The five-minute meditation wasn’t enough to bring my consciousness into focus with what I was feeling. I attempted so hard to connect to my ancestors, visualizing their humility, struggles, and strengths. As I came back into consciousness, I peeked around, gathering my bearings, with the hope that no one saw my tears.

This newfound awareness came about when I watched a documentary on Trauma and Addiction with Dr. Gabor Mate, MD, from Hungary. He survived the Holocaust. The piercing that I felt while watching the clip was enlightening as well as informative.

While seeking further awareness as I sat on a park bench, my thoughts were on the generations before me, such as my grandparents’ parents and great-grandparents’ parents. My considerations brought about an additional awareness like what were they about? Oh, how I wish I could know their stories.

I felt a need to reach out, but I was in a state of shock, feeling that I was moving in the direction of permanent depression. Suddenly, my higher power did for me what I could not do for myself.

While listening to an anonymous narcotics meeting, I heard a woman share about her daily meditation practice. One practice was putting a 1000 piece puzzle together because after her husband died, her life shattered into a thousand pieces. And right there at that moment, she shared, “No one can put my life back together, but me and my higher power. “

I am grateful because I continued to walk and listen and restored to conscious awareness. It was a gentle reminder that “Lynda, if only you continue to stay sober, don’t use any mood-altering substances, more will reveal itself. Your ancestors must have been some very amazing hard workers because you have the tenacity to push through despite yourself.”


I do not recall dissociating my child self from my parents. If my memory serves me correctly, I craved their attention and would go to any lengths to gain love from them. Somehow I remember being manipulative and dominating my senses to observe the crowd to know who needed what at what time, and then reacted accordingly.

As an adult working through childhood trauma, I get to analyze my part in all of the hurt and pain that lingers alongside my neuro system flashing hot flame whenever a neuro acknowledges it’s been there and done that before.

I want to live this lonely life of mine in a meaningful way—one of not being so hypervigilant of taking the inventory of others, undoubtedly thinking that I will find someone trying their damnedest to harm me in ways so familiar. Possibly, if I let go, I will not miss out on what are significant relationships, but yet I run.

Nonetheless, I am scared of the unknown. I solemnly believe that I am fine the way I am living in a world of content, alone, myself, and my sweetie. Somehow, I pause and ask the universe to take my will and my life, and guide me in my recovery, and show me how to live life sober with others in a meaningful way of being happy, joyous, and free to roam without fear of the unknown.

How do I describe a loving parent?

First, I ask, is there such a thing? If this image lacks in one’s life, then the imaginary development of such hope is more straightforward to describe via wants.  When I think of the word love, the word brings about comfort, caring, understanding, and flexibility, with no intentional harm, brought on to another. The thought of a nurturer and protector. The dictionary mentions devoted and affectionate. Further mention is compassion, tenderness, and sensitivity.

The word-loving takes on many meanings, such as an act of kindness given and an expression of empathy.

There is further mention of unconditional love, and I consider that to remain steadfast despite rough times.

My thoughts move to the word action. So often said or unsaid, I crave the touch and physical time displaying love, such as eye movement and how someone can stroke the arm with gentleness, with a hug around the waist; pulling one closer with a tilt of the chin on top of one’s head.  Being considered enough to verbalize spoken words of love, such as, “Your eyes are beautiful, or your hair feels soft.” Love is the spoken words of truth.

Loving to me means there is never a time to fear someone we love. In other words, when someone speaks their feelings and emotions in earnestness, they need not receive judgment, but the love of someone to make space and listen, and the listener to give suggestions only when asked, and not to demand anything from the person speaking.

Love is being able to feel the energy that is validating that one is loved. There is no coercing or oppressive behavior instilled onto another. When I think of a loving parent, this is something that I offer to myself—especially in times of loneliness and sadness. A gentle touch of love goes a long way to brighten the spirit.

An Underling Joy

One thing for sure, when recovery calls for an intentional time to be humorous, I have to dig deep inside myself.

Today I realized that I found humor in laughing at myself when I write something funny to a post that I might see on social media. I am limited there because there is one prominent place I hang out, and that’s Twitter.

Here is an example. I read that someone claimed that Rudy Giuliani is under investigation for some time now. I responded with, but now he’s been stripped searched. I laughed so hard.

Another time is when I took a photo of my sweetie’s backside while standing on the scaffolding with his shirt off and a paintbrush high in the air stoking the eaves on the roofline. I posted the photo to IG that my man is the hardest working man on this side of Texas. I laughed twice as hard.

On a more severe note, in between these two belly laughs was my response to the judge’s decision not to release the video to the public on the murder of Andrew Brown Jr. One cannot feel distraught and justified at the same time. These two emotions comingling together are not possible.

The point of the matter is that for me to have humor is progress, not perfection. My intent is a daily practice to lighten up because when traumatic experiences have dominated my spirit for so long, it will take time to recover. I plan to allow myself some grace while being gentle with myself and know that life will not always be joyful.

Internal Turmoil (especially while comingling)

This morning wake, I didn’t anticipate that there would be an internal struggle. As I have lain with my mind drifting in and out from last evening reading aloud to my sweetie “The Yellow House” by Sarah Broom, I reflected on my own life.

My mind and body are dominated, often by outside sources like a spouse, clients, family, friends, and society as a whole. I try desperately to handle the emotions that surface when a ping of pain cringes my insides, possibly bludgeoning my eyes somewhat because of a memory that emerges from what someone else might say. I cannot quite put my mind on exactly why, but I know it’s a natural trajectory that nudges me into saying something and lose my mind and blurt out exactly what I am thinking.

