Daily Prompt; Can’t Get Enough

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/10/09/daily-prompt-addicting/, DP, Daily Prompt

Have you ever been addicted to anything, or worried that you were? Have you ever spent too much time and effort on something that was a distraction from your real goals? Tell us about it.

Photographers, artists, poets: show us ADDICTING.

I was just thinking about this early today. I am addicted to others. I have short hair, not because I think I look fantastic, but because it is very easy to take care of.

What I really want is my hair down below my shoulders again so I can put it up in a messy way like I used to, or let it fall in waves, or any way I really want to wear it.Me This is the way I used to look.

What I find is I have lost me. I have given into my addiction of being needed, feeling self-worth, being accepted.

It is too important to me, and it has taken the almost seven years of caring for family members to see that I am not me.

I am to a point. I do love being a caregiver. When I look inside my house, I can see me in a lot of places. But the part of me who was once alive has been swiped and hidden away. This is what this addiction to being wanted has done to me.

I made up my mind last night that I will without guilt start looking farther down the road. The path I want to return to is filled with silly laughter, feeling young, and spontaneous.

To start this I am starting to let my hair grow back out. I have been thinking about what type of work do I want to do once this chapter is closed. Do I still want to be a caregiver? I think yes but not 24/7.

I want to be able to walk a way from the job at the end of the shift. Change from a professional to a silly person. There are some facts I have to face. Such as I can not move like I used to due to my diabetic feet problems. My back can’t take what it used to. I am not as strong as I used to be. I am beginning to need my naps more often. But I see me being able to squeeze the old me in there.

I want to, no I need to return to me. My sanity has to be kept in line. My thoughts have to deter a way from death, and I need to concentrate on me, which is something I haven’t done for years.

So off with the short hair is a good place to start. Maybe I should get a butt lift, or implants, or a tummy tuck. No, I think not. I have already been made and what needs to be fixed is internal.flying_angel_wallpaper_cd368         http://youtu.be/uAPUxvjbdcU




What Did I Do Wrong?

The 1960s-1964 Marie-Claire -hair styling

I saw on Facebook this morning that this is National Teacher‘s Day. I couldn’t help but go back in time to my third grade teacher.

Oh how I hated that teacher. She seemed to be on my case all year-long. Any time she could pick on poor little me, she did.

She was a short little lady with red hair. She always wore her hair in the same style all year.  I used to wonder if she slept like that, or did she ever wash it. It would be piled way up on her head in curls. It reminded me of an old woman’s hair style, something similar to an old-fashioned beehive.

Along with that red hair was more freckles than I could count on all ten fingers and toes. When I would get called up to the desk, I would stare at her soft, blue Mrs. Clause eyes so I wouldn’t be rude and get caught counting freckles.

I don’t believe I was Teacher’s Pet, although if I twisted my thoughts around, I may have been able to make up a good story about why I was called on so many times. She would tell my Mom at conference time that she moved me several times to get me to shut up.

Evidently it never worked as I heard the same repeat story each meeting teachers and parents met. One day I will never forget is when she must have been having a bad day. Maybe it was PMS or she and her husband had been in an argument the night before. It surely couldn’t have been from a sweet, blonde haired child like me that had made her flip her wig.

I got called up to the desk, a very familiar spot by this time of the year. I don’t remember her words exactly, but I do know thinking on my way up to her desk, I got busted again for talking.

You know, now that I am so much older I have to blame someone for this chatter box I had turned into. Since my Dad made me sit on chairs so often and not speak, I must have discovered my voice box in third grade. I probably was making up for lost voice time.

When I reached that last step and I was standing in front of the blue-eyed, freckled, beehive teacher, she said, What’s it going to take to get you to stop talking Terry? I am sure that I became instantly quiet as I flicked pieces of fuzz or dirt specks off of her desk.

Knowing me, I probably just shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. This teacher who either loved me or was sick of my chatter box did something she had never done the entire school year.

She pulled out a pair of panty hose. She had been so creative by cutting off the one leg. Now she had one long stocking. I think she has stuffed this remaining leg with wads of paper. It made a nice long tail.

She took that darn tail and a safety-pin and made me turn around. She pinned that ugly old thing to the back of my shirt and then she had the audacity to make me wear this all day long.

I can remember the other kids pointing at me and laughing and calling me Tattle Tail the rest of the day. Oh I hated her. I was so embarrassed. No one likes to be chosen as the bad kid or the kid who wouldn’t shut up.

