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And so, that’s that.

We met a long time ago and became fast friends.  But our friendship was tumultuous.

I did so much to be a good friend.  No, a best friend.  As teens, I covered for you.  As adults, I listened to you.

The first time we broke up, it was over something trivial.  I’m sure because I can’t remember why.

The second time we broke up, it was because I was trying to split my time between you and other friends.  You replaced me quickly and made sure I knew it.

The third time we broke up, you ghosted on me.  I never knew why until much later.  Apparently your parents thought I was a bad influence.  Did they know about the times I covered for you?  Did they know about the time you lost your virginity while I sat, semi-grossed out, in the other room watching TV, respecting your choice but waiting to hear you scream and ready to get you out of there if you changed your mind?  Did they know about the time that you drank a huge glass of vodka and eventually started vomiting in your sleep?  Did they know that you slept with your head in my lap that night while I stayed awake, scared to death?  Did they know I cleaned you up, threw your linens in the tub and prayed that you would be okay?

What I don’t think you knew is that when you ghosted on me, I was devastated.  I felt like my world ended.  I was 16 and the friend I loved the most acted as if I never existed.  I fell into depression.  It was almost as if you died.  I mourned the loss of something important to me and I went through all the stages of grief.  You didn’t know that one night while I couldn’t handle it, I sat in the bathtub with my father’s razor and cut my legs just so that I could have relief from the internal pain.  You didn’t know about my troubles back then.  How I was just starting down the road of finding out that I was mentally ill.  When we got back together, I could never tell you that because I was afraid you would judge me.

I’ve listened to you, your problems, everything.  For years you monopolized the conversation, but I didn’t mind.  Hours on the phone of listening to you, making sure I asked about your family.  Making sure you knew that I was there for you.

But you never once asked about me.  My problems.  What I was going through.  My family.  For all those years I didn’t mind.  So long as I could help you through  your issues, so long as I knew you would be okay, I was happy to keep my problems to myself.

It wasn’t until we were in our 30’s that I started confiding in  you.  I started telling you about my issues, my health.  You listened, but I don’t think  you tried to understand.

It was never about me.  It had to be about you.  It was toxic.  I knew it, but why throw years of memories down the drain just because of all that?

Its because I thought I needed you.

I made plans with you, but then life happened.  I had to take care of myself because my health required it.  I tried so hard to make it work, but the math didn’t add up.

In my self-deprecating way, I prostrated myself before you and begged your forgiveness while telling you why I couldn’t keep those plans.  I was humble, I was guilty, and I was sorry.  But it wasn’t enough.

After all those years of my understanding.  After all those years of listening to you as you cried, as you got angry, as you were at a loss for what to do next, you forgot all that and asked me why it was always about me.  You never once took into consideration why I had to cancel those plans.  You blamed me.  You acted like I did this to you on purpose.

It didn’t matter that at the same time I had made plans with you, life happened.  In the intervening weeks, things dropped in my lap that changed everything.  I had a hospital stay I couldn’t reschedule.  I had a mediation I absolutely had to attend.  I had medication that I can’t cross the border with.  These things didn’t matter.  You were angry.

I wrote to  you, trying to defend something that didn’t need defending.  Leaving the ball in your court to respond.  I was praying you would respond.  But you didn’t.  You began ghosting again.  And this is the fourth time we’re breaking up.  It’s also the last time.

Now I choose to end this on my terms.  If so many years of friendship came down to this, then I can’t keep trying.

I will mourn.  I am mourning.  I barely could get out of bed yesterday.  Last night I cried.  This morning I was ready to sleep all day.  But then I looked at my family who brought me breakfast in bed.  Who wanted to celebrate me for who I am, warts and all.  And I realized this is a healthy relationship.  My family accepts me for who I am.

I haven’t told you and I probably never will, but this is the end of the line.  I will cherish every last memory we made together.  I will file them away in my heart and always think back on you fondly.  I loved you and I still do.  I will probably always love you.  I have for nearly half my life.

So I will grieve.  I will cry.  I will have days where I’m reminded of you and want to fall apart.  But if our friendship came down to your refusal to reciprocate when I needed you, then it’s time to recognize that the only one being altruistic is me.

 

I’ll miss you.  I wish you well and send you off with my love.

So, I guess that’s that.

