Breaking Up Is Hard To Do: PTSD and Smoking

My earliest memories of cigarettes are wonderful.

I remember my parents and aunts and uncles hanging out in one of the apartments of the Chicago three-flat we all lived in once upon a time. There was so much laughter and music and dancing and joy. The beautiful, old, high-ceilinged living-rooms smelled of cigarette smoke, liquor, coffee and perfume. Music always played in the background–bossa nova or cool jazz or the new hip sounds of Motown. The sixties were beginning to swing!

Another memory from that period is of sitting beside my dad on the steps of the back porch at night when he’d have an after-dinner cigarette. I sat enrapt by his stories of the war, of being a boxer, of all the different jobs he’d had like working in the Chicago stockyards and even the opera! I’d look up at the stars and imagine having thrilling adventures of my own someday. I loved the smell of his Kools. I felt so safe. So safe.

After we moved away and the trauma years began and ended, I was thirteen and a freshman in high school. It was an all-girls school. I was surprised and thrilled when some of the cool crowd evinced interest in me. (I’d become a loner by the eighth grade.) One day, in the woodlands area near school, my new friends taught me how to inhale cigarette smoke. I’ll never forget the feeling that first inhale gave me, that little high. I felt wonderfully dizzy and suddenly better than my normal self–transformed, sophisticated, hip. I bonded over cigarettes every day with these girls who would become my best friends.

The years went by.

I became addicted to other things–liquor and drugs–and quit both, but I kept smoking.

It had become part of the fabric of my life. It was a familiar wake-up in the morning, a reward when I worked hard and needed a break, company while I watched TV, a custom after meals, a consolation when things went bad. But primarily, I now see, I used it to soothe me, to comfort me, to calm me down–something I never learned to do myself.

When I moved in with Jack nine years ago, I quit smoking.

Shortly afterwards, painful sores appeared all over my tongue and gums. It hurt so bad, I couldn’t eat. I also got a terrible stabbing pain in my ear drum, my throat and tongue swelled up and an assortment of other bizarre symptoms from the neck up.

I went to six doctors. No one could diagnose it.

An oral surgeon checked the sores for cancer. Oh man, did I get sick from that surgery. No cancer, though.

Finally, a nurse told me, in confidence, that in my case–the cigarettes used to kill all the bad bacteria in my mouth and now that I wasn’t smoking, I was infested with the bad bacteria. She said this happens to a small percentage of people who quit.

I smoked a cigarette when I got home, another that night and one in the morning, and within forty-eight hours, all the sores and other symptoms disappeared.

I didn’t need to inhale that smoke, though. I could have just puffed one every morning and gotten the same result.

I’m trying to quit smoking again because my throat burns all the time. I also had two dreams where I was explicitly told I need to stop smoking now. I’m not too worried about getting the bad bacteria again because I’ve learned about natural antibiotics like garlic and I’m sure supplements like that would help me.

I went cold turkey the first twenty-four hours and thought I’d go out of my mind

I became immediately aware of how tense my stomach became without smoking and how the feeling intensified as the hours went by. I felt uncoordinated and kind of jerky in my movement, even a little paralyzed or frozen. I felt scared, too.

The second day I had two cigarettes and I’ve been keeping it at that.

I Googled “PTSD and cigarettes” and sure enough, a good percentage of people with PTSD smoke cigarettes (as well as drink alcohol, abuse substances and/or eat) in an effort to keep uncomfortable feelings down and maintain some kind of equilibrium or balance.

I realize now the primary feeling I keep down with cigarettes is fear.


I’m still self-medicating–only it’s with cigarettes now. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life depending on something outside of myself to fix the inside of myself. If I’m going to completely quit smoking, I need to be willing to be uncomfortable for an unpredictable length of time. That’s how I quit drinking, tranquilizers and pain pills. I was willing to feel bad for a while.

I’ve been doing the breathing exercises more often (ten-minute sets of pranic breathing) and working out more strenuously. I’m doing meditative work with my tummy, asking the energy that condenses there, What is your source? How can I release you?

The good news is I’ve been sleeping better and my throat doesn’t burn now.

But will I ever be able to say goodbye for good?

I don’t know. I’m going to try.

I associated cigarettes with love and happiness long ago. Then for many solitary years, cigarettes felt like my only friend. They were always there for me.

But now…they feel unsafe. So unsafe.


