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    About Me

    I posted this before on my other blog. (I was forced to give it up due to costs). I’m reposting it here with minor revisions. This was originally written about 16 months ago. April and May of every year are hard for me, as they bring up memories I would really rather not continue to relive.

    When the events in this blog occurred, several things were going desperately wrong in my life. I had always tried (but failed) to do the best I knew how. I believed up to that point that my efforts would, someday, be rewarded. How wrong I was. My life crashed down on me in the space of 2 months, causing insomnia and anxiety.

    During the rest of the year, my anxiety flares up at random times. But during April and May, it’s almost constant. I hope this blog will give you insight into me as a person and maybe as an author. If I’m lucky, it will also give you hope. Whatever traumas you are going through, you are still here. You can get through it. It may be ugly, and it may be entirely without grace, but that does not matter. The only thing that matters is that you do. Not. Give. Up.

    *******

    My late husband killed himself on May 1, 2014, after a phone call with me. Let me give you the ugliness of my life.

    My late husband was an alcoholic. He was when we met, and yes. I knew it. But it was mostly under control, or so I naively believed. He became out of control with his drinking, to the point it had begun to change him as a person. We got into an argument which resulted in me and my youngest daughter (the only one left at home) spending the night at a friend’s. We came back the next day to an empty house and a strange site.

    My minivan was parked in the yard with the side door open. In the back, a vacuum hose went from the exhaust through a back window that had been opened. (It was one of the ones that can only open sideways just a bit.) Inside the van, leaning against the seat was my daughter’s American Girl doll and a wooden cross. Not something you want to see.

    After a couple phone calls, I found out he had called the Sheriffs on himself, and they’d taken him for a 72-hour hold. On day 3, I got a call from the facility. They explained where he was and that his detox was so dangerous it would take a full extra 24 hours to get the alcohol out of his system. Mind you, my husband rarely drank hard alcohol. No, Natural Light was his go-to drink.

    Typically, detox takes 72 hours. In his case, it took longer. Which, to this day, I have a hard time wrapping my head around. But when I answered that phone call, I begged them to keep him in. I explained what I had found and tried to make them understand that not only was he a danger to himself but to others. Their argument for releasing him? They didn’t treat alcoholism. I don’t think there’s any need for me to explain why I knew that to be a lie, is there?

    So, I called into work and spent the entire day on the phone. I called lawyers, the police, the facility. I even tried to call government officials. I begged anyone and everyone who didn’t hang up on me to help. I didn’t get any. In the state of Texas, a spouse cannot have their spouse committed. Period. (Um, I don’t think anyone is in a better position to know if their spouse needs help, but what do I know? I was only living it.) My last phone call that day was to his mother. I told her in no uncertain terms that she would be picking him up the next day. She proceeded to tell me, “Fine. I don’t want him here, but I guess I have no choice.” And no, she didn’t. I had my 7-year-old daughter to consider.

    Everything was fine for about a week until my husband called me. He pleaded his case, saying he’d been sober for a week and that he wanted to try to be the man I deserved. If that had been true, I’d have been happy. But, when I stipulated that he complete a program and stay sober for a period of time, after which we would see about fixing our marriage, he balked. There was no “I’ll try.” There was no “for you, I’d do anything.” There was only, “I can’t.” That was his choice. To give us up for his beer.

    His uncle called me 2 hours later. I called my friend, I think. I must have because I vaguely remember her being there. I vaguely remember someone having a conversation with EMTs about whether I needed to be sedated. I don’t know who called them or when. It was a close thing, but in the end, they didn’t, with the stipulation that someone watches me. I don’t remember much after that.

    May 1st, 2014, ended my husband’s problems. But because of his choice, he missed my daughter growing up into the teenager she is. He missed the evenings together; he missed hanging out with our friends, eating BBQ, and listening to music in front of the fire pit. He’ll miss my daughter’s high school graduation and all the other milestones of her life. And that was his choice. He could have chosen to fight for sobriety, he could have chosen to fight for us, but he didn’t. He. Gave. Up.

    The last few days have been hard for me. One of my new followers on Twitter is fighting his own battle for sobriety. His battle just started, and he’s doing everything he can to not lose. And I’m happy for him and his family. I love to see people fight for their lives. What I hate is the bitterness, hurt, and jealousy that invariably sneaks out. Because I am jealous. I’m jealous that he cares enough to fight for his sobriety and his family, and my husband didn’t.

