Pitiable, Cold, Blind, Naked

I know the surgery is only 9 days away, and I am worried. Who is going to help me here with my father? The gov’t program that I have been signing him up for since last September has still not told me he is approved-even though we spent 1500 on a lawyer to set up a Qualified Income Trust, just because Dad is 26.00 over the income limit!

So, while I thought he was going to have a nurse here with him, now I don’t know. I may have to pay out of pocket for help at 16.50 an hour. That is what caregivers’ do, I know. What gets me is turning my stomach in knots, worrying about things I cannot change. Time for the serenity prayer, for all kinds of prayers and for faith to move mountains. I have been thinking lately that I am not as strong as I used to be, and how hard these surgeries are going to be to recover from. And I am scared.

   There, I said it.   


   I always prided myself on being so tough when I was on the street. Nicknames like “Amazon” due to my size, and how physically strong I was, made me have a false sense of invincibility. And the coke helped too. Even after I got clean I still wanted to fight. I wanted to be in ‘tough woman’ contests, and to box. I prided myself on all the physically hard work I could do, keeping up with guy’s doing traditionally male jobs at a time when it was not as common to do so. I was a rigger for the crane on one job which was building a tank support facility, and missile silos on base where I was the only female. Once, while I was working a Cement Plant shut-down, they put me to work with a young black man, both of us shoveling cement dust out of a silo. The man quit because the other guys were teasing him about being able to keep up with me! But all these rough, hard, tough things I did, in the end, do not make me tough. The fact that I stayed with a man who beat me unconscious does not make me tough, riding a HD does not make me tough, nor does any of my drinking, drugging, fighting or jail time.

   When it comes down to it, I am just pitiable, and cold, blind and naked  in the eyes of God.

  Having faith makes me strong…

So, I will come through this, one way or another. And my Dad will be fine, no one will let him die while I am away. If I don’t come back to write for a while it’s because I can’t move. But just wait… I’ll be back soon.!


Author: ST Martin

I am an Artist, Poet and Author. A Survivor of Violent Sexual Abuse and Rape, I have lived thru Severe Domestic Violence, Twenty Three years of Addiction and Alcoholism, Family Dysfunction, Chronic Pain, Dependence on Opioids, and 2 Venomous Snake Bites...I have Been Stabbed, Shot at, Tied to a Tree and Choked Unconscious. A Quarter Horse Rolled on Me, as did a Lawn Tractor. I also Wrecked a Harley into a Tree! I also have PTSD and Rapid Cycling Bipolar Disorder, and spent my 18th birthday in a Locked Psychiatric Ward. I am so much more than this: I feel like a tiny seed that sprouted in a desert, and now has grown into a Passion Vine. My Art is my Voice, Screaming, Crying, Praying, Loving, Laughing, Healing- all in Riotous Color...

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