It’s a hundred little moments all leading up to the one moment- the one moment that you, or they, or you both decide that just like that- you’re not apart of each other’s lives anymore.

Boom. It’s done.

You suddenly go from being “us” to “me.”

This person that you shared your secrets with. The person you laughed with- is now the one making you hurt. And yet the only person you want to comfort you- is that same person- the one you just ended it with.

There will be moments of relief- you finally don’t have to deal with the strains of that relationship anymore. No more making excuses and putting up with things that you really don’t want to put up with. No more waiting for their call. No more wondering if there’s a hope of a future…

It’s just done. But is it?

Then there are the moments of pain- when you remember that one time they made you laugh until you cried at 3 a.m. You were looking at pictures of cows.

Or there was that other time that they grabbed your hand in the middle of the night and kissed your head when they thought you were asleep.

Or maybe it was when they knew exactly what to say to you when you found out you were having a surgery. “It’s going to be okay. It really is. And even if it’s not, I’m here.”

These wonderful moments somehow overshadow all the times they didn’t call when they said they would, the number of times they chose their friends over you, and the countless times that they made excuses as to why they couldn’t meet your friends or take you out for a nice dinner.

It’s seemingly impossible to remember them in a bad light. They were perfect. They could do no wrong.

Your mind forces you to only remember the defining moments- the moments where you truly fell for them.

You’ll be forced to relive these moments, over and over again,  right before you drift off to sleep… only to dream of them.

Then you will wake up in the morning…you’ll check your phone and realize that they once again have made no effort to contact you. No effort to repair this broken relationship.

It’s done.

Now what? How do you move on?

No matter how many times this has happened, the pain is different every time…because they were different, weren’t they?  ”It was different this time…”

But the end result is no different. Here you are, alone and bitter, trying to pin point exactly what went wrong…how it can be fixed…

Stop.

No matter how many times you revisit the breakup- the end result is the same.

Just know- you’re not alone.

One day you will be able to look back on this without your stomach clenching and tears slowly welling up in your eyes.

I promise.

Until then, hang in there. Take it one day at a time and remember that you will be okay.

This is the love of my life, Captain America. Wait for your Captain America. Don’t settle for less.

Anyway – one reader, Mr Rupert Singleton with that do-or-die attitude decided to go to Mr Chong’s clinic and he was pleasantly surprised as Mr Chong was still operating from his SEA Park clinic.

I also bumped in Mr Chong a fortnight ago in a shopping mall and he was all smiles as he recognised me as the blogger of his very famous post. Gee – I never knew there were that many people with bad backs and other bone-related problems!

I asked Mr Chong why he cannot be reached by mobile and he replied that his phone was misplaced or perhaps stolen. I would think that the sheer number of calls asking for early reservations irritated him and prevented him for dispensing treatment to his patients. Hmmm…

Mr Rupert Singleton is an amazing photographer and he has graciously supplied me with photographs of da man! And yes, Mr Singleton waited for over 5 hours and Mr Chong himself admitted that he made the “poor chap wait”.

Sifu Chong – the miracle healer

What’s even more delightful is that before receiving treatment from Sifu Chong (“Sifu” is the Oriental equivalent to “Master”) – Mr Singleton had been suffering in silence from a bad back. Added to that was his passion in ZaZen, a Japanese meditation technique where one sits facing a wall for hours in deep contemplation. Because meditation requires an upright sitting posture and because Mr Singleton is a professional Photographer, he lugs all his photography equipment with him over the hills and everywhere. And that – I believe, is the cause of his bad back.

I know how he feels. Gee – I was in Taiwan directing a video shoot recently and helping the video guy lug his equipment is no joke!

I quote Mr Singleton’s reply to my post:

“It was worth it. I see what you mean, this man has a special ‘power’. I could hardly walk without pain in my back and after the treatment it was virtually gone. My problem isn’t cured but after just one treatment there was dramatic improvement, dare I say ‘miraculous’ abatement of pain.”

So if Mr Singleton could wait over 5 hours and felt very much better after that – why can’t you? And yes – Sifu Chong is still in SEA Park.

Look at those huge hands bursting with “Qi” or Healing force!

HICCUPS. I hate hiccups. They just come out of nowhere and mine are super loud and weird and then I can’t help but awkwardly laugh after it happens as a sort of apology to every single person around me. I sound like a goat. Or a dying rabbit. Or a capuchin. I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound like Lara. Then everyone is staring at me. Like, EVERYONE GETS HICCUPS OKAY? If you have some way for me to stop this, I’m all ears.

Also, YAWNING. I hate yawning. For 10 years of my life I actually believed that when you yawn it’s because you swallowed a hair because some older girl in preschool told me that, THANKS A LOT. So, yeah, I finally know now that hiccups aren’t because you swallowed a hair but it’s oxygen to your brain or something which still doesn’t make sense to me. I still feel tired after yawning. When people yawn, it’s like their inner beasts are trying to escape for a second. If a guy ever manages to find me attractive after witnessing my yawn, and my hiccups, I’ll get married. That’s my stipulation.

INDIANA WEATHER. What is this? It’s friggin March. We’re all in the mood for Spring. The flowers are pretty much ready to bloom. GET WITH THE PROGRAM, INDIANA. It’s March, not January. Cool it with the freezing rain and snow. Moody as hell.

SHOWERS. I like sometimes enjoy taking a shower. On occasion. But taking a shower everyday is exhausting. I mean, it’s not even the whole showering thing that bothers me. But then my hair is wet. And my makeup is gone. And I have to start ALL OVER AGAIN. And everytime I shave my legs, it just grows back. Whatever, I’m over showering. (I’m still going to shower, most likely)

MARSHMALLOW FLUFF. I don’t see the appeal. I can’t even begin to understand why anyone in their right mind would want to consume marshmallow fluff. The only time I’ll even touch a marshmallow, let alone marshmallow fluff, is if it’s smashed in between graham crackers and melted chocolate. Otherwise, no thanks.

PANTY HOSE. For some reason, putting on panty hose is rather difficult for me. I either 1) fall over 2) rip them 3) put them on backwards or 4) can’t find pairs that fit my long legs. I put panty hose on this morning and it took me a good 10 minutes to get them on after falling over 3 times. The last time I put panty hose on, they were backwards. Whatever.

CHAPPED LIPS. I’ve put chapstick on my lips approximately 78 times today and it’s only 1:30 p.m. What do my lips want from me? Oil? How are they POSSIBLY still chapped? And how does said chapping even occur?

