Click on the link below to see how to make these fabulous spice jars!
Thanks to Lizzy Beth for putting together the instructional!
DIY Spice Jars from Critz and Giggles
These are the musings of "me." I'm a military wife, a mother of a child with ASD, a writer, a foster parent, an adoptive parent, and an all around general smart ass. Most of all I'm just a gal trying to get through each day with some grace, dignity, and hopefully matching shoes on.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Monday, April 14, 2014
Shared post from Courage Beyond
Shared from www.couragebeyond.org:
SPOUSE POST: NO TICKING HEARD HERE
SPOUSE POST: NO TICKING HEARD HERE
- POSTED BY COURAGE BEYOND
- IN CHRISTINE CAIN, SPOUSE, WARRIOR/SPOUSE BLOG
APR142014
I have spent the better part of this morning looking for relevant content to share on Courage Beyond’s social media network. It’s part of my job, and I love my job. Today however, I feel a rock in my chest developing. It’s part anger and part fear.
For a while now, I’ve watched the media go down a road when “reporting” – and I use that term very loosely – on PTSD that makes me not just shake my head, but it makes my stomach turn. I’ve read about “PTSD Hot Spots” with an interactive map you could check like you’re looking for sex offenders. And I’ve seen cartoons with a soldier’s head replaced with a grenade. Ticking time bomb, ready to snap, prone to violent outbursts… the list of horrible things I’ve read this morning goes on.
So let’s talk a little truth from a caregiver who has spent the last 6 years loving a veteran with crippling PTSD. I’ve never once been struck. He’s never once been arrested; he’s never once been in a fist-fight; he’s never once attacked anyone. He has however locked himself away from friends and family. He’s suffered from self-doubt about his symptoms. He’s spent days awake. He’s talked about wishing he’d died in Iraq to make it easier on everyone. And he’s considered suicide more than once.
But he’s never been violent. I do not fear him or his PTSD. I do however fear society’s foolish reaction after reading “articles” that have no basis in real facts. They are only numbers strewn together to bring traffic to web pages so quotas are met and jobs are kept from reporters who collected their “facts” through Google and not a real live person who walks every day in the shadow of PTSD.
I hear no ticking from inside my husband’s head and we will continue every day to battle his PTSD. We will also be quiet about his battle because of society’s willingness to believe reporters who do their job like a 6th grader writing a research paper the night before it’s due.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
(Untitled)
When the anger comes, it comes in waves. Crashing against the shores of our reality.
It is constant, never washing away the pain.
I watched you, watched you hurt her over and over. As a child, now as a woman.
Shame on you, shame on you for the shame you bring all of us. You're sick, I agree.
However, not in the ways you claim to be. Your illness is a selfish one, an infectious one.
It's continuance makes those around you suffer. Your only chance for recovery is acknowledgement.
You won't though. You never have. You blame her. You blame us. You blame those already gone.
Your need, your twisted, demented need will ultimately be your end.
She, who you blame, and have damaged, she will be the one left to clean up your mess.
Her spirit torn, her confidence bruised, her story a lie. Your lie.
I long to scream, to hit, to cut, to make you feel all you have made her feel. She is amazing, and you see none of it. Only what she can be to you. She deserves better. She's found it in him. I rejoice she was strong enough to hold on to it and go with him. He is the rock you never were for her.
Distance helps, but doesn't heal. Your long reach still stings her. She knows now. She knows better. She knows we are here for her.
I will not speak up for you. Not ever. I cannot understand your motivations. I struggle to find any love for you anymore. I am sad at how easy it has become for me not to care. I don't care, not about you.
So write your imaginary life and death. Maybe someday we can at least appreciate it as a great work of fiction. Just know, it is your story, and I will not, we will not, let it become hers.
It is constant, never washing away the pain.
I watched you, watched you hurt her over and over. As a child, now as a woman.
Shame on you, shame on you for the shame you bring all of us. You're sick, I agree.
However, not in the ways you claim to be. Your illness is a selfish one, an infectious one.
It's continuance makes those around you suffer. Your only chance for recovery is acknowledgement.
You won't though. You never have. You blame her. You blame us. You blame those already gone.
Your need, your twisted, demented need will ultimately be your end.
She, who you blame, and have damaged, she will be the one left to clean up your mess.
Her spirit torn, her confidence bruised, her story a lie. Your lie.
I long to scream, to hit, to cut, to make you feel all you have made her feel. She is amazing, and you see none of it. Only what she can be to you. She deserves better. She's found it in him. I rejoice she was strong enough to hold on to it and go with him. He is the rock you never were for her.
Distance helps, but doesn't heal. Your long reach still stings her. She knows now. She knows better. She knows we are here for her.
I will not speak up for you. Not ever. I cannot understand your motivations. I struggle to find any love for you anymore. I am sad at how easy it has become for me not to care. I don't care, not about you.
So write your imaginary life and death. Maybe someday we can at least appreciate it as a great work of fiction. Just know, it is your story, and I will not, we will not, let it become hers.
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