Innocence Removed

This is a continuation of my journey with my father, read part one or part two.

What happens when good intentions cause immense suffering and betrayal? What happens when you are protecting your loved ones and yet causing battle scars that last forever?

The warning signs were all around me, the red flags signaling at every turn. Who was my father really and what have I gotten myself into? At my mother’s house I saw actions that were the norm, drinking alcohol at nights, prescription medication for the variety of medical issues everyone suffered, and regular arguments between family members. When translated my father’s house was no different. But when critical information was withheld I didn’t realize what was happened was the beginning of something much worse.

To protect her daughter my mother never told me my father was an alcoholic and drug abuser. She never told me of his anger issues, never told me of marriage from hell, never told me of the abuse my father inflicted upon other women in his life. I was none the wiser to his actions. I never thought to tell my mother of any red flags because things seemed similar. When a child sees one parent doing an action if the other repeats then why would that cause alarm?

I was already uncomfortable staying at my fathers and knew if I said anything the consequences would spiral out of control. I was already losing control of myself and my life, I couldn’t stand to lose even more. Staying at my father’s house as a recently puberty ridden young woman was tough. My body was changing and the support given to me was just uncomfortable. At school I was being sexually harassed. I was a late bloomer in my physical appearance which caused a group of older boys at my school to harass me. They would follow me around, comment on my Wickedmosquito bites, make remarks that I must clearly be a boy, talk about actions similar to rape in regards to me, and call my home phone until we were forced to unplug the cord. Day in and day out the remarks were shouted at me, isolating me even further from my peers. The stares others would give me made me feel so alone. The backlash I projected alarmed even more of my peers. The harassment was making me the weird one. When I sought comfort with my father his responses were awkward. He would reply with “I always found small boobs on women attractive”, as if that was to comfort me. I confided in him before my mother, and with the awkward response I never told my mother in fear her response would be similar. It was not until the day they called my mother’s house phone literally all day right after the other that my mother went straight to their parents. She had no idea what was going on and when reported to the school it stopped. Legal action was threatened finally on my mother’s part before the sexual harassment completely stopped.

I stopped going to my father after this for any help on how I was feeling. The tension at his house was already growing. The former family friend with the beach house moved in and acted much as a second mother towards me. As the migraines progressed so did the harassment at his house. When I had a migraine one of them would burst in and make a comment. At his house my room did not have a locked door and he refused to put one on. There was no knocking, no simple voice spoken to make me aware someone was coming in. Just the burst and my door wide open. On many occasions I would be changing and there I was out in the open for either to see. On days I had a migraine I laid in bed hoping no one would come in, usually without success. Someone always felt the need to say suck it up or get up you’re faking it. Soon the comments turned to anger and I would be screamed at while in bed with a migraine. I hated it there. No one believed I was in pain, and no one believed anything I said.

The fact was that no one at that house was taking care of me. At first the transition was successful and privacy was respected, meals provided, a caring and comforting environment for me to grow up in. In a matter of just months that all left. Where there was once family dinners now laid empty tables and empty fridges. If I was hungry I would scrounge for anything in the house, soon I was strictly eating the dollar noodles. My father, preparing for cycling, would starve himself and with that starved me. In the fridge lay a pack of carrots and alcohol. If you were hungry you would snack on the carrots, which at the time I hated. When I brought this up to my mother she would give me money to go to the local store for food and continuously yell at my father for not cooking. He tried on and off, he tried to be there for me but the effort was fading. Grilled cheese became a regular item for me and when food was cooked that I didn’t like a fight would breakout. I would apparently throw my nose up and disrespect what was put in front of me. When I was excused from the table someone would follow me upstairs and yell at me. You might blame this on me being a picky child but what once was little a scolding were turning into fights that made you fear for what would happen next.

The red flags were surfacing at even a faster pace now. On multiple occasions my father would walk to the bathroom naked, which you must understand my room was right outside the bathroom and the hallway was not long. Every time he would act shocked that I was there, but how could you not know I was there with my door open? The comments were being made left and right about my weight. “You can’t eat that, it will go straight to your thighs”, “Once you turn 13 its all downhill, eat what you can now”, “Skipping a meal might be good for you”. The lack of approval was also fading. Nothing I ever did was good enough for my father. I excelled in school despite my constant absence. When I came to him and told him about my success I was told it was not good enough and to do better. If I had an A I should have an A+. If I wasn’t perfect I was failing. This created this gap in my brain that fostered and grew into something I still deal with today. This constant reminder that I am not good enough, between my appearance and my performance.

