This house is no longer the same.  It is different now. My recent travels back to  her proved this.  So much so, that is was all I could do to not quickly turn around and leave the minute I walked through the door.It didn’t feel right.  It smelled differently.  It looked dull and un-kept. And there in the corner of the driveway, right  next to the big Yucca plant was the for sale sign, swinging in the offshore breeze.  A bit ominous. This house was the one thing my mother held on to: through divorce, through cancer, through it all. It was built for us all to live in as we started roots in a new town. Then it became a summer home for what we thought would be forever. Then it  became the place my mom went home too and stayed. It was the place where summer jobs and summer romances lived fully while the southeastern North Carolina sun shone down on sea oats and the ebb and flow of the Atlantic. Where June, July and August seemed like a life time and those months gave into the other summer-September through November,when tourists left and the island was given back to the locals.  My mom loved this time of year the best. It was always a cottage-nothing more, nothing less.  It contained the soul of my mother-showcasing her phases of life(macrame and beyond)  haircuts ( I remember a really bad perm) and surgery. She grew here.  We all did.  She grieved here.  We all did.  But mostly, and without fail, she thrived here.  My mother celebrated friendships, retirement, ACC weekends, scrabble tournaments and the solitude of herself.   She lived for this house-but I know  now, this house lived for her too.  And now it too is slowly fading, like my mother did.

It was the one true wish my mother always had. To die in her beloved beach house-even as  her mind grew worse and the costs and risks of keeping her at home became a daily balancing act, it was the one thing she kept repeating. It was the wish I, along with my two brothers vowed to keep, never mind the naysayers and the costs. Never mind those who screamed she belonged in a nursing home, or those who stopped coming to see her, or those who set out to not stay true to her and her house. It was the one thing we would see through.  And we did.

“I am only leaving here feet first”, my mom would say.

And she did. On a day custom- ordered for her-with an incredible breeze coming off the ocean and the blaze of a July morning.

Admittedly, I could not watch when that moment came and the gentle,southern funeral director came up to me and my brother to let us know they would be removing mom from the home. It was time.  They would be taking her from her beloved cottage into the what seemed like the biggest grey hearse I had ever seen waiting in the driveway.  I could not watch.  So those of us there, went round back to the ocean side, I, clinging to my brother Chris and the others in their own moment of silent prayer and tears.  I held on tight, and hoped my sobs would cover the click-clack of the gurney taking my mom, feet first, out the door and down the steps.

Her wish fulfilled.  Her house, although full of friends, family and medical personal, now empty.

It was different this time when the plane landed and there was no hurry up and get there anticipation- only stopping along the way at the familiar places to get sweet tea and suntan oil. There was no need to forgo unpacking -just to get on the deck as quickly as possible and soak up every bit of time that starts ticking away the minute we get there.  There was no mom.  She was not sitting right there, where she always did- years ago, on the deck, and towards the end, on the sofa and finally, resting in the medical bed.

She was gone. And  in some ways, the house is too. Her house served her well.  It provided her all the things she wished for and wanted-right up until her last breath and now, it looks lost without her.  Still standing and in wait of someone new to take over and build new memories.  Or tear her down and start all over again.

Never to be the same.

….and words will never hurt me.  Yeah. Right. This adage is not so true anymore. Maybe it never was.  After working with adolescents for many years and hearing the verbal slings and arrows thrown( mostly from females I might add), after being in the entertainment business even longer, remaining intact-and after making decisions that work best for me and not others-I know the  the affects of damaging words;I can tell you words cut to the bone.  Never mind the stick. Never mind the stone.

And here is the kicker.  I have been just as guilty of the word that has cut to the bone.  It was a flippant remark-more based on my opinion and certainly not meant to strike a bone.  But it did and two days later I found  myself face to face with the person I offended-feeling shameful for not thinking before I opened my mouth-feeling remorseful because I could see the trace evidence of my stupidity on this person’s face.  It was not so much anger as it was disappointment. I begged for forgiveness and that feeling has never left me.   This was years ago-and the situation left a mark so much so -that now, even when I am angriest or disgusted at someone’s lack of or ignorance-I think, I stop and think before I set off a verbal missile.  The take away is also this:  I have discovered the value of my words and the importance of not wasting them.  Note to self:  This also has allowed me the grace to well, just shut up and listen more.  It is amazing what I hear.  And, my slice of humble pie has been served up many times-and for that matter-I have chosen wisely on how best to serve it…

