&*#! U Depression. I’m here to stay.

For some of us it’s situational and for others it’s a chemical imbalance.  For some it’s triggered by screaming people in our faces, reminding us of childhood abuse and for others it’s the long hot shower turned cold because we can’t fathom how we’re going to finish the day.  For some, bi-polar disorder, PTSD, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Mania ….. showing up to work hoping you can make it until noon so you can drive around the block and sit at  the corner and cry it out or hell, not even making it out of bed on a Tuesday.  Tuesday’s are hard.

Truth.   Depression you DO NOT OWN ME.  I will refuse to allow you to take me down.  I will get help.  I will see my therapist.  I will take my medication.  I will eat right.  I will exercise.  I will tell the people I love the most when I am hurting instead of isolating.  I will REFUSE, do you hear me now, I will REFUSE TO TAKE THIS LYING DOWN.

I will write a book about you.  How you tried to kill me.   And I will save others because if I am here for good …. SO ARE THEY.

Believe.  Hard.  For whatever reason.  Depression ?  @*(# ….. WE ARE HERE TO STAY!

http://www.courtneyfrey.org

Redemption.  Coming Soon to Amazon.  Follow me at @courtneyfrey on Facebook for details on Friday’s launch!

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Build Your Bridge

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Rebecca and Courtney build a bridge in a ditch that is symbolic of their plight to bridge the gap between the little girls that were hurt and the grown women they’ve had to become to survive.  It is their story, but it is your story.  What sacrifices did you have to make as you survived the hands that hurt you?  What part of yourself do you hide away and shelter from the word for fear of hurt?  The walls you’ve built, they will come down.  It will be okay.  You’re not alone.

For all the women who’ve had to go back and get the little girl they’d left behind.  Bridges.  My song.  Your song.  The road to healing.

Listen NOW

 

Heal a Heart for Christmas

R_fcYour best friend confided in you.  Your sister wants to change.  Your relationship with your mom is broken.  Your husband struggles with your depression.  Whether for you or for someone in your life, Restitution is a message of hope that speaks loudly, “YOU ARE NOT A VICTIM ANY LONGER!”  It is a novel-like approach, based on a true story, that embodies the triumph over pain we all seek and hope for.  Give the gift of healing to someone you love today.

BUY NOWhttp://www.amazon.com/Restitution-Courtney-Frey/dp/1620066564/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1451061495&sr=8-1&keywords=restitution+courtney+frey

 

You’re Not Alone

_Out in the country she screamed, but no one heard her._Your journey is exceptionally priceless, all of what you’ve endured and gone through; every bit of pain and agony – is not in vain.  The endless tears you’ve cried, the midnight rage, and the lonely hours of what seems like eternal solitude; are known.  You, my love, are not alone.

Sometimes we do not need someone to fix it all.  Sometimes, we don’t need anyone to tell us it will all be okay.  Once in a while, take heart, it is okay to sit with the pain.  It can teach us.  It can mold us.  It can share a lesson of compassion, understanding, faith, and resilience with us.

You, my friend, are not alone.  Restitution is a novel that explores what it means to face countless unfair injustices and weather the tides of fear, abandonment, insecurity, and depression.  It is a story of struggling with faith, a journey of three friends who rely on one another, and ultimately the truth that nothing is ever in vain when you turn your pain to purpose.

You are not alone.

 

What Know One Knows – The Way My Reflection Lies

Me & My Reflection

Me & My Reflection

She is the life of the party.  I wonder if they know she goes home and cries.  He is the most successful salesperson in the company. I wonder if they know that he questions if everything he sacrificed was worth it.   Her sister thought she hated her, and that was why her bedroom door was locked for all those years.  I wonder if she’ll ever know that her sister wished she would have broken down the door.  He cries when he rides his motorcycle because the helmet and the wind hide the tears.  I wonder if his friends know how she broke his heart.  She is the most beautiful woman in the room and all eyes are on her.  I wonder if they know she has anorexia.

