Category Archives: Healing Path

My journey after the brain aneurysm rupture

Real Quick: For My Blogging Friends

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I feel like a jerk. I really do. I really want to read and comment on your posts, and I try. For whatever reason, reading EXHAUSTS me now. (Remind me to ask my neurologist why this happens)

I had to take a break from my fiction editing and writing too cuz that also wipes me out.

But I want to keep writing SOMETHING because it really does help with cognitive repair.

Hence the haiku, senryu, and a lil bit of tanka…

But I LOVE and APPRECIATE your support of my work more than you know.

Hopefully things will change.

~bohipsy~

An “Uber”-MiMi Milestone!

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For those of you unfamiliar with my story, please click here.

For everyone who has helped me get places and things since I got ill, I want to preface this by saying a HUGE THANK YOU!!!

If you know me at all, you know that I am/was ferociously independent. I am used to doing things on my own. So much so, I really do NOT like asking for help. I still feel like I should be able to be independent and I have a hard time admitting I am disabled. But the truth is I am, and I’m gonna have to get over it.

I guess.

Today marks a day of triumph for me. I took my first independent trip out of the house since my aneurysm rupture. I pretty much had to because I needed stuff, and I couldn’t wait for someone to become available to come get me.

I was told about Uber by a few folk, but I was apprehensive for a myriad of reasons. Most of which were probably fears fabricated in my broken brain. Those fears were outweighed by my need to get to the store.

But, I am rambling, I do that.

My bad.

I finally used my first free trip on my Uber account.

And where did I go?

Walmart.

I know, it’s kinda pitiful. Especially because Walmart is now a horrible experience for me because of the crowds and other “overstimulation” factors. (Noise, etc).

I am having insomnia issues, so I was up at three am. My broken brain said, “Aye you know if you go to Walmart early, it won’t be as crowded.”

So I did.

Uber is a life-saver. The drivers were so nice. I found out they like their “jobs” because they are their own bosses. If they don’t want to work one day, they simply do not turn on the Uber App. It’s a safer than being a cab driver because they don’t carry cash, (it’s all done through the app. And for the most part they can pick and choose what areas they want to drop off and pick up folk.

Both drivers I dealt with were relatively new with the company. They seemed to have one common issue.

The drunk people can be…well, use your imagination.

The cost, you ask?

Let’s put it this way.

My trip TO Walmart was FREE, because I used a promo code.

My trip back was roughly $11.

I dunno if that’s considered expensive or not, but when you consider I was picked up in under ten minutes by smiling happy people and I didn’t have to rush, to me it was $11 well spent.

Yes, I will use them again!!!

Oh and if YOU want to use them and get a free ride worth $20 hit me up, I have a promo code!!! Plus I’ll get another free ride too!!!

Not for nothin, if you’re lookin to make some extra money, I’d contact them to see what you need to do. Seems like a sweet deal to me.

I am proud of myself.

And once I do some finagling with my finances, I may actually be able to get out more.

Do things.

Visit people.

I am happy.

~Bohipsy~

Quick Thought 7/27/15

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Considering the current reputation of the media in Amerikkka, I can only hope the hashtag #theemptychair was created with the noblest of intentions for us victims and not to distract us from other truths.
Otherwise we are being raped again…publically.

ALL OF US!!!

~bohipsy~

 

I’m back…kinda sorta

Real quick I feel the need to apologize because I feel like I have abandoned my WordPress Fam.

!!!

Photo credit :www.brightandassociates.com.au

I’ve been dealing with the health insurance stuff again, trying to find a way to make ends meet financially, emotionally and Spiritually

Oh and I moved…lol.

So I’ve been busy, but I Love you guys and I’ll be around commenting, writing and posting again sooner than you think.

~bohipsy~

I Couldn’t Make This a Poem

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When I answered the phone, I didn’t recognize his voice. At the time, I was having difficulty putting together cohesive questions. When I asked, “Who…is…is…th..this?” he broke down crying. That sound I recognized.

He cried like that the first time he hit me.

After he raped me

While banging my head on the cement floor.

Repeatedly.

Because I made him do it.

My first instinct was to hang up on him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

He called out my pet name.

“I saw you in the paper…was that my fault?”

My silence must have scared him because he started speaking erratically. Slurring actually.

He was drunk.

Again.

I sighed. “No Love, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Don’t do that!” He yelled. “Don’t call me Love. I don’t deserve your Love. I almost killed you. I…I…looked it up. It said head trauma could have caused what happened to you.”

In between tears, he rambled. “You were so sweet, so precious

My tears fell as they did every time he called me that, but I wiped them away and played it off, “Well, I didn’t die, so I’m still sweet and…”

“Precious.”

I swallowed back the bile and let him talk.

He was purging.

I knew most of his story from before.

His oldest brother getting killed.

The molestation by a family member.

Causing him to drink.

A lot.

He was in and out of jail.

A lot.

Then he met me.

And I had this light.

He had to obtain it.

So he asked me where it came from.

And I told him my story.

Then he hit me.

Then I left him.

Until he called me.

Crying.

I forgave him.

Without him asking.

Without question.

As I returned his hug, I whispered in his ear that it was going to be okay.

But it wasn’t.

Despite what you think vodka does have a smell.

It becomes pungent when mixed with blood and semen.

Basement floors smell like rain.

And when you are being choked crying sounds like moans of pleasure.

I thought I knew why.

So I never asked.

And I never expected him to tell me.

But he did.

Deep down, he resented me.

Because I survived my hell.

And he was still living his.

As he put the gun in his mouth.

He looked at the newspaper strewn on the floor.

Saw my picture.

Pulled the trigger.

The gun jammed.

He picked up the phone.

Called me.

Crying.

©michele mitchell, 2015

Photo credit http://www.deviantart.com/art/Cry-of-the-Blackbird-144237842