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Posted by on May 8, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

Kids… Am I right?

This story may contain flashbacks.  Brace your necks.  Don’t need y’all getting whiplash…

May 7, 2016 – 9:30 P.M.

Bath time is over, LMP (my son – short for Little Man Pants – long story…another time) is in his PJ’s and brushing his teeth.  I walk into our bedroom because he wants to sleep with Daddy and I tonight.  I start fixing up the bed and notice something strange out of my peripheral vision.

We have a large window in our bedroom, but it’s broken down into 3 panes.  I could see the window screen peeking out from behind the blinds.  Our screen was not attached to the window frame.  I call my husband over and ask him if he was working on the window.  Nope.  Then I start freaking out because…burglars!  The hubster goes over to the window and sees that the screen locks were disengaged – this was an inside job!

May 6, 2016 – 6:45 P.M.

My husband and I heard LMP repeatedly running up to his room and taking stuffed toys outside.  He was playing with the girl down the street, so bringing stuffies to a play date with a girl makes perfect sense. (So does bringing GI Joes – I’m not discriminating!)

About the fifth time  he swings the front door open and goes to march up stairs yet again.

(With his shoes on!  Doesn’t he know we’re in Canada?  WE DON’T WEAR SHOES IN THE HOUSE FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME, KID.  SIT YOUR TINY BEHIND ON THE BENCH IN THE FOYER AND TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF!  THAT’S WHY I BOUGHT THE BENCH IN THE FIRST PLACE!  Wait…where was I?)

Dad stops him dead in his tracks, “Buddy, why do you keep bringing more and more stuffies outside?”

Aaand we get the kid look.  The one where his face is somewhere between a trusting smile, a worried glance, and the eyes of prey looking for the best escape route.  If you have a kid or have ever worked with kids for a period of time, YOU KNOW THIS LOOK.  It’s obvious that he thinks we’re asking a trick question.  Nope.  And your poker face needs work, LMP.

Eventually, after trying to skirt the issue with non-committal answers that are sort of related to the incident, he fesses up and tells us that his friend’s stuffy is up in our eaves trough and he was trying to get it down by throwing even more stuffies at it.

See, now, when parents ask a question, there are so many other unasked questions that go along with it.

When I asked “How did that happen?”  I was also asking “Why?  Just why?  You know you can’t reach the roof!  You know you ain’t getting Super Ultra Steve and Betty Spaghetti down off that roof by yourself!  I MEAN WHY, CHILD…WHY?  WHAT MADE YOU DO SUCH A THING?”

And it doesn’t matter if I asked the simple version or the long version because LMP’s answer is almost always the same:  a simple shrug.

So off dad goes to retrieve the stranded stuffed dolls.  On an upside, we got a peek at our eaves trough for the first time since last summer…really clean!

May 6, 2016 – 8:30 P.M.

Why is there a giant stuffed elephant just hanging out on the staircase?  Oh well, back to LMP’s room with you, Dumbo.

May 7, 2016 – 9:32 P.M.

“Seriously, do you think someone tried to break in to our house?”  I’m bordering on panic attack levels of anxiety.  Before my husband could answer a small little voice comes from the hallway behind us.

“I did it.  My ally is the force and a powerful ally it is.”

Okay, to be fair, he only said the first part.  The second part is his Star Wars electric toothbrush that lights up, makes light saber noises, and quotes Yoda.

I really can’t absorb what he’s saying.  What does he mean he did it?  Did what?  Is he telling me  he pulled this screen off the window all by himself?  Did I forget somewhere in the last 7 years to tell him that windows on the 2nd floor are bad?  Instead of asking all those questions, I simply say, “Explain.”

“Well….remember when the stuffies were on the roof?”

“Yes.”

“I did it then.”

“You took the screen off the window?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you know how to do that?”

“I figured it out – those silver thingies are locks!”

“Yes, I know, and verbal high five for being super smart, but why?  Were you going to climb out the window onto the roof?”

“NO,” he exclaims, as if I just asked him the craziest question in the world given the scenario.

“Then what were you going to do?”

“Well, when throwing other stuffies at the ones on the roof didn’t work, I thought I’d try throwing stuffies from the window so that it hits the stuck stuffies from behind and knocks it off the roof.”

“Again, another verbal high five, dude.  You’re pretty clever.  Why didn’t you just ask dad and I for help from the beginning?” Another shrug.