STARBUCKS. I’m pretty into Starbucks because they have free wifi and comfy chairs and I love the color green. But somehow I still haven’t managed to walk into a Starbucks and personalize a drink. I tried to do this on Sunday and ended up with a vanilla latte + caramel + peppermint which = death. It was vile. So vile I couldn’t even pretend to like it. I’m a Starbucks noob.

I also don’t understand why I never got to meet little creatures like this one.

to find the truth, then (she) will find a way

and the way will find (her).
(Mooji)

I just watched a video titled, 212 – The Extra Degree, (http://www.videosmotivational.com/best-clips/success/212-the-extra-degree/). It is a good promotional video that stresses the importance of the number “1”, beginning with the difference between water that is 211º and is hot, and water that is 212º and boils producing steam which is power enough to move a train or a boat. The video moves on to remember athletes that won gold medals by 1+ seconds, race-car drivers that beat the existing record by less than 1 second, etc.  At some point it says that you too can make the difference in your life by, among other things, “having a simple, clearly defined goal that can capture the imagination and inspire passion”. Upon reading that my mind immediately said: Well, that’s that: you don’t have one, you don’t have a goal today and that is why you are not doing anything.

Now that is a stressful thought; it is a defeating thought; it is a thought that could push me to bury my head in a bowl of ice cream or slit my wrists with a cookie cutter. But, no sooner had I sat myself comfortably down to decide how I might extinguish this flickering flame of nothing, when I saw very clearly and perhaps for the first time that my life had had a definite direction: a direction that had begun forging itself from very early on.

I wanted to know what being a human being meant. I wanted to know who… no, what I was. To understand what it meant to be a human being through consciously –very consciously- being me, being my own living laboratory. I believe, nowadays, that that is called “living a conscious life” and if I look back, I probably took this decision upon hearing my grandmother, on her 75^th birthday, lament that she had no idea where her life had gone. Suddenly, I understood that that was the tragedy: to awaken one morning with life spent without the vaguest idea of where or how one had spent it. Without putting it in so many words, I somehow understood then that if there were nothing else I did with my life, it would be worth living if I could totally embody that which I was supposed to be consciously and willingly. Obviously, that is easier said than done. But the Universe is kind and generous and if we have a desire which is absolutely true to our nature, even if we personally forget it, the Universe will not, so life saw to it that I would be consciously brought back to myself on every step of the way. Everything, every single thing I did from that moment on, pushed me forward on the path of understanding the human condition through my own experience as it unfolded. And just how did the Universe do this? It did it through a series of progressive crises that kept pushing me to wake up.

So I became a seeker, a searcher, a delver into anything that might give me a notion of what the heck was going on in my life. At 18 I dropped out of college and dove into Catholicism, believing that religion could give me an idea of who I was. When that didn’t happen, I exchanged the meanderings of “faith” for the meanderings of the mind and leapt into personal psychoanalysis. The possibility of understanding how my mind actually worked captured my imagination beyond anything else I had experience until that moment, and read every book I could lay my hands on about the human psyche while at the same time deciding to pursue my adolescent dream to become a writer.  I studied literature in the University applying my psychological knowledge to literary analysis and learning in the process how language was not only shaping my own experience, but could be used to shape that of others. When I began to believe that I would never become a writer because of my social and cultural rootlessness, life organized for me to live my first novel. I was kidnapped and held hostage for 11 days, and what previously had only been thought in my imagination (that there was more to “me” than actually met the eye), I began experience physically. I split in two. There was the “me” that was living the events and suffering, and then there was something else that consciously watched how I reacted in each moment. It was as if something had separated, something that was not emotionally involved with happenings unfolding as I spent those eleven days blindfolded in the company of my five kidnappers. It was this part that allowed me to later write a novel based on my experience. When someone asked me why I had written the book, I thought about it and came to the conclusion that it was so I could understand what had happened. Thanks to psychoanalysis, my capacity to go inside and observe what was evolving, I got to see how the so-called “Stockholm Syndrome” was simply the response of a helpless creature overwhelmed with gratitude at being kept alive, sometimes even with kindness. I got to live closely with “criminals” and touch their humanity as they touched mine. But above all, I got to experience something that most people go their whole lives without knowing: I got to live in the present, anything else was pure torture: the past was out of reach and the future was unimaginable. There was nowhere to go in my little cell, so as best I could I remained in the Now. Little did I suspect then, that that was exactly where my path was leading me.

I was 36 when I wrote my first book. Later I produced another novel and two books of short stories. I had actually conceived the idea for my second novel way before the kidnapping, but 17 years passed between then and the actual writing. Whereas in Eleven Days I had written to understand what had happened, in The Astounding story of the Saint of Cabora I wrote of things I had not consciously experienced up to that moment, but would incredibly enough begin to experience in my own life after its publication. There were moments in its writing that I would have no idea where it was going and would have to allow the characters to carry the story forward, or that I would reread what had been written the previous day with no memory whatsoever of having written it and no understanding of where it had come from. It is much too long a story to go into here, but suffice it to say that when I wrote it, it was not an autobiographical story (although everything one writes is deep down autobiographical) but in the years following it has become autobiographical and paraphrasing Flaubert I can honestly say “Teresa Urrea is me”. As for my short stories, most were written during my feminist period and reflected or questioned the position of women in a patriarchal society. I became a feminist –speaking out for the evolution, not revolution, of my gender- and read extensively on the subject during the 70’s. I created a feminist study group so that I might share what I was learning and motivate other women to delve into the “feminine condition”. I analyzed the works, over all, of other women writers, created two anthologies having to do with the themes of virginity and the female life cycle. I published a book of essays of Women’s Literature, including an article arguing that woman’s literature had the right to be considered a body of work on its own and with its own history, without being compared to men’s literature and at best shoe-horned into male literary schools or, at worst, completely excluded from them.

I worked with and eventually directed a nature conservation association that introduced me to ecosystems and our part in them, and in destroying them. I learned about social imbalance and conflict resolution while working with industrialists and politicians on efforts to save endangered species and habitats. I fell in love with this Earth and all the creatures that live on it and I identified with the females of other species, especially sea turtles.

In the long run, I learned about addiction as what I had considered my birth right (to drink) turned into a death right and I was forced to find a way out. After a long, long journey through psychology, sociology, ecology, philosophy, anthropology and other areas of knowledge, I finally arrived at spirituality thanks to alcoholism and Alcoholics Anonymous. Up until that moment I had believed in the supremacy of the mind, I had paid homage to Reason as god. But reason and the mind, although they had given me a tremendous amount of knowledge and insight, but they hadn’t shown me how to live or answered the question of why I was here. AA invited me to begin looking for something greater than myself. Yes, they used the word “God”, but I was free to cross it out and use Universe, or Cosmos, or Higher Power… anything as long as it wasn’t my narrow little ego-mind. I was invited to not believe, but to make as if I believed and see what happened. What happened was that I began having experiences that couldn’t be explained by the reasonable mind. Not only that, but I realized that I had always had those experiences but, as my mind couldn’t explain them, it just pushed them aside. I began watching these events more closely. At the invitation of the Twelve Step program, I started to let go of my need to control my life and became an observer of it. The more I watched, the more extraordinary were the “coincidences” I observed. Suddenly, my life became a fascinating journey that I got to watch from the passenger seat.

