Insanity dropoff

Where is the proper forum to express you inner demons without judgment or fault? Does such a place exist outside of a behavioral health facility? Even there they drown out the reality of one’s head with pills and liquids that taste like pills. Prozac mixed in water only elongates the dosage misery. I cannot count how many times I have been told to erase something from Facebook. This is not due to my inability to count, most of the time, but because my subject matter actually speaks of my instant moment of truth. The phone is my enemy and there is no one on the other side that can navigate through my head in a resourceful way. So where do I have left to go? The blog.


I always believed that blogs were self-serving, ego promoting platforms to which the wishful high falutants took to writing of their mainstream exploits in hope of gaining fame. Or the other end of the spectrum, we have the dark clothed Goths who spew nothing but sadness and mourning over their lost youth… at the age of seven. I proved myself wrong on a whim, however, and took to pouring out my history and head on to the eternal internet. Here, every word I let go of is forever trapped and can be used against me in a court of law. Has yet to happen, but I’m still young. There lies my problem. Not my eternal youth, but what people believe will be held against me. “What can be held against you?” You ask (I heard you). “Me,” I answered (OK, you didn’t hear me).

I don’t suffer from mental illness, I embrace being different than the world. I never fit the cookie cutter mold of sane. I like that. I enjoy my wrestling with spiritual warfare at night because I now have the tools to fight. I did not take such pleasure as a child, because I feared the unknown of what was happening. Now I have the one tool I need, the name of Jesus, and I’m good to go. Why I can’t share that with the world is hard to swallow for me. Plus I think I’m getting tonsillitis. I like to joke of my past. The world likes to joke of my past. I like to joke that the entire world actually knows of my past. My previous activities are what molded me into who I am now, and I love this person. Someone so disgustingly happy with life she can’t wait to wake up each morning. So what if there are some intense moments in the night. The morning is new and so are the opportunities. My mind is fine, just an extremely different version than the majority of readers.

Now that I have laid out my grievance of the day, and explained that I am not special in a debilitating way, I’m off to catch the Phelan short bus and prepare a home for Given and I. A home we were blessed with because of obedience to being me.

Got What I Wanted And It Doesn't Feel Like A Relief

After twenty minutes of failed attempts to convince Given that cuddling under the warm covers was much better than exposing my half-clothed body to the crisp, morning air, I decided to face the day.  When nose to nose, sissy-lala Monday should have been man enough to warn that the day would be filled with an unexpected contact, non-stop, disorganized packing and a fear that homework would only be a missed opportunity to succeed.  Instead, Given and I ignorantly ran to the kitchen, grabbed our coffees (she's never too young) and sat down to let the caffiene run its course.

Tomorrow I leave the nest once again.  You would think they would unravel the twigs of that thing, or at least get a one bedroom cottage after all the times their children have come home for extended "visits".  I being the greatest offender.  Two and 1/2 years ago I was asked to come home because I was alone, sick, pregnant, and doubted to survive the birth.  The Hallmarks that flowed in for that situation was overwhelming.  The stay was to only be a couple months, according to one Paula Jo Foster, yet I knew there was no way I could start over in California with a child and no support after just giving birth.  So the months continued on, I did my part to cover expenses by acting as their failig memory and they paid for the roof over my head.  Every once in a while I dusted as high as the tallest person we know.  The situation worked for us.  We had a good thing going.

The problem with living in Phelan, with your parents, without a license, and a growing child is that there is no opportunity for progress.  Ideas swung back and forth, but nothing surfaced, so we finally came to the decision that it was time to move on; all the way to Hesperia.  At least there I could have help with Given, more time for studies, and a much better opportunity to come in contact with those humans I hear so much about.  Tomorrow is the day, which meant today was the packing day.