“Dude.  DUUUDE.  Don’t do this again.  You’re terrified of knives safely stored in drawers and cutting blocks, but you’re crazy-brave enough to take a screen off of a window and potentially fall?”

I get the pouty face puppy eyes look.

“Honestly, I am glad you told dad and I the truth and I’m glad we could talk about this, but just ask us if there’s something you need help with.  Especially if that something has to do with our roof and windows and stuffies.”

“Okay, mom!”

INTERMISSION FOR FAMILY HUG TIME.

“Hey buddy…”

“Yes, mom?”

“So, the elephant that I found on the stairs…was that for…”

“Yeah…sorry.”

I love family life.

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Posted by on May 7, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

An Update: Birthday Parties are the Worst.

In my post from yesterday, I spoke out about my social anxiety.

At one point, I quoted what my brain would say if I chose to stay home (which I did):

So you figure you’re just going to stay home and do laundry as a trade-off?  Right.  You know that the moment he leaves, you’re going to sit on the couch and fail.  He expects that from you, so why don’t you just accept it.  

Well, suck it, brain.  Not only did I fold the laundry and put it away, but I started a new load of laundry.  You may have a million wins under your belt, but I’m slowly creeping up on you.

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This is what general anxiety, social anxiety, depression…this is what it looks like.

Folding clothes.  Isn’t that something that we give to kids as chores because it’s so easy?  Yeah, it’s easy.  It only takes 30 minutes.  Everything looks neat and organized when its folded.  These are all things I tell myself to counteract my brain.  Sometimes I build up enough courage to do simple things.  Sometimes I cower and avoid.

Today I had a panic attack.  You can find them described all over the net.  Sudden fear of death, body tingling all over because you want to jump out of your skin, trouble breathing, choking sensation, dizziness, sweats…  A panic attack is basically the result of our primal brain kicking in the “fight or flight” mechanism.  It would make sense if I was face to face with a T-Rex or my mother (just kidding, mom!), but I was face to face with my tablet…playing a match 3 game…just chilling out.  Suddenly my bitchy brain appears out of nowhere again:

SOUND THE ALARM, MOTHER FUCKERS!  WE’RE ABOUT TO DIE!  SWEET MAMA SQUASH, THE SHIP IS SINKING AND THERE ARE NO LIFEBOATS!  Is your husband around?  Where’s your phone in case you need to call 911?  Oh god, what if you can’t talk?  How are you going to tell them where you are?  Oh, of course.  They have super caller ID.  They’ll know and send someone over.  But what if they think you’re prank calling them?  They might not send anyone over and you’ll die, right here, with no help.  All alone.

Internally, I was freaking the hell out.  Externally, my husband said I simply looked like a deer in the headlights.  (I’ve become a master at hiding my anxiety from my son, but the explanation for that will come in a future blog post.)

Who knows why I had the panic attack?  Maybe it’s because I actually did something yesterday.  Maybe it’s because match 3 games are really stressful.  Maybe it’s simply because it’s a day of the week.

It’s odd that I am willing to share this on the internet (another post for another time).

 

 

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I Could Never be Kirk Cameron’s Wife

I was born in the late 70’s and mostly raised in the 80’s and early 90’s. I remember hanging out at home watching Kirk Cameron on Growing Pains, and while I never really had a crush on him, I remember him being the centerfold in many a Tiger Beat magazine.

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Hold on, do they still publish Tiger Beat?

(I just Googled it – yes, they still make Tiger Beat, except that I don’t recognize a single person on their webpage. Who the hell are Shawn Mendes, Lucy Hale, Kelsea Ballerini and Nathan Sykes? But, I digress…)

People from my generation remember Kirk Cameron as the teen heart throb on Growing Pains. I hear he’s a born again evangelist.

Don’t get me wrong – I have no problem with people believing in what they want to believe. It’s their life and they can do what they want so long as all parties involved are cool with the result of those beliefs. But, sometimes, religious folks say the craziest things. Like this:

“Wives are to honor and respect and follow their husband’s lead, not to tell their husband how he ought to be a better husband.” -Kirk Cameron

I just asked my husband what he thought I would say if he said that quote instead of Mr. Cameron. His response: “Before or after you start laughing at me?” Obviously, my husband knows how to be a better husband.

