4-wheelers and beer packed coolers. The house was rented by two twenty something brothers and their female cousin. Located in a dry county this property still saw its fill of liquor and drugged induced parties. The brothers may have paid the bills, but the house was claimed by many as home throughout the week and late into the night on the weekends.

I first met the brothers of the house through my friend who dated one of them. How we as teenage girls became involved with guys more than 5 years our senior is a distant memory, but we quickly became a regular presence at the house. Mike was 8 years older than me. I met him through the brothers who lived down the street from Mike’s parents house. Dating underage girls was not the only thing that went on against the law in that house.

“Where are we going?” I asked Mike as we walked outside.

“Just get in the damned truck,” He snapped back at me.

I quickly heeded his request wondering what his intentions were. As I closed the door to his truck, he promptly demanded, “Pull down your pants!”

“What!” I look perplexed at him as quickly as I felt violated.

“NOW!” He yelled. “I fucking said now! Pull down your pants!”

He was so angry and I couldn’t conceive of why. I was pretty high at this point in the evening which may explained some of my dismay, but I had not done anything to deserve this kind of abuse from him. I had been given some money earlier in the evening by Mike’s parents. They had agreed to watch my daughter and sent me out to do some roaming just as their son had done earlier in the evening and many evenings before. They may have saw the discontent in me about my relationship with their son. They were first hand witnesses of our relationship since we had lived with them for more than a year now.

In hindsight dating an adult guy who lives with his parents might not be the best choice for a 17 year old, but I was naive and at the time the relationship worked.

I happily took the money from his parents, called my friend Cam, and made plans to hang out. I made the 20 minute trip from my house to Cam’s. Darkness set as I made the drive down the long country roads. I couldn’t have imagined where my night would have ended.

As I made my way down the curvy road to Cam’s house, I passed the street that led to the Farm. Thoughts began to swirl in my mind. Thoughts that could not be harnessed. I imagined and then re-imagined that feeling. That feeling was what comes over one when you take the first drag of a pipe loaded up with crack cocaine. It was the feeling of consummate euphoria. My mind supposes it is the feeling of divine union with God himself. The thought of that feeling made my heart race and my mind fill with emotions. I quickly assessed the time. I pulled over into a church parking lot not far past the road to the Farm. I couldn’t think straight. I searched through the console and then the glovebox. I didn’t have anything I could use to create a makeshift pipe if I could score some dope. I didn’t think. I immediately pulled back onto the road and made my way to the Farm. “Cam will wait. It won’t take me long,” I had thought to myself. I didn’t have much cash on me, but I had enough to get a good sized rock.

I made my way down the dark and narrow one lane road. There were no street lights and very few houses. That is until you make it to the Farm. The road is still one lane but the trees opened up. There was an eerie red hue from the brake lights of other vehicles being approached by runners. The runners were the guys who ran with the money and brought back the dope in return. They ran the dope to get dope in return. If one doesn’t know what they are doing the runner will take your money and never return. Sometimes they will try to pass off soap or peanuts as dope. Either way you will be at a loss. The runners have an upper hand. I slowly made my way around vehicles and spotted a runner I knew from previous encounters at the Farm. I rolled the my window down and shouted at him. He helped me score and then I asked him about getting hold of a pipe. Some runners kept pipes on them for trade. The runner suggested I take him down the road in exchange for use of a pipe. He showed me a pipe while explaining his plan. I hesitated, then I looked at my ashtray where I’d stashed my rock. I took a quick look around at vehicles entering and leaving. Fear comes over me. “Where is Mike tonight?” I think. He could have had the same thought as I and could be pulling up any minute. A question ran through my mind, “What if he catches me?” I didn’t have time to think. I agreed with the plan and unlocked the door for the runner. He jumped into the front seat. He was an older white man who looked to be about in his 40’s. His hair was thin and long as well as his scraggly beard. He quickly directed me where to go and thanked me for the ride. “You can’t catch a break, man, they all want a piece…ne’er leave a fella alone,” He lamented to me his problems with smoking his payments around the other runners. He then began to fiddle with the radio. I was a bit relieved. He reminded me of my dad with his short stature and lanky malnourished body. I relaxed some and followed his directions. We pulled off the road, through an open gate, and out onto a gravel drive. He assured me we won’t be bothered here and reminds me of his promise of pipe privileges. I again wondered if I had made a mistake. It was all a mistake. I pulled behind a fence of bushes off the drive and parked. My lights had been off for most of the drive to our secluded spot. He quickly loaded up his screen with dope and took a long slow hit of the pipe. Finally I was allowed to take my euphoric trip to another world. It settles my mind for those short lived seconds. Quickly I am back to reality as we took turns until all we had was gone.