    I’m bitter because I was blamed for my husband’s death. I get that it was my refusal that set him off. I get that, believe me. I carry that guilt around all day, every day. And it’s a heavy burden. But I also know that I was the only one in his family who loved him enough to tell him he had a problem. I didn’t sweep it under the rug. I didn’t put it off as, “that’s just how he is.” I didn’t sugarcoat it. He had a problem, and I was watching him slowly die.

    I’m hurt because my daughter and I weren’t enough. Really, there’s nothing else to say about that because that’s the complicated, plain, and simple truth. We. Weren’t. Enough. And that fucking hurts. That’s a knife to the chest, over and over.

    Alcoholism kills if you don’t fight it. But, it doesn’t kill only the drinker. It kills relationships, families, and friendships. Like any addiction, alcohol becomes your sole focus, the only thing you think about, the only thing you care about. It doesn’t matter if it’s 1 a day or a 36-pack in a day and a half. If you are needing, looking forward to that next drink, if you are counting down until your next one, it’s a problem. If you open the fridge for stuff for dinner and come out with a beer in your hand, it’s a problem. If you need a drink of water in the morning, and you automatically grab a beer, it’s a problem. And not just for you. For everyone around you.

    Addiction in any form fundamentally changes you. It turns you into someone else. Someone who is angrier, who is mean, who only cares about themselves. And the excuse “you knew I was an addict/alcoholic when we started dating/got married” doesn’t fly. It’s a copout to justify your continuing your behavior.

    That statement right there is a choice between the people you care about and the substance, whatever it is. Right there, at that moment, you have chosen to give up your family and friends for a substance that doesn’t care if/when it kills you. Think about that for a moment. Reread this paragraph, then think about what I said a little more.

    By making that statement, you have chosen a substance over those who care about and love you. You have turned your back on them and told them they aren’t good enough for you, that they don’t fulfill you. Only the substance does. So the next time your significant other, family member, or friend brings up your addiction, before those words leave your mouth, pull them back. Think about the choice you’re about to make. Think about how much you stand to lose if they return the effort and turn their backs. And be brutally honest.

    You lose family dinners, laughing in the kitchen throwing flour everywhere. You lose nights with your friends eating good food over a fire pit. You lose out on the milestones they reach. You lose growing old with that one special person. If those words leave your mouth, if you tell them they aren’t good enough, you are giving all of that up. Is that really what you want? Or is it that you’re scared and are afraid to fight it alone?

    Before those words leave your mouth, stop. Think about what you’re giving up. Realize you’re probably just scared. You’re scared you’ll fail. You’re scared they’ll give up on you and won’t stick around. But let me say this: The people who truly care will fight with you every goddamn day. They’ll check on you, be there for you when you’re having a hard time. They will listen to you when you’re upset, and they’ll let you cry on their shoulders. The people you want in your life will stick it out with you every step of the way. Trust in that, and trust in them.

    You are not alone. And one last thing. I am here, hoping that you can find it in you to keep fighting. Even if I don’t know you even exist, if you are fighting addiction, whether to drugs, alcohol, or anything, understand I am rooting for you. Keep on fighting. You are not alone.

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    Fade To Gray

    The keys on my keyboard clack as I type. Words appear on the screen, seemingly coming from nowhere. I don’t know where the words come from, but they want out. They want to be put on paper. I am at their mercy until the barista snags my attention. 

    She clears her throat, breaking the trance. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting, but I wondered if you wanted a refill? Or something to eat? You’ve been working for a while, you must be hungry or thirsty.”

    Until she mentioned it, I hadn’t realized how long I’d been there, or how thirsty I was. “Please. A refill?” I shook my cup. “And a double order of cheese bites?”

    “It will be a couple minutes for the cheese bites, but I’ll bring your coffee out to you in just a sec.”

    “Thank you so much.” I slipped her my credit card and a ten-dollar bill. She deserved the tip for coming to my table to ask what I wanted instead of kicking me out. 

    I bite my lip as I read the last couple paragraphs that I wrote.

    I remember the day everything changed. It wasn’t overnight. It was slow, creeping, like a fog blanketing the world. 

