House of A Writer

Welcome to my blog where I share my special needs parenting journey with my heart, truth, and love, one story at a time. ❤️

Jan 19

Monday Musings-the lies we tell ourselves

by Jeanine Lebsack

I’m a truthful person I’ve been taught to always be honest but never cruel, to be appreciative and not take things or people for granted. To always speak from my heart instead of inventing a lie. There’s one lie I’ve told myself is that I’m fine. I’m really not when I say that, it’s a easy way of letting the world know I have it together. 

Even though it appears like I do I really don’t, I’m struggling and I hide behind the mask that I present to world. I always think about that quote 

“Be kind to others, because everyone is fighting their own secret battles.”

I am a kind and loving person and I’m raising my children to be this way as well. I teach them to tell the truth, and to let them know they can tell their parents anything. I give them the opportunity to tell the truth first then give consequences if they’re not honest with me. I don’t want them to think it’s ok to tell me they’re fine when they’re not. Or that “I didn’t do it”or “I don’t know broke” the lamp. 

We tell ourselves these lies because it’s hard to face the truth sometimes. But even though it’s an old cliche the truth will set us free. There’s nothing to remember when you tell the truth, there’s nothing that needs to be created when honesty is the best policy. I’m dealing with a situation right now of lies being told. I have given the opportunity to hear the truth but wasn’t given that respect.

 So now there are consequences and disappointment. Why do we have to hide behind a mask of untruths instead of just being honest? Why does it feel better to lie and make ourselves feel better than ripping off the bandaid and exposing ourselves? It’s easier to hide behind a facade then to be real with ourselves. This is a foreign concept for me as I was taught the truth is a positive way to live my life. 

To be lied to is to be disrespected, and the hurt that arises from that is crushing. I don’t need to build myself up with a house of cards where the truth is distorted and I can’t tell what is real or what is not. Whether it happens sooner or later that house of deception comes crashing down around you. Be real, it’s the only way to feel good about yourself don’t build yourself up into being someone you don’t recognize or respect. 

I’m going to start taking my own advice when people ask me how I’m doing I’m not going to say fine. I will tell the truth I’m happy the sun’s shining, I’m struggling but I’m finding a way to cope. I owe it to myself to speak the truth and not hiding behind a mask I’ve created out of fear.  William Shakespeare is one of my favourite poets and playwrights and he spoke the truth when he created this simple but profound quote. 

“To thine own self be true”

It’s time for #Mondaymusings and all you have to do is this list of things. 

Write a post sharing your thoughts with us – happy, sad, philosophical, ‘silly’ even. Make it as personal as possible.
Use the hashtag #MondayMusings and link to this post.
Add your link to the linky which you will find either here and on the post of a co-host.
Use our #MondayMusings badge to help other bloggers join in too.
Visit and comment on the posts of other bloggers linked here.

Share the love.

Today’s co-hosts are Everyday Gyaan and Tales of Two Tomatoes

  

life

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Sep 8

I don’t pretend to be something I’m not

by Jeanine Lebsack

I’m a truthful person I always have been, and always will be. I can be tactful if someone asks me a honest question. I don’t go out my way to be brutally honest but I won’t sugar coat the truth either. I wasn’t raised that way to be a waffler and float between lies and half truths. I don’t go about feigning the truth and pretend to be something I’m not.

 I’m a straight shooter, because that’s who I was raised to be. I was around both kinds of people growing up though the liars and the truth tellers.  I believe it gave me a strong perspective on who I wanted to grow up to be in my life. Recently I was faced with a situation of being honest or being politically correct in a delicate situation. 

I chose honesty and that wasn’t received very well.  Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, maybe I should’ve just bit my tongue and not voiced my truth. That’s a lot of maybes in a bucket, and honestly that just isn’t me. I never pretend to be something I’m not for anyone. Not my husband, children, family or my friends. That  may make me a weirdo, or quirky, or too hot to handle but I know one thing it does make me, is comfortable in my own skin.

 

 I see a lot of professions based on dishonesty and it turns my stomach. All you have to do is turn on the tv and see and hear all the lies and half truths spewing from any election candidate. We live in the information world and can find out anything we want at a the click of a button. I think politicians should give us the public, credit for being intelligent and educated individuals.

 My son at the tender age of 8 has become interested in politics. I’m breaking one of my rules by discussing politics and religion, but like all his interests I encourage him to learn more. He was quite shocked to find out that he could never be President ! I told him we’re Canadian and we have a Prime Minister that runs our country. I never mentioned he did that well, just that he’s the boss and he has members of parliament for each province that answer to him.  