I laugh out loud as I think now to the patience that woman must have had. She could look at me sitting in my chair with those eyes and smile at me, but I could almost see her gritting her teeth because I was the labeled one, the kid who interrupted the class.

When I graduated from high school one day my friends and I were revisiting school years and I brought up the story of my third grade teacher. You know, kids want boundaries. They really do yearn to be guided and disciplined. It is one way the younger generation can count on of being cared about.

I never got it back then, but I will say it over and over that the blue-eyed, red-headed, beehive teacher was my favorite, and I learned the most in her class intellectually. One day my Mom and I were together going somewhere and I pointed out this beautiful plantation style home with the perfectly manicured yard and my Mom told me, That is Mrs. Kehlor’s home, your third grade teacher?

Wow I got a small bit of redness creeping up in my cheeks as I thought back to the days of torment I put her through. Not only was she a great teacher, she had perfect taste in homes too. Years later when I read of her passing, I thought back to the tail I had worn and with tears in my eyes I said to myself, Thank-you Mrs. Kehlor. Thank-you for putting up with me and being the best darn teacher I ever had.


A Dog Named Boo

A dog with no name

I saw you looking up at me

When I was driving by

You looked at me and I think you said

Please give me a hug and wipe my eye.

Your hair I noticed is such a mess

It hangs down in your face

Has someone left you behind

To fight this human race?

I pulled my car over and shut it off

I opened my door and walked towards you

I don’t know if I’m doing right or wrong

But I have to do what I must do.

I held out my hand and bent so low

You didn’t back off or seem afraid

You came closer to me being a little shy

Please trust me now don’t walk a way.

I went back to the car and got a blanket

I brought it to you and you let me wrap you up

I carried you gently and placed you on the seat

You sat very still you didn’t even fuss.

I’m taking you home with me today

I will clean you up and wash your hair

I have been praying for some companionship

I think you and I can connect and share.

Once inside the house I put you down

You looked around but didn’t stray

I found you some food and I hope you will eat

What a good job you did there’s none to throw a way.

A bath I am giving you now you smell so good

I combed out your hair and you sat very still

I see your eyes follow me where ever I go

And now you are sitting on my lap at your own will.

I am so thankful that I passed your way

I realize I needed you more than I knew

The Lord answered my prayer of a companion today

I love you my new friend, you are my dog named Boo.

Terry Shepherd


They Would Not Listen~

Feet of poor Vietnamese girl. I took this picture.

Feet of poor Vietnamese girl. I took this picture. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Creeping along the corners, catching a glimpse with my eye. Unwanted guests entering  my door, sneaking in without an invitation. Looking up and down I see the swiftness of his movement. I tell him to leave, but he doesn’t listen. I go to the kitchen and take my weapon off of my wall, where it has been resting peacefully all winter long. I ask my brother if he has seen this guest, and he does admit, he has seen several, and wondered if I let them in. I notice that he is already stationed in his chair with his own weapon resting on his lap, ready for action. He is in watchful eye mode. I return to my comfort chair in the living room, and I keep watchful eye on my feet. They seem to like bare feet. Although I took my daily shower this morning, this means nothing to them. As he rests close to me, the thought of him wanting to become closer to me makes me feel so dirty. I pray inside, asking him to go away, and leave me alone. Please don’t touch me. When you touch my hair, it gives me shivers. I wonder what you are doing where I can not see you hiding. Are you calling your friends to come rest on my hair? Do you plan on having a party, without my knowledge? I sit very still, trying to breathe softly. I use my eyes to glance in all directions, fearful of what is coming up behind me, but not daring to move in order to see. It doesn’t matter what room I visit here at home, they follow me. I have seen them sneaking into my kitchen, crawling on my floors. They even visit me when I use the restroom, but the ultimate, is when they visit me at night. Afraid to lay my covers at the end of the bed, when I get too warm, for fear they will attack me. Leaving their mark where ever they land. They try to make me giggle, by softly landing on my nose, or on my finger. I have told them and warned them to leave, but they are not taking my warning. I hate being ignored. Now, I mean business. This game is over. I tried softly speaking. I tried screaming. I even opened the door allowing them to leave with no punishment and no words said. I am out of patience. Now I shall show them who is boss of this kingdom. I stand in the middle of my living room, with a fly swatter in one hand, and fly killer spray in the other. I shall win!!