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you know what is good for you…

I’ve had a rough few weeks.

While dealing with everything, and believe me there has been a LOT – I have had to deal with a hypocrite who is out slandering me due to me sticking by my rules for my business.

When I started 8ight, I decided to set some rules up so that – while I love my craft – I still have the time to spend with my children and have time for myself for my own sanity. I do have a family life and cant always focus on clientelle…

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To forgive a hypocrite

I struggled through Monday with a sore wrist. I didn’t do anything stupid to hurt it either. I was helping my boy with a school project on the weekend and on Monday I sat with a wrist guard on and you could smell the menthol before you saw me.

image from google images

image from google images

I then held this post back for two days and thought – “do I really want to post this?”

The answer is simple. I DO! to be honest I don’t care about what people think.

This brought me to think: “How am I supposed to forget the man, who methodically ensured the pain in my wrist is there, as a reminder of his cruelty, for the rest of my life?”

I’ve been told to forgive and forget; however the forgiveness part becomes difficult when your physical reminders are alive and well.

The hypocrite would tell people not to hurt my hands because they ‘are the tools of my trade’ but the first thing he would grab to hurt me would be – MY WRIST!

I struggle to carry a light grocery bag never mind a heavy one.

The cold bites; literally.

I can’t even help my child complete a project without being reminded.

Monday was one of those days that I wish I could take out the bad memories and replace them with ones that would serve my life better.

I am constantly removing people from my life who seem to think this monster did no wrong.

Those who think it is easy to forget.

The people, who aren’t willing to accept the healing power of the spoken or written word, those who won’t allow me one day – here and there to be angry – and to work that negativity out of my system.

Anyone who is still supportive of my abuser don’t serve my life purpose. They support indifference; they turn their heads and look the other way.

So what do I do? I write.

My wrist was sore and pressing the keys came in short bursts so I could manage the pain. I got on with my day. I smiled, and now I try again to send My Story out into the world hoping that it will help one woman or one animal.

That is what gets me through the pain; what allows me to put the memories aside and work them into a positive outcome.

Sometimes it’s a lonely place out there and I feel that I am the only one on the planet experiencing these emotions. I find myself wishing I was one of the “Annie Lennox’s” of the world who have the extraordinary ability to wake millions of people to the cause.

Although – even though I was sore, I was and am inspired to a positive result.

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