Rose tainted lens

vsco_0-5

Lately I’ve noticed how much I resist being in the ‘now’ because my life doesn’t look like how I want it to. It doesn’t look ANYTHING like how I thought it would, dreamt it would, believed it would, hoped it would, or wanted it to like…so it just means I fucking hate a lot about the ‘present’, if I really let myself be in it…like, proper in it. Not just mindfulness within myself, my body, but mindfulness of everything around me. Not just the trees, the birds singing, the beautiful sun shining through the clouds…I mean really looking at where I am geographically, in front of me and on the map, and really breathing that in and really noticing how that makes me feel.

Heartbreak. Hatred. Longing. Hating. Wanting. Wishing. Hoping…they are normally the sensations and feelings I notice. When I’m being mindful with a little bit of me left outside of the ‘now’ and sitting in imagined reality, then I have a bit of peace. I have a bit of hope. I am not left in a pit of wondering how the FUCK I got here…wondering where the FUCK I am going. When I allow myself to daydream or to look at the present a little differently, a little with rose tainted glasses and a hopeful grin, I am okay with where I am. But when I look at it with what feels like ‘real eyes’, I almost cannot handle it. Hence hardly doing it very often.

This is not where I want to be. This is not who I thought I would be. This is not what I wanted to be. This is not what I was going to be. This is not what I was going to do.

Is this being twenty-something? Is this me still finding my feet with where I find myself in adulthood? Is this me ‘coming to terms with’ the person I am becoming? Is this me wondering where on earth I am going? I laughed when I wrote those last two questions. ‘Coming to terms with the person I’m becoming’…that feels sad, but quite funny, that I would write that!

I feel like imagination and rose tainted glasses, make things hopeful. I see things how I want to see them. But maybe this is okay? Because it keeps me happy. It keeps me from feeling the grief, the pain, that I feel when I really see myself for where I am now. The grief and pain of when I look at my life how it is now doesn’t overwhelm so intensely, when I have on my rose tainted glasses.

936886_533644870027437_1809204381_n

Another thing I’ve noticed, with the refusing to allow or accept for where I’m at, is the resistance towards feeling supported by the world, life, the universe. “When I look back, I see only miracles”, is one of my favourite quotes (I have no idea who it’s by…) but when I hate how much my life has not felt like mine, and how much it’s felt like a dream, I cannot help but feel MEGA resistance to the fact that actually, when I look back, I have always been so, so, so looked after by life and where I have found myself. I have always, always, had what I need…in times I have had NO idea how it would come to me.

But this feeling of being in a dream and this feeling of life not really belonging to me, not being truly mine – the idea that I am not where I wanted or should or ever thought I would be, feels at the root of this resistance. And it kinda makes sense.

How am I supposed to be grateful, when where I find myself is not where I want to be? How am I supposed to feel looked after when the support is for a life I didn’t think I would lead? How am I supposed to allow myself to grieve for what was, when I don’t fucking like what is now. Sure there is a shit tonne of beauty, but there always is, wherever I am. Thing is, the rest of what is, is shit…it’s not where I want to be. But I can look at it through the rose tainted, hopeful, glasses. Or I can look at it through the ones that don’t fit me – the glasses that don’t agree with me.

Either way, I do want to feel more present with the present. I do want to be able to sit with the now, more. To sit with where I truly am – rose tainted lens’ or real, uncomfy ones – and be able to be with the feelings, the realisms…I think part of this is growing up, but I also think that part of this is recovering from the overdose. I remember my therapist saying that people have told her that the time following an attempt is like a ‘bad trip’. I’ve never had a bad trip, I don’t even really think I’ve ever had any kinda trip (except for ones involving rucksacks). But I defo feel like that’s how I feel – like my life is a trip, a dream, a surreal – so surreal – time that I keep expecting to wake up from.

And I know this isn’t a dream, and it hasn’t been a dream (at a lot of points I have definitely said it’s felt like a fucking nightmare) but I do feel as though I’m waking up, slowly. My eyes feel like they’re opening wider than they were before. They’re letting more of life in, and letting more of love out. And all the other shit too. I do feel like I’m waking from a dream, and where I’m finding myself is reality. And I’m getting a bit of a shock.

But I reckon this is probably a good thing. A really, really, healing thing. I just need to stop trying to drown out the feelings that I’m waking up to, too…

20140223-085847 PM.jpg

The storybook of fault

The concept that things aren’t my fault, feels beyond foreign. (Things, as in, everything and anything that goes wrong, or is hard in my life and my life around me.) Like, the fact that it could even be something I need to ‘work on’ feels so seemingly impossible that I can barely type it. It’s a concept that, before therapy, I didn’t even realise I believed…I just thought it was true. It wasn’t even in my awareness as a thought/thought stream, I had. I wasn’t even aware I was thinking it.

It was, and still often is, the norm that fuels my greater belief system about my daily life.

20140203-053143 PM.jpg

I then suddenly get moments like I did just now, that leave me in floods of tears. The latest whirlwind of critic chatter in my head, bombarding me with shit about all that’s going on and the theories he has about it all, came to a head. Imagine he was on a treadmill at the Gym For Inner Critics…well he whacked up the speed higher and higher, and then fell on his face. Bam.