Packing for one woman and one child should be simple enough.  Given's belongings took up much of the time, then I realized I could downsize my side by throwing away the jumk I never saw or used.  The process, however, took longer than expected because a monkey repeatedly jumped on my broken neck and demanded I twirl in circles, or she would throw poo.  Well, we all know who would have to clean that noodle-laden mess up, so I twirled.  Then vomited.  Though giving away many of Given's baby blankets brought some tear moments (no actual crying, there is no proof), and having my own sadness over leaving the comfort of what had become a daily, geriatric schedule, nothing turned my stomach in to the meat grinder like the email I received.

After months of trying to file for divorce from a man who thought "hide-and-seek" was a real-life, adult game, I received an email with his current address and the willingness to sign, let go, and let God.  A, "Woo-Hoo!" shoud follow this moment, yet all I could do was shove my stomach back down from my throat and contemplate how getting what I wanted to could still hurt so much.  I have fallen in love once, with my best-friend, and married him (we are talking about my husband, stay with me here).  To know that it will be over without a fight is a relief, yet a kick to my self-confidence.

I am the one who got away.  I will always be the one who got away, from every body.  At least that is what I have told myself enough times to believe.  While I think of people from my past, my imagination allows me to know they lay there at night, wondering how they could have missed out on that opportunity to spend eternity with me.  This is only a fantasy, however, because committmennt is my kryptonite and fables my xanax.  But when it comes to my own husband, I do not want to know that he is so happy with whomever he has moved on to, that any desire to fight for our marriage, or to be a father for that matter, doesn't interest him.  Here's the girl-mind part, I don't want to reconcile, I just want to be wanted for reconciliation.  I spent the day passing along baby items and packing up clothes, then trying to once again sever the reality that I have a failed marriage, yet wouldn't change it one bit. 

Monday, oh Monday, you never warned my eyes would burn, my stomach churn and my mouth become silent by the end of day.  You never insisted I eat, and therefore I failed to digest even a burrito, peanut butter, or chocolate chip.  My trust in Monday is in limbo, as Tuesday is about to begin, and may prove Monday to be my best friend.

What I Did On My Sanity Vacation

I do not recall the first days of elementary school when the teacher told the students to write what they did on their summer vacations.  But let's face the facts, the last two decades have completely wiped out the memories of my first decade.  I can say, however, that from time to time, many of my friends, family, foes and all of those wrapped in one come to wonder, "Where has our Carrie Jo gone?  And if this is her replacement, it's defective."  The answer is: On vacation.  Vacation from balance, common sense, control and hope.

Let me take you back through the past few months, before I explain where I escaped to these past two weeks.  My license has been the hold up for so many things in my life.  Apparently, the state of California requires you to have a VALID CLD to cruise their sidewalks in a vehicle.  Thus, my mission has been to fight for what is rightfully mine, or claim I'm an illegal and get it over with.  Needless to say, my tan has failed my plan B and I went hard to work on writing everyone from my local representative, to the governor, and to the White House.  Not to mention all in between.  As a side note, when writing Jerry Lewis, make sure it's to the congressman; that was a wasted stamp.  I heard back from all but the White House, or as I like to call it... nevermind, no need for a knock at my door after posting this.  Each person, including the DMV (finally), told me that I had fulfilled all the requirements, but was not going to be able and get my license without the SB38.  Hmmm.... wasn't that the whole thing we just went through?  Hope lost.

I had a sparkle in my future, though, as my sister and her new husband promised a job awaited me once they returned from their honeymoon.  Alas, I would have money to buy new underwear so Given and I could stop alternating with each other.  Dreams of a cell phone without a cord attached to the console of a car, cheese made of cheese, and mascara I didn't have to dip in ink toner were all at my reach.  I was happy to know that I could tell Given one day, "I bought that shirt for you.  Yes, the one you hate.  But that doesn't matter, I bought it with my own money."  Days after they returned and read my incessant texts, I was informed there was no room in the budget right now.  Now I know how Mary and Joseph felt.  Hope lost.  Not shocked.