But I didn’t stop there. The Twelve Steps brought me back to life and I used them to push myself up into every alternative psychological method or spiritual experiment that was available. I discovered Carl Jung and left Freud behind. I joined a group for dream interpretation led by a psychologist and began keeping a dream journal; later there was a group to study the application of the Tarot to personal psychology; I grazed about a while in astrology and had my astrological chart drawn up.  While shuffling back and forth between Gestalt, Fischer-Hoffman, Family Constellations and plain old psychotherapy, I read dozens of self-help books; threw myself into the problem of female codependency, formed self-help groups for women and began sharing my own experience with others through sponsorship. I discovered Jiddu Krishnamurti and then Deepak Chopra, Erkhart Tolle and dozens of other spiritual leaders who were breaking new ground in the knowledge of what we might be; and I tried meditation.

Looking back, I can see today that what I was looking for is called “Enlightenment”. I didn’t know it back then. I didn’t even know that such a thing existed or that it could be something searched for outside of any religion. And then someone introduced me to The Work of Byron Katie. Katie (as she is called by all who know her) does not say anything that I had not read hundreds of times in those considered “teachers”. Even Mahatma Gandhi says that man is a product of his thoughts and becomes what he thinks. Anaïs Nin, way back when, offered that we don’t see reality as it is but as we think it is and all spiritual leaders tell us we are dreaming and that we have to “wake up”, but until that moment these ideas had been nothing but theory and it was all well and good to say that the way I thought determined the way I lived, but no one seemed to be able to offer a way out other than meditating for the rest of my life (and frankly I couldn’t see the use of being born a human being into a life full of experiences and then locking oneself away from all that to meditate, or in the case of religions, to pray). So what was it about Katie that was (is) different? Katie’s “Work” offered me the personal and physical experience of exactly how thought works to “run” my life, and when I saw that, when I experienced that, I was suddenly on my way to being free. Each physical and emotional experience of who I am when I believe a stressful thought compared to who I would be in the same situation without that thought brought me a step closer to freedom which, for me, is no more than living in reality as it is in each moment. One day I simply realized that my mind had become very quiet; the chatter had stopped: I was actually living in a meditation-like state without altering my everyday life. I was present perhaps for the first time. The experience was, as Katie says, mind-blowing.

So… am I enlightened? I love what Katie says: Enlightenment is a story of the past; it doesn’t exist except in the immediacy of the instant when I stop believing a thought: in that instant, I wake up but only in that instant. In the exact instant I say “I am awake” it is in the past, it is now a story that the mind would tell. As I came to experience this, I stopped searching, I stopped seeking (which does not mean I do not continue to learn and evolve; it just means I am present and any belief I have about my own “evolution” is just a pretty story that entertains no one but me).

So here I am at 70+, after having strived to reach a definite goal over the last 45 years, now armed with a simple instrument (4 questions and a turnaround) that can free me at each instant from the prison of my own mind, and I am about to begin chastising myself for not having a goal in life that can move me forward from here. Forward? Maybe I should ask just where it is I think I am going? So the joke is on me, for all those years that I actually thought I was going somewhere! You better believe it: today I understand that no one is more enlightened than my precious little dog, Salomé!

You constantly push people away with the small hope in the back of your mind that they will fight back. That they will break through this ridiculous wall and prove to you that they want to be a part of your life. But they don’t. They get tired of being pushed away and the lack of communication on your end may push them out of your life indefinitely.

It took me a long time, and I’m still learning to this day, that pushing people away doesn’t hurt other people. At the end of the day, the only person I am hurting is myself.

It’s time to take a step back and realize that as humans, we are bound to make mistakes. It’s like in our genes.

We mess up, all the time. We say things we don’t mean, things we say come out wrong, we make bad decisions sometimes, and we may not know what to do to repair our choices.

So YOU must realize that no one is perfect and people make mistakes…you make mistakes, he makes mistakes, she makes mistakes…

Do not judge current relationships in your life on the wrongdoings of those before.

Tell people how you feel, apologize when you have done something wrong, and put yourself out there because at the end of the day- at least you can say you made an effort. You tried. And if it still doesn’t work out after that, you have no regrets.

Stop pushing people away and allow people into your life. Into your heart. There is a chance that you might get hurt again… but there’s also a chance that you won’t.

It’s an internal illness so no one would know you had it. You try to tell yourself to be strong. It’s always the same things.

“Seriously, man up. What are you doing with your life? DEAL WITH IT.”
“Get over it. It could be so much worse.”
“It’s been months, you shouldn’t have been upset about this at all let alone 5 months later.”

But no matter how many times you tell yourself these things, somehow you still find yourself upset about it on a recurring basis over the course of the week. It’s constantly in the back of your mind. You live your life, you function fine, you do what needs to be done but you know it’s there. This illness is always lingering and haunting you. It’s like this huge secret you carry around because explaining it to people makes it seem like you want sympathy. And even if you did explain it, it still wouldn’t make sense.

You have scars. They’re like invisible scars that only you and your doctors and close friends know exist but the fact that they exist makes you question your self worth. You are constantly wondering how you will be able to maintain the various relationships in your life whether that is platonic, family, or romantic.

And that’s not all you question. You question if you will ever be able to have a “normal” life that so many people seem to enjoy with no repercussions on a daily basis. Suddenly, your dreams and aspirations seem so far away. You limit yourself because your illness limits you.

So, now what?

You were dealt these cards and spending hours upon hours wishing your cards were different isn’t going to make them different. Hating yourself isn’t going to make your body heal itself.

You have to stop blaming yourself.

You have to accept this illness as a part of who you are but realize at the same time that IT DOES NOT DEFINE YOU.

I am not my illness.

I am Lara. I have hopes and dreams and I refuse to let this roadblock stand in the way of my destiny.

I have always aspired to carry myself in the most positive way in all that I do because I do not believe that there is any other choice. To view life in a negative light is to not live.

So this is for you- all of you- who have secret struggles and battles with life’s many misfortunes. Hang in there.

It can’t rain forever. 