As I continue throwing out and packing up in preparation for our big move out west, I found more illustrations I never used for My Husband’s Toes.

At one point, the toes told me they felt no girl toes would ever be interested in them without hair, so I created toupees for them. (Jack sure was surprised when he woke up and found all the hair on his feet!)


Here’s another one where I cleansed the aura of a toe who’d been feeling down.


Life isn’t so stressful when I can laugh or be absurd.


PTSD and Stress and Cortisol, Oh My!

I’ve been dealing with a lot of stress lately. Not life-or-death stress or flashbacks, thank God, but relocating-across-the-country stress.

Fundamentally, everything is going well. The third bid by a mover came in nearly 25% less than the other two, and all three had equal qualifications so that made for an easy choice. (Just FYI, if you ever get bids from movers, know that they will meet the lowest bidder’s bid to get your business.)

Anyhoo, a few days ago, I tried to apply a United Airlines credit towards our August flight to Phoenix. I won’t go into all the tedious details, but suffice it to say I was on the phone with Customer Care an hour and a half, was disconnected twice, given incorrect or contradictory information multiple times, and at the end, somehow came away without any tickets. It was like The Twilight Zone.

Later that night, I went into my American Express account and saw United had charged me $200 four times and $1 four times. And I had no tickets!! When I called Customer Care again, they couldn’t find me in the system and denied this ever happened.

Talk about denial of reality! I was looking at the charges online.

Oh. My. God.

You’d think a tiger bounded into my room the way I instantly flooded with stress hormones. My heart pounded like crazy. I was covered in sweat inside a minute.

I immediately called American Express, told them the charges were not legitimate, and requested a new card. I don’t know what the heck was wrong with the personnel I spoke with at United, but I sure wasn’t going to take any chances in case a scammer was in their midst.

Man, did I wake up feeling awful the next day.

Cortisol is one of the stress hormones which flood in a fight-or-flight response. Too much cortisol leaves a person feeling hung-over–wired and tired. It makes a person’s system acidic, too, which means less oxygen coursing through the body.

Over the years, I’ve discovered a couple quick remedies to help get rid of inflammation.

One is baking soda and water. I drink a quarter-teaspoon with water 3X a day.

I also make a high-alkaline drink made of the juice of one lemon (lemons are acidic until they hit your metabolism, where they are rendered alkaline), three tablespoons apple cider vinegar (only apple cider vinegar, this, too, metabolizes as alkaline), two teaspoons of maple syrup and 8 oz. water. Mix well and down the hatch!! Not only will this make you feel good quickly, your skin will turn luminous and your hair shiny.

I’ve seen tears referred to as “acid dumps” because of the amount of cortisol they contain. That’s another good reason to cry.

Meditation, Trauma Releasing Exercises and work-outs are great for relieving my stress, but I like to do nutritional things, too. When my body feels good, my mind follows.

I ended up charging my United tickets online with my Visa (without applying the credit.) I sure wasn’t going to call Customer Care back a fourth time (I supposedly spoke with a supervisor the last time, but he was so impolite and plain wrong about their credit policy, I don’t believe it was the supervisor). I wrote the head of Customer Care telling him what happened. I hope he writes back and provides some kind of solution so I don’t lose that $400-plus credit come September. (You can only use a United Airlines credit within a year of purchase.) I haven’t heard anything back yet.

It would be great if I wouldn’t unpredictably freak out over stuff, but I haven’t perfected my Serenity Now! ability. (Remember that on Seinfeld?)

In the meantime, I’ll continue with my daily deep-breathing sessions, TRE, meditation and anti-inflammatory drinks.


PTSD Frozen in Time

PTSD and the Consequences of Feeling Nothing

In the spring of 1970, I was thirteen years old. One night, I was washing dishes after dinner. The window above the sink was open and a gentle wind billowed the curtains, bringing in the smell of damp earth and budding trees. Dionne Warwick sang “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again” on the record player. It was a forty-five I had on repeat. I sang along, my hands deep in warm, soapy water.

My father came into the kitchen and growled something in my ear before walking away. I said nothing, continuing my work, but inside I reeled in anguish and terror as I had so many times in the previous four years.

And then, for some reason I’ve never understood, in a moment–everything changed.

That soft, vulnerable place inside me, awash in agony, shut down and was replaced with something like steel.

I suddenly felt nothing. No fear, no anguish, no sadness.