No license, no job, no money to put Given in school, and my food stamps had run out.  Not being a person who enjoys handouts, but wants to earn her way, I felt I could never stop the failure.  Tears flowed, allergies from the ink toner popped up and resentment at the word success flooded my veins.  Plus Given wouldn't give me the good pairs that week, so nothing seemed to go my way.  The little sanity I work to execute each day walked out the door, and slammed it shut.

Done with being controlled by every one but myself, I grabbed every bottle of medication that holds the puzzle pieces of my mind together, and threw them in the trash.  To guarantee I could not retrieve them, I emptied the bottles first. Their pharmaceutical powers held no match against my mental illness, compiled of rage, misperceptions, depression, mania and violence.  I wasn't going to be controlled by people or pills.  I didn't want to suffer the hold on my life with clairty, but figured doing it through a dark place would at least fill my time better.

My impulsive behavior and lack of mental/verbal filter led me to the computer to tell my tale of Operation Control Take Back.  And in true form, the gossip tree, already rooted, sprouted leaves off it's branches and those leaves pulled out their phones and began to dial with giddy that they could be the first to tell my maker.  The one with the womb, not the one upstairs.  I confessed to my actions, and the source of the alleged strategically place bruise, and faced the disciplinary board.  It's amazing how when unmedicated, the disciplinary board sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher.  I'm no fool, I already knew that I had to right my wrong and the process had begun before the lecture could make it to my ears.

After many a conversation to my face, and behind my back, the question has come down to why do I act so impulsively and then feel the need to share it with the world.  The answer doesn't exist.  I am a woman who is mentally ill, and not in the "everyone is mental in one way or another" way.  I am happily crazy, but sometimes take a dive in to the deep end of disaster when my mind cannot handle emotions.  I share everything because I have nothing to hide.  I tell the world my thoughts because they would be selfish to keep to myself.  I pour out my anger and joy because they would eat me alive inside if left to fester.  I am not a rational person, which I may have a scar or twelve to prove.

I am me.  I have anxiety over meals, I pick at my toes, have a sarcastic remark for every word said (great at funerals, by the way), I love with my whole heart, can cut you out without ever looking back, I say what I think, I think about what you say, and I sympathize with every hurt soul that wanders this world.  Because of who I am, I live in a mostly lonely world.  I am loved from afar, but the true person I am in daily life scares or offends.  Just as a person with an obvious physical disability would hope you would ask questions, rather than stare in the distance and make hushed remarks, I would love for the people in my world to know who I really am.  It's a lifetime project, because I never know who I am when I wake up each day, but I do know that I love being different, my daughter loves me for who I am and God made absolutely no mistakes when creating me.  Except for maybe my feet, but that's between Him and I.

Have You Seen My Success?

Success is defined as the achievement of something desired, planned, or attempted. Wow. I couldn't even succeed at turning off the light in the garage 45 seconds after the it caught my eye while I was outside, and my return in to the house. I seem to be this plethora of un-success. I am the nemesis of success and I have the cape to prove it! Okay, the cape may just be Given's blanket that I traipse through the house in, tied around my neck, hours after she has fallen asleep. It's a uniform all the same, and it's my symbol of achievement of the anti-achievement. I may have just morphed into a double negative.

Moving beyond my identity crisis, I often wonder what others see as their success, and whose life they compare theirs too. Let's face the reality, I dump Given's milk down the drain when no one is around, just so I have an excuse to run to store. Stater Bros. is the only grocery store for fifteen miles, so every walk of life must come in for their packaged dinners at some point. I look at the women in their silk pajamas, curlers, and occasional toilet paper on the bottom of the slipper, and think, "I'm really not that bad." A man in his 70's will pass, and as I catch a glimpse of his Marilyn Monroe t-shirt peek through his overalls, I think, "I am not that bad. And where is his owner?" The point is these people make me feel better about my life; myself; my full set of teeth.

