HALLOWEEN 101

Hello Dear Readers. It's Prudencia. 
You may remember that I was a guest blogger last Christmas.

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https://confessionsofadisableddiva.blogspot.com/2017/12/shes-got-lot-to-say.html 

What do you mean you don't remember? How could you forget me? I was a fabulous guest blogger. I heard from spirit friends all over the universe. They said, "Pru you really have a gift. You should start your own blog."  Being a guest blogger is fun. But having my own blog? I don't know. It's a lot of work. I don't see how Joanne does it. Oh, there I go rambling. Forgive me.

Joanne invited me to be a guest blogger because Halloween is her least favorite holiday. Can you blame her? The poor girl's startle response goes into overdrive. She Hates dressing up. People scaring her. Nope. Halloween is definitely not her favorite holiday. She does enjoy the candy though. Resse's  Peanut Butter Cups. I do not know how the girl keeps her figure. If I even look at one it goes straight to my hips. Yes, spirits have hips. Don't ask. Too complicated. Moving on. 

I'd like to take the opportunity to de-spell some misconceptions about what spirits like me do on Halloween. Take notes.  Why? I can't believe you assked that question. I am a 5,000-year-old spirit. I am imparting wisdom. Enough said.

If you believe that spirits rattle chains and moan you have watched A Christmas Carol one time too many. Ghosts don't even do that. Moaning, rattling chains, scaring people. Ridiculous!  Not only would I scare human beings, but I would also scare myself. I don't have an ounce of meanness in me.  On Halloween night I guide the trick-or-treaters safely through their neighborhoods. if they cross the street I make sure that they are safe. When all the little witches, ghosts, and goblins have been tucked in their beds I get a feeling of satisfaction knowing that  I  helped keep them safe. 

I  have a little hot-buttered rum before I turn it in. It's delicious. What?  I am 5,000 years old. The nights are chilly this time of year. It helps me fall asleep too.

This Halloween...Be scared. (if you must).....Be safe...Be kind.

Don't overindulge in candy. Think of your dental bill!!

IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY

My brother Bill passed away in 2013. On the day of his memorial service, I wrote the post below. We did not ' always get along, but he was my brother. I loved him. I was proud of him.  I just wanted people to know that. https://confessionsofadisableddiva.blogspot.com/2013/03/a-tribute-to-my-brother.html

Sunday, October twenty-first, would have been Bill's seventy-sixth birthday I have been .thinking about him. We had disagreements, but there were good times too. The good times are what I choose to remember.

I remember watching the movie Elf with Bill. He laughed so hard at Will Ferrell.that that it was more fun watching him than watching the movie.

I remember discussing which one of us was entitled to eat the one anchovy on the antipasto plate at Charlie Gitto's  Restaurant. After discussing it for several minutes we each ate half.

I remember after I had surgery Bill sent me a bouquet of tulips. Tulips are my favorite.flower.
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I remember how good Bill's frozen margaritas were.

I remember begging Bill to give me his Barbra Streisand Greatest  Hits cassette because it had the song Stoney End on it. He repeatedly refused. On the drive home, I looked inside my cassette case and saw the Barbra Streisand cassette. Bill had given me the tape.

I  remember the book of poetry Bill gave for my high school graduation. I was nineteen. The book didn't mean much to me then. It means so much to me now.

Happy Birthday, Bill. I love you. I miss you. I wish I could talk to you.

This post was not planned... I rolled up to my desk and started typing. This post is disconnected,, random. A jumble of.memories that were written from my heart.






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WHAT MAKES A HOUSE A HOME?

Today marks four years. October 15, 2014, was the day my life changed forever. It was the day I left my house, the day I left Lucie, the day I left behind everything familiar, and the day I became a resident at the nursing home.

I was a mess. People kept telling me the nursing home was my home now. I had to get used to it. I had to accept it. I knew I never would.

On my first night there  I met Alice, the admissions nurse. She became my friend. She talked to me, listened to me, and let me cry when needed. She helped me plot ways to escape. 

Alice put me to work. I ran errands for her. I remember one night looking for bed alarms and batteries for bed alarms. It took all evening, but I found them. It was fun. Alice helped me forget where I was. Thank you, Alice, for helping me get through those first months at the nursing home.

I got used to living in a nursing home. I got used to the routine and used to the staff, and I made some good friends.

Living in a group home is a unique way to live. I live with two other women. We go our own way. I don't see them very much.  Three women who were matched up as housemates.The criteria?  Our shared disability.

What makes a house a home?  In 2012  I wrote a blog post titled Home Is Where My Heart  Is.  In the post, I talked about my memories of the holidays that I shared with my family at my house or theirs. It's not my memories that made my house my home. It's the connections. It's shared memories, It is my family. 

After I sprained my knee my brother sat in my hospital room for an entire day so that I would not be alone. He did it because he cared. I have never forgotten that my brother did that for me. I never even thanked him.

Today is a difficult day. I miss my house, my mom and Lucie. My home will always be on Lansdowne Avenue in Southwest St. Louis. My house meant memories and connections. My house meant family. 

WHO CARES?

I had an epiphany.  Last night, while trying to fall asleep I  thought to myself, "Who cares?"