And I knew my dad would never again have the power to make me feel bad. I wouldn’t allow it. Neither would I allow anyone else in the world to make me feel bad the rest of my life. I would never love anyone either. Other people might love me, I thought, but I will never love them in return. I was done with pain. I felt strong, powerful, invulnerable–though I somehow knew this was a horrible strength.

In the years that followed, whatever my survival brain didn’t freeze and compartmentalize on its own, I easily blocked out.

But eventually, emotional pain, intrusive thoughts and flashbacks emerged stronger and stronger. I turned to drinking and drugs to shut it all down.

When I was twenty-nine, my psychiatrist prescribed meds that numbed me pretty well for twenty years. I was able to sleep at night and make a living, but eventually they stopped working and all the emotional and trauma energy I thought I blocked and deleted long before came pouring out, manifesting in excruciating physical pain and nearly unbearable sadness, as detailed in my book PTSD Frozen in Time.

I didn’t know how to get the sadness out of me. I’d spent a lifetime not crying. Music helped immensely in the beginning, but then my tears dried up and even the very saddest songs didn’t help. I couldn’t stand feeling the sadness!! I had to find a way to release it or I was overwhelmed with fatigue, nausea and pain. Trauma Releasing Exercises helped unlock my ability to cry and I was grateful for that, but how I hated it! Every single day for a year and a half, sometimes three times a day, I had these weeping jags. Just sobbing like a baby. I couldn’t stand it. I’d ask Spirit, “How long? How long?” 

And yet…and yet…I was so thankful. I knew it was healing my heart, cleansing my soul, and, without a doubt, getting rid of my debilitating physical pain, fatigue, and nausea.

In my opinion, before I came into this life, I agreed to have a human experience and learn certain lessons. Therefore, I can’t imagine I was going to get away with a lifetime of picking and choosing what I’d feel and what I wouldn’t with impunity. I suppose I could’ve tried to continue shutting down everything as best I could until the very end–what with free will and all–but then I’d have to come back and do this all over again in another life.

No way.

At the end of my book, I was cautiously optimistic that I was all cried out and the daily weeping sessions were over.

That’s pretty much been the case. I still cry sometimes, but just a few tears maybe once or twice every week or two.

When I look back at the me I was in the spring of 1970, tortured and without protection, I’m glad I found a way to stop the bleeding, take a stand, and find power, but it led to unintended and unpleasant consequences down the road. I had no idea that when you cut out emotional pain, you also end up cutting out pleasant emotions, too. I stopped feeling anything. The world became gray and lifeless, and so did I.

I often feel a deep sadness at my core now, but I also get to feel joy, too.

And love. Yes, love.



Among My Souvenirs: Drugs, Nervous Breakdowns and Miss Bunny

I’ve been going through closets and boxes and throwing out stuff in anticipation of our move out west.

I am so excited!! Mountains!! Wide open spaces!! Billions of stars visible at night!! (I can only see one from our downtown Chicago high-rise.) Peace and quiet!! Sunny over 300 days a year!!! No more snow!! Close to Sedona and other areas loaded with positive energy and healers galore!!! No more sirens night and day (we’re one block from a big hospital). No more construction noise. (They built five high-rise buildings around ours in the last six years.) No more crazy traffic!! And all this at half the rent we’re paying now!!

I read a decluttering article where the author said, “If you aren’t sure you want to keep something, bring it up to your heart and ask, ‘Does this bring me joy? If not, toss.’”

I think that’s a good rule of thumb, but I am keeping some things that don’t necessarily bring me joy, but are important or dear to me for other reasons.

For example, I found some cartoons I drew in the 90’s and I love them because they remind me of how far I’ve come and that’s such a good feeling.

At that time, I was working sixty-hour weeks in a high-pressure, deadline-driven job. I’d look so forward to the weekends. I always had the feeling that if I could just get enough quality sleep and relaxation, I’d feel better again. But I never did. I usually felt either numb or in despair. It was an empty, sad, isolated life without meaningful relationships or any sense of wellbeing.

For a couple years, I did enjoy synthetic well-being with narcotics, but then my tolerance became too great and no amount of drugs made any difference. I just took them so I wouldn’t get sick.

Getting off them was the beginning of healing, but it sure wasn’t a smooth, easy road.

About four years into my sobriety, I had a nervous breakdown. I wrote about it in my short-read Startle: A True Story of PTSD and the Paranormal. One reason I fell apart was because my PTSD meds stopped working and I couldn’t sleep much anymore. I shudder to remember what I went through. But the good news is, not only did I get through it, but that’s when Jack came into my life. Hooray!!