People that say they’re “too busy.” Look, I know a lot of people are busy. I get it. Trust me. But don’t come up to me and say you wish you had time to read books or you wish you had time to meet for our group project but you JUST don’t have time. Make time. It’s called time management. It’s a thing you should learn to help you with the rest of your life.

Tanning. (in a salon)Let me just preface by saying that I’m a semi hypocrite as I used to tan a lot when I was 17-20 ish. Then I stopped. You know why? I’ll give you three reasons.

1. CANCER. Kind of a big deal. I don’t want skin cancer. I’m pretty okay without having that.
2. WRINKLES. We’re all going to get wrinkles anyway, let’s not make them worse just to look tan in the middle of January in Indiana. That isn’t normal.
3. MONEY. Tanning costs money. Money that could be spent on new NIKES or Harry Potter paraphernalia or cookies at Subway.

I could go on, trust me. I used tanning as a crutch when I felt self-conscious about my appearance. I’m embracing my natural skin tone now, and you should too.

People that text and drive. I’m not joking. I don’t understand why people do this. When I was 18 I probably did it too. But now I certainly do not ever text and drive. You’re not only putting YOUR life in danger but EVERY OTHER PERSON on the road. I sound like a broken record and/or an AT&T commercial, but seriously… just put the friggin phone down. No one is that important. Probably.

How I’m supposed to care about homework. You know why I can’t find myself to care about homework? Because SLOTHS EXIST. Seriously. And knowing that, and knowing that there are thousands of pictures of these little critters on google images…I just can’t be bothered.

People that yell at foreign people. I know not everyone does this. But I witnessed this yesterday. This man was yelling at these foreign students on campus because apparently he thought they were deaf or something. They aren’t. Yeah, their English may not be perfect and they may not understand when you say “obvi” or “totes” but they’re not deaf. Stop yelling at them and just talk to them like normal human beings because that’s what they are.

THE BREAKFAST CLUB. I watched the Breakfast Club for the first time last week. Everyone always tells me what a “classic” it is. Alright, it may be a classic but I’m just going to go ahead and say it: I hated that movie. I pretty much didn’t enjoy it at all. So these kids from different backgrounds and social groups became friends after spending 8ish hours together and smoking weed together? I don’t know… I just thought it would be a little more groundbreaking than that. I’m sorry if it’s like your favorite movie or something and maybe I’m just not artistic enough to appreciate a “classic” but uhhh… I think I’ll be fine never watching it again. Like, ever.

I also don’t understand Barley… and more specifically the spices aisle in Target. WHY ARE THERE SO MANY SPICES? How do you know which one to choose? What if you put too much in? What if you get the wrong spice? What happens? This is why I don’t cook. So bloody complicated.

What don’t YOU understand about life?

because OMG SLOTHS

Therefore, I am going to take a “challenge” to help myself better appreciate my wardrobe and YOU LUCKY PEOPLE get to witness it.

A couple of months ago when I was in Australia one of my friends dedicated a blog to her 30-day adventure of different outfits. I thought it was bloody awesome.

I’ve never been the type of person to care much about fashion. I barely know what “fashion” is. I can’t make it through VOGUE because I can’t pronounce half the designers and I still struggle with what “couture” actually is. I’m no fashionista. I have little to no sense of style. So let me just preface this by saying that I just wear what I like and don’t put much other thought into it.

BUT-

This past summer I lived with my friend Caitie who has the best style I’ve ever seen then I immediately traveled to Australia the land of supermodels that wear whatever they want to wear and don’t care what people think. My personal style changed a lot during the past year.

I need to stop shopping and appreciate the clothing that I have.

Therefore, I’m going to attempt to make 30 different outfits without buying new things.

Wish me luck and I can’t promise that these outfits will be great but hey- at least I don’t wear sweatpants everyday anymore.

Here is the outfit I wore today (3/11):

P.s. Sorry if you’re friends with me on instagram and already saw that jacket. whatever, I like it.

P.s.s. Ignore the fact that this is in the Target spices aisle. My mom needed barley or something and one thing lead to another.

P.s.s.s. I found popcorn in that scarf 2 hours after eating said popcorn. What a lifesaver.

Scarf- Cotton On
Shirt- Journey’s
Jacket- Forever 21
Jeans- Forever 21
Boots- TARGET

Outfit for Tuesday, March 12. 8 am football class. Whatever.

Yes. I am in the school bathroom. Hold back judgment.

Flannel- American Eagle
V-Neck- American Eagle (bought 3 months before flannel, holla)
Jeans- American Eagle circa 2008 (cool apparently I’m obsessed with American Eagle)
Moccasins- 15$ at DSW. word. 

Outfit #3- March 13

In Target again. whatever.

Glasses- Urban Outfitters
Shirt- Target approx 5 years ago
Jeans- Gap
Boots- American Eagle

March 14-Thursday

Necklace- Forever 21
Top- Cotton On
Leggings- Forever 21
Boots- Payless 

Friday, March 15. Lunch with Matthew.

Shirt- Forever 21 like 80 years ago
Jeans- American Eagle
Socks- Vanity
Boots- From my darling mother for Christmas (Amazon: Steve Madden)

Saturday, March 16- Lunch with my parents

Sweater- Heritage 1981
Shirt- Cotton On in MINNEAPOLIS
Pants- Cotton On in AUSTRALIA
Ring- Forever 21
Flats- Steve Madden when I was 16
Bag- Forever 21 on SALE
Sunglasses- Cotton On in AUSTRALIA

March 17, Sunday, St. Patrick’s Day

Scarf- Rubi (store in Australia)
Plain black tee- Target
Plain black skinnies- GAP
Boots- Macy’s
Button- Vintage from my dear lebanese grandparents 
Ring- Cotton On (slightly obsessed)
Green Nail Polish- L.A. COLORS 

Monday, March 18- Internship

Top- Dottie Coutoure Botique  in Greenwood, IN
Ring- Cotton On
Earrings- Lottie Dottie
Shoes- Cotton On
Black Skinnies- Target

Tuesday, March 19- Day 9- Class

Dress- Forever 21, 10$
Vest- Target
Tights- NY&C
Socks- Vanity
Boots- Steve Madden, Amazon
Necklace- American Eagle

Day 10- Wednesday, March 20

Glasses- Rubi (Australia)
Top- Forever 21/ Noel Hoover
Jeans- Express
Shoes- Cotton On
Earrings- Cotton On 
Ring- Forever 21

Thursday, March 21- #11

Flannel- H&M
Leggings- Charlotte Russe
Socks- Vanity
Combat Boots- Amazon (Steve Madden)
long cami- The Buckle 
bracelet- kangaroo leather, Australian flea market 

