I am in physical pain every single day of my life and I have been for the entirety of the twenty first century thus far. Pain keeps me from falling asleep when it is time for bed, wakes me up during the night, and it is what wakes me up completely every single morning. I am ruining my insides, probably, from all of the over the counter stuff I take which does little to help.

There was a time when I took prescription pain medication (opiods) and I was able to be much more productive because intense physical pain also saps a person’s mental and physical energy, and when I hurt less I can do more, but I stopped taking those medications when it became too much of a hassle to get them, what with the “pain contracts” and the drug testing, and the stigma and all. Getting off pain meds was very unpleasant, but so was the sneering contempt I was subjected to whenever I had to mention that I was taking prescription medication to treat chronic pain or try to find a new doctor who would prescribe them or even just the way I was looked down on at the pharmacy when it was time to get those scripts filled.

It seems these days that medical professionals will subject their patients to just about anything in order to avoid providing actual pain relieving medication to people who are suffering from physical pain – from anti-seizure medication to people who do not have seizures, to anti-depressants to people who are not suffering from depression, to botox (botulism!) injections, to steroid pills and injections and whatever else they can think of (other than pain medication – duh) regardless of the potentially devastating side effects (side effects that can be far worse than those of prescription narcotic pain killers or the slim possibility that a person may misuse said pain medication), all because of the so-called “opiod crisis” that primarily involves heroin addicts and others who are getting and abusing drugs obtained more often on the street than from medical providers; and the government’s hair on fire response to the “crisis” is to extend the “war on drugs” to become a war on nice normal people who happen to have medical need for effective pain medication.

What happens when people who are in far more pain than what I have to live with are denied the relief they used to be able to obtain? Well, they could look elsewhere and get themselves some street drugs, despite the risks of getting bad medicine or getting caught, or they could suffer and lose quality of life (as I have opted to), or they can take the ultimate (and very sad) action to end their never ending pain by taking their own lives.

Doctors are afraid to prescribe pain killers to people who are legitimately in horrible pain, people who obtain relief from prescription pain medication are living in fear of losing the only thing that helps them live anything close to a normal life, and people who cannot obtain relief are suffering needlessly because of a rabid prohibitionist hysteria of “we know what’s good for you so we will hurt you for your own good”ism.

The thing I miss most about pain killers is that they worked for me and allowed me to do more with my days and my life, but I do not miss all the aggravation involved with legally obtaining them or the stigma surrounding their use. I hurt more than I need to just so some nanny staters, hand wringers, control freaks and bureaucrats can feel good about themselves for “doing something”. So I guess my suffering isn’t completely for nothing, right?

*******

MJ Stevenson, AKA Zilla, is best known on the web as Zilla at MareZilla.com. She lives in a woodland shack near a creek, in one of those rural parts of New York State that nobody knows or cares about, with her family and a large pack of guardian companion animals. 

This is your child’s mind on public education.

by baldilocks

Filling in for Fausta. She will return in the second week of August.

Writer Sarah Hoyt expounds on education – and miseducation – in a great series of essays, Teach Your Children Well.

From the first essay:

My son in third grade was assigned to do an essay on “My best friend.” He proudly showed me a paragraph. And I hit the roof.

The sentences – as far as I could tell through the horrible spelling – were ungrammatical and incoherent. There was no thought progression, nothing the reader could follow. It was as though he thought if he included “my best friend” in every sentence it would work, even if it was “my best friend is rocket fire.” It read like absurdist poetry. And it was maybe all of 300 words.

I thought, “He’s ill. He’s having a bad day.” So we went into his book bag (my son hates the very concept of lockers. Still does) and looked at his graded essays. They were all As.  They were all horrible. The teacher routinely gushed about his writing in parent-teacher conferences. I later had reason to realize that the fact he could write at all, with words and everything, as his younger brother would say, was amazing to his teachers.