I made the trip back to drop off the runner. This time, though, while turning around to leave, I see a familiar truck. It was the truck of one of the brothers. He immediately spotted me, got out of his truck, and came running over to my car. He scolds me for coming to the Farm by myself. I wondered if he saw the runner get out of my car. He made certain to let me know that he did not approve of my actions. Him, here to make his own score, did not approve of me. We argued for a few minutes. I pleaded to him to not tell Mike. I promised to leave and never return. He seemed amiable at that point and promised not to say anything. I quickly return to my previous night’s engagement.

Cam and I spent some time at her place and made a trip to town. We of course ended up at the brothers house. Nothing was ever mentioned about my trip to the Farm.

I was a bit relieved at not ending up in the horrible perpetual cycle of scoring, getting high, then scoring again, getting high, then wanting more dope.

I was pleased with myself for showing some restraint.
This had been the first time in a long while that I had scored some dope. After moving away from the town and beginning Vo-tech classes, I had sworn off getting high. I was on a clean road to becoming sober. I had begun a full-time job at a local dollar store and had begun planning to make something of my screwed up future. I looked at this score as a minor set-back, but I was definitely showing signs of more control.

“What for!” I question Mike as he begins pulling at my shorts to unbutton them.

“Because I said so, you fucking whore, that’s why!” He retorts.

I am at a loss, but I did it anyways. I pulled down my shorts and underwear in the front seat of his truck. He reached over and grabbed the fabric between my legs.

“It’s fucking wet. Who’ve you been fucking tonight, you fucking whore?”

I was speechless as I embarrassingly pulled my shorts back up. I knew the brother reneged on his promise and that Mike apparently knew nothing about female anatomy. In that moment I felt like a helpless child. There was a sunken feeling in my chest. I just sat there frozen.

Mike pulled away from the brother’s house. My car was still parked in the driveway. “I’ll get it later,” I thought to myself.

Mike continued to yell questions and profanities at me as we drove down the road. I tried to argue my position. I tried to explain his parent’s generosity. He didn’t believe anything I had to say. I knew that I had done nothing wrong in regards to our relationship. I had never even thought about cheating on him. Nothing I said could calm him down.

He reached over and slapped me on the left side of the face with the back of his open hand.
“Shut the fuck up whore. I know what the fuck you were doing.”

My heart sunk deeper. I hadn’t done anything in my mind. I did do some drugs, but that didn’t hurt anyone but myself. My child was being cared for and he was out doing stuff too, but I knew the life I was living was not right. I knew I should have never went to the Farm. I wondered why I couldn’t control myself. At this point I was more disappointed in my lack of willpower than I was with the man that just degraded me in so many ways.

I felt disgusted on so many levels. My face hurt, my heart hurt, and my spirit hurt.

We had been together for about a year, and my daughter was only a few months old. That night was not the first time Mike had hit me, but on some level I felt as though I deserved the punishment.

Coming from a home of corporal punishment, it wasn’t a far cry from what I had been used to. From a very young age I had been yelled at and hit when my choices were deemed incorrect.

No matter what my choices had been, though, I had not deserved the degradation that I had received.

I can’t claim to know the first time Mike hit me, nor can I recall every circumstance that he did. I have some difficulty with recollection these days. I can’t say for sure why this is. Was it the drug abuse or the physical abuse? I do know that there were many times that Mike caused traumatic brain injuries with his explosive rage. He claimed, usually through tears, not to remember what he did during the worst attacks.

I’ll never know his side of the story, or what his childhood trauma was.

This January will make 13 years since I last smoked crack cocaine, and 14 years since I finally had the courage to reach out to my family for help. I had seen myself as a failure for so long, that admitting my mistakes was a very difficult task, but I knew that my future and the future of my daughter depended upon it.

Many times I have questioned my soul’s purpose here on earth. And I still do not full understand why I am existing now. I lived through so much trauma in those days and tried committing suicide numerous times to alleviate the hell I felt trapped in those 2 years.

I do not hold ill will against my aggressor. We were two lost souls who crossed paths in the no so best of circumstances.

Our eyes were jaded by poverty and drug abuse.

I have many good memories alongside those atrocious ones.