I was putting up more walls, creating more barriers between me and other people. The little friends I did have were fading. When I was allowed to go out I hung out with the bad crowd, I was a bystander to my own life. I was there with a group of people who accepted me coming from their own troubled home life. I was always asked by my teachers why I hung out with “those” kids, that I was better. I didn’t know I was better, in my mind I was worthless. Who cared if I was a straight A student hanging out with the middle school drug addicts, at least they seemed to care about me. When high school rolled around most of the people I hung out with went to the tech school or they were forced into private schooling leaving me friendless. The friends that did transition to high school with me ended up abandoning me for being weird. Even the troubled kids thought I below them.

Eventually I was accepted into the nobody crowd, those kids that didn’t fit into any sort of clique. Even though I was accepted it didn’t mean I would be welcomed. I was still an outsider even amongst them.

As middle school came to a close and my high school journey began a new phase in my life started. But even by now the once innocence I had was torn away and replaced with a growing fear and regret for past choices.

Strangers To Enemies

This is a continuation of my journey with my father, read part one here.

By the time I was entering middle school and diagnosed with migraines officially the home life started to get a bit rocky. The summer of 6th grade everything changed. I was with my father for an extended amount of time and he decided to go down the Jersey shore with me. A family friend, sometimes girlfriend, sometimes not had a bungalow down the shore. It was quaint and just a few blocks from the beach. I loved going down there to roam the town on my own, even though I was only 11 I was given the freedom to do as I please. Times down the shore were exciting with my father, he would often just give me quarters to go to the arcade by myself or plan exciting day trips as a group. I hardly knew my father even at this age, all he was to me was someone who wanted to have fun. The times we spent together were not spent in conversation but in activities. I had no obligation to talk to my father if all he wanted was my company. If he wasn’t talking to me then of course I wasn’t striking up a conversation. I was a shy child around strangers and my father was practically a stranger.

I remember on one of the last days at the beach my father was going to go out on a bike ride. At the time he was a competitive bicyclist, and a pretty good one at that. I remember having these butterflies in my stomach before he left. I even went to him and told him to stay home and not go out on the ride. He went anyways. Hours upon hours go by and we get a call from the hospital. My father had crashed and was at the local emergency ward. I remember arriving and being escorted back to the room where I saw him lying in excruciating pain on the stretcher. Apparently as he was riding he pulled off into an empty lot but didn’t see the lip from the road on to the pavement. He came crashing down smashing his entire pelvis. The hospital quickly figured out the shattered pelvis but took hours until they figured out the broken collar bone. My father was smashed into pieces and was helpless.

It was an odd summer. I was over my father’s house often because I felt some obligation to take care of him. He needed help moving and couldn’t really use his legs. Plus I wasn’t in school so what else would I do? It was also not far from my fathers rented house to my mother’s house, only about 10 minutes away. By the time summer was coming to a close my mother and I were not getting along, at the time I didn’t realize it was probably because I was over my father’s house far more than she wanted. My father seeing an opportunity decided to bribe me. For being such a good daughter over the summer he was going to buy me a new desktop and my very own laptop! The catch was that I had to agree to stay every other week at his house. I was thrilled! Fun time dad every other week?! I mean how could I pass that up! Especially since I was having a bad time at my mothers.

Instead of going to the courts to get it officially changed the group decided on just a written agreement. The main factor was that no child support would be paid to my mother since I would be half and half now. But my father had to start putting away savings for my college. It seemed fine to me, I was just happy to have all this new technology. So for the start of my 7th grade I was split between the houses. Things for fine for a while until my migraines started to come back in force. When I had a migraine at my mother’s I was cared for. When I had a migraine at my fathers I was being dramatic and should suck it up.

In 7th grade I also officially became a woman, which brought a whole new fun set of issues to deal with. The major issue, menstrual migraines. The nastiest, most brutal pain I could even imagine. And every month like clockwork I would get them. The worst part was the neurologist providing treatment could no longer help me. I ended up in the ER on multiple occasions just to get a cocktail of Toradol, Benadryl, and Zofran. Whatever the case this seemed to always rid me of my unbearable migraines.