The theory that its all my fault is the undercurrent to his story. I hadn’t realised. Sometimes the belief pops up, and I see its face – kinda like a seal in the ocean, merrily playing around beneath the surface and then suddenly you catch a glimpse of its head. That’s how this belief feels. Once in a while, it shows its head and it lets me read its story.

So today when I caught sight of its head and the story book in its hand, I realised that this belief has been bopping along to my inner critics music, and fuelling the fire. The idea that this is all my fault. That I’m not doing enough. That I could be doing more. That I have made my back happen. That I am continuing to make it worse. That the fact it’s not getting speedily better, is my fault. The fact that my body is just like this…the fact that it is how it is, is my fault. It’s because I’m wrong, I’ve done something wrong, or I’ve not done enough. That the fact I still haven’t got a permanent home, is my fault too. The fact that my emotions seemingly run the show, is my fault. The fact that my life looks like it does, and the fact that I struggle feel like I’m keeping afloat, is my fault too. I am (supposedly) the one to the blame for it all.

Fuck, keeping afloat feel like hard work. I’ve got a complete arsehole yelling at me in my inner ears, and this core belief has a really old storybook in its hand. One that wouldn’t be published anymore. Anyone would feel like shit with that going on in their head. Taking simply just the body stuff, the concept that that isn’t something to do with me, and that I still deserve love with it going on, is (almost, note the almost) beyond me.

In mid-whirlwind of booming critical chatter, the beliefs head popped up and I burst into tears. I hadn’t realised this story, this metaphorical seal, this core belief, had been running the show. So I wrote this, below. I wrote this to myself, I wrote this to my little girl, and I wrote this to you:

It’s not your fault.

It’s not my fault.

20140203-044434 PM.jpg

Growing up in and with abuse, it’s a well known fact that as a kid you absorb it all and believe it’s you. You believe it’s your fault and you believe that because of you, the abuse is happening. So as you get older, this naturally carries over with you, and spills out into parts of your life. I had no idea just how much it is part of my life and my beliefs and what I say to myself and what I think I believe. I believe I don’t deserve support and connection and love because it’s my fault that I’m in the situation I am. It’s my fault I’m needing, and to need is not okay…(I am now begging to differ). I believe and tell myself that I’m a fuck up and I’m a mess because of something I’ve done, or something I haven’t done – and could be doing, but am not. I tell myself these things almost all the freakin’ time.

It’s such a massive concept, the idea that it isn’t true – it isn’t my fault, I didn’t make it happen. I still feel like I’m getting to grips with the idea that this is just a belief…and that it’s even a part of me. It leaves my mind a bit blown. But one thing I do know is that one day, I’ll know – and truly believe – it wasn’t my fault. And it isn’t my fault now. It really, really, isn’t. I held myself and told myself that, softly. I still hold a puzzled frown, and I can still feel my insides squirm at this concept, but there is a gap in my heart that’s open and willing to take this as truth.

That’s the gold dust.

20140203-052846 PM.jpg

Get lost

This is an absolute necessity for anybody today. You must have a room, or a certain hour or so a day, where you don’t know what was in the newspapers this morning, you don’t know who your friends are, you don’t know what you owe anybody, you don’t know what anybody owes you. This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth, what you are and what you might be. This is the place of creative incubation. At first you might find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something will eventually happen.”

– Joseph Campbell

I loved this quote, this morn. I spend so much of my time either lost in my world, with a strong tug of guilt because I should be ‘ON IT’, doing something else or doing something productive. Or I spend a lot of my time ‘ON IT’ but not actually really getting anywhere, and being too afraid to settle inside myself out of fear of losing my grip on the present. So I kinda feel like I don’t fully go anywhere – there’s always a part of me tugging for the grass on the other side of the pond I’m swimming in. I always feel stressed.

By drifting into this room, this sacred place Campbell talks about, where I don’t know what anyone owes anyone or what I owe myself, I am so afraid of disconnection. I’m afraid of failing because I’m not paying attention. I’m afraid that I’ll lose the person I could be, because I’m drifting away from clear reality.

When in actual fact, I reckon the opposite actually happens – by creating that sacred space and that sacred time, I can have the refuelling and the energising inspiration, and independence, that I so desperately need. That my soul so desperately needs.

Instead I just wear myself out, constantly trying and constantly being a little-bit-alert. Agh.

That is hypervigilance and that is trauma. But it is safe to let it go, or purely to notice it. The best days are the days where I lose myself, because when I come back, I always get things done. I always know I’m safe. Life has a funny way of looking after me, but trusting that entirely, is difficult. But trusting it a little bit seems do-able…more realistic. So I’ll aim for that. And I’ll aim to allow myself to drift and not come back until my soul has been filled with the adrenaline of inspiration and the quietness and calm of solitude, and peace away from the attachments and the responsibilities, and the worries. I’ll take myself there, please.

I can lose myself for a minute and find this peace within myself, so maybe that’s what I need to aim for too – not the big twenty minutes hit. Small steps for starting.