I struggle daily with the idea that I may never reach the top of this hole I dug so many years ago. I used to be a go getter, but after time the things I went to get took what I used to have. The vicious cycle of destruction was easy to join. I was a functioning self-sabotagaholic, a very good one for some time. I drank, I drugged, and almost crashed Hell's party, all because I could not find comfort in my skin. There was no explaining this to anyone. Back when I started the self-destructive pattern at the ripe age of 10, I couldn't even explain to myself why my mind lived at warp speed. The stereotype of insanity: a schizophrenic in the corner, hands covering their ears, rocking violently back and forth while their head beats on the wall, this is who I was inside. I screamed for someone to hear my silence to no avail. All I knew from that time on was in order to quiet the demons, I needed to alter their source. My efforts were futile, and my results grim. I took the success of my work, finances and personal relationships, and offered them in sacrifice to any chemical, self-mutilation, or hatred that came my way.

Now that the demons no longer control my mind, my desire to implode dead, I look around and I have no outward example of the new creation inside. Where is my job, my license, my ability to visit a friend or family at whim? Where is my blessing to show Given the beautiful world I took for granted? Where am I to find the self-esteem to hold my head high in front of old high school friends, when I hear or read of their fancy dining, never ending weekend trips, vacations, private schools for their children, or beautiful gift their non-crack smoking husband got for them just because it was Tuesday?

I know how awesome I am, and that given the one opportunity to get back in to the mainstream, I would rock the world's socks off and show that there is nothing I can't do. I know that God has this major plan for Given and I, and it's not something anyone could imagine. I know that I will be a face people recognize, a household name of good standing, and an example, mentor and resource for those whose road I've been down before. I know these things. But does anyone else?

Success: The achievement of something desire, planned, or attempted. I desire to follow through with the plan to achieve anything I attempt. And that first attempt at greatness is to make sure that even if no one else knows that I am a step above the best, only because they are looking for my surface worth, I will not bow to defeat in any form. I will soon be known as the success I already know I am.

He Left Hell To Be An Angel

The clock read 2:37am when I awoke from my dream. I knew at that moment Ray would not return from his and Casper's attempted heist; he was arrested and I was on my own. As I returned to sleep, back pressed firmly against the wall to protect from attacks, I was shocked by the calmness that replaced my incessant fears and anxiety. Ray had left me alone on the streets many times before, but there was always promise of an eventual return. The only sensible reason I felt peace for the first time in months was the vision in my dream gave promise that he was safe in jail and I did not have to worry any more that night.

Four hours after my God given dream, Casper came through the door alone. My question of Ray's whereabouts was met with indifference; "If he's not back, he probably got caught." They had crashed the jeep they stole and took off on foot. Ray sliced his leg and couldn't get away in time. Without knowing if or when Ray would be back, I knew that I was no longer protected by his presence and reputation on the streets. I was alone, vulnerable and without a hustle. A dealer down the way handed me a butterfly knife, some food and a promise that if I needed him, he would be there. No spring chicken to the scene, I knew that no matter the intention of the heart, promises in Sunnyslope die before they reach the ear.

Sunnyslope, home of the tuberculosis camps in the 1940. This is where they sent people to wait and die in tents. Sixty years later, the oppression of death weighed down on your shoulders as you crossed over in to it's borders. I wasn't a weak person, but I never fully succumbed to the street mentality, and I wasn't about to then. Morals, decency and manners followed me through those days. Ray would become enraged and hurl repulsive accusations because I would thank people, or offer to help, or just make eye contact. Thankfully my ways were innocent to others and they helped me at first. Without a hustle, I was doomed if left to provide on my own. Food, drugs, running water and protection in numbers is what mattered. I didn't sell, run, hook or steal. I had no worth, no purpose after time went on. I felt an explosion on it's way.