Which didn’t make any of this better. Further inquiry elicited information that they weren’t actually teaching spelling or grammar or any of that stuff because it was better if the students picked it up “organically” because it encouraged “self-expression.”

Of course, what it mostly encouraged was incoherence.

So I dug out my books on “English for Foreign Learners.” I figured by then it was what my poor child had become. I started assigning him grammar exercises and spelling lists (they actually introduced these in fourth grade, probably because of parent rebellion. They were mostly puerile words the kids should have known). When he got home from school, there was work to do.  He got published professionally at thirteen. And he can write with verve, fluency, and coherence, as can his brother.

Hoyt’s children are blessed to have a mother who cares about true literacy, but it seems to me that people like her, even non-writers, existed in greater abundance 30 or more years ago than they do now. (I was taught to read, write, and compute — before Kindergarten — by my first custodial parents, my great-aunt and great-uncle: a beautician and a city employee, respectively. Both had high school diplomas earned during the heyday of segregated public schools.)

The reasons for the dearth should be obvious: the maleducation of American children began at least two generations ago. Today, many of those who are parents and grandparents are unable to grasp the importance of true literacy, much less pass it on to their progeny. But those who are able need to pay attention to the chaos being intentionally inserted into the minds of their children. If you don’t plant your form of order into those minds, government schools will plant their form. We’ve seen these weeds all around us for decades.

Read the entire series.

And read Peter’s post.

Juliette Akinyi Ochieng blogs at baldilocks. (Her older blog is located here.) Her first novel, Tale of the Tigers: Love is Not a Game, was published in 2012. Her second novel tentatively titled Arlen’s Harem, will be done one day soon! Follow her on Twitter and on Gab.ai.

Please contribute to Juliette’s JOB:  Her new novel, her blog, her Internet to keep the latter going and COFFEE to keep her going!

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I spoke to Sr. John Dominic Rasmussen of the Dominican Sisters of Mary at the Catholic Marketing Network

She was a tough interview to get, everyone seemed to want to speak with her, finally I had to pack up my equipment and go to her booth to get the job done.

I loved what I saw here not just the cute animated videos of Sister…

1: Why Educate in Virtue? from Dominican Sisters of Mary on Vimeo.

(it’s odd to see Sr. animated but trust me she is just as animated in person)

…but pages on the individual virtues like Modesty

MODESTY
MEANING

  • Purity of heart in action, especially in regards to dress and speech

LOOKS LIKE

  • Dressing in an appropriate manner
  • Dressing in private
  • Not bragging about talents, achievements etc.
  • Not being eager to talk about yourself
  • Not trying to be the center of attention in word or action

SOUNDS LIKE

  • I will wear this skirt because it isn’t too short or too tight.
  • I need some privacy.
  • Silence

and Circumspection

CIRCUMSPECTION

MEANING

  • Careful consideration of circumstances and consequences

LOOKS LIKE

  • Pausing to think
  • Thinking before acting
  • Praying before acting
  • Asking for advice from an older, trusted person

SOUNDS LIKE

  • I should wait before I respond.
  • Let me think about that.
  • Jesus, help me to do what you would do.
  • May I ask you for advice about something?
  • Let me think about what I should do.

By an odd coincidence just a few minutes after I published my youtube interview with Sr. I saw linked at Stacy McCain’s website this PJ Media story about the education that Planned Parenthood wants to deliver instead:

Planned Parenthood thinks your child needs to know about transgenderism and masturbation at the tender age of three. The Daily Wire reports:

In new guidelines  issued on the official Planned Parenthood website, the  federally subsidized corporation explains how parents should talk to their pre-schoolers about gender roles, sexuality, masturbation, and transgenderism, even offering tips on how to tell if your toddler “is transgender or gender nonconforming.”

Advice from the guidelines includes:

Be mindful of how you talk around your kid, too. Talking to (or in front of) your daughter about growing up and having boyfriends or marrying a man (and vice versa) sends the message that girls are supposed to like boys, and boys are supposed to like girls, and that anything else is wrong or not normal. While kids this young don’t know their sexual orientation yet, assuming they’re straight could make them sacred to come to you or feel bad about themselves later. This can lead to mental health issues, unhealthy relationships, and taking more health risks when they reach their teenage years.