I despise people who lie.  Those who ask you to coffee,  look at you with the greatest of ease and for whatever reason, lie.  Even when confronted with the truth.  It’s been my biggest regret in the entertainment world and the only reason I have yet to go into politics.  Now don’t go all elitist on me, some of you are saying.  There is always a time to lie, you’ll say.  Or you’ll accuse me of lying every now and then-because after all, I am human. Or my favorite?  You’re an actor, you lie for a living! And, yes, I have lied-and while the lie may have sounded delicious on the way out, I can assure you the after taste was bitter and, well,  just kept repeating on me.  A long time ago I made a deal with myself to tell the truth. When I lived through the casualties of what lies can do, I strengthened the deal.  When I had a daughter, I vowed to be more earnest in that quest.  When I began caring for  my mother as she was dying, the harsh reality of truth and the commitment to it was depleting-but worth it. You simply can not lie in the face of death-however long the process.  Which in turn made me realize even more  how you simply can not lie in the face of life.   As life changes and we deal with loved ones who battle emotional scars-there is no room for even the hint of a lie.  The harsh light of truth can bare witness to life changes.  The more committed I came to telling the truth-the more committed I came to being honest with myself-which made it so much more easier to be honest with others-even if I did not want to-especially when I did not want to.

I think back to so many things my mother used to say.  She hated to be lied to.  She felt it was an insult to her character and a waste of her time.

“I can deal with anything”, she would say.  “Just put it all on the table-and let me have the choice of dealing with it.”

I am certain I feel the same way.  Especially now in these years of who I am.  Now in these days of  not wanting to be right-but just  to be present.

Just put it on the table.  All of it.

Here is the other thing I begin to notice.  People know if you know they are not being honest.  Once caught in the web of little white lies-or enormous ones that leave a mark-people know-and you begin to see less of them-or better yet-they simply go away. Recently though, I made the decision to save them the trouble-and quietly, and politely let them go.

I saw a grown man cry this morning.  An 85 year old man.  I hugged his neck and his sobs broke the sound of silence.  His shoulders hunched over- a look of numb and deep sadness on his face. That sound of an old man crying has echoed in my heart all day.  Our neighbor, the one who grew up in the house we renovated and became part of our New England family 9 years ago died in the middle of the night.  She who had every essence of feisty and fierce-and she who was an in your face let’s get on with it kind of woman.  She who had  just one beer a day to make the day better-she who became part of our lives, she who knitted, sewed, babysat, baked and told it like it was.  She who had just turned 82 died after a week of complications due to a ruptured spleen that none of us knew about until it was too late to do anything about it.

She who said to the nurse,” Well I am shitt’in blood, how doya think I am doin?” ,when the nurse entered the beige colored room and asked in the third person,  “How are we  doing today?”

Only two days ago.

They waited to tell the old man until the morning-since he  had already left the hospital for the night.  Why wake him in the middle of the night?

We were there shortly after for support. For comfort.  For a while.

He sat there in the chair-in the kitchen but facing the small living room. I walked over to him, hugged him and he cried.  He let lose and cried.

The sound of an old man crying.

You would think the spinning,spinning in my brain and the sleepless nights throughout would have been an indication to slow down.  Be still.  But no.  I kept going.  I lit the match on the incense-and let it burn down to the nub-as my little Buddha patiently waited for me to come to a halt for just a moment,please, in the pause, and sit.  But no.

It is not in my nature. Never has been. To slow down goes against the grain. Perhaps that is why I loved running marathons so much. I just had to keep going.  2 miles turn into 4, 4 turn into 8, 8 into 16 and then the home stretch and suddenly, in a given amount of time, 26.2 was completed.  I could stop, for just a moment. Next.

And then,recently, when the still voice, that one honed so well on past mistakes and shoulda’s, coulda’s, woulda’s.  That voice, well fed on earned wisdom and courage, was not so still and screamed at me to stop, to slow down to, let it all go.  I did not listen.  I kept going. I was keeping grief at bay.  Not realizing I had to give it time to breathe and be part of who I was, at least for a little while.

“Four seasons.” A dear friend recently said to me.  “You have to get through four seasons.”

And then what?  I am a woman who has always known what to do.  My default is continual motion.  I do the right thing.  No matter what. I work hard.  I see things through.