The day had come when I made the decision that would leave me abandoned and almost near death. The whispers with my name were eating worm holes through my mind. Looking back, who knows of what I heard was real or hallucination, all I know is threats surrounded me and I didn't know what to do. I was dog sitting late one night for a "couple". Matt used to be a youth pastor, Cindy a mother who walked away from her children. The only people around were Christina and Kenny. The first day I met Christina she attempted to kill me. Had Ray not grabbed the crowbar as my arm came down in a swing, I would have killed the girl who instigated this fatal threat. By this time, however, we were as good as you can be in such a situation. Kenny left to go back to Christina's place and she was to meet him there. For whatever reason, I let her know that he had been trying to get with a prostitute named Jennifer, whose street name was Hollywood. That information led to the scariest night I can recall.

Christina was not one to be messed with on the streets. Her reputation was real, and her threats came with action. What I had told her set off a chain reaction of events. When Jen came back, no matter how much I told Christina she made Kenny back off, this did not matter. Christina grabbed the knife from my hand (I was never without it), and went after Jen. She sliced Jen once before she got away. After that, Christina picked up a hammer and set off down the street, threatening anyone who dare to cross her path. As I sat there, unnerved and without a plan, Kenny, Matt and Cindy all returned at once. Matt was in a crack binge rage and Kenny was beyond what words could describe. They cornered me in the back room, screaming in my face and let me know that the next move was to tie me up, rape me and leave me naked downtown. Their threats were real, as they had held, beat and raped a prostitute named Ashley for five days for a debt.

I ran out of the squatters abode scared and desperate for a safe direction. The only place I knew to go was the family center down the road. They were closed and the parking lot patrolled for trespassers, but I didn't know what else to do. As I headed that way, a woman named Reyna saw me. She remembered me from back before Ray went in and told me to stay along side her. I had no other options and so with her I went. First she took me to the Hells Angels pad, where she introduced me to everyone and they made sure I felt safe. Once she had gotten what she needed, we headed off to do some dumpster diving. I had no idea what she was looking for, but I stood there and gave the illusion that I did. I will say this, because of Reyna, I now know you can strip Christmas lights for copper. Always handy to know these things. As the night wore on, and the days on end of being awake caught up, we hopped over in to the family centers air conditioning unit area and laid down for a quick rest.

As morning came, so did the police and we jetted out just in time. Reyna needed to be on her way and I was once again alone. I wandered Sunnyslope for hours, avoiding any hot spot areas where I might run in to anyone who was after me, or would report back to those same ones. Finally, the heat had beaten me to surrender to the Sunnyslope Family Center to see how they could help. I never wanted to ask anything from anyone because no one was responsible for my life's situation but me. The few belongings I had, however, remained at that pad and I could not walk away from them. I needed to try.

I walked up to the desk and found there is a phone that you can call out on for free. You just have to wait your turn behind every other homeless or downtrodden person in Sunnyslope. I was fine with that, the air conditioning made my problems seem less tense, yet I still watched every person who walked through the doors; sure someone would find me. While I waited my turn, I asked one of the women at the front desk if they could help me. Tears began to well up as I gave a brief description of my situation. The response was quick and sharp, "Call the police." Police involvement would mean sure death, there was no way I could bring them in to this. I walked away broken, but knew I had to still do something. Night time was going to come and I needed to have a plan. When my turn for the phone came, I called my mother, who I had not spoken to in some time. I cried and told her what I was up against. Her response echoed the center worker's. Now I was crushed and angry. I sat at the counter with my head down and tears streaming down my face. While contemplating my next move, I felt someone grab my shoulder; it was Reyna. She pointed to a guy across the room and said that they needed to help me. I told him what happened, and with only a few words spoken to his friend, we were off to retrieve my belongings.