I was always miserable whenever that time came when I was at my fathers. I was scared what would happen. There would be no way he would take me to the hospital if something were to happen. Soon my neurologist recommended that I see a gynecologist and be put on birth control. This way I could at least go 3 months without a hospital visit. For those who don’t know the pill form of contraception can be taken consecutively for 3 months then a week off, and it is not just used for birth control. In fact the pill can be used to help alleviate a variety of medical issues. In my case medical migraines. After this I started planning tTrappedhat time around the weeks I was with my mother. I couldn’t bare the thought of having to be at my fathers while that was happening. Soon things were starting to look in my father’s mind that I was only sick at my mothers. He started issues with my mother, threatening a custody battle until he decided that I clearly need therapy. So at 12 years old I was dragged to a therapist to work out my problems. I was told I was going to build a better relationship with my father, little did I know there was another agenda.

I was regretting my choice to change my living situation only a few months in and I knew if I changed my mind now it would only cause more drama. Therapy was practically a disaster, it was awkward and beyond uncomfortable when my father was brought in. I didn’t truly understand why I was there. I thought I was doing something wrong, that my actions at some point had led me into this situation. Therapy sessions ended with awkward hand offs from mother to father and vice versa. I was feeling so alienated between the home life and the medical situation. I felt like no one could understand what was happening to me.

As life around me was spiraling out of control so did my appearance. I wore nothing but black, talked to no one, and confided in only a single friend. Some say it was just a phase, that every child goes through their phases. But what was a phase and what was a desperate cry for help?

Loss of Blood Ties

The next part of my journey is quite a lengthy few years. At this point in time we introduce a pivotal character, my father. The stories are deep and very emotionally rooted. From a length perspective these are sure to be the longest portions thus far and because of this I am going to break it into parts.

From the getgo my father was a sly cunning fox who could sell ice to the Eskimos. He came from a religious family, his father being an Episcopalian minister. From the stories I’ve heard from both him and other family members his upbringing was a troubled one. By the time he met my mother she was desperate to get out of her own situation and married practically right away. He offered an escape for her and at the first chance she took it. My father was expected to be successful and in his own mind he was destined to be a man to be remembered. My mother worked full time to pay for his college degree at of all schools, Wharton (which is Ivy League level business). Coming out with a business degree he was expected to make millions, be a CFO of a company, anything successful. Instead his own mindset got to him. He quit his new job and decided to be an entrepreneur. From here on out the story fades, not much has been told to me. What exactly happened next is unknown to me.

The pieces I do know were of a troubled marriage spiraling out of control. My father was an alcoholic drug addict with an abusive temper, which wasn’t aided by the fact my mother also had a flaring temper herself. On a number of occasions I listened to stories where my mother had an outburst and was silenced only by the physical abuse of my father. By the time I was 2 years old my father had turned into such a monster that even my mother who knew she would be left out in the cold with a toddler decided to run. The night she knew it had to end was when my father was coming home from a business trip. He was so drugged out that he crashed his car into multiple neighbors parked cars and stumbled on home practically drooling on himself as he went. Seeing all of this happen my mother decided it was time, the unstable nature of my father was now in the public eye with a toddler close by. And the fuzziness begins again, the story falls short and the details are left blank.

If we speed up in time to when I was in kindergarten my end of the story can really fall into place. My entire life my mother and father were fighting each other, both for the approval and award as best parent. My mother being an actual good parent who cared about her child was always there to pick up the pieces. On her own as a single parent she was able to work and take care of me, providing me with the best childhood possible. My father on the other hand who only had me for weekends was trying to boast his fatherly skills. As a young child this consisted of child friendly trips such as the zoo or playground adventures. What I saw of my father was fun time dad, not anything of what he truly was.

The prime example of this was my kindergarten graduation. Since I went to a private kindergarten we had a special ceremony that congratulated us on our little achievements (which is seriously ridiculous). My mother was ecstatic, until my father showed up. I remember graduating, walking and standing for pictures then being given a bag of gummy bears. After that I was in a car being driven away frustrated that I couldn’t open the bag, which I eventually tore open and lost half of my prize. But it wasn’t my mother who was driving, it was a family friend. What was happening to cause this? Apparently a fight broke out between my mother and father which resulted in my father physically assaulting my mother in front of all the other parents and children. The cops were called and charges filed, all while I was being escorted away to hide the true side of my father.