I wonder why she feels alone, when I am a reflection of her.

“As if she was on fire from within … the moon lives in the lining of her skin.” Pablo Neruda

“No matter how plain a woman may be, if truth and honesty are written across her face, she will be beautiful.”  Eleanor Roosevelt

Do you see her?  Can you reach him?   Today, allow your soul to speak the truth so you reflect your perfect self.

Our Reaching Out Is Never In Vain

“Our reaching out is never in vain.”

I spent four months writing, “My Sonnet’s Soul” in 2001.  Compelled by a madness I later came to understand as bi-polar disorder mixed heavy with what most writers consider to be the innate insanity of writing to be sane, I truly believed God was telling me to write the story of my family.

Since as far back I can remember, which on some days is just minutes ago, I’d heard pieces of stories so cobwebbed that I became stuck in the majesty of their mysteries.  I’d never met my blood Grandmother.  No one would ever speak of her.  So, in 2001 I became determined not only to find her, but to create a half non-fiction account of the journey.  A frightening journey into the shaded truths I’d been privy too, and the dark recesses of my own imagination.

I then, four months later, got on a plane and took thirty copies of the book to our family reunion.  The book was met with shattering glass and rebuking.  I came home, defeated, lost – shaken; and put the original copy in an old folder inside my purple crate.  I did not read it again until today.

Compiling these chapters of this book now, I shuffle through old folders and papers, sitting cross legged on the floor of my office.  An old Manila envelope appears, unopened.  It is stamped 2001, and it is from my Grandfather’s wife, his second – not my blood Grandmother.

I open it carefully and wonder how I’d never seen it, or why I’d kept it without knowing.  Beautifully elegant handwriting crosses a blank, thinned page of paper …

“… Dear Courtney,  these poems were written by your great grandmother, your father’s blood Grandmother.  Some were written when she was dying from tuberculosis.  You can see, she trusted in the Lord.  I know you will treasure them, as I have.  God Bless you and all your family, and bring you many blessings in your writing endeavors.”

This is the Envelope I discovered after 10 years.

This is the Envelope I discovered after 10 years.

My heart literally skips several beats, and I cannot bring myself to turn the page.  The room spins, and I know without doubt, what I hold in my hands are relics of my heritage.  Pieces of me I never knew.  I’ve just opened up the soul of who I am.

Instead of reading any of the poetry, I rush to call my father and breathless, I tell him over the phone what I have discovered.  I ask him, “Who was she?  How have I not ever heard of her before?”

The phone is quiet against my ear, I listen barely to my father catch his breath when finally, “Thank God they still exist.  I’d always wondered what had happened to them.”

I listen then, to the telling of a story that as it’s being told … is so familiar to my spirit that I weep openly.  Today, I met my Great – Grandmother.  My spirit soared and grieved as only a spirit can, connecting to the blood tie of a woman who, as she met her death cradling her two young son’s, had, as my Great Grandfather wrote in his Preface to her collection, “…a profound religion, a true philosophy, and a beauty of soul which is indeed the supreme attainment of life.”

As my father painted her image and her heart, “Divine, she was absolutely divine,” I could not help but wonder how it was that these ageless poems had found their way to me, her Great-Grand Daughter, the very year I’d written “My Sonnet’s Soul,” a book making no mention of her, but only now made known, eleven years later, the year I finally decide to write again.

My father asks me to consider that these poems are a legacy not to be taken lightly, and a relic not to be cast out for just anyone.  He is asking me to keep them, to treasure the lessons my Great Grandmother needs me to hear and allow this enlightenment only to myself.  “Don’t read these, Courtney, to just anyone.  Be careful.  Few people will be able to understand the divinity of those words.  You’ve been given a gift, one I am incredibly jealous of – but that is my own truth to attempt to hear, if I can.  One day, you will know when the time is right, to whom you pass on this – your very heritage, this eternal existence of the immortality of soul.”