We celebrated the birth of my first child. I shared my first moments of parenthood with that man. I went through the process of moving into and decorating my first home with him. Together we took many trips and had numerous happy memories. I will not allow the tragedy that beset me make me forget the good I found in him and our time together. It is that hate/love that made it so hard to let go in the end.

I have learned much about myself from reflecting upon those experiences and the reactions that I had to them.

I am today who I have allowed myself to become despite my experience.

My daughter and I

My daughter and I last fall.

Shared from WordPress

“…To be an Athenian is to cherish language because you believe it to be humankind’s most precious gift. In their use of language, Athenians strive for grace, precision, and variety. And they admire those who can achieve such skill. To a Visigoth, one word is as good as another, one sentence in distinguishable from another. A Visigoth’s language aspires to nothing higher than the cliche…”

This should be shared all over. Sadly America is going the way of the Visigoths.

Read the whole speech by following the link.

Smoking Mirrors – http://wp.me/p4Dj0-7Nr

Shared from WordPress

Keshe Gives 10-DAY Notice to ALL Nations of Earth (Oct. 26) – http://wp.me/p2yfNS-6QW

I haven’t looked much into this guy and what he is about, one thing I quickly found out was that no one is talking about it in the mainstream. All I had to do was Google his name and plasma energy and look in news. No news site whatsoever has written about this. Complete silence. Even weirdos and quacks get filler stories written about them. Quacks make for good entertainment, they can be amusing, but not even a crazy quack story. Again…

Complete Silence.

Maybe, just maybe, this guy is for real and the  alternative media community needs to start blasting the airwaves with this information.

Are We As Consumers Doing All The Work?

Sometimes I think the machine just messes with you. #technologyfail #shutupandringmygroceries

A post shared by Tina Miller (@encompassingchaos) on

We all know what production is, and we know what consumption is. You can refer to this older post about that here. There are those who are producers and those who are consumers, but have you ever heard of prosumption?

Many, many years ago (like the 1970’s) the word prosumption was coined to describe a change in the way that production of goods would be produced. It was reasoned that the economic landscape would grow to benefit consumers to such a degree that they would have much say in how and what was being produced. This is for the most part how some things turned out. One can have a specific saying or image produced onto t-shirts, mugs, and clocks with the click of a button. More and more consumers are producing their own media and customizing businesses across the internet to meet their own needs. Blogs being one of the biggest arenas for prosumption. We are the creators and consumers of the products or media being produced. YouTube is another great example of prosumption.
Actual prosumption, though, through mass customization of mega business for the consumer has not been met with their initial assumptions.

I would like to address some disconcerting fads that large corporations have begun to incorporate into their profit systems.

I hadn’t heard of prosumption until the other day. I came across this scientific article because of a fellow blogger. I am now more aware and would like others to be a bit more aware as well. We can not make fully informed decisions in our society if we are not fully aware of the mechanisms at work.

Most likely you have prosumed and you didn’t even know it. You know those oh so convenient check out lines where you get to ring up and bag your own groceries? Yep, you were not only consuming the goods from the store, you were part of the production process when you did the work of a cashier and bagger. Prosumerism is also present when you use your internet connection and your computer to shop around on the internet. You check yourself out and your goods arrive at your doorstep.

These things seem like great innovations. They are convenient and help you get through your day with less hassle, but in the long run are they really helping out our society as a whole?

When you choose to use the self checkout, are you getting a discount for doing the extra work? Not likely, you are paying the same prices as those using the cashier’s line. You can argue that is was quicker, but did the store under staff their cashiers on purpose? Did they artificially create longer lines? Were you essentially forced to use the self check-out? These are the things that we need to be aware of in our technologically advanced capitalistic society.

When we are not aware of what is going on, that is when we are open for exploitation.

All of big business is set up to make a profit. They are going to use everything they can to make more profit. If this means using less cashiers and more self-checkouts then that is what they are going to do. At first it seems great. We are moving forward as a society with the use of these machines, but what happens to that cashier who can’t make her house payment because her hours have been cut?

Think about all of the bookstores that went out of business since the advent of Amazon?

It seems our technology in the wrong hands (or wrong economic model) is a double edged sword.

I like innovation. I like the new things that we have created as a society, but I do not like the golem corporations that keep sucking up all the money and funneling it to the top. It definitely is a vortex.

I do not mind sometimes ringing up my own groceries and bagging them. I do however mind having my labor exploited for the bottom line.

Be ever vigilant my friends and we as the prosumer can begin to turn the tables.