I won’t get into the checkered past of politicians  Canadian or American,  with him.  I don’t want to take the bloom off the rose just yet. He’ll figure it out in time he’s a smart boy. So here I am encouraging my son’s political aspirations and at the same time keeping him truthful and just. I think children can learn a lot by how the adults in their life treat each other. 

I want my children to know that they count on me as being truthful and supportive. I won’t pull the wool over their eyes and I always encourage the truth. I won’t let them be beguiled and told there’s sunshine when it’s raining. I’m raising them to be thoughtful, compassionate, kind, caring, loving men who will go out and make a difference in this world. I want their hearts, minds, and spirits embroiled in the truth. I was taught that honesty is the best policy. Even if it sounds like an old cliche the truth will really set you free. 

This is my Sunday confession for the lovely More Than Cheese and Beer. Please check out her anonymous confessions and the other talent that link up. Thank you.

life

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Apr 1

These Eyes of Mine

by Jeanine Lebsack

I look at these eyes of mine ,bluer than blue staring back at me from the mirror. The crystal blueness takes me back as I see one tear slipping across my cheek. There’s a vast ocean of pain that these eyes of mine hide. I do my best to deal with it, hide it, and keep it all in until it’s pouring forth like a waterfall of emotion. I think to my past and wonder if I could’ve been better. A better daughter, sister, aunt, and friend. I think of all these roles I played from a young age. I became an aunt at the age of six, and I was quite used to being the youngest child in my family. 

I sat on my Dad’s lap and watched my big brother holding this tiny baby. I had a mixture of emotion as I looked at him. Curiosity, excitement, and yes even jealousy. My Dad had left when I was four I remember it all too well; the crying, shrieking, and red hot anger of my Mom as she chased him out of the house. He was running for his life as she brandished a knife, and I knew this was a women on the edge between sanity and survival. He had pushed her to a breaking point and she had pushed back. My Dad left, ran out of our house and didn’t look back. He took on a new family, responsibilities, and lived in their home. 

I visited every weekend and holidays and this never felt like my home.  I was a guest and nothing more, and I struggled to feel comfortable in my own skin. This wasn’t my Mom, bedroom, or backyard. This was too much newness for a little four year old girl to understand. I didn’t feel like I was special, wanted, or appreciated. I remember attending kindergarten in the fall. I was badly in need of a haircut and it was picture day on Monday. This would be my first and last haircut that my step Mom ever gave me. I couldn’t sit still the bowl on my head was heavy and cumbersome. The hairs tickled my nose and made me sneeze. It was an overstimulatmg sensory experience and everyone just thought I was misbehaving. I was called a brat and left on my own after that. 

I looked in the mirror and saw this ragamuffin hairdo and I cried bitterly the rest of the weekend. My first Kindergarten picture and I looked like I had cut my hair with a butterknife! My Mom was furious and tried to fix it but the damage was done. I couldn’t even smile for that Godforsaken picture. It tore me up inside to look so ridiculous. The taunts, jeers, and stares overwhelmed me. I spent more time hiding or throwing my fists around to avoid any confrontation. I was no stranger to it in fact I welcomed it, then someone knew I was there and mattered. After that hideous haircut I avoided going near a pair of scissors or that stool again. 

Then just like everything that floats around elementary schools and germ warfare I got lice at the age of six. I was horrified and scared about what was happening to me as I scratched my head until it bled. My Mom blamed my Dad, my Dad blamed my Mom and I was sent to stay with my Grandparents for a week. I remember sitting in the purple clawfoot tub as my Gram rubbed pink calamine lotion over my head, neck, and eyebrows. I felt that hot water pouring over me and watching those dead bugs lying in the tub. As they swirled down the drain my tears mixed with the pink liquid as it streamed down my face and into my eyes. It burned a lot, but not as much as my hot humiliation of having contracted the condition anyway. 

These eyes of mine have seen a lot of pain, hidden a lot of lies, and have yet continued to be my windows of truth. These are memories I’ve stored away in the tiny box that I’ve buried in my mind. Then something will trigger it and like Pandora’s ill fated box it will open up again. These emotional scars I wear on my heart threaten to overtake me at times. I watched something tonight about children and what their Father represented to them. Some said pride, confidence, anger, pain, love, and nothing but emptiness because he was gone. This struck a nerve with me. A jangling nerve trigger that was hanging in the balance. And my bluer than blue eyes welled up with tears while I struggled to gain my composure. My children will never know of my pain, they will never experience that uncertainty or need to doubt their existence. They will know only love, guidance, respect, and firmness when discipline is needed. They will know only of my joy and gratitude when they blessed me with their arrival.  They will know that they are and will always be, the key to my heart. ❤️

 

life

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