So why after all of this would my mother allow me to see him? Why did the court allow him visitation? The simple answer was the abuse wasn’t affecting me and my mother truly wanted her daughter to have a father in her life no matter how horrible he was. She tried her hardest to make my father something he just wasn’t. No matter how hard he tried at the end of the day he was scum. He had cleaned up his act, got anger management, and by all means looked to be a decent father. Behind the scenes he was constantly fighting over paying child support, always lying to the court, and sabotaging everything my mother had worked for.

It was a tricky situation for anyone to be in, how could a parent tell her child no? How could one parent keep the child from the other? And how do you even start to tell your child the truth?

Odd One Out

This is a continuous of my life story, read part one here.

For two years of my life my childhood was back to normal. I had nothing to worry about, not a care in the world. In 5th grade the big achievement trip was a trip to Disney for a school science program. Being a little kid of course I want to go, who wouldn’t? And even at the age of 10 I was fascinated by the idea of science and all the mysteries it holds. So for the entire year I fund-raised going door to door with my mother trying to sell Yankee candles. By the end of the school year I had hit my goal fundraising wise (I didn’t know at the time I had hardly raised any money so my mom just put the rest of her funds together by herself). This trip would be the first time I had left home for an extended period of time all by myself. Of course I was with classmates but I didn’t have my mother by my side.

To end the trip everyone went to Epcot, which I was super stoked for because it had so many cool new countries to explore and the opportunity to go to Animal Kingdom. Side note: as a young child pretty much all I watched was the discovery channel. I was animal obsessed. My group and I went around to each country and went to the gift shops looking at all the “foreign” goods. Finally it was time to eat lunch and my group decided it would be fun to eat in “Japan”. Shortly after eating we headed over to the gift shop when it hit me. The sun was brighter than it should be. The noise around me was too much. The minor pain in my head was spreading and soon it felt like someone was jackhammering my skull.

Like any young child in extreme agony I started to cry. But it wasn’t a tantrum cry, or a screaming cry, just tears flowing down my face type cry. I couldn’t stop. The pain was too great. My fellow classmates looked at me like I was some sort of weirdo. Why on earth was I crying?

Everyone walked away except the chaperone who tried to calm me down. He was a sweet patient man who was parents of one of my group members. After crying for about twenty minutes he decided it was best to call my mother. She was hysterical on the phone. Here IOdd One Out am in Florida and my mother back at home in Pennsylvania. She was border line about to fly down and take me home. In fact I was told if I can’t stop crying I would be sent home. I really hope that was a blank threat and not actually something they do because how messed up would that be if you sent a little kid home by herself.

It was interesting having Epcot medics come and take me away. I had my eyes closed the entire time while the cart drove through restricted areas. The medics gave me some Motrin and had me sleep for the rest of the day while my group was out experiencing Epcot. This was the first time I really felt alone. After returning to the group everyone looked at me differently. The snotty remarks were whispered behind my back. I was the weird kid who cried. But how could I explain what my head felt like? How could I describe that level of pain? I was only 10 years old after all.

A few days later we all flew home and a new chapter began in my life, the chapter of migraines. Returning home I was having the excruciating pains almost every day. My mother was frantically searching for pediatric neurologists that had openings sooner than 6 months away. We eventually found a few openings all around our area and the waiting game began. To be honest I don’t remember the early stages of my diagnosis. I must have gone to 12 or so neurologists in a period of 6 months. Each doctor was different. Each doctor wanted to tell me some theory on why I was getting them. Oh it’s your diet. Oh it’s just hormones. Oh it’s the environment. But even after eliminating trigger after trigger we were left empty handed. There was no rhyme or reason to why I was getting these migraines.

The amount of school I was missing was also becoming a problem. The school and my mother had plenty of meetings to discuss my absences and make sure there was no abuse going on at home to cause me this pain. Then we found a neurologist that was willing to work with us regarding preventative medication for my migraines. At the time not much was approved for children under 18. The doctor was almost an hour away and he suggested plenty of preventatives. The only downside was the effects they could give me. One option I had required me to get my liver tested every few weeks or the other that would make me lose weight. We decided it was best to go with the weight option.