Later, after I am able to stop crying, I turn the page.  And for the first time, I sit in the glorious presence of my divine Great Grandmother, as she holds me in her spirit.  I am but the eternal life force of a strong soul who lived so truthfully she had the power to give me advice I so desperately needed, eighty years after she left this realm.

“It’s Not In Vain”

By, my Great Grandmother

“There is in man, a longing, a longing akin to pain.

As the dew drops of morning, are akin to mist and rain.

A longing, a reaching out, toward life’s great mysteries.

Sometimes in hope, sometimes in doubt,

But ever, ever, reaching out.

This it must ever be, life holds for each,

Discoveries,

And in our longing, and in our pain

Our reaching out is not in vain.”

          I read this with shivers, and goose pimples running up and down my spine – taken with the breathtaking perfection of her talented prose, and knowing those words from somewhere.  This, her telling, her exposed truth, was so familiar to me I begin laughing, there, on the floor of my office; tears of comfort.  Great truths have layers of enlightenment.

The only poem I wrote inside of  “My Sonnet’s Soul,” …

If you listen closely to the voices as they speak,

You will hear the words become a familiar sound.

The buzzing of a hive,

The sweetness of the comb.

The sweat and labor of the Keeper – the lives kept,

The mystery of the Reacher.

Yes, the sun is hot,

And yes, the work is hard.

But the crop comes in and what glory it is to see,

The work was not done in vain.

These poems, these very threads of my existence, speak wisely and eternally words that will forever advise my renewed determination towards who I truly am.  Thank you, Great Grandmother … thank you. Your spirit is loud and clear, just as I begin to neatly and carefully place your poetry back into the envelope I notice the date stamped onto the front, worn from the years it reads, “December 5th, 2001.”  Today is December 5th … 2012.    Our Reaching Out truly, is never in vain.  Even if that is from the eternity of soul, in a manilla envelope, to a great-granddaughter she’d never met.

Be fruitful in your reaching.  There is someone with open arms who needs you.

Diagnosis

Pump me full of Zoloft, Xanax or Lithium –

Over-charge me by the hour just cuz you can.

Zip me in that white coat, lock me in a room,

I’ll still be crazy – I’ll still question you.

You can’t drug a genius, can’t lock up an artist.

Try to cage me, but you can’t hold down stardust.

Put me in a file, but you can’t define a goddess.

Lay me on your couch, I’ll just hypnotize ya.

Don’t need no Phd just to tell me ‘bout my inner child.

I’m wild.

Call it a chemical imbalance, I don’t really care

Just get off my back, I’m outta here.

No use in fakin’ normal, no sense in a lie

Drugs might keep me quiet,

But you can’t silence life.

I know the dark side, but I see the light

I get reality, but its truth is all mine.

When I’m up let me fly,

Clip your own damn wings.

When I’m down, don’t even try,

I like the things that I see.

Doctor says he’s gotta save me from myself,

Patient in the next room just hung herself.

I get a phone call cuz I’ve been good,

So I dialed God and asked Him what’s the use?

Let me laugh, let me cry, to hell with insurance.

Aint my 90 days up?  I’m healed,

I assure you.

Self inclined nation with man made doctrination,

Hell, it sounds fine with me.

We all gotta do what we have to do,

Believe in whatever we believe to be true.

But Christians imitating Jesus –

Don’t they know He was a Jew –

And damn my knees are sore

From kneeling on your pew.

What classes?  To hell with you,

No disciple ever enrolled in Religion 102.

I can talk all day and into the night,

Philosophy’s like love, right at first sight.

Sit me down with an easel, give me some paint,

Don’t need a brush, my soul knows the way.

I’m the life of the party, I know the right things to say,

People amaze me, in every way.

But when I want to go, let me go.

Solitude is my escape from home.

Mama, it’s all right, you’ve done nothing wrong.

Daddy, thanks to you I can write this song.

I got no blame, don’t take it the wrong way,

I get to be different in a world of all the same.

I wouldn’t choose normal even for a while …

Cuz, guess what?

I’m wild.

 
http://youtu.be/gyu5sum4Xyo