Friday, March 22 #12

Top- Forever 21
Jeans- Gap
Boots- Target
Ring- Forever 21

Saturday, March 23, after sleeping for 12 hours and doing homework all day #13

Shirt- Gap
Jeans- Forever 21
Shoes- VANS in Australia
Purse- Forever 21 clearance rack
Sunnies- Cotton On (who’s surprised?)
Hairstyle- throwing hair into bun and not washing it WHEEE

Sunday, March 24- Dinner with my grandfather, Day 14

Necklace- Dottie Couture Boutique 
Shirt- Francesca’s 
Skinnies- Target
Shoes- Cotton On
Mint Nail Polish- Target

Friggin’ Blizzard in March- Day 15, March 25

Tunic Thing- Windsor
Leggings- Charlotte Russe
Boots- Material Girl (Macy’s)

SENIOR CAPSTONE DAY March 26, 2013- Day 16

Top- NY&C
Pencil Skirt- NY&C
Tights- The Limited
Pumps- TARGET
Phone Cover- 1$ from Amazon

March 27, 2013 Day 17 Internship & Flu

Top- Target
Black skinnies- Gap
Flats- Rock & Republic (you can find this at Kohl’s)

March 28, 2013 Day 18 CLASS and yes, I’m still sick.

Top- Target circa 2009
Skinnies- GAP (I love Gap jeans. irreplaceable)
Flats- Cotton On
Cami- Forever 21
Belt- Forever 21 

Day 19- Cincinnati, OH- March 29

Top- Von Maur
Jeans- Dottie Couture Boutique 
Shoes- Cotton On

Day 20, March 30

Shades- Cotton On because it’s SUNNY
Necklace- Dottie Couture Boutique
Tunic Thing- H&M
Leggings- H&M
Sandals- Steve Madden/DSW 

Day 21- March 31, 2013

Jacket- Maurice’s like 7 years ago so sorry if you want to buy it
Necklace- Dottie Couture Boutique, yes I wore this yesterday too
Dress- Cotton On 15$
Tights- NY&C
Basic Flats- Hot Kiss from Famous Footwear when I was approximately 16
Nail Polish- Sally Hansen, Target, “Blue Me Away!”

Day 22- Monday, April 1 (Internship)

Earrings- H&M
Dress- Target
Tights- NY&C

Day 23, Tuesday April 2- CLASS WHEEEEE

Earrings- Forever 21
Ring- H&M
Top- Francesca’s 
Jeans- American Eagle Outfitters 
Shoes- Cotton On 
basic cami- Forever 21

Day 24, Wednesday April 3- Internship/Noel’s birthday

Blazer- Von Maur
Basic Black Tee- Old Navy
Black Skinnies- Mossimo, Target
Necklace- Dottie Couture Boutique 
Nails- L.A. Colors

Day 25-

• Hat- Rubi (Australia) 

• Shirt- Target

• Shorts- American Eagle

• Vans- Australia

Day 26

Vest- Forever 21
Dress- H&M

Day 27

Vest- Target
Dress- Target
Bag- H&M
Sandals- Boutique in Pasadena, CA

Day 28

Hat- Rubi (Australia)
VNeck- American Eagle
Jeans- American Eagle
Sandals- H&M

Day 29

Top- Forever 21
Cardigan- Heritage 1981
Jeans- H&M
Sandals- Steve Madden/DSW

Day 30

Glasses- Rubi (Australia)
Jacket- Forever 21, I love this style 
Shirt- Forever 21
Jeans- American Eagle Outfitters
Shoes- TOMS

Growing up is hard. But I think the hardest part is realizing that people change. All the sudden these people you grew up with become people you barely know. Your interests change. Your mutual friends change. That person you know becomes the person you knew.

My group of friends has changed countless times in the past ten years and if I’ve learned anything from this experience it’s that being lonely isn’t about being alone. It’s about being surrounded by the wrong group of people. The people in your life should be there to support you, to hold you up, to encourage you, and to bring out the best parts of you. They should be there to remind you of who you are when you’ve forgotten.

If the people in your life don’t do this for you- find new people.

Life’s too short to spend time with someone who doesn’t appreciate you for you.

Readers, I have been feeling…inspired? No…um, impressed upon? Yes…I have been feeling impressed upon to share my story. Let you get to know me a little better. I will not know how long this will be until I am done writing, but if it gets too long (I can be rather wordy at times), I will split it in parts. In the event that I mention anyone outside of the Wench household by name, that name will have been changed.

Let me let you in on a little secret. I was once skinny. Oh, I was fat in high school…until a raging case of anorexia exacerbated by…well…other bad things, we’ll just put it that way…led to me shedding 100 lbs. Not a healthy way to get it off…I don’t recommend it.

At my lightest, I weighed 125lbs, and I looked like a skeleton. Thanks to my Irish-German genetic heritage (among others), I have a rather large frame. I do not have tiny bones. Or medium ones. Even when I was upwards of 240-250, I never looked like I was carrying that much weight on my frame. It distributed rather efficiently. Anyways.

But I was picked on for my heaviness, among other things. We won’t go into that, because I’ve made my peace, and I’m actually good friends with a few of those people now. I only mentioned it because it correlates to my self-image, and contributed to the emotional issues that led to me becoming a compulsive eater. Food used to soothe me, and comfort me. But it had a price. I put on weight, which led to a vicious circle. After graduation, I was removed from the daily teasing. Unfortunately, other traumas, emotional and physical, took their toll, and to cope, I did some really stupid things. I will not bore you with details you may or may not understand or sympathize with, suffice to say: I starved myself, cut myself, did some bad substances, attempted suicide, and nearly succeeded in the process.

Again, I will not offer details, unless you are struggling with something on that list, and wish to reach out privately, and even then in will be only in a relatable capacity. But I make no bones about my past. They’ve shaped the merry wench I am today, so I can’t say I’d change anything. C’est la vie. But though therapy helped me make peace with the actual things that led to my unhealthy ways of coping, and eased the emotions associated with them, the insecurities and doubts birthed by those emotions have been a little more difficult to reconcile myself with. Bear with me as I go off on a tangent here, but it does have bearing on all my rambling, I promise.

