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Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado

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Wyndi Storm's Musings (Entry #1) Warning: Raw Language
By Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado
Sunday, September 16, 2007

Rated "PG" by the Author.

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Wyndi Storm Piestala in Arizona decides to get into the journaling game with this first entry. She hasn't been doing too well since the death of her teenaged daughter last year.

In actuality, I am doing just fine: it's my character who's not.


Sunday, September 16, 2007, Prescott, Arizona, 6:12 a.m., MT~

Dear Journal~

This is Wyndi Storm Piestala writing. I really don't know what to do with this, but it seems that everyone I know is doing this--writing in journals. My psychotherapist, Dr. Mankiller, says that this would help me heal, help me cope better with the world.

I don't know about that. It seems since the death of my beautiful seventeen-year-old daughter, Karla Jean, last year, my world has grown dark; I feel as if the Great Spirit is angry with me. My own health has suffered: I now suffer from depression, and I am contiually sad.


I have tried to move on, but the truth of the matter is this: I can't.

How can one move on when they have lost a child? How can one move on when the only thing that mattered in life has been taken from them? How can one move on when there are no opportunities for advancement, when people look down at you just because of what you are?

How can one move on when health issues have set in? How can one move on when the bills keep coming, but the government checks keep getting smaller? I got another hospital bill for when Karla was in there: OVER $300,000. Now, I ask you: HOW in the world am I supposed to pay that when I can't even afford decent food for my own self? How am I going to pay for the funeral costs? The funeral home and the hospital both keep haranguing me, to pay the bills, send the money; I keep telling those goddamn thugs to leave me the fuck alone; I don't have the money; I'm just a poor Native American Indian woman!

I am poor, too: livin' on less than $1,000 a month--most of which is gone once I get my medications or pay the utilities or rent. What is left isn't enough to feed even a family of rats! That's why I live out of cans. Beans, chilis, Spaghetti-O's, canned peas or corn: that's what I live on!

Then people wonder why my health is the way it is. Diabetes. High blood pressure. Thyroid problems. Arthritis that requires me to walk with a cane. Foot pain, constant foot pain. Stomach troubles. Headaches. Mental problems. That and other things wrong with me; seems I'm always at the emergency clinic for one thing or another!

People call me a hyperchondriac, but I'm not, no, not really. The things I go through are NOT of my imagination: the pains, the discomfort, the symptoms I experience are REAL!

I'm always dizzy, my heart pounds a thousand beats a minute, I feel like I'm about to throw up, my stomach and head hurt all the time, my feet swell up to the size of Dallas, I have trouble with my breathing when I lie down, my hands shake constantly, at times I feel as weak as a feather, and my hair is falling out in huge clumps. I'm sad all the time; I can't find anything in life to be happy about.

My SSI counsellor tells me to get a job to help out my financial situation; people see my mental health history or my physical needs, and they won't touch me with a ten-foot pole. Too much of a fucking risk, they tell me; they won't hire me because I'm DISABLED or I'm too fucking old; all they're interested in hiring are these teenaged kids who party every night ("I can't come in; I'm tired!") or people who can't speak a lick of English! It drives me up the fucking wall!

I tell these people I am UNable to work. I can't walk that far on my own; how do they expect me to hold down a job when I feel so bad all the time? Seems I'm always at the hospital or local clinic to try to get relief from some of my symptoms! I'm also crying-depressed all the time, at times I am so sad I don't even want to get out of bed!

I think of my daughter every day, every waking moment is spent thinking of her. I wish she were still here; she didn't have to suffer, die the way she did. I tried to be a good mamma to her, but she had problems, serious problems that were too much for her--and me--to bear. I tried to give her a good life; well, you see where that got me. Now she's lying stone-cold dead underground somewhere, and meanwhile I continue to live--yet feel like I'm dying, dying of a broken heart!

I don't go anywhere other than to the clinic or hospital; or to and from my doctor's. I don't have a very exciting life. I often wonder what life would be like outside Prescott, Arizona, because there's certainly not much going for the town now as it is. Too much unemployment, people lying in the gutters, drunk from broken dreams, dashed hopes, life's disappointments. Suicide rates are high in the kids here, people are always getting busted for barroom fights or public intoxication, sex acts, or worse--murder, just general mayhem. It's gotten so bad here I don't even go out at night, for fear of getting mugged--or even killed.

Ah, such is life here on the res...

Well, I will go for now. I will try this again; hopefully I will be in a much better mood next time I write. This is supposed to be a journal for God's sake, not a goddamn whine-fest!

~Wyndi Storm Piestala. :(

 
  


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Reviewed by Georg Mateos 9/17/2007
Windy Storm, you are like the ashes of a great fire, warm in spirit and with the memory of greater days.
People calling you a hypochondriac never suffered real pain and your ears most not be open to them.
I am with Mr. Ed, but I will state that better days are ahead.
Georg
Reviewed by Michelle Kidwell Power In The Pen 9/16/2007
Karla you bring her frustrations to light in a real way
God Bless
Michelle~
Reviewed by Tinka Boukes 9/16/2007
Well written Karen!!

Lov etinka
Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner 9/16/2007
Honest frustrations, anger with seemingly not being able to rise above limitations: not only illness, disability, but the system designed to hold the poor back: I hear ya, Karen. Very powerfully penned.

(((HUGS))) and love, Karla. :(
Reviewed by chris stienstra 9/16/2007
Raw,but,wonderfully done! Honest writing about the "naked" reality of the poor and the plight of the Native American. I appreciate this work for its clarity and power. Thank yo so much for this posting.
With my best regards,
Chris
Reviewed by Mr. Ed 9/16/2007
A truly sad journal entry, and I truly hope better days are ahead for Wyndi Storm.

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