    My eyes glazed over as the memories washed over me, chilling my bones like that fog, chilling everything it touches. I stood at the end of the driveway in my t-shirt and jeans, my blond hair in a ponytail, my backpack weighed down with all the supplies we supposedly needed. 

    The school bus pulled up and its doors swung open. I got on, flashed the driver a shy smile, and looked for a seat. As I passed each row, backpacks suddenly appeared on empty seats, heads shaking as they glared at me. The only seat left open was in the next to the last row. Not good, since the bad kids sit in the very back.

    By the time the bus had finished its route, I was in tears, my head aching from my hair being pulled, and my feelings crushed under the litany of taunts and name-calling. My first day of school in a new town. If only I’d been prepared for how bad it got.

    But that was the day my colorful world started to fade.

    I took a sip of the latte the barista had set on the table, lost in my thoughts. I hadn’t intended to write that. I had something very different in mind. But as sometimes happens, the words take over and write themselves. 

    My memories of 6th grade are murky, some unclear, and others faded completely. My mom had moved us in with my gramma and grampa. She’d said it was because they were getting older. I didn’t know until later it was because my dad had hit my mom and she was divorcing him.

    I was bullied mercilessly, all the way through high school. I never understood why and didn’t care. I just wanted it to stop. A couple years later, my grampa died of a heart attack, and my gramma died not long after. Mom always said she couldn’t live without him and died of a broken heart. 

    Mom struggled, both with making ends meet, and with her grief. I don’t think she ever got over losing Gramma and Grampa, because she died a few years after that. 

    So, yeah. The first day of 6th grade was the day my world started to fade to gray. And it’s still gray. I’m numb to everything, working, living, interacting with people. I do it all from behind a barrier that keeps the color out. That keeps emotion and pain on the other side.

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    What Does It Mean To Be Equal?

    If you look up the definition of equal as it refers to people, this is what you will see:

    Too often lately I have heard various arguments regarding who is equal and who is not. The most common one on social media says equal means the same. It does not. Look back at the definition. It says, “the same as another in status or quality.”

    It does not say the same without qualifications. 

    Let’s put this in terms of gender. One social media post declared that men and women are not equal, and that equal means the same. I agree men and women are not the same, but disagree that they are not equal. Why?

    It’s simple. If two things or people are not equal, one must be superior and the other inferior. There are fundamental physiological and emotional differences that cannot be ignored. In general, men are bigger, faster, and stronger, while women, in general, are more natural nurturers. 

    In a ‘traditional marriage’ or relationship, the man and woman complement each other. They each have strengths and weaknesses. They work together to ensure each other’s happiness and the strength of their marriage. They are, in every sense of the word, partners.

    If you’re looking at this in terms of who is stronger, or who can do car maintenance, and fix things around the house, you may believe the man is superior. However, in a traditional marriage, the wife cares for the husband, the children, cooks dinner, and cleans the house. The wife ensures everything runs smoothly. 

    Now look up the definition of racism. This is what you’ll find:

    Above we were discussing whether men and women are equal. If equal means the same, then by definition, one must be inferior. (We’ll skip over how sexist and misogynistic that statement is.) If you’re still not convinced, simply make the same statement replacing men and women with black and white. 

    The second you state that black and white people are not equal, the problem with the above statement becomes pretty clear. Black and white people are not the same. (Many factors go into that and I won’t discuss it here.) That is not to say they are not equal.

    Stating that black and white people are not equal because they are not the same ventures into racism. That one is inferior to the other based on their characteristics. Sexism is very similar, in that one sex is considered inferior based on their characteristics. In this case, their sex. 

    Do you understand now why the statement that equal means the same, and men and women are not the same is a problem?

    The posts I saw on social media were all men pretending they were alpha males at the top of the food chain. But the second they pop off with men and women are not equal, they show themselves to be weak beta males puffing up their chests to look bigger and badder than they are. It’s laughable.

    A true alpha male understands that his partner has different strengths and weaknesses and can help and support each other. He understands that he can protect her and respect her at the same time. He understands they are a team, stronger when they work together to care for their family and reach their goals.

    Men and women are different but equal. Any opinion to the contrary is misogynistic and wrong.

