Category Archives: personal testimony

history of personal belief and transformation

By Name.

People might ask how it is that I never believe what others say, about somebody, until I’ve either heard or spoken with that person.

I think it’s because of 1999.

Don’t worry; that story is already chronicled, in a piece called No Excuse. Yes; after seven years of continuous avocational compulsion To Write, although this may be the first week I’ve actually listened to my Christopher Parkening duo CD all the way through, in print we’ve reached the blog recycle stage.

It takes having been the subject of public slander.

Once you realize that entire chunks of multiple demographics believe you to be the aggressive perpetrator of your own fleshly failings, you discover that what people say about anybody is forever tainted.

Tainted, by rumor, innuendo, the men who manage and their ladies who lunch about the lives of those to whom they only aspire.

Once you endure, first acutely and then forever, false characterization of your very self by remote strangers, you learn. You learn an even stranger magnanimity, a broadly stroking latitude, a prisoner’s forgiving heart.

And again, even this will be subject to the panel of self-assigned scrutinizers, those who remember or think they do, as if your very act of acceptance is an indictment.

To the world, your judgment is warped, your worth relegated, your life to know its place.

This is how, therefore, I came to actually hear Pierre Kory, MD speak about his bedside Emergency Room treatment of actively infected covid patients. To most paying him any attention at all, he’s right up there with RFK Jr on the list of those condemned to the social trash heap. But, I’ve been listening to him talk every week for several months, live online, along with his colleagues in the fight. And, just yesterday, he replied to my direct email. If we met in an airport, we could say Hello like old college buddies.

I listen to Richard Fleming, too. And, Dr. Mobeen Syed. And, Suzanne Somers.

If you don’t hear people, first hand, you won’t get their testimonies. And, personal testimony isn’t reserved for court. It’s what we are.

Anymore, the personal testimony of those who really do have our health and vitality at heart, while they still breathe air, are waiting to be heard.

Go, find them, and sit at their feet. It’s the way Jesus’ disciples learned the Gospel. They didn’t wait for somebody else to tell it to them. Granted, that Gospel has endured endless iteration, but we wouldn’t have the Good News at all were it not for those who listened, first hand.

Thanks to the wonder of audio technology, Christopher Parkening repeats his Recuerdos de la Alhambra as many times as I request him. I wasn’t there when he first recorded the piece, circa 1993; but, returning to a time when who I was had not yet been defined by those who still don’t know, I meet and revisit him, through his music.

People might say I know him, by name.

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Copyright 8/22/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name is real and appears above this line. No copying, translating, or quoting without sharing the blog link, directly. Thank you for your first hand attention.

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ALCOHOLIC AMNESIA.

*this post is a video transcript.

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alcoholic amnesia.

that’s really at the crux of any argument that could win the case for amber heard, in my opinion, and I am not an attorney.

the video she captured of his behavior in the kitchen, slamming the cupboards around and drinking a lot of wine while he was already drunk in the morning, is enough evidence for anyone who has been in a relationship with somebody who is an active alcoholic. and, anyone who has been in a relationship with an active alcoholic knows that the potential for violence is always there.

many have actually seen aggressive behavior perpetrated toward inanimate objects, and have come very close to either being struck or being restrained or moved harshly -shoved – whatever; the potential is always there, and I would say it’s a matter of random luck of the draw who gets struck and who does not. because, when an alcoholic is in a binge drunk in the surly phase all bets are off as to whether or not that person can a) control what they do physically, or b) remember it.

it’s about whether they even remember it.

so, that’s the real issue. because, in a court of law, when you’re asked if you did or did not do something, as an active alcoholic how can you testify truthfully to something you cannot recall?

and, how can you defend it, if someone else has seen you do it?

that’s at the crux of this.

apparently, they both drank — we have enough evidence that Amber drank as well as Johnny — and, maybe all her wine consumption provoked her to slap back and and do the things that she did physically. maybe they both have alcoholic amnesia (although, her patterns seemed to be more about continuous drip, rather than black out) but, I don’t know how you enter alcoholic amnesia into a courtroom and assess it and measure it for its value. I think that should be considered because, obviously, it’s at the heart of this case.