Oldest child syndrome?  Or just a child raised to achieve?  To pursue?  To plow through?  No rest stops along the way.  I can not remember a time, ever, when I quit.  If one job was over, it was time to find another.  If one crisis was on the mend, I dealt with it and moved on to, well, sometimes another crisis and maybe then a bit of calm.  Life and all that. Failure, for lack of a better word, has never been an option.  And while, these default modes have served me well, I have come to realize, these modes of , what? Survival?  Perfection?  Also have become a hindrance.  I listened more to the cares and wants of others and not to the ones of myself. I stopped listening to that still voice.  She has always been right.  And I tuned her out. Muted her but good. Funny how that happens.  It is not so obvious in the midst of turmoil, but there in the aftermath, I have been the one left the most depleted.  The one not being most true to me.  I thought I knew better.  I though I learned that lesson.  Many, many times over.  But grief is a funny thing.  It hovers.  It lingers.  It shifts and changes.  And then, without warning, at least in my case, it whacks you upside the head and heart and leaves you motionless.  Forced still.  But not the good kind.  Not the calm kind of still.  Nope, in  my case, the still came with doubt and uncertainty.  It crept along behind me, annoyingly so and would not leave me be.  I cried.  A lot. I slept- very little. I cried-even more. I got angry. Judgemental. I held things in for fear I would say the wrong thing-or worse, say what I really felt.  I went overboard.  I got involved in projects I had no business being involved in, whatsoever.  I did not listen and I kept going.But I was going nowhere.  2 miles did not turn into 4, 4 did not turn into 8.  I was stuck and nothing was working.  My tricks-the ones that always got me through, well-they just were useless.

I don’t remember ever being as exhausted as I was. As I am.  In the bones and in my being.  I am reminded when, after the second year of caring for my mom, with all that goes with caring for a parent, turned into the third year and more of her mind started to go, and I started to grieve then for the mom I knew and for the mom I knew was never coming back- a longtime mentor reminded me to not fool myself into thinking the grief I was feeling at the time would not resurface again on that day, whenever that day, or night it would be mom passed away. Grief will resurface, she said.  And it did. There was no running away from this one.

“Don’t kid yourself”, she said.

But I did.  I am sure I did.

There was so much to do at the time. The travel back and forth.  The tending to, the caring of, the paperwork, the checking in, the things we do when someone we love is dying and we want to do things right, as we should. Making sure health care and insurance allow her to die the way she wants.  Bending the rules, begging.  Watching a mother hold on to her mind and find the ease to breathe is not for the faint of heart and soul.  Not one bit.  I thought that was grieving.  And I kept going.  There was no time to stop. I was raising a child and being a wife and somewhere in there trying to find some iota of something for myself.  Wanna guess which went first?

But then, in the very quiet of a mid December 3am, when the house and all her contents were at rest, and I was sitting by a waning fire, that still voice spoke. I thought at first, it was the sound of my own muffled cries-you know when you cry quietly so no one else will hear. Those sounds we all make when we weep from the soul.  When all you want to do is cry.  I thought at first, it was the ramblings of my thoughts, trying to figure it all out-to find the solution.  To find the way. To keep going. To not disappoint.  To not let others down.  What to do?  And then again, from the deepest, softest squishy parts of my inner self-that still voice got louder.

Stop.

Just stop.

Be still.

Be. Still.

And for the first time in a long time, I  listened.  I heard.  I stopped.

I made decisions that served me and all that I am.  Others did not like that so much.  But I am okay with that.  I wasn’t at first to be truthful, but it settled into a knowing.

I slept.  I cried some more.  I hugged my child.  I kissed my husband.

I sat still.

I grieved.  I am grieving.

I found strength.

I found my still.  I found my voice.

One candle more.  A look back at a year that propelled me one step closer to where ever it is I am supposed to be-provided me with more opportunities to learn, to grow, to gain more wisdom, strength and courage. It was a year of challenges- not just the kind that leave us wondering how, in the course of life, are we to get from point A to point B; but more about how we survive point A to get to point B-so we can continue down the path.   It was a year of side roads, bumps, pot holes and dangerous curves ahead. Forget A to B.  I just wanted to get in the car and go.