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    Reaching Ryan by Megyn Ward

    On December 13th or 14th of 1998, I was in a car accident. I was in the middle of the back seat (no seatbelt, which is what caused the problem), sitting next to my less-than-2-week-old son. I suffered a broken elbow, a cut on my left knee, and a TBI (traumatic brain injury). I had a blood clot behind my left eyebrow, which affected my short-term memory.

    Have you ever heard of the movie “50 First Dates?” Yeah. That was my life for 2 weeks, only my memory didn’t even make it past 5 seconds, never mind the entire day. A perfect example would be making lunch for my kids. I would make them lunch, then 5 minutes later want to make them lunch again. I don’t have a single memory of that time.

    The blood clot dissipated, but to this day, 25 years later, my memory short-circuits when I’m tired or stressed. There are days I have brain fog, can’t think logically, concentrate on anything, and generally have no motivation. In comparison to many, my TBI was minor. (Although my parents were told I’d never regain more than 75–80% of my brain function. Good thing they were wrong.)

    TBIs, even minor ones, can have lifelong consequences. They are not fun. I have had to learn to laugh at myself, as hard as that is, when I can’t remember stupid shit. Words escape me. I won’t remember someone asking me a question, or telling me something. It’s hard to learn to forgive yourself, even if you make a mistake that’s out of your control.

    One of my favorite romance tropes is wounded veterans (mostly because I feel unworthy most of the time, and these books are a reminder that there are good, understanding people out there.) (But where? That is the question.) The problem is some of these books minimize the lifelong effects of some injuries and TBIs.

    Too often, the book ends with some miracle cure that very rarely happens in real life. (I got lucky, and I know it.) When that happens, it feels dismissive and patronizing. Look, I get it. We all want miracles. We want hope, and we want a happy ending. It’s romance. It wouldn’t be a romance without a happy ending. Instead, it would be a tragedy.

    But I want a happy ending where the MCs are accepted for their flaws, illnesses, injuries, and mental health problems. I also have a back injury from 2013 that will never get any better. I’m not going to get a miracle cure. My back won’t suddenly be back to 100%, and my TBI will never stop affecting me. So I want to know there’s hope for me. As I am. Not some fairy tale, “Oh, I can fix her,” bullshit.

    Reaching Ryan by Megyn Ward (book 1 of a duet, found here) gets it right. Ryan is a veteran with a devastating TBI and injuries to his leg. While his TBI is different than mine, the effects are similar, if more extreme.

    ***Mild Spoiler Alert***

    Upon waking up in the morning, Ryan has to take several minutes to remember who he is, where he is, and that he has a TBI. Simple words escape him, there are things he can’t remember how to do (like tie his shoes), and his own family feel like strangers. This alone would be brutal. Add in the frustration and mood swings, and well… Life can suddenly feel overwhelming.

    Ryan’s injuries are lifelong. Yes, he found ways to lessen them, workarounds to make things easier. He learned what his limitations are. But his injuries will never go away. Even at the end of the book, he struggles at night. His leg begins to hurt, and he still struggles to think clearly.

    Fatigue and stress seem to exacerbate TBIs. Even years after they have “healed” (if you’re lucky enough for them to heal), they can show up and smack you upside the head to remind you. At one point, Ryan describes his mind as Swiss Cheese. That was (and sometimes still is) true for me as well.

    I adored Ryan and Grace. I felt horrible that Ryan had to live with and learn to deal with these injuries. His anger and frustrations broke my heart. Reaching for words, trying to remember how to do basic things, and coming up blank makes you feel stupid.

    And Grace, for the most part, had patience with Ryan. Essentially being a caretaker can’t be easy, and to pursue a relationship with someone who has suffered a TBI is even harder. Patience and understanding are essential. Learning what sets us off, what sends us into a depression, making us feel like we aren’t a burden… That’s not walking on glass, that’s not being patronizing, or any other excuse people with no empathy come up with.

    It’s being human. I adore Ryan and Grace, and sincerely wish there were people in real life like them, that get their HEA. Because I probably won’t. But I’m trying not to give up hope.

    Reaching Ryan, and its follow-up Giving Grace, is a duet you NEED to read. It’ll break your heart and put it back together. It will give you hope.

    And don’t we all need a little hope? I do, and I’m desperately trying to hold onto it.