I have never, ever, thought I was pretty, or gorgeous, or beautiful, or yes, sexy. I’ve never looked in the mirror and thought “damn I look good”. There are aspects of me that I find, on the rare instances that I am able to look at myself objectively, very pretty indeed. My hair, my gorgeous, gorgeous hair: I have put my hair through hell, and it still remains soft, shiny, silky. I have very healthy hair in spite of the plethora of punishment…dye/bleach/grow out/dye/dye/strip/dye/bleach/tint (it stained, leading to my boldest hair color choice, black, to cover it)/dye/dye/bleach/dye. I am growing it out at the moment. It used to be that, towards the end of summer, those hottest days of August, I would either chop it to just below my chin or change it radically by color or style. I used to hate taking public transportation, because random strangers would just reach out and touch it. I used to wear it down all the time, now I wear it up. I say it’s because of the kids, but in all honesty it’s probably because I’m still afraid some random person will reach out and touch it. In my junior year of high school, I took a creative writing class, and what do you know? Someone wrote a story about me. And the focus was on my hair. A story about *my* hair! I am still very flattered by that memory, and though the person never let me read anything save for the snippet I caught when I peeked over their shoulder, that snippet stayed with me.

The other physical characteristic I am proud to the point of vanity about are my eyes. They’re blue. Any joe schmoe can get the proper genetics for blue eyes. What’s made me rather egotistical about them are the various remarks I have gotten on their *expressiveness*. I suppose that’s not exactly a physical quality though.

Back to the subject at hand. The insecurities and doubts foisted on me by various happenings and emotions have stuck with me. I still have a hard time accepting a compliment. If you were to say “oh Merry, you’re pretty”, I would feel rather awkward and uncomfortable because 1) I wouldn’t believe you, 2) There was a period in my life when anyone giving me a compliment had a hidden agenda (“You’re pretty, can you help me with this assignment?”), and 3) There was also a time when people just told me whatever best served their own ends. So compliments make me feel backwards, and I still have a hard time with it. The only person who isn’t a blood relation that can compliment me and I feel completely okay about it is the Mister. I am getting better, but it still makes me feel odd.

When I became a mother, I had someone more important than me to worry about, and that baby was more vital to my very existence than each and every breath I took. For her, I tried harder to love myself, tried harder to erase the issues I had that I definitely did not want becoming issues for her. I had some success.

ToddlerGirl came along, and along with her brought a mild case of the baby blues. The Mister and I had a rough spell, but it was not, in retrospect, horribly long or terribly bad.

You’ve all read about the depression that hit me after the birth of BabyBoy, so I will not bore you with that. However, after going on medication, I had a bright period of about 6 months, after which I slipped farther down the abyss, and had it not been for my selfish love of my kids, I can’t say for sure that I’d be here to write this. My medicine was increased and for a few weeks, I started to feel slightly better until winter brought the usual winter blues and yet again, I was knocked back down, even further than before. It hurt so bad, and in a horrifying turn of events that I felt powerless to stop, Mister bore the brunt of it. He’d also been the misguided target before, but this time, it was awful. My temper, which had been successfully watered down over the years, flared up in a fire brighter than it had ever burned. I was angry, I was hurt, I was frustrated, and *I was on the warpath*. We would have minor disagreements, and they would escalate into horrific arguments, loud in volume, wounding in their words, and utterly senseless. Something he would say would get ridiculously twisted in my head, and, rather than being ruled by the logic I’d so prided myself on, irrationality would take over. I would scream horrible things at him until I was blue in the face, and while you’d think that screaming would release some pent-up steam, it didn’t. The words coming out of my mouth made no sense at all. I knew they didn’t make sense, and that made me more frustrated. Mister, my poor, poor Mister…he’d try to make sense of the nonsense (which truly just could not be done), and his inability to make sense of it, my inability to make sense, period…

I won’t say I got angry to the point of blackout. I would have days where I would get short with the kids, but never anything even remotely close to the wrath I flung at the Mister.

I flip-flopped between anger and despair. And when I was stuck in despair, I had myself thoroughly convinced that I had managed to kill any love the Mister may have had left in his heart for me. After all, he never said it, so he must not have been feeling it, right? Right. And I really, truly, in my heart, felt that all was lost. That *I* was lost.

Mister and I decided that I would go to counseling. All that anger and rage and hurt had to be coming from somewhere, maybe a therapist could help me work it out. While waiting to get an intake appointment (which can take a while), I reached out to one of my friends who works as a counselor back home in PA, to see if she had any exercises I could do in the meantime. My “assignment”? I tend to lock unpleasant things in figurative “boxes” in my mind. They are hidden away, but they still take up space and emotional resources. Our brains don’t have infinite capacity. Maybe these things that I had not dealt with were tying up my system resources, so to speak. So my task was to clear up some memory space.

I unlocked all those boxes, night after night, after the kids had gone to bed. I sorted through those memories, those experiences, those emotions. I tried to spend two hours each night writing. One hour for my creative endeavors, and one hour for the salvation of my sanity. If I came across something that moved me to write, I wrote. I wrote happy memories. I wrote sad memories, and I obliterated the “files” in my brain by purging them onto my computer screen. I kept the happy memories and went all “Sherman’s March to Sea” on the bad ones. I burned them, smashed them to the ground, and walked away.

At first, as it often happens, I felt angrier, even more unhappy and confused. But as I began to write, my healing began. I felt my mood lighten. I felt my patience grow infinitely. And then I got the best gift of all: I was finally able to understand the unspoken words beneath each and every one of my Mister’s actions. I had, until the age of 23, lived my life ruled by words. I was rather naive in that I thought that people didn’t tend to lie about things like love…I believed words. My dear Mister is not a man of words. I can text him “Love you!!” and I get a “U2″ in reply. He’s not one to randomly profess his love for me each day, or compliment my appearance. He is a man of actions. He never deserted me, not even during the worst of it all, when he would have had every right to do so, and I wouldn’t have been able to hold it against him. But now I know. Now I can understand what he’s saying when he says nothing.

I have never been happier, never felt more complete than I have these past couple weeks. I know it won’t always feel this great. I know that there will still be arguments, but hopefully, my depression, and my own internal issues will not fan the embers until they leap up into flames. I very nearly burned us to nothing but ashes left to scatter in the wind.

My success with freeing up figurative mental capacity to deal with my life now has given me hope that maybe in time, I will have similar success with snuffing out my insecurites…or at least muting them to a level where they won’t be an every single day issue.

I have run on longer than I wanted to about this, but if any part of this post helps you feel better, or less alone, then I’m glad I told it.

Coming tomorrow: The Tale of the Merry Wench, part 2: Battle of the Bulge.

“She’s in a better place.”  Alright. I still miss her though. Like a lot. And just because you believe that she’s in some magical place up in the sky- that doesn’t change the fact that I miss her. 

“It’ll get better with time.” Exactly how much time are we talking? Because right now I’m pretty sure I will never smile again.

“It’s okay to be upset now but eventually you need to move on.” Um, thanks for the permission. 

“You can still speak to her. She will hear.” I mean I doubt that. Because she’s dead.