I was nervous about this plan because these two men did not look like much of an intimidation. I need help though, and was not going to turn this offer down. As we walked up the drive-way, I could see that ten to twenty more people had taken residency there. My greatest fear was realized when I saw that Kenny and Matt were there. We made eye contact and I saw the anger rise up in Kenny's eyes. When I watched Kenny's glare move past me and to my company, his demeanor changed immediately as he immediately stepped to the side. One by one, the people in the house backed up and stood in the corners or against the walls. I didn't know what was happening, and I didn't care. All I wanted was to get my things and get out. I was surprised to see that nothing was missing, as the hookers of Sunnyslope had stolen my clothes and shoes last time I was in jail. I picked up my belongings and walked out without incident. No words were spoken by either side; an eerie silence filled the room. I was a little annoyed that only one of the men helped me carry my things, but again, who am I to complain at this point. We got back to the center, and the man who pointed me out to offer his help left without a word.

Elated and confused of what I was going to do next, my thoughts were interrupted by Reyna and the other man's disbelief. "He never does anything like that." Reyna said, "He doesn't get involved in people's business. He even consider other people." She continued on to make fun of the remaining man because he was intimidated by Kenny and Matt, and didn't want to help me until the first guy said so. Who was this first guy? My curiosity was piqued. "Don't you know who that is?" Asked Reyna. Obviously not. "That's 'CS' (name changed). Head of the Hells Angels AB." To this day I have know idea what the AB stands for, but I was surprised by who my escort was. They made sure to make it clear that what just happened is nothing they had ever seen. He saw me at the counter, pointed over and said, "That girl isn't OK. She needs our help." That was it.

Ray was released from jail weeks later, and I proceeded to share the story of survival with him. When I got to the part of naming my hero of the day, he stopped me with amazement in his eyes. "'CS'? Everybody knows him on the inside. He's huge around here. You know he's murdered people, right?" Uh, no. My naive little mind still didn't put that type of credit on people until they actually mention it. I told Ray that he didn't seem the type; how you could see a softness in his eyes. Just as this discussion was in full swing, someone was riding through on a bike in front of us. Ray elbowed me and said, "Hey. There he is." I looked over and what I saw shocked my soul. There was 'CS'. His demeanor was cold, skin weathered and eyes black with death. I chill creeped through me as I realized that God had sent a killer to bring me rescue. A Hells Angel to be my angel.

Some people sleep walk, others sleep eat, my slumber disability is partially awake sleep destruction. Tuesday night was normal, no major change in activity, food or work. After Given went to bed, and Mom and Glenn went to their room, I wrote in a jornal, ate my snacks, watched the news and went to bed.

I had been asleep no longer than two hours before I heard Given's cry from the next room. I sat up immediately and set off to see what was wrong. My feet shuffled across the floor, the house pitch black and Given's volume rising. I began to tell her I would be in their soon, but before I could finish, I felt a cold, smooth surface slammed in to my face. Surprised and confused, I backed away from the object and turned toward the door. SLAM! Face plant in to the wall. Where in the world did this wall come from? After a few tries, I made it safely out of my room and one step closer to my daughter, whom I was trying to console in between the injuries.

Now I was out in the hall, free from the booby-traps of my room, I make a quick left and, BAM! As I blamed my lack of direction on a broken, non-existent. internal compass. After peeling my nose off the picture I walked in to, I placed the collage of photos on the floor and went in the opposite direction of my poor path decision. FINALLY I found the door to room, opened the door and piratically threw myself in to the room, telling Given to calm down Mom is here

Inside Given's room, no longer than five seconds, I heard a noise of bed sheets and two startled people... Mom and Glenn. Mom asked what I was doing and all I could say was, "I can't see". Glenn's immediate reaction was to say, "No kidding, maybe because the light are off?" Suddenly I am aware that this is not Given's room and I have made a grave error. Mom, worried about me (not sure if she meant physical or mental stability). threw on some clothes and hurried to help if I needed The only thing I begged for was light. The world would seem less chaotic if I could visually witness my trail of medically induced fatigue destruction. Mom turned on the light in the bathroom, asked if I needed help and went back to bed once I declined. I pulled Given out of bed, laid her in mine and waited for the explanation of why this happened. The answer was nothing spectacular, just woke up believing I was in or San Dimas house from 22 years ago.