The other bonus this neurologist provided was the in-office IV treatment, which of course I wasn’t thrilled with being extremely needle-phobic. This was about the only option for when my migraines were off the charts and any abortives I was trying failed. I must have tried every abortive available at that time and the only one that seemed to do anything was Imetrex (still to this day). The office was also able to run an IV drip of that form of Imetrex, which even though an hour away I went to frequently. The migraines at the time were never under control, they came when they wanted to and typically only went away if I went for the IV treatment. The once needle-phobic innocent child was slowly being ripped away piece by piece, treatment by treatment. But what could one do when you have no choice?

Where It All Began

Taking you back to the start requires a bit of thinking and remembering, some of which might be hard to remember. But even with this I will try to tell you the whole story from start to finish.

I was born July 12, a month earlier than I was supposed to. My mother had gone into labor unknowingly and by the time she had realized it was too late. She was forced to deliver me without any medication to ease her pain, and worst of all I was stuck inside of her. My shoulder was stuck on her pelvis and I had to be delivered via forceps. The pain she went through was something unbelievable and something I will always appreciate. I was born a healthy weight with only a mild case of jaundice. My mother on the other hand was having complications. Although we both went home a few days later my mother had collapsed and was rushed to the hospital. She had a fever borderline brain damage levels and the doctors had no idea what was going on. Her kidneys were failing and all the antibiotics they could think of were doing nothing. She was deteriorating quickly, and only by a luck chance did a nurse whisper a doctor’s name she might try to ask for. In her delirious state she kept saying the doctorsTwo Blooms name until finally he came. He was a doctor of infectious disease and almost immediately he was able to treat her. The cause of the infection, contaminated environment.

So why am I telling you this? Why does this matter? Well for one my entire story revolves around my mother and everything she has done for me. Without her I would be nothing. She is my number one supporter and would do literally anything for me. As for why exactly this all matters, well later on this is the basis for a fair amount of my misdiagnosis.

Growing up I had a generally typical American household life. My parents were divorced so I was with my father every other weekend. The rest of the time I was with my mother and after a while my so called step-dad though they never were remarried. We lived in the suburbs and had a typical lower-middle class life. My mother worked a full time job and focused on her only child, me. Coming from her own abusive childhood her parenting techniques were a bit from the norm. She did everything the opposite of what her family did and in the end created a very independent little girl.

Things started to swing south when I was just starting 3rd grade, making me only 8 years old. I had caught the nastiest flu possible which I then passed on to my mother (which she says is the 2nd time in her life she thought she was going to die, the first being the after birth experience). Good to know I have constantly tried to off my mother. After everyone recovered I was left with a nasty stomach ache. I couldn’t eat, I was in constant pain, my bowels were all sorts of messed up, and the pain all along my throat would rage day in and day out. No one could figure out what was wrong with me. Soon the pediatrician recommended I go to the hospital, and off my mother and I went. It was a fun 16 hour trip filled with no answers, also my first hospital visit since I was born.

I don’t remember much about this visit but what I do remember is all the horrible things my 8 year old brain were thinking. The first task I was given was to drink two gallons of this chalk like substance to make my intestines glow in the dark. Fun right? I was young and I was not having it. I hardly drank any of it, in fact there was a sink in my room and my step-dad dumped most of it out when no one was looking. Then came the needles. As a young girl I was extremely needle-phobic. The mere utter of the word would throw me into a panic. And here I was about to get an IV (if you haven’t had an IV, it’s a needle like tube that stays in your arm so they can administer medication and fluids if needed). Next came the CAT scans and ultra sounds. Every test the ER could think to run, still coming up short with answers. After 16 hours and all the results coming up negative for life threatening conditions I was sent home.

The months following I was treated like a guinea pig, test after test, doctor after doctor. Until one day the 5 month waiting list was up and I could finally go to the children’s hospital. The first visit wasn’t exactly lovely. The nurse couldn’t find a vein to draw blood, and needle-phobic self was in full meltdown mode. It also wasn’t helping the nurse was giving me attitude to shut up. Then to the actual doctor, first step fingers up my rear apparently checking for damage. The amount of trauma my 8 year old self was going through today was enough to last a life time. Only two visits later was the minor tale of severe acid reflux diagnosed. Because it was left untreated for so long my esophagus was literally burning away. The doctor told us acid reflux is fairly common in children and slapped me on Prilosec which had me feeling better in a matter of weeks.

Then for the next two years my life was back to normal and I could go back to being a normal little kid.