Who cares if I am not paid to write for the WEW? I know that my editor will always welcome my posts. When I did not contact her, after moving to NHC, she called my brother to find out where I was. She has always made me feel that I am a part of The Word. For that, I am grateful. I am going to start thinking of topics for columns.

My friends and family have wanted me to publish another book for several years. They have offered to help me. And, you know what?  I am going to find a way to make it happen. If I cannot keep any of the profits, I will donate them to UCP.  I refuse to allow the State of Missouri to rob me of my self-worth or my ability to be productive. I can not just sit and vegetate/. Even if I am simply playing Word Tornado, I am keeping my mind active. I love words.  Words are the building blocks of thoughts. Thoughts turn into ideas. Ideas turn into goals. Goals turn into actions  Actions turn dreams into reality.

I live in a group home. Who cares?  It's lonely. Who cares? I have my phone, laptop, Kindle and social media. My friends and family are just a click away. I was told things that cannot happen. Who cares.  That happens all the time. There is a lot more stress here...A food allowance, meeting my spend-down and registering for food stamps Who cares?.  I made a mistake moving here. Who cares?  I will make the best of it. Nothing is written in stone.

None of it matters. What matters I am still the same person I have always been.  I will achieve my goals no matter what. I will. keep dreaming, writing and creating. I  will continue to think of ways to turn my dreams into reality. It'is my life.  My chance. I  care

KEEP DOING WHAT YOU KNOW TO DO

Writing. It helps me to make sense of the things that happen in my life. Blogging allows me to share my thoughts, ideas, and experience with you. Both positive and negative. 

I know you're thinking," Joanne you have mastered negativity. Try working on positivity now."  

I was writing to promote a positive change at the facility. Trying to bring about change was none of my business. The only thing I had control over was my behavior. The only thing I could control was how I reacted to people and situations. Anything else was out of my control. I could not make changes at the facility because I thought that change was needed. Who did I think I was? 

My degree is in social work. Maybe that explains why when I saw something wrong I wanted to make it right.  A friend told me it was okay to write about the negative aspects as long as there was a balance. I needed to write positive aspects about living in a facility as well. I didn't. I only wrote negative things. 

I am a hypocrite. I could not wait to leave the facility. I guess I should be embarrassed to visit,.i look forward to my visits. The receptionist told me that after being a resident for four years the staff becomes like a second family. 

I wrote post after post about what an awesome life I was going to have when I moved to a group home. It hasn't turned that way. I was boastful. My words are coming back to bite me. Words are powerful. Just like thinking before I speak, I must think before I write too. 

I wanted to prove that I could make it on my own. I didn't listen when people tried to give me advice. . If I had listened I am positive that  I would be in a better position than I am today. 

 I don't understand why I was given a food allowance when I have to apply for EBT. The thought of having to apply for food stamps is keeping me awake at night. I can't wrap my head around it.  

All I wanted was to resume writing my monthly column for The West End Word again.  I moved here so I could be productive. The way I was when I lived in my house.

I miss, my therapist. If she were here right now she'd tell me there is no shame in having to go on Food Stamps. She told me about the men and women who serve our country who had to apply for Food Stamps because they did not earn enough to feed their families. My therapist would also understand why I am upset. She knew how important earning a little money was to me. She knew how much writing for the WEW meant to me. I was finally a journalist.  

At the end of each session, my therapist would say two things, "Keep moving forward. Keep doing what you know to do."

 I hear those words in my head every day,

A SECOND- CLASS CITIZEN

Going on Medicaid was tough for me. I don't mean filling out the paperwork involved, (My brother took care of that for me.) |I mean getting used to the idea that I no longer have the funds to pay to live at NHC. The government would be responsible for paying my monthly bill, I could not earn anything while I lived at NHC. Any money I earned would have gone to NHC. I stopped writing my column for The West End Word.  I wrote a blog post about how having to go on Medicaid made me feel.  http://confessionsofadisableddiva.blogspot.com/2017/03/a-humbling-experience.html 

There were so many things I wanted to accomplish. The major one was publishing another book. I thought moving out of the facility would allow me to do this. I thought if I resumed writing my column or got a part-time job, I would not have to go on Food Stamps. However, that is not the case.

I have a monthly Spend-down, I have to pay my Medicare premium and my rent and utilities. Even with my food allowance, I will have to apply for Food Stamps in order to meet my monthly expenses. If I get a part-time job my benefits will be cut even more.  

I never understood why people with disabilities who were on Medicaid did, not try to get a job. Now I do. It's not because they are lazy. It is not because they don't take pride in themselves. It is because our government makes it almost impossible for those of us with disabilities to work and still receive the government assistance we need. I know people with disabilities on Medicaid, who work a certain number of hours a week. Perhaps it is because I have a Spend-down or I live in a group home. I do not know why I am being penalized. 

I regret moving from the nursing home. I lived as a resident I did not have to be concerned with meeting my spend-down, a food allowance, or registering for food  stamps.. My family tried to tell me. I did not listen. I wish I had.

Our government has taken my motivation and pride from me. When I have to apply for food stamps our government will have taken away my dignity as well. Our government t makes me feel like a second-class citizen. Volunteering is fine, but like all of you, I would like to get paid for what I do. 

Living in a group home allows me to assimilate back into the community. If that's true then I should  be allowed to earn money like everyone else in my community