The kicker in this 4am fiasco is I had the same psychotic episode the next night This time, however, I was trying to get out of my room and somehow, I have idea how, wedged myself between the door and closet. This time I walked over, bruised some toes on the way and turned on my lamp for better viewing of what attacked my foot. TA-DA! Nothing on my feet, and I'm Given's room. Another ambulance ride saved.

Though I'm extremely exhausted & still can't see much of anything, this story needed to be told because I love a good dummy story to laugh to, especially at my own expense.

The Stairs Come Full Circle

In this world, there are obstacles that just seem to bring a person down. For my daughter and self, this nemesis comes in the form of stairs. Not just any staircase, but the steep, narrow building blocks to the upper floor in my father's house. Whether the fall is up, or down, the pain factor appears to be the same. Given learned this first hand last weekend while she "patiently" waited for me to finish my project of lessening the disaster that was my hair and skin.

Given spent a good majority of Saturday afternoon either playing in the backyard or climbing up and down the stairs. I didn't worry much about the stairs because of her incredible balance and strength (the balance cannot be accredited to me). Even if she did lose a step, I was ignorantly sure she would catch herself in time to avoid injury, as she does on everything else she climbs. Mother's instinct proved to be wrong, as I heard my baby thump-thump-the-thump-thump-clank-a-ti-thump down the stairs and land on the tile below. I only caught the last few rolls with my eyes and ran down to grab her in my arms and make sure there was no major damage. Her head and neck twisted as I watched and I thought she may have broken an arm, too. Thankfully she only had a bruised foot, but her fall triggered a memory about her life. Given's existence was the result of these stairs and I was reminded of that fact on the day she was born.

In 2003, I moved in with my father and step-mother, Larry and Patricia. My health was the main reason to move in. The manifestations of porphyria were ruling my life. I had no control over my body's movements, I was a menopausal 26 year old and my mind could never grasp hope because the disease cloaked my dreams with darkness. I knew I would never have children and if I did somehow become pregnant, there was a good chance I would not survive. I moved in with the expectation to die as an aspiration, not despair. I drank to excess, popped every pill I found and lost the desire to be on top in the world. I was done. There was nothing left that I could see was worth such energy.

Within a couple months of living with the family, I had the brilliant idea to carry multiple dishes from my room upstairs, down to the kitchen. Not having any waitress experience, nor should I ever even try, I barely took two steps before I lost my footing, threw the dishes over the banister and body surfed down to the tiled landing pad. Before I could yell for help, I needed to figure out that breathing thing that is supposed to be natural at all times. Luckily my fall was the equivalent to a small earthquake. Dad, Pat and my niece rushed over, scared I had suffered a seizure. Dad began to check for injuries, Pat immediately went in to prayer and Trinity, at 4 years old, placed her hands on her hips and scolded, "Auntie Carrie. You shouldn't carry so many things at once." If I could breathe, I probably would have laughed.

Patricia's prayer was not an ordinary plea for all to be well in my body, but a centralized prayer done in tongues. I could barely wrap my head around the pain I felt, but when her hands went from my head, directly down to my belly, I immediately thought, "Uh, hello! Let's concentrate on the parts that are mangled. Shall we?" God, however, had different plans and instructed her to pray over my womb. Pat had no idea why she was focusing on this area, but her obedience would prove not to be in vain. Within a week after my fall, I received a visitor I had not seen in years and she continued to visit once a month until I had her friends, Ovary 1, Ovary 2 and Uterryus, removed from the premises. At the time, this miracle was embraced as an exit out of menopause, but had no idea they were needed in order for my body to prepare for a child of my own in the future.

I rarely go up those stairs now when I visit, but when I do, I climb them with caution and respect. Given's life is more than just a miracle, or result of marital obligation (another story), but a reminder that following His direction will result in His blessings, at just the right time.