When I got off the PTSD meds three and a half years ago, all the physical pain I knew in my twenties came back.

But now, thank God, all that’s gone, too.

When I look at this picture below, I think, Poor Miss Bunny. She had such a sad life and didn’t know why or have a clue as to how to fix it. So much more pain was on the way. If I could go back through time, I’d give her a big hug and tell her someday, she’ll understand exactly what happened to her when she was little and why she became the bunny she did.

And then I’d tell her if she only holds on, one day, when she least expects it, she’ll find love and eventually move far, far away to a beautiful land with mountains and horses and billions of stars in the sky each night.



Go West, Young PTSD Woman

My plan after my last blog post, about the disconcerting energy vibrating above my chest, was to make a practice of pranic breathing three times a day to break up and release that energy–in addition to my usual once-a-day Trauma Releasing Exercises.

I picked three times a day because my body still thinks we’re in 1968 and gets nervous on the same schedule as it did back then.

Anyhoo, I did pretty good with the 3X pranic breathing the first couple days, but then I found myself doing it only twice a day, then once a day because…well, gosh, I had too much to do!!!!

We’re relocating from Chicago to Arizona and I’m getting rid of so much stuff, donating clothes and furniture to a church, putting aside family things for family, setting appointments with moving companies for estimates, creating my schedule for apartment and house hunting (I’m going alone for a week in June because it would be too much for Jack. He had heart surgery in December and he’s decades older than me) and so on.

It’s totally irrational, when I think about it, that when I need to take stress-relieving measures most, I skip it.

I wake up with energy surges shooting down my arms (a sign I’m under a lot of stress) and think the solution is to do as much as I possibly can as fast as I possibly can.

That does not relieve my stress EVER.

It leads my usual hypervigilance into insane territory.

So I’m back to doing the breathing three times a day and it is definitely helping. It breaks down my body’s sense of EMERGENCY!!! and eases me back into sane thinking and sane mph.

I had an interesting experience the first night of the first day I began my pranic breathing practice. (Three ten-minute periods.)

When I laid me down to sleep, the vibrating energy was still there condensed in the upper left-hand side above my chest. I focused on it, and asked the energy or my body/mind a few questions like, What are you trying to tell me? Are you an emotion? What is this energy? How can I best break this up or release it?

Pretty soon, I found myself falling into a deeply relaxed state. As happens about half the time when I ask my body/mind or Spirit a question, I got a screen shot involuntarily projected in my mind.

It was of a half-open door. Peeking around it were a blue light and a pink light looking at me.

My eyes popped open.

What the heck?

I couldn’t understand the message.

Pink is often related to unconditional love and blue with tranquility. How did that relate to the condensed vibrating energy? And how could colors look at me?

When I described it to Jack the next day, I said it was almost like they were two kids peeking around the door right at the doorknob. Maybe they were little boy and girl angels!

Who knows? But the great thing is the condensed vibrating energy disappeared after that.

I don’t know if it had to do with pranic breathing or the pink and blue energies or with something else.

It’s a mystery.

When I was going through my closets, I found some preliminary drawings I made for a book I wrote a couple years ago called My Husband’s Toes (under the name Lori O’Connell). It’s about how one day, when Jack was sleeping, his toes started talking to me. I got to know them all, had long conversations with each, listened to their hopes and dreams and tried to help bring them to fruition. Although not all the toes had laudable ambitions. In this drawing, the big toe, who said he was Mussolini in a former life, demands a desert landscape be implanted on Jack’s foot. (I didn’t end up illustrating the book. I didn’t have enough expertise and finesse to create what I wanted. It looks like the big toe has dragon-head-bumps or something.)


How Being Involuntarily Committed Led to Incredible Happiness

In my late twenties, my PTSD symptoms were getting worse and worse. I hadn’t been diagnosed yet and kept looking for solutions outside myself—a better job, a new love, new friends, enjoyable hobbies, and any recognition that I was somehow of value.

I knew I enjoyed performing and thought that might pull me out of my unpredictable states of hyperarousal, numbness and/or despair. I began trying out for shows and succeeded in landing roles, but to my baffled dismay, I found that although some nights I felt great and was able to put on entertaining performances, other nights, I felt like the walking dead, unable to act my way out of a paperback.