This lasts for a couple of months and then it slowly stops. Suddenly, it’s 5 months after their death. You’re sitting in class and suddenly someone says something. You have the strongest urge to tell them about it. But you can’t. You begin crying and people stare at you.

“God, she’s crying AGAIN…”

“She just wants sympathy.”

Everyone else has moved on, so why haven’t you?

You haven’t forgotten. In fact, it seems it only gets worse with time. Every single day is a struggle. You go to sleep thinking of them, dream of them, then wake up with thoughts of them in your head. That dream seemed so real…you would give anything to speak to them again.

Then you have to force yourself to get up and go to school surrounded by things that remind you of that person. You have to fake a smile and pretend to be okay so that teachers and counselors will stop asking you if you want to hurt yourself. You have to find a way to move on, because no matter how much it feels like it- life hasn’t stopped. It won’t wait around for you. It doesn’t care. It will keep going, with or without you.

Your mind cannot comprehend the fact that this person…this person that meant so much to you…is suddenly gone. I mean gone. Forever. and you know deep down that you will never see them or speak to them again.

Death is incomprehensible. No matter how many times you think about it, or how many times it happens, it doesn’t make sense.

It’s been six years and I still think about her quite often. She was my best friend. I wake up every day and live my life. I don’t cry like I used to. I don’t have so much anger. I’m fine.

But there are still those times…

I see someone that looks like her and I feel like my stomach is going to fall out of my body.

I visit her family…I see her eyes in her mother.

I see her bedroom…now an office. I open the drawer and see an orange toothbrush. I recognize that toothbrush. I kept it there because I stayed the night so often.

It’s been six years and I’m still not “over it.” I never truly will be.

But life keeps going, and so do I.

Unfortunately things didn’t quite work out that way. The first hospital, the one closer to them, was out of network for their insurance company so there was no coverage. The parents called the hospital asking if they could still bring their baby boy for treatment, swearing they’d find a way to pay for it as friends and family had already started fundraisers for the cause. The hospital declined. The treatment cost is a quarter of a million dollars and they would not perform it without some type of guaranteed payment. The other hospital, St. Jude, promises treatment to children regardless of their ability to pay, however they couldn’t take the family until the end of the month and the treatment wouldn’t begin until 3 weeks after that. The sad truth is that their baby just didn’t have that kind of time. In six weeks, when St. Jude would be ready to start the transplant, chances were good that their baby boy would already be an angel. Now for this family there was a break. The insurance company and the first hospital negotiated and they agreed to cover the treatment at the in-network cost. Our little hero is heading there today to begin the transplant procedure.

My first reaction to this story was utter indignation. How could a hospital refuse to provide potential life saving treatment based on the patient’s inability to pay? Wouldn’t they have a moral obligation to use the technology they have available? How could the board of directors, doctors, whomever makes that decision look at themselves in the mirror knowing a baby was dying and they had the power to try to save him and wouldn’t. It brought to mind another story I read recently about a nurse at a senior living facility in California that refused to give CPR to a dying woman. Jeffery Toomer, the executive director of the facility, defended the nurse stating she followed policy. “In the event of a health emergency at this independent living community, our practice is to immediately call emergency medical personnel for assistance and to wait with the individual needing attention until such personnel arrives.” The news articles I read stated that the 911 dispatcher asked the nurse to perform CPR, when the nurse refused the dispatcher begged her to put someone else on the line. The dispatcher said they would walk someone through the CPR process, but whether true or not, the nurse said there was no one else available. Firefighters began CPR as soon as they arrived on scene but the patient was pronounced dead at the hospital. Would it have made a difference if CPR was started sooner? We’ll probably never know.

The emotional side of my brain screams that refusing treatment when you have the ability is akin to murder, but the more logical side says, “Wait a minute. There are more facts to look at here.” So let’s start with the hospital scenario. I cringe to say this, but maybe they’re right to refuse treatment without payment. OK, hear me out. If the hospital continually treats people without payment how then will they afford to pay the doctors, nurses and other staff? How will they pay for the research needed to come up with these new clinical trials? Do they rely on donations like St. Jude? But St. Jude couldn’t offer the treatment quick enough, so who’s right? And going back to that board of directors or whomever determines whether they will treat, we have to remember that to them the patient is only a file of information. There’s not a real person attached to the lab tests and notes, there can’t be. If there were, how could they make those difficult decisions they need to make for the good of the hospital?
So, if we can somehow justify the hospitals actions, can we justify the nurse in California? I can’t. I’ve looked at it from many angles and I cannot find a way to justify her actions. I understand that to provide CPR would have been against the company policy, but how as a human being, could you watch a person die in front of you and not help? How could someone who presumably went to school to help people turn her back on someone in need of her help? How could she deny it even as a stranger on the phone begged her to reconsider or to hand the phone to someone else? Good Samaritan laws throughout the United States, including California, protect people from legal action for performing life saving measures in good faith. You could argue that since the 911 dispatcher was telling her to perform it she would not be in violation of the facility policy. She would simply have been following the direction of emergency personnel.

I am not a trained medical professional. I never had any desire to study medicine to be a nurse or a doctor. But I know had I been in a similar situation I would have performed CPR. There is no question in my mind. My nature is to protect people. I would worry about the consequences after the fact if it meant that I might save a life. Which is probably why I’ll never sit on the board of directors of a hospital. But that’s OK. We all have our place in this world.

People that argue on Facebook. Oh thank you for arguing with me, I totally agree with you now. Oh wait, no I don’t. Bye. Can’t we all just get along? (we can’t but it’s a nice thought.)

Boy Meets World. I hate it. I’m sorry. I’m not actually sorry, I just really don’t like 90’s TV which is weird I guess considering that I was born in the 90’s and all that jazz. But one time I had to sit in a hospital waiting room for an hour and in that time two episodes of this show played and therefore I associate this show with hospital waiting rooms.

 Oranges. I just don’t think they’re worth all the work. It takes me at least 5 minutes to peel it and then I end up squirting myself in the eye with orange juice at least 3 times and it burns a little bit. Then my hands are sticky.

The whole dog/cat argument thing. Um. It’s alright to like both cats and dogs. It doesn’t have to be one or the other. And just because you like cats doesn’t mean you then, by default, despise all dog owners. I like cats and dogs. It’s pretty possible. They’re both cool for different reasons. AM I RIGHT?

 Komodo Dragons. I actually really hate Komodo dragons. I’ve hated them since I was 12 years old in my 7^th grade science class. We watched this horrid documentary about them and they’re just pretty much the definition of jerks. They just go around licking everything with their poisonous tongues and the men pretty much force the women to reproduce and it’s like…what if the women don’t want to reproduce? Whatever, I have yet to discover a positive quality about komodo dragons so if you have one- I’m all ears.

