Wicked Winds & Wild Water

The following is a true story . . . I’ll dish it out a little bit at a time if you’d like.

The pin-pricks of itty-bitty ice bullets keep smashing into my skin as my hair wildly flies in directions humanity has not yet labeled.  Damn, it stings; but strangely, the stings feel fabulous – almost sensual.  It’s like getting goosebumps all over your body when you watch a scary movie. I feel alive with it – stimulated in some way. Powerful. Ready to begin anew in what I do. To allow the wind to stoke the fires up that reside in me. For a moment, imagine we are sitting by a roaring campfire chatting about who we are inside our hearts, and about the hidden passion we keep locked away.  If they were released, hopefully, they would allow us to live a life full of joy and self-love.

Inside me, an angel and a dragon are intertwined in mingling parts that mimic a courtship of creation. There is so much mental matter waiting to burst out of the top of my head. My hands want to rip my heart out of my chest and present it to the world – with all its emotional memories of love, hate, harm, hope, victory, and an escalating pitch of anticipation that I’m nearly at the summit of a task that, until now, has been unattainable.

The pumping of my heart feels louder with each beat. Will it explode out of me?  No, I will not allow that. The many years of waiting demands every ounce of my patience and determination – I must wait.  Why am I suddenly so silent at this moment? Because my history demands it.

Calm was never a descriptive word in my life.  For many years, my life was full of tornadic winds, fire, brimstone, dark rivers full of wild dirty water, broken down houses, and feeling homeless within many homes. My life did not provide a healthy structure to flourish and develop upon. There were very few kind, knowledgeable role models in my life that practiced nourishing, balanced, safe parenting. I did not grow up with laughter and hugs. The voices in my childhood were rarely below scream level. Most of the family conversations were garbled and indecipherable because of their copious amounts of alcohol and anger. My parents couldn’t aim for and hit the broad side of a barn normally, but their aim was swift as lightning and straight as an arrow when they decided they needed to slap and hit.

Readers, let me know if you want me to continue this true story……
email me at:

Dr. Deb

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