Here I am, trying desperately to change my heathen ways, no longer running and digesting a wine cooler or crown royal to soothe the memory. No. I have to deal with the emotion(s), and often I know nothing but rage.

As I close my eyes to type this reflection that mirrors that of little Lynda, she knows to recover she cannot run, all though she has that option. But, she knows there will never be a change if she does. What will happen if she speaks her truth? What will happen if she continues to trudge through the pain she so desperately wants to ignore? Does she even know what the pain is?

It’s one step at a time and a moment at a time without mood-altering substances. I keep in mind not to ignore myself because I’m relevant,  have a reason to live a purposeful life, and deserve to heal and to have a life worth living, and for that, I am genuinely grateful.  

Induced Anxiety

Fear brings about anxiety that can spin me off the roof. I can either face everything and rise or fear everything and run and continue with the stress.

This country is in a tailwind. Indeed changes are something that has to happen. I am speaking about this being the twenty-first century, and one of the things we continue to face in the world is racism. I ask myself if people are experiencing the mystery of anxiety.

I handle the anxiety with walking and listening to music. Sometimes I dance to move my body, swaying in a way that seems I have no worries. There is nothing so wrong that I think worrying will make better, so why cannot I allow myself the courage to sit, breathe, and let go of those things that I cannot change, to have the courage to change the one I can, and the wisdom to know that one is me.

One thing that brings about anxiety to me is that sense of powerlessness, especially in a situation that is important to me, like the verdict for the murdering of George Floyd. I am powerless and had to wait for the outcome. No matter what, I still could not control the verdict. I have zero tolerance for hate. Yet, I want to be available for anyone who needs help and wants to converse in honest conversations. The anxiety of hatred does not have to be. All I can change is me.

Vaccine possibility

Today, the CDC (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention claims that the vaccine is a critical tool to help halt the pandemic, and thus far, there are     31,444,706 cases in the United States with 209,406,814 vaccines administered, and the total deaths are 563,980.

As a person who learns about my co-dependent ways, I realize that I have an overdeveloped sense that I am responsible for those close to me should be vaccinated. I quickly learned that not all people are on board to get the vaccination, and rightly so, it should be their choice.

So my mind wanders to another way of thinking, and although I will claim it’s my way of manipulation (I learned that very young in life), there is possibly another method to lure people into seeing why they need the vaccine.

Hear me out. I used to be a big pot smoker and did my fair share of street drugs. Many of those drugs were laced with another form of filler to increase the amount or dosage used. For instance, marijuana gets cut with THC, known as tetrahydrocannabinol—it’s what creates the high sensation.  Not once do I recall ever questioning what the cut was, but I usually could tell if it was a bad batch or a fire batch. Not once did I take into consideration that the person(s) responsible for the cut was doing so without any thought of the end user dying. Otherwise, they would use nothing but the good stuff all the time. Not once did I consider my life until I was ready to quit. Yet, here with the CDC showing statics people question the legitimacy.

With that said, I have heard the word on the street is that the vaccine is utilizing people as guinea pigs—claiming that people of color get injected with a different vaccine than those that are whites.

Another thing discussed is that Johnson and Johnson have halted their vaccine because six people out of 6,000 got the virus after vaccination of 66,000,000 people, which is an average of 0.0000909091 percent. That’s a 99.9% success rate when they only claimed an 85-90% success rate.

Further, back to my thought of another way of thinking, if I and anyone else who would risk smoking marijuana not knowing the lace is the vaccine, will they still smoke? Will they smoke knowing the vaccine injected in their stash?

The contemplation of the idea is mind-blowing but could save millions of lives, including some that I know so dear to my heart—this might be worth a survey.

The Divine Spirit of love

When did it happen? When did the American people get to a place that guns are more important than human lives? My heart hurts. My mind continues to tell me that it doesn’t have to be this way. Is power the great almighty? When is enough going to be enough? How much more does one have to have to feel that there is enough? How many more will have to die at the hands of the so-called righteous? They think they have the power, and those that stand in their way must die? But that’s a lie.

I believe there is a divine spirit that connects us all. I don’t understand why that connection is broken and continues to be on the firing line of hate. Social media is full of people teaching their children how to think they are better than, but that’s a lie. We all bleed the same. We all have a connection and a right to live without fear of being killed at the hand of another.

The hate must stop. The killing has to stop. The connection is ours to bond and know that we are one in the divine spirit. I love you even though you might not love me. I want to connect with the Divine Spirit of one.

The woes me

As a real estate broker, I notice the disparities in race, and the outcome is heart-wrenching. Houses certainly are selling, but due to the supply and demand, the prices are astronomical. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to notice that people making $8.60 per hour are not the new homeowners of homes selling for a quarter of a million and well above a million.

My night was restless not only because of the obvious but also the direst in the black communities because of intentional killing by police against people of color. So as I see things unfold, the survival rate in these communities is gloomy. On top of this information, there is propaganda dispersed in these areas that they shouldn’t take the COVID-19 vaccine because its uncertainty can cause harm to their bodies. Not to mention, people are paid to steer ignorance in the wrong direction. What more significant injury than not having a right to live in decent communities with food and shelter and equal rights and opportunities as those of a different race? Not to mention the redlining because of zipcodes will increase insurance and protection because of where they live?

The despair is gut-wrenching, no matter how digested. My heart hurts as the reminder of that missing God in the lost communities. The saving grace is acceptance and a determination to live—adaptation to change has always been the answer.