The Journey

The Start:

Ever since I could remember I was sick in some way shape or form. It all started when I was in 3rd grade and only progressed from there. Every few years a new diagnosis was given and the list grew on the thousands of reasons wrong with me. Because of that I have always identified myself as disabled, someone who is living with chronic illnesses that impairs their quality of life. The term has many different interpretations depending on who you are asking, but that is what it means to me. Life was a struggle day in and day out. You never knew what the day would bring or what drama would occur because of your illnesses. Surprises rested around every corner, and typically not good ones.

On top of the many medical conditions I was struggling with I was also dealing with an abusive household. When I was 2 years old my mother divorced my father, and it was for all the right reasons. Drugs, abuse, alcoholism, you name it and that was my father. The marriage was toxic and my mom needed a way out for her and her new child. For the longest time my father had every other weekend visitation, but that all changed when I was 12 and everything went downhill. My father was in a bicycling accident and broke his pelvis, and collarbone. I was young and he bribed me, and at the end of the day I thought why not spend every other week here. And so the abuse began.

By the time I was 16 I had been to court two times and dealing with domestic relations for years. Finally after the last court appearance I was out of being forced to go over to my father’s house. In fact that was the last time I ever spoke to or saw my father. 6 months later I was completely bedridden with a new mystery illness that forced me to be home schooled. The short and sweet diagnosis of POTS was slapped on me and I carried about my life as a weak fatigued girl.

The years from then until now have shaped me tremendously. When I entered college I haUpward and Outd no idea what to expect. After struggling with my mother through her cancer diagnosis, and my step-dad leaving us midway through treatment I was shaken. I was in a long term relationship that was falling apart all around me. And here I was trying to start over at a new school working towards a degree. Once my ex of 5 years left me because I found out he had been cheating on me the entire summer I was nothing. I did not know who I was, what I was, what I was doing. I was lost.

The Present:

Now speed up to the present: for once in my life I feel whole, I am healing. This year brought second opinions and new diagnosis which have changed my life dramatically. The ongoing struggle seems to be connected. All the symptoms have been brought together. I have started doing things I love again, thrifting, going out on photography trips, even caring about my appearance. These are slow steps, but they are steps in the right direction. Next semester (Fall 2015) I will be student teaching and graduating college. The man in my life now is the support I need. And the direction I’m headed is where I was supposed to end up all along.Through all the pain and struggle I have come out the other end knowing who I truly am, knowing what I want, and how I will get it.

How things stand right now I am dealing with a re-diagnosis of POTS, a new diagnosis of fibromyalgia, on-going chronic migraines, on-going and unresolved stomach issues (gastroparesis mainly) plus all the other weird symptoms that don’t really fall into a diagnosis. On a daily basis I typically feel horrible but I know things are on the upswing. I know if I keep on pushing I have almost reached the end goal, a life of true happiness that I have made for myself.

The Future:

So you might be asking why am I here? Why am I sharing all of this with you? And the plain and simple reason is because I know by sharing others can feel comfort. Each person has a story, some which want to be told and others that don’t. But at the end of the day it is inside of you and by sharing what you have battled through others can find comfort in knowing they too know the feeling. In this blog I plan on sharing the entire story and every battle I have won. Even in the way future when the war is won my stories will be told because in every story lies hope. I want to share with you, my readers, the everyday struggles I go t301hrough but also the days where I do something I never thought possible. Sharing the highs and the lows, and letting everyone know that there is always a light at the end of the tunnel.

Along with stories of my past I also want to share what I love to do and give advice to anyone who needs it. Photography has gotten me through a lot of my dark places and I plan on sharing as much as my work as my readers can stand. I am a beyond novice but it is a love that fuels me on days where the pain is too much. I would also love to share my other love of fashion. Since at heart I am extremely frugal I of course love to thrift and think that others might like a tip or two about how I achieve my look. On days when you aren’t feeling so good about yourself, a fun silly day of thrifting might cheer you up. In the past it has for me, so why not share it with my readers!

And on a final note I want this blog to be a space for people to share their own stories and feel safe doing so. I would love for this blog to turn into a community space where people can come to for support, a laugh, some thought provoking questions about saving a dollar, to vent, or whatever anyone needs to get through their current battle. In the end we are all warriors looking to get by.

So here my blog journey begins, feel free to comment or email me at I hope you enjoy.