There are things, those pot holes and dangerous curves mostly that I think about the most. For I am certain, very certain now, with each candle added through the years, my  life has been shaped more by dangerous curves and pot holes than anything else.  Not because circumstance put them there-but because I chose to keep going-never mind the cost of repair. Things were demanding. I was pushed to the limit. I was wiped out by disappointments-disappointed by realizations and things you can not turn away from-if you are one of those women who sees-who does not shut out the light-who not only calls out the elephant in the room-but refuses, finally, to clean up after it.There in the muck of life-I found more of myself than I imagined.

People let me down.People imploded in front of me and took others down with them- but this year, instead of making excuses for them, I let them go. It was a tremendous gift to myself. I learned to shut my mouth.  No, really.  I learned, most importantly, when to just shut up and keep going and when to speak.  I got louder.  In the silence as much as in the speak. It made a huge difference in my  life.

I learned to value the process of death and accept when it arrives. And there in the process of death and staying true to someone else’s wishes and wants in the course of living while dying-I found the very presence of life.  I found what matters most and there in found what will  never matter. It is true- unconditional love is the richest and most treasured-and when death takes away that one last breath-it is the unconditional presence of love that will remain. It is the few unexpected moments you will remember in the tears.  It is the moments that made me her daughter, her first child, the woman I came to be because she gently nudged me and I got to do it differently than the way she did-and sometimes-exactly the way she did. Sometimes, even in the darkest moments, I got to be her voice-a gift she gave me without even knowing it.   It matters to stay true-no matter the challenges.  It matters to be honest.  It matters to stay the course-no matter what. No matter what.

I found peace.  In the most unexpected places. In the quiet of dawn-clutching my mothers hand when the hiss and pump of a machine overpowers the ebb and flow of an ocean, in the middle of the night, just us two, mother and daughter when the end is too near and no one else is around. When all she gave me, taught me is put to the test. She got it right-my mom, there in her hours of the end-she got it right.  I learned that at that exact time, that moment-when someone you love breathes the last breath, you will want to continue breathing and be grateful and be kind and continue on with the business of living.  I found peace in the grace of each moment. It was not talent, it was not beauty, it was not the unwrinkled brow that got me there.  It was every nook and cranny of life-every wrinkle of what’s if’s and why not’s.  It was the potholes, the dangerous curves and the destination unknown that got me there. None of it was easy. Ever. I learned to pick up the phone and ask for help, gratitude and guidance.  I learned in the deepest parts of the unexpected we find the things we never expected.

I learned that I don’t “have to” anymore.  I earned it and I am okay with it.  I don’t have to put up with people I no longer respect, agree with, or for that matter, don’t even like all that much. I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to act one way to please another group of people who act another way.  I don’t have to.  I don’t have to be anyone but who I am-with all the imperfections, with all the heartache, with all the stuff I am made of from the stuff I survived.

I learned I can survive anything thrown at me.  Anything-but if you attempt to humiliate my child, in all her goodness and light, I will never forgive and I will fight the urge to unleash a motherly anger that only a mother can understand.  I learned parenting gets harder, not easier.  And yes, it is okay to be one of those mom’s who drives your child to school in her pajamas.

Finally, I learned brilliance is overrated as is genius-and it is never an excuse for bad behavior.  Ever.  In this road map of life, we all have things that have left a mark, a scar-but at some point, we move on-we grow on-we get on with the mending and the healing and we navigate a different way.  Or else, we get on another road and leave the rest behind.  I learned, finally, I am okay with that.-leaving the rest behind.  It’s my own road. Potholes, dangerous curves and roadblocks.

It took a long time for me to hit the wall. Literally.  Years.  And then without a hint of a warning, there it was.  My wall. Never even saw it coming.  And I hit it hard-going ninety to nothing in a fitted black cocktail dress and leopard print pumps. Bam!  Left a mark on the wall of glass in a perfect shade of dusted rose with a hint of shimmer.  Squished lips imprinted on plate glass.  The scene of the crime.

I hit the glass wall so hard the pain did not even register at first.  But the sound sure did.  A guy loading in his drum set rounded the corner took one look, removed the cigarette from his mouth and simply said:

That musta hurt.

I check my two front teeth- still there. Blinding pain-and then I remember something about noses and lips bleeding a lot.  A real lot.

And sure enough, lips bleed.  A lot.

A part from the pain-I was pissed.  In between cursing myself for doing something so stupid-and for doing it so well- I apply pressure and access the damage.