Kirk Cameron is on some whirlwind tour preaching to people how to have great marriages. I have a perfectly imperfect marriage, but you don’t see me telling others how to “marriage.” Wait. He’s getting paid for this. Probably tons. I think I’m going about this the wrong way.

#MarriageGoals on tour! Join me as I regale stories about marital arguments over missing socks, macaroni and cheese, video games, zombies and more!  (I left out the part about where we argue over money because that’s just boring.)

I wonder if I could sell tickets for that…

Anyway, I won’t ever take my husband’s lead. Ever. Not in the sense that Cameron is describing. I am a human being, and I am tired of my vagina being the reason why I should listen to a man or do what a man says just because it will bring me closer to “God.”  No where in the bible does God say “Haha!  I gave you this awesome contraption that’s an exit door for tiny humans, but you’re also going to bleed and have debilitating cramps once a month and once a  year you’re going to find yourself with metal contraptions and a doctor all up in your lady business.”  You know what?  I bet the rib that God took from Adam was the vagina rib.  Do you think Adam was all like “You need a rib?  Sure, but could you keep the boner, sports, video games and beer ribs?  You can choose any rib  you want between the vagina, erectile dysfunction and disgusting farts ribs.  At that point, I’m guessing God just did eenie-meenie-miney-mo and we wound up with the vagina rib.  Thanks.  Now I’m mad.

If I can have a Donald Trump moment, I’d just like to say that I have a pretty great relationship with God, by the way, and S/He’s awesome and S/He wants me to tell Kirk Cameron to take a long walk off a short pier.

Marriages are funny things. You choose to spend the rest of your life (or that’s the intention) with one person. That’s a huge commitment. Basically I signed myself up for trying REALLY really hard not to smother my husband when he won’t stop snoring. I signed myself up to offer half-assed smiles to terrible dad jokes. He signed himself up for witnessing the mysteries of the female body. He signed up to love a total basket case. And the two of us, against all odds, made a little human that is the mix of both of us.  Scary.

We’ve been married for 13 years this October and I can tell you that we did not survive this long because I follow his lead or because he follows mine, for that matter. I am much too headstrong of a woman to honor and obey. I’ll disobey just for the sake of it. That’s just the BAMF I am!

(I’m really lucky I was born in a country that doesn’t kill sassy, obstinate girls that will give you the middle finger as a way of saying hello.)

Our marriage works because we try reeeeally really hard to see eye to eye (which is not easy when I’m 5’5″ and he’s 6”). Sometimes I win, sometimes he wins, sometimes neither of us wins. But we are here to counsel each other. He comes to me for advice and I go to him for advice. We discipline together. We always make sure we’re on the same page when it comes to our kid.

Sometimes I carry the burden of the household. Sometimes my husband does. By burden, I mean anything that is too difficult for the other person to handle at that time. I could be having a bad day with seizures and other health issues. He could be completely stressed out at work. One of us will pick up the slack for the other. We carry the burden together.
In a marriage, no one should be submissive.  (Unless that’s their kink – and again, no judgement!) A couple should walk together, hand in hand, as equals. Each person makes up for the other’s deficiencies; therefore, it’s healthier to walk as equals rather than follow one half of the whole. Just like a country suffering under a despot, the house will suffer under a despot, too.

If your God tells you that you must follow the lead of your husband, and if you think that’s what will get you into God’s good book, then go for it. My God is pretty cool with me the way I am so I’ll have to pass on your seminar, Mr. Cameron.

But, let me know when Elizabeth Taylor’s ghost starts a tour about successful marriages. That I’d pay to see.

And not just because Liz is a ghost.

 
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Posted by on May 1, 2016 in Feminism, Marriage, Religion

 

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Birthday Parties are the Worst.

My son is going to a birthday party today.

For most mothers this phrase is akin to “It’s Tuesday.” or “I need to make dinner.”  Someone else’s kid’s party usually means you can drop off your kid and have two or three hours to yourself.  Or it means interacting with other adults (and probably their kids).

For me, the phrase is akin to “Let’s pull out our fingernails” or “Time for a root canal!”