Reese’s Pieces. I am really into reese cups. I mean I could eat one (or more than one) every day and be happy about it. They’re delicious. But reese’s pieces? Gross. What is this invention? Why do they taste so gross? I don’t want anything to do with you, reese’s pieces.

People that hate people that wear leggings as pants. Look, I wear leggings as pants…a lot. I don’t like jeans. They aren’t that comfortable and they’re always cutting into my gut and leggings are comfortable and now they come in all these printed designs. Not to mention, leggings are like 10$ compared to $50+ for jeans. I rest my case. Let me live my life.

People that work at tattoo parlors. I’m sorry that I didn’t know what your “minimum charge” was. I’m sorry that I didn’t know that tattoos couldn’t be that small. I’m sorry that I didn’t know you don’t tip in Australia. That’s why I am here…asking you all these questions. Please stop making me feel more uncomfortable than I already am. You started out with no tattoos at one point too, sir.

People who stand still at concerts. THIS IS ONE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS. I hope anyway, because you just paid 50$ to see them. Why are you not enjoying yourself? I can’t dance either, it’s fine because no one is even paying attention to your dancing skills. Let loose.

This picture has nothing to do with anything, I just like it.

Why do we constantly try to hold back our emotions? Why isn’t it okay for us to say how we truly feel? If someone upsets you, why do you try to act like you aren’t upset? If you love someone, TELL THEM. When did it stop being okay to care about people?

Showing someone that you care doesn’t make you weak. It just means that you care… that you have feelings. Everyone does. Why are we acting like we don’t?

Why don’t we all stop pretending that we don’t care? We all care. We all get upset. We have all given 150% to only get 5% in return. It sucks. It sucks so much to give all of yourself to someone and get nothing in return.

But that won’t make me stop caring.

I want people to know that I care about them. Sometimes I want them to know so badly that I continue to reach out to them even after they have ignored me over and over again.

Why? Because I would want someone to do that for me. I would want someone to keep coming back even after I have pushed them away.

Seriously, it’s okay to care about people. It’s okay to have feelings. It’s okay to say how you feel.

You aren’t crazy or overdramatic. You’re just being you.

I have long heard about much touted cancer cures. From Sabah Snake Grass, some strange specie of Ginger to just about anything. And no, I don’t suffer from cancer (touch wood!) but as a Writer, I’ve been long fascinated by alternative medicine. As you know – I have advocated traditional therapies and I just don’t write about them. I make sure I experience them myself.

MY FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH TIGER MILK MUSHROOM
I love eating mushrooms. So when I first got my hands on an article about Tiger Milk Mushroom, I decided to learn more about it. Like I’ve mentioned earlier, it’s got nothing to do with Tigers nor milk.

Local folklore has it that a long time ago, some local chap saw a Tigress who had just given birth, and was merrily making its way through a jungle. The local chap saw several drops of the Tiger’s milk fall down from its engorged nipples and that was it, the chap thought. Some weeks later, the local guy passed that same place again and was amazed to see a mushroom sprouting from that very place where the Tigress had passed by. From there on, he decided to refer the mushroom as “Tiger Milk Mushroom”.

Scientifically known as Lignosus rhinocerus, the Tiger Milk Mushroom is closely related to the well-known ling zhi or reishi mushroom. It has been widely used for medicinal purposes for a very long time, and is prized especially by local traditional Chinese medicine practitioners and the orang asli (aborigines).

The first ever documented use of the Tiger Milk Mushroom dates back to 1664 when the Europeans sailed the region (The diary of John Evelyn, publication date 22 June 1664). John Evelyn wrote of a fungus he called “Lac Tygridis”, or “Tiger’s Milk.” He mentioned of a fungus that could treat illnesses and that European medicine had no cure for at that time. Years later, Sir Henry N. Ridley, also known as the “Father of Malaya’s rubber industry” reported that the Tiger Milk Mushroom is an important medicinal mushroom used by the local community (Ridley, 1890).

HEALTH BENEFITS
To cut a long story short, it is extremely rare to find a Tiger Milk Mushroom growing in the wild. In fact, only 1 mushroom would grow in a radius of 5,000 metres, equivalent to circling a standard football field of 105m long x 68m wide 12 times.

The active compound that has medicinal benefits in the mushroom is beta-glucan, a naturally-occurring polysaccharide (complex carbohydrate).

The use of Tiger Milk Mushroom as a medicinal mushroom is not something new as its usage by the indigenous people of then Malaya (pre-Malaysia) dates back to even before John Evelyn’s first documentation of the medicinal fungus (before 1664).

The Tiger Milk Mushroom has traditionally been used by the Malays, Chinese and indigenous communities in Malaysia for over 400 years. It is used to treat cough, asthma, fever, joint pain, chronic hepatitis, gastric ulcer, liver and breast cancer,  food poisoning and as a general tonic (Chang & Lee 2004; Wong et al 2009; Lee et al 2009).

MY EXPERIENCE WITH TIGER MILK MUSHROOM
I received some samples from Miss Ng Szu Ting, CEO of Ligno Biotech Sdn Bhd (http://www.ligno.com.my). She was kind enough to let me try it as I had some recurring coughs.

Just for the update – I have not fallen sick for over 4 years now. In fact, I can even count the number of times I’ve had a cold – which is just ONE. And I won’t even see a doctor. I’d just go drink a cup of herbal tea, cover myself with a blanket and sweat it out!

After taking Tiger Milk Mushroom (powdered form) – I found that my cough worsened in the first 2 days. Then I discovered that this is normal because it is the body’s natural immune system that eliminates the last vestiges of the bacteria thriving inside my lungs.

After only 5 days, my respiratory function was back to normal. In fact, my “stuffed” nose had also gone, no thanks to the crazy weather we’ve been encountering in the past months.

I have also heard that prostate enlargements (normal in most men over 40) has reduced considerably after consuming it!

If you are interested to know more about this miracle mushroom, please visit http://www.ligno.com.my.

Please note that I am not in any way an employee of Ligno Biotech. I am merely writing about new discoveries and therapies. The capsules are obtainable now in Malaysia.

What is it that makes us want to have the time and peacefulness of being by ourselves without the bother of another person being around?

We can lose ourselves in a book and be transported to another time and place. We can sit and rock in a chair on a patio on a sunny day.

Why do you look for solace and peace in being by yourself? What drives you to want to be alone?

I have lots of reasons I myself enjoys the peace and quiet. The stress of the job, the kids, driving in traffic or the need to think clearly.

How about it, what’s your reason and what do you do for peace and quiet?