Ewwwwwwwwww.

Lip flap and blood-split my cupid’s bow it did.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

And then I have to decide what to do.  Leave it alone?  Ice?  I have to sell art and mingle about in an hour-do I wing it and just go on?

I go on.  Nonchalantly mingling and hobnobbing in the name of art, as my top lip swells to porn star heights.   And every time I hobnob and smile, I feel the trickle of blood begin again…..

Um…your, um, lip is bleeding.

Oh. Sorry. I walked into a wall on my way in.

Jokes about screen doors and alcohol.

A mark of distinction?

Oh, it’s nothing.

THAT’S going to leave a mark.

Funny.

Does my husband secretly wish my upper lip would stay this swollen?? Hmmmm?  What is it about swollen lips and men?

Advice on where to go, where NOT to go, what to do and what not to do.

You’re gonna need a plastics guy ya know?

Really?  Plastics guy?  But I don’t know any plastics guys.

And then thanks to the power of word of mouth( no pun intended) I find a plastics guy.

Who very carefully and artistically put me back to together again.

Me and my cupids bow.

The swelling will go down. ( sorry honey) I will slow down. And best of all, I will have a small little scar to remind me to do so.

And my plastics guy?  If he is this good on lips I wonder how he is with………?

Well, every good woman needs a good plastics guy.

**Gracious and sincere thanks to Dr. Russell Babbitt III, Lyn and Robin for putting me back together again…..the guy is a genius.

“Alright now, who did it?”

I would point at my brother, my brother would point at me and the kid from down the street would shrug his shoulders.

Silence.  Nothing but fingers.  And shoulders.  Stuck up right by his ears.  Frozen.

“I told ya’ll not to be horse’in round. Now who did it?”

Fingers and shoulders stay where they are.

Frying bologna beckons

Hattie leaves the room throwing the dishtowel over her shoulder along with her finger pointing quote.

“Ya’ll keep point’in.  Ya’ll got one finger in someones face and three pointing right back at you.  Hmmmmmmmp.”

I think about it every time I find myself pointing-literally or figuratively.  That one powerful finger pointing at someone else-and those three pointing right back at me. AS we navigate human error-community issues and worldly turbulence, it is easy to point the finger.  That one defiant moment when blame goes right away-up and out through the very tip of the pointer.  Mr. Pointer.  And yet, and yet, what is held in the those three pointing back?  Guilt?  Weakness?  Ignorance?  More defiance?  Times 3?  So there in my quest to shift and be brighter, lighter and more Buddha like.  There in those moments I am back on the road to a well lived life, I look a little more closer not at Mr. Pointer-but at those other three fingers that fold down and point back.  And one by one I name them:  Acceptance, and it unfolds. Courage, and it unfolds. Love, and it unfolds.  I am now looking at an open hand-palm up-open.  Mr. Pointer is now part of the pack-the whole hand. The whole.

In one direction or another.  Right?  If change is the constant then we all have the ability to move forward-one way or another. Change will be the evolution of us all. Even if we don’t do one darn thing. I have lived enough to know life cycles-beyond the obvious of life and death;this we all know.  More so , the life cycle of what comes back around to affirm?  confirm? deny? Remind us? taptaptap us ever so gently heed a warning?  Or better yet, suggest we try that again.  Once more.  I am happy to report a few good, really good circle of life moments.  When all the pieces and parts of the puzzle come together.  People and circumstance all at the same cocktail party, beautifully dressed and on time. Right there in the same room and there I am too, by force or will( or whatever else got me through “it” and got me where I needed to be).   When the past tears and disappointments meet with the joy and success and questions are answered(or not) and that particular circle of life moment is complete. Wrap it up.The trick is staying in the business of life long enough to cycle back around-again..and get it right. (or not) Life will cycle on- we don’t get to live life backwards.  Life is in the business of here and now.  Some days I am present.  Give me all the here and now I can handle.  Some days, though I hate to admit it, my what if’s scratch and claw at my here and now and I find myself on a side trip-there in the back of my mind, where every moment is kept. Oh. And. I remember everything. And there, right there in the deepestdarkest place, I find the road stop sign posting:

No regrets.

For once, I think I am okay with this.

Wouldacouldashoulda.