It didn’t matter if there was a packed house in front of me. I’d stand on stage feeling absolutely nothing and my performances reflected it.

I didn’t understand I was dissociating and ultimately blamed my numbness and apathy on the material.

So I wrote a one-woman show, figuring I’d always feel enthusiastic about performing that since the content would always come from a deeply-felt place in my heart.

Unfortunately, that didn’t prove to be the case. I continued to dissociate and got terrible reviews.

Man, did I go down fast.

The show ended and, over the course of the next year, I went into a very dark place.

Growing up, my reality was denied daily. I survived by living in accordance with other people’s version of reality. (Ironically, my show was about the consequences of denying reality.)

In adulthood, unbeknownst to me, I still depended on other people to determine my reality. Therefore, if theater critics thought my show a failure, it was a failure—and, of course, so was I.

It wasn’t true, but that’s how I felt.

About nine months after the show closed, I was in such torpid despair, I couldn’t make it to work much anymore and, though I didn’t have any money saved, I quit my job.

My boyfriend suggested we move in together. I didn’t have much choice since I couldn’t pay my rent, so I picked out a nice place and moved in, asking him to wait a bit before he also moved in. I needed a little time to myself.

I found a doctor through my therapist who prescribed a medication I never heard of and can’t remember to this day.

Alone in the new apartment, I hoped for relief with the meds.

They knocked me out like you wouldn’t believe, which I loved.

But every time I woke, I felt just as terrible as I did before.

So I’d take four or five or six more pills and go back to bed because I couldn’t stand being conscious.

I did this every few hours for a few days.

One morning, I woke and, as usual, immediately took some more pills. (I had a lot of them. I’d already filled the refill.)

I laid back down on my bed and the weirdest thing happened.

As I felt myself dropping into oblivion, I heard an almost eardrum-shattering prehistoric roar under my bed.

It was so loud and terrifying, I jumped up on the mattress, leaped across the room, ran into the living room and called my boyfriend, telling him he could move in immediately. Then I went outside and sat on the steps, waiting for him. I wasn’t going back in there alone!

(In hindsight, I believe that roar came from The Other Side. They knew I would die shortly if I continued taking those pills. That’s the only thing that makes sense.)

The next thing I remember was waking up in the emergency room five days later.

Words are inadequate to describe the terror I felt waking up there with no memory of the preceding days.

I froze in fear when the doctor said he had no choice but to commit me because I‘d overdosed. It didn’t matter me telling him it was accidental. I was being committed.

I had no insurance and was afraid I’d have to go to one of Illinois’ infamous state hospitals. My brother made some calls, though, and got me a “welfare bed” in a prominent hospital in an affluent suburb nearby.

You can imagine my state of hypervigilance in the eleven days I stayed in the psychiatric ward. I was terrified knowing I’d almost accidentally killed myself and that I’d lost my freedom. My immediate future was to be determined by strangers.

I’d read a book once called Women and Madness and remembered the author saying that staff in mental hospitals think female patients are getting better if they take showers every day and put on make-up. You can bet that’s what I did first thing every morning.

When I got out of the hospital, I was still in despair. Nothing had changed, except I now owed the hospital over $7,000.

I realized I could not afford the luxury of one negative thought because it would lead me to greater despair and drugs and possibly another overdose, voluntary or involuntary, and I never ever wanted to end up committed to a mental ward again.

So I cut out the negative thinking one minute at a time.

It was HARD.

Sometimes, I’d literally narrate what I was doing in the here-and-now to avoid negative thinking. I’d walk to the bus stop to go to work (I’d gotten another job–selling light fixtures!) and would think, Now I’m walking down the steps. I see a wet leaf on the sidewalk. The leaves are beginning to bud on the trees. There’s a cat in that window. The sidewalk buckles here. I’m coming to the stop sign now….

And so on.

At work, I’d focus on nothing but work.

I made sure to always have a good book on hand and an entertaining VCR movie at home. (Remember those?)

It was really difficult to sustain positive or neutral thinking at first, but day by day I got better at it and at some point, it became second nature.

I began to feel good, really good, because I was succeeding at controlling what went on in my mind and I also felt so much better because I wasn’t castigating myself anymore or going over and over every lousy thing that ever happened to me.

Sometimes a painful subject might light upon the wire, but I wouldn’t let it build a nest there. I’d stay calm and get back in the moment.

I did have one terrible flashback in that period, but flashbacks are totally different than negative thoughts.