Yesterday was a particularly difficult day because an Occupational Therapist came for a visit to assess my current condition.  I was nervous when she arrived, started crying for no rational reason halfway into her visit, and after she left, I was anxious and exhausted.  Nothing bad happened, but that’s no excuse for my crazy brain!  That bitch thinks and does what she wants.  I’m just along for the ride.

This morning when I woke up, I was suddenly terrified at the prospect of going out and interacting with people.  I partially blame the anxiety and panic hangover from yesterday.  I have three options when it comes to social gatherings:  1.) suck it up and pretend to enjoy yourself, 2.) keep to myself while encouraging my husband to stay with me in one area that I have, for whatever reason, deemed a safe zone, or 3.) stay the hell at home.

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Let me be clear:  I don’t necessarily hate people.  I hate my brain.  Let’s say I go to the party and wind up interacting with people.  My brain is a complete douche.  She says what she wants and shows me the worst case scenario while telling me that I’m overreacting.  In less than a minute my brain’s non-stop stream of consciousness diatribe will look something like this:

You’ve been talking too long. She’s not laughing at your pathetic attempt at being funny.  Her grin is just obligatory and I bet she bolts the moment you finish speaking. Oh, look, that chick in the corner is staring at you.  I bet it’s because your outfit looks hideous and you look super fat. Why didn’t you put on any make up today?  The least you could do is cover up your ugly face.  And good job, asshole, you forgot to paint your toenails but you’re wearing sandals.  Why did you even leave the house?  Do you think keeping your husband by your side for this event is going to keep you safe?  You need to hover over your kid so he doesn’t get hurt but be careful because you know all these other people will judge you for being a helicopter mom.  

If I don’t go, then my brain can shut up.  Or can she?

I bet your husband is disgusted with you.  You can’t even leave the house for a two-hour birthday party?  Haven’t we been through this before?  It’s not like the world is out to get you.  Well, except for this time and that time and that other time and don’t forget that one really horrible time when… So you figure you’re just going to stay home and do laundry as a trade-off?  Right.  You know that the moment he leaves, you’re going to sit on the couch and fail.  He expects that from you, so why don’t you just accept it.  Oh, and by the way, you are such a lard ass.  Why don’t you go for a walk?  It will be fun.  I bet you’ll pass by a lot of other people walking and they’ll think, “Oh it’s that lady that always wears yoga pants to pick up her kid from school.  What a surprise that she’s wearing yoga pants again today.  She looks so sloppy and unattractive.”  So maybe we shouldn’t go for a walk.  All the more reason to just park your ass on the couch and hope that no one knocks on the door.  Better yet, just go to bed and pretend you don’t exist.

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This is what my brain is like.  She’s that mean girl who pushed me around back in school.  She’s a relentless parent that never stops nagging.  She’s a co-worker that stabs you in the back. She’s a carnival mirror that never reflects  your true self properly.  She’s an abusive ex-boyfriend that reminds me of every last reason why I’m never good enough.  She’s the scientist observing me under a microscope.  She’s the proverbial monkey on my back.

This is what it’s like to live with an overly anxious mind.  It’s scary.

You know what’s even scarier?  This is my brain being “better” compared the nightmare that was my brain before years of therapy, workshops, medication trials, and self-help books.

Sometimes I wish that my brain would just shut the fuck up.

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Posted by on April 30, 2016 in Mental Illness, Social Anxiety

 

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A word on weight loss…

When I started my weight loss journey, I did so out of desperation.  The myriad of physical ailments I had been suffering from since I was pregnant 7 years ago finally overwhelmed me.  Epilepsy, high blood pressure and a recent diagnosis of diabetes left me feeling depressed and hopeless.

The turning point was after a doctor’s appointment.  I was told that I needed to up my insulin injection dose – and this was on top of taking Metformin and Junuvia orally.

I was driving home, nearly in tears, when I saw the Jenny Craig sign.  I pulled into the parking lot, made my way into their office and asked them the only question I could:  “Do you have a weight loss plan for type 2 diabetics?”

The rest is history and some yet to be written.

Since then, I have lost a significant amount of weight and I no longer need insulin shots.  My blood pressure is a bit more stable.  The epilepsy is just what it is…I don’t think my weight has anything to do with that.

So, yes, go me.  Praise and pats on the back and all that jazz.

It’s not that I’m unhappy with my progress, but with weight loss comes things that no one ever tells you – specifically loose skin.