So, along with freaking parents out over potentially triggering a mental illness in their child, Planned Parenthood provides the litmus test for determining whether or not your child is transgender.

The most frightening words from that piece are “Federally Funded”.

Stacy McCain sums it up pretty well

Amazingly the same people who insist that removing federal funding from Planned Parenthood’s attempts to teaching 4 year olds about Masturbation and transgenderism is a sign of hate would scream bloody murder at the thought of the Federal government funding Sr. John Dominic’s Education in Virtue curriculum.

So I ask the obvious question? If you are a parent Which program would you want your young child to be in so they would grow up to be a responsible and sensible adult?


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And as I’ve said before if you can’t spare the cash we will be happy to accept your prayers.

This past Sunday marked my fifty-eighth anniversary on this planet. As birthdays go it went all right; a far sight better than has been the unfortunate norm the past several years. Skipping the gory details, suffice it to say the acronym ASB has oft been used to describe another birthday. I add that if you genuinely need me to spell out what the S stands for, you are quite the innocent little waif.

Not that this year’s birthday was entirely minus angst and anxiety, with a dash of aggravation plus animus thrown in for good nature. The days leading toward the event featured several unpleasant moments on multiple fronts, this coming to a head one afternoon when a workplace incident left me quite angry and not a little frightened. I was not a happy camper.

Related to this, it’s sadly noted a lot of people I deeply care about have been wading through some deep mire lately. Relationships, employment/financial struggles, you name it. With no disrespect meant to the divine, it has been one of those times when individually and collectively it has been wondered aloud whether God is out on an extended cigarette break and His answering machine isn’t accepting any more incoming messages. People, good people, are hurting. Bad.

Jesus told His disciples that if they had faith the size of a mustard seed, the mountains would obey their command to move. Many of us have faith, yet it seems as whoever may be ordering the mountains about as of late has decreed they fall on top of us. When you are angry and scared; when you keep crashing into dead ends in your job search, when your love life consists of striking out before you can so much as emerge from the dugout, when your loved ones (as Terry Scott Taylor so brilliantly put it) mounted up like eagles but now are dropping like flies, when you see the loudmouth cretin down the road luxuriating with the gorgeous spouse and perfect kids and well lined bank account while you have none of the above … yes, you do start to wonder, even with promised eternity in Christ, what’s the deal. And, how are we supposed to deal with a bitter, seemingly endless losing streak.

Sometimes the only way to deal is burying our face in Jesus’ bloodstained robe and crying our eyes out, asking for comfort and asking Him why. We know the Scripture about how now we see through a glass darkly, but there are times when it seems like the glass is shattered and its shards are slicing us to ribbons. We just want it to end. We need tangible relief. We need something we can grab onto.

The other night, following the aforementioned afternoon when elements both longstanding and sudden were kicking the stuffings out of me, what came to me as a lifeline was a song from over forty years ago.

It was a song straightforwardly declaring faith’s fundamental, calling the seeker home to the One who loves him or her.

The song reminded me of the joy I once knew as a new believer, bursting with love and joy and terrible naïveté about how in so many things not only did I not have the answer, I most likely didn’t so much as have the question right.

It reminded me that through the years, through the high and lows, the doubts and fears, the anger and tears, as well as through all the moments when I felt God’s presence in every fiber of my being, Jesus had remained faithful.

The song reminded me that even in the hurting times He has been and is there, His seeming indifference an illusion belayed by the truth that this, too, shall pass even though in the immediate it hurts like hell.

It reminded me that there is an ending to all this, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with whispering, “Come quickly, Lord; I’ve had enough.”

The song reminded me to trim my sails and turn my ship to the Lord.

It was quite the pleasant early birthday present.

I’ll take it.