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    Left Hanging

    I hate to be left hanging. I love a good series, especially paranormal romance. Give me a series with good characters and a good storyline, and I’m there. Leave me hanging, and I’ll curse you with something terrible.

    Before you get upset, I understand many like to read a series as each book comes out. I don’t. I like to immerse myself in a story and read the series all the way through. I also understand sometimes an author can’t finish a series for whatever reason. Life happens. I get it. 

    There are exceptions to this. I’ve now encountered both. With the same author. The first exception is when an author ends a series without giving any indication it’s completed. Including leaving Texas-sized, unresolved holes in the story. The first incomplete series I read from this author is a duet that was finished (not finished) in 2021, so it was written after the one I just read.

    I liked this series. The storyline, the characters, I wanted to keep reading. Particularly because the story just… stopped. There were 2 books written. This isn’t a case where the series is different stories set in the same world. No, this is the same storyline. It just stops. I remember wanting to throw my phone. 

    The series I just read is only mildly better. At least at the end of this one, it says, “That’s all for now!” The fourth book in this one was written 4 years ago in 2019. No other books. No revisions. This author has a problem with seeing projects through to the end. 

    If I had realized these 2 series were by the same author, I would have skipped it. I got to the end of book 4 and felt like the last few days of reading these books were wasted. I can understand not finishing 1 series. As I said, life happens. But twice? That indicates a problem. 

    I won’t be reading this author again. Ever. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times? Not gonna happen. This author got an accidental second chance. She won’t get a third.

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    Addict’s Way

    By Stephen Liosi

    Addiction can be sneaky. Whether it’s crack, meth, alcohol, gambling, or something else, it can sneak up on you when you’re not looking. You take your first drink or snort your first line to relax or forget. You do it because there is something in your life you cannot deal with at that moment. So you escape.

    Peter certainly carries the weight of several problems on his shoulders. He feels misunderstood, minimized, judged, and ignored. Peter was injured in a car accident and now deals with the after-effects. Add in a career he was never thrilled about and a marriage that is a constant source of stress, and that’s a lot for anyone to carry, never mind someone who had a TBI. 

    Addict’s Way by Stephen Liosi reads like a tragedy. One bad thing after another happens to poor Peter, and he can never seem to find a way out. In reality, yes, Addict’s Way is a tragedy. One that happens to all too many in one way or another. Too many have never learned how to cope with life’s curve balls and find it easier to escape. Escape means they don’t have to think about their problems or do the work to fix them.

    But more than a tragedy, Addict’s Way is a lesson. It’s a lesson in the spiral of mental health, bad choices, and outside forces. In life, people have a choice. They can go this way or that, but once chosen, it can be difficult, if not impossible to backtrack and choose another path. 

    Addict’s Way isn’t a light, easy read. In fact, for me, it was a hard book to read. Reading about Peter’s life as it spins out of control, his nihilist philosophy brought up memories better left forgotten. The way this book is written gives the reader a front-row ticket to watching a man who should have had it all give up. It’s a well-written, hard-hitting book.

    My only complaint about Addict’s Way is there is too much tell and not enough show. The writing is surface-level and never delves too deeply into the emotions the characters feel. Digging into their emotions would help readers relate to the characters more and make the book feel more impactful. Although maybe for a story such as this one, not showing too much emotion is necessary.  Perhaps helping the readers feel more of Peter’s pain would make it too difficult to read.

    Addiction is like a train wreck. You hear the horn blaring, the screech of brakes on the track. The crash of metal folding in on itself echoes down the line. You know it’s coming, you know the moment the crash begins, but you are utterly powerless to switch tracks. All you can do is watch as your life crashes and burns. Addict’s Way depicts this in detail. One day after another, one week following the one before, until reaching the point where hands are thrown up in defeat. 

    I recommend Addict’s Way to anyone with a friend or family member who is an addict. Everyone’s story is different, but Addict’s Way can bring an understanding of how the mind of an addict works. It’s a hard, but interesting and educational read. 

    *Side note to readers: The path of an addict doesn’t have to end in giving up. It is possible to change tracks, it is possible to make path corrections. Addict’s Way gives the reader a better understanding of both addiction and the mind of an addict. That perhaps, is a good first step. Lastly, it’s tempting to give in and let life take you where it will, but you can make changes. Just don’t give up.