By the time spring came around, I was feeling pretty darn good even though the only thing that had changed was my thinking.

I kept looking for a job that would pay more money and give me more responsibility, and finally found one.

I was thrilled.

I saved money and moved out of my boyfriend’s apartment into the tiniest living space that ever existed.

But I LOVED it.

It was the cutest little efficiency you ever saw. It was a studio in the back of a huge mansion in Chicago’s Gold Coast. (It had been a servant’s living quarters in the olden days.)

I began to wake every morning with the most wonderful feeling in my body. It actually vibrated with wellbeing.

I never experienced anything like it.

I felt fantastic every single day. I was incredibly happy.

I loved my new job. I was a manager and a proposal writer and, at long last, being paid enough to live a little.

I connected with an old friend and we started hanging out and having adventures.

I began dating again.

And then, I can’t remember the circumstances anymore, but one day I got a hold of some painkillers, which kick-started my obsessive addict-self. (I quit tranquilizers at nineteen and drinking at twenty-four.)

I also started dating my boss.

I think you can guess how this all turned out.

I became obsessed with getting more pain pills.

I stopped being vigilant in my positive thinking.

When I tried to break up with my boss, he became cruel and manipulative.

Little by little, I lost my physical, emotional, and mental wellbeing.

Eventually, I got another job, but it took a long time, and it was years before I got off the painkillers.

I know from experience that watching my thoughts and keeping them neutral, positive or constructive can be accomplished with sustained effort, and lead to fabulous wellbeing, but when I am dealing with PTSD pain and discomfort, I find it more difficult to do compared to how it was when I was in my early thirties and my anti-depressants were effective in masking a lot of my physical symptoms.

As detailed in my book, PTSD Frozen in Time, when I got off the meds three and a half years ago, all the symptoms from my twenties came back, but through a number of techniques, I released most of the buried energy causing me pain and discomfort in my feet, legs, back and stomach.

Lately, I’m dealing with uncomfortable density, constriction and/or vibrations above my chest. (I do not have a heart condition. I check that regularly since it’s in the family.)

If I’m not mindful of these sensations and don’t take action to alleviate them, I find myself smoking like crazy and running around doing errand after errand, going faster and faster, in an unconscious effort to escape my body.

Sometimes, by the end of the night or in the wee hours, I’ve become totally hypervigilant and feel trapped and immobilized. When I feel that old paralysis, I’m least likely to do TRE or The Tapping Solution or mindful meditation or dance, although I know these methods would help me break out of it.

Last night, I read a fabulous memoir called Heart of Miracles by Karen Henson Jones. It’s a beautifully-written narrative of her experience after a heart surgery gone wrong, the two or three years of debilitating pain and illness that followed, and her efforts at healing. At one time, she was consulting with twenty-four doctors. Then one day, she took up Kundalini Yoga and within a month found her health significantly improved.

She also begins a spiritual quest that takes her to India and Bhutan and…oh gosh, there’s so much to this book. It’s really inspiring.

What leaped off the page for me last night was the pranic breathing aspect of Kundalini. I’d been doing some of that on and off for a few years (the breathing, not the yoga), but not daily. It brought to mind what my chiropractor said to me two years ago, in response to the fact that I was still smoking, “Well, that’s one way of breathing deeply on a regular basis.”

I said to Jack today, “I’m going to try to do extended periods of pranic breathing three times a day for a while. I know I smoke more when my chest feels constricted or dense or like it’s vibrating wildly. Maybe this will help.”

Today is Day One. When I finish this blog post, I’m going to do my third period of deep pranic breathing in an effort to break up that area of density above my chest. Maybe if I do it throughout the day, I won’t end my nights so hypervigilant and tense. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Allow me to introduce Little Mama.

Little Mama is the very first plantie I ever bought. I call her Little Mama because she’s brought six other planties into the world (with her cuttings and a little help from me).

Little Mama is very nurturing and kind. Her aura is pink. Her favorite song is “Day by Day” from Godspell. She is very quiet inside and full of wisdom and patience. I asked the Powers That Be (spirit guides, spirit animals, angels and so on) to give me a sign of support one day before I laid down to do my mindful meditation. I fell into a Theta Brain Wave State and right before I resurfaced to normal consciousness, a screen shot of Little Mama presented itself to me in my head. She was so close, sending a message of love and healing support.

I love Little Mama.


Little Mama in Real Life