Can I now be so bold to look back and say that my shoulda’s gave way to whatever else I felt was more important?  My woulda stepped aside for passion?  Pain?  Grief?  Love? Coulda-there, on the sidelines testing my vanity and ego.  The road of no regret is long and hard won.  It is not for the faint of heart.  It is for the ones who take whatever other road seems more interesting and well, yes, less traveled.  Secluded even.  That road in that moment. Not the one of least resistance.  The road of change.  Get on it.  Buckle up.  And have enough sense to stop and pee when the trips get to long, or at least rest….and try, very, very hard not to run over anyone along the way.

I have been on a positive kick these days.  Living life in the now.  My now.  This moment to moment of taking whatever comes my way. Maybe the yoga is kicking in-Is it my Buddha and incense?   The four hours a day of biking?  Something is ever so slightly adjusting the level of serotonin in my brain-but by God, I have been happy.  Yes, that’s right!  Happy in a balanced, alliswellinmyworld kind of way. Even-keeled if you will.  Even a quick trip to Walmart to purchase last minute supplies left me-well, okay. Granted I was only there for 15 minutes-but I was able to leave the store without wanting to scream at anyone or tap someone on the shoulder, in a way my Grandma Brown would have done to remind them not to:   talk on the phone in public, have any body part exposed in a most disgusting way, or to beg them to stop having children. Just stop.

But then…………….

Something rose from way up inside the innards of my truest feelings this morning that no amount of incense, biking or Buddha would quell.  A general disgust at all things I simply have tolerated because it was the polite thing to do-people included.  This was the morning I was not  going to take it anymore-because I don’t have to. Nope. Not gonna do it.

No, no, no.  I. don’t. give. afly’infig ( my Grandma Brown would say that too) about what this says about me, about my temperament, my ability to breathe it all in and let it go, my “lack of”, or inability to.  I don’t want to calm down.  I don’t want to make peace.  Has anyone ever thought that by getting rid of all the things( and people) you simply tolerated ( in spite of, because of) can be a very positive way to make peace?

Hey!  I don’t like you.  Never have.  You are not nice and you take too much work to navigate.  Nice know’in ya.  Well, not really.  You never liked me either.

My nine year old daughter has been having a particularly difficult time with a certain other little nine year old. A budding she devil if you ask me.  The troubles with said she devil started last year.  And trust me when I tell you, this little dar’lin has all the makings of manipulation wrapped up in mean( and then I met the mom and it all  made sense to me)

I just don’t like her, my daughter said.  There is nothing nice about her.  There is something to be said for nine year old wisdom.

And while I wholeheartedly agreed, that thing, that make nice gene kicked in and I found myself saying exactly what my mother would have said( and probably did) to me when I was ridiculed by a pack of nine year olds myself-way back when.

You don’t have to like them, you don’t have to be their friend, but you must be nice and be respectful.

Really?   I remember, even to this day, that made no sense to me.  At nine.  At nineteen.  At 29…and well, today.

But why?  (we said this in tandem, my daughter and me)  Only her voice had more conviction and strength, unshaded by years of being nice.

Just be nice Gloria.

No.  I don’t want to.  Any. More.  I don’t want to be nice to people whom I just do not like.  I don’t want to pretend.  Don’t want to carry the burden of  nice anymore.  Not that I will be mean-that’s just not nice.  But I won’t be anything.  Void.  Stop pretending.

My mother was the queen of nice.  She did not know mean.  Well, she did, but her mean was, well, too nice.  And it cost her.  To her, nothing, because she would not have it any other way.  To those of us who knew otherwise, it cost her some extra years of life.  She should have, could have, would have.  But it was not in her capacity.  I chose differently, but it has taken me this long.  To find the voice to say no.  NO thank-you.  Not gonna do it anymore.

Those who know me know me well.  For them I save my nice.  My warmth,  my strength. My compassion and love.  Deep love.

No,if I don’t like you, I don’t want to be your friend.  In a plane, in a car, in a meeting or in a bar.  I am Me. Me I am.  I have nothing to give any more to those who continue to take. My time is valuable.  Not to be wasted.  Anymore.  I can not give an iota  to those who say one thing and mean another.   ALL. THE. TIME. Talk to someone else.  I do not want to pray for God fearing hypocrites-who do the most ungodly of things-and then blame it on God.  Figure that one out. Blame somebody else- and start with yourself.

Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times?  Okay so I am still learning.