At the beginning I couldn’t wait to regain confidence in my body.  I was looking forward to wearing smaller sizes and being svelte; however, the more weight I lost, the droopier certain parts of my body became.  I can’t look in the mirror and be proud of what I see because I still see a reflection of the abuse I’ve inflicted on my body.

Between pregnancy and weight gain, I have a stomach that is shrinking and skin that is not.  The skin under my arms tends to wave when only my hand should be.  My upper thighs are a mess.  And the stretch marks I earned during pregnancy are just more pronounced.

But I should still be happy, right?  I can just exercise and tone that skin back into place, right?

Wrong.

Maybe some exercises will help shrink the skin, and it certainly will help my muscles strengthen, but there are some parts of my body that will never go back to where it should be.

Once all my weight is lost, I will be opting for a tummy tuck at the very least.  I want to be as comfortable and confident as possible in my own skin.  I can understand now why women and men decide to go down this road.

Perhaps its just body dysmorphia.  Perhaps its just my yearning to get as close to my teenage figure as I possibly can.  Perhaps its just plain old vanity.

I wouldn’t change the path I’ve chosen for the world – but it’s still just as hard to see a misshapen body.  The fat is disappearing, but a new ugliness is rearing its head.  Thank the heavens for plastic surgeons.

 
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Posted by on December 16, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

A word on terrorism…

A word on terrorism…
Listen guys and gals…
 
I know terrorism is scary. I was a young adult when 9/11 happened. I had no idea what a terrorist was until then – even though forms of terrorism happened all over the world all the time. It just never happened to us…to U.S. I lived this insular existence where my problems were larger than life and I had no clue what hardships there were outside of my white girl, middle class, suburban life.
 
I get it – what we don’t know is scary. The attacks on Paris were scary. But do you know how many attacks there have been in other areas that never get any media coverage? Anyway, I’m digressing here.
 
Muslims are not scary. Syrians are not scary. You know what’s scary? Fanatics and radicals. If you think that all Syrians are Muslims and all Muslims are fanatics and radicals – that’s a logic problem that just doesn’t add up. Another way to explain this: The Westboro Baptist Church is fanatic/radical. They are Christians and Americans. If all Americans are Christians and all Christians are fanatic Westboro Baptists radicals – that’s not a logic problem that adds up either.
 
Let’s talk about Malala Yousafzai.
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She is a Sunni Muslim that is a hero. She stood up to Talaban terrorists IN HER OWN BACKYARD and she was shot for it. She almost died. And now look at her – an activist and a brave woman continuing to honor her religious traditions while fighting for the basic human right of education. One belief does not contradict the other – and you can’t ignore the plight of a million Malalas just because of the threat of a thousand terrorists.
 
And what about that video that showed hundreds of Syrian refugees trying to cross the border – the one where the Hungarian photographer actually kicked an old man carrying a child and both were knocked to the ground. Everyone rallied together and were enraged to see humans – a child and an the elderly – treated like this. But now that incident has been all but forgotten.
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Do you remember Alan Kurdi?  The toddler who’s lifeless body, along with his brother’s, washed upon the shore in Turkey?  They were Syrians that were trying to get to Greece and eventually travel to live with their family in Vancouver, Canada.  I’m not going to show you a picture of Alan Kurdi dead on a beach.  Instead I’m going to show you a photo of him smiling – as a promise of what could have been.
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There is a comparison being drawn between Jewish refugees in 1939 and Syrian refugees in 2015.  Read the article – it’s food for thought.
Look, friends, I’m not saying that we should let down our guard – that we should stop being vigilant, but there has to be a medium where we can save those who need saving while protecting our country.  Yes, we have starving children and homeless in our own country – but do you think it’s because we give our help to other countries?  That’s a lie.  Look at our politicians, look where the money goes, look what corporations are benefiting from tax dollars.  If you look hard enough, you’ll see that not only are our countries capable of caring for our own impoverished, but we can assist those that seek asylum as well.
Every last American and Canadian of non Native heritage comes from another country.  These countries were built on the backs of foreigners from all different walks of life.  The answer to that statement is not “Well they didn’t have to deal with terrorists!”  That’s a flawed reply.  I’ll leave it to you to figure out why.
I’ll end this post with the words that are inscribed on the Statue of Liberty:
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Posted by on November 18, 2015 in Uncategorized