alcoholics don’t remember what they say and do when they’re in the surly phase or in the pre-comatose phase, and if they have a habit and a behavior pattern of binging then they have a whole lifestyle of long episodes that they cannot retrieve – and, to them, don’t exist.

that side of the person as demonstrated

can’t be defended

nor can it be testified.

the alcoholic doesn’t realize or believe, in large part, that they’re capable of that kind of behavior.

now, some may remember some aspects of what they say and do. they may remember how they felt, perhaps, during the phase; but, they don’t remember what they did or said.

and, they may acknowledge evidence if they see it on film — ( they have to; they can’t deny that kind of evidence) — but, do they palpably, viscerally, tactiley, kinesthetically remember with their bodies and their minds?

that’s the issue, in my opinion. and, that’s just my opinion.

God bless the jurors, and Johnny and Amber – still vulnerable, both to each other and to themselves.

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Previously presented on YouTube @ Ruth Ann Scanzillo’s Music & Musings. Verbatim, until the end.

5/31/22.

The Act To Follow.

Grief.

Disallows.

Like the opening act hired to warm up an audience that turns out to be funnier or more talented than the show’s headliner, grief upstages everything which comes after.

When my beloved colleague and lifelong friend, Louie, died of covid back in December, I sank into the deepest despair my increasingly unimportant life had yet to endure. His departure cut me in half, goring my creative core, leaving only amputated limbs to sweep the kitchen floor with a broom, wash the dishes with a handled sponge brush, cook an evening skillet of vegetable pasta with oil, and separate the sweaty laundry into loads to hang or fold when dried.

I was dried. There was no me left in me.

The cello slept, untouched, until private lessons demanded it awake. Even the piano loomed nearly dormant, desire to record and upload to the Tube channel after requisite virtual church services just a memory of a life since ground to powder.

Essentially excess fat, the burden of physical weight which had begun to melt a year before continued its steady disappearing act until I was smaller than I’d remembered being since college. Spandex jeans would slide down if I walked, requiring a belt and, forget the pajamas, which literally fell off to my feet.

Yes. Covid grief is its own killer.

It carries corollaries.

Blame. Regret.

We can’t just miss the person, and honor their departure; we have to feel somehow singularly responsible. Our minds are a revolving door of “what ifs” and “why didn’t I?”

Therein the essence of my past four months.

I’d devoted the previous five years to one other solitary individual, the man I’d called my partner, my love. Even made his Pfizer appointment, an act I would rue. At last check, he was still breathing; albeit, as by fire, he’d survived the medical community’s gravest and rarest of afflictions, acute saddle pulmonary embolism. Look that up; this arterial condition is, among all of life’s most threatening, prophetically silent.

He’d surfaced, after ghosting me since I’d aborted Christmas dinner, texting from the ICU. Immediately, from my protective distance, I tried to be there as he awaited the catheter procedure which would successfully remove the obstructive clot, and remained ever vigilant in the days and weeks thereafter as he commenced his regimen of blood thinners and several follow up medical tests.

But, somewhere between my ongoing grief and this trauma bonding, something turned.

Ultimately, though the near death fright had given way to philosophical reflection, he would finally reveal himself. As suspected, this relationship I’d been nurturing, both in person and in my head, was largely a figment of my own hopeful expectation; he didn’t really want me, although he was happy to need me, and my being displaced without warning was always on his radar. I’d just never bothered to check the weather forecast.

Having yearned to pour myself back into caring for and about the one who had survived, grief had other plans for me; instead, I would know the desolation of discard. What a wake.

She calls him “babe”, that proclamation of assumed ownership, usually the moniker for having crossed into the realm of intimate bliss. My imagination is now hijacked by scenarios that disavow five, often agonizing years of God-seen devotion.

Pulling the curtain, grief just gloats.

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© 4/13/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo . All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in part or whole including translation, permitted without direct sharing by littlebarefeetblog.com link exclusively. Please honor original material. Don’t be a thief. Thanks.

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