When I connect deep into myself and find the sacred place in there, the connection that comes awakens everything and brings me back home. Trusting this is where the magic happens, trusting this is where I can find me, trusting that this is the roots of productivity, is where I wanna be. And where I hope I’m going.

Trusting that by not being ‘on it’, I am actually more on it. This feels scary to me, yet I know it’s 100% true.

20140130-102622 AM.jpg

One of my most fave films – 180 degrees south, watched last night and this morn. Talk about nourishment, and inspiration, and a sacred space.

We are not them

20140122-010551 AM.jpg

Just a little realisation I made this evening after a shed load of cartooning and journaling…this old chestnut. I am not them. We are not them.

I AM NOT MY PARENTS.

Go tell that to my inner critic for me, would you? Shut the fuck up, Imaginary Storyline maker.

Every time I realise I’m not them, it goes/hits a little deeper. Like the daily little moments I tell myself I’m not them, in the midst of storylines playing out in my head and them filling me with terror. But then I sometimes get these mammoth waves – a huge fuck off hit of realisation that I’ve spent the last few days or weeks with a theory (one that’s been causing havoc with my inner sense of happiness, stability, and peace about the future) that’s all based on the assumption and core belief that I am them I AM FUCKING NOT.

The end. Period. Full stop.

If only it was that simple…but I’m glad this realising continues to go deeper. It’s like layers are being shed and I’m continuing to find my own skin away from them, away from theirs. These realisations, even though they always sound the same and consist of the same four words, the impact is always really different…or actually maybe the impact just goes deeper. To the next layer. And this thrill of celebration when I come-to, wake up, and find myself beneath the crap that’s been flying around my Inner Room all week or month or day or maybe even year, is the shedding of another layer.

That’s pretty beautiful.

A pretty cool review

 

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 13,000 times in 2013. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 5 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Chronic fatigue = Chronic Confidence Whacking Syndrome

As I was meditating (it wasn’t really meditating it just sounds good to write that…I was more like daydreaming) just now I realised something that I’ve been really aware of the last few weeks…months…maybe even years. Yes, definitely years. It’s my fear of health but it’s also my theory about my health. Like, I just feel like I noticed a core belief and worst case scenario that dance together to haunt me and cause havoc with my anxiety and fear about the future and certainty/confidence with the now…:

W.C.S: “I will always have health struggles throughout my life. I won’t be able to do anything I want to because of my health. Nothing will go to plan. I will be a failure. My life will be a mess. I will turn out like my mum – fucked up, constant health struggles, and a mess.”

C.B: I am not worthy (of health). I am not capable. I am my mother…I am destined for a life like hers. (core beliefs always start with ‘I am’).

Thing is, having constant health struggles fucking knocks your confidence. And I feel like it runs deeper than I give it credit for, or realise, or allow for…allow myself to notice. I can’t imagine anything else. I can’t imagine a healthy life…I hadn’t realised that. I cannot put the picture of ‘me’ within the picture of ‘healthy and happy’. Let alone “healthy and happy and successful and rich and loved and accepted and part of a community.” It’s like it just doesn’t fit. This idea that my life could be like this, that maybe my life will be like this, feels like a total joke…an absurdity. Almost as strong as the sense of ridiculousness I used to feel towards the idea that someone could unconditionally love me…and despite not completely believing that, there’s a part of me that knows it must be true. But even just a year ago, this part of me was so much smaller and felt this belief could only be a fantasy. The idea of unconditional love could not be the truth. It could for everyone else, but it couldn’t for me. But that’s changed and is continuing to change and beginning to get deeper…like, I definitely don’t completely believe that anyone could unconditionally love me, or that act is even possible, but I definitely know that it exists. And so if it exists for others, it exists for me…even if that concept/idea blows my freakin socks off. Part of me believes it.

So maybe, just like the idea or theory of unconditional love not actually being physically possible towards me, despite hearing stories of others and trauma survivors learning how to love/be loved too, maybe the idea that I cannot and will not ever be healthy, and therefore successful and all the rest, can maybe change too. Maybe, just like with the love thing, I can begin to see that if its possible for others, it’s possible for me. If other people have health troubles, have a healing crisis and up and move on. Or they have to constantly look after themselves, and constantly give themselves the love and credit and attention they need but their health does get to a place where they can fucking function. And all this need for love and care that my body has, is healthy. And okay. And something I can learn to love too.

20131228-120658 AM.jpg

I’m scared if I really notice this belief/fear/theory I feel like I’ll realise just how deeply it’s gone. But then if I don’t truly notice it,give it voice, let it be heard, soothed and healed, I won’t ever get better and feel capable. So basically it’s a fear filled situation. But I feel like the voice has been there for a long while – the negative prediction of health getting in the way of whatever I’m about to do, ending up then ringing true…so it feels like my theory is fucking hard not to believe. But always in ways I wouldn’t have imagined – never in my worst case scenario ways. That’s something.

Basically, there’s a voice inside me that is terrified. And convinced. Terrified and convinced that I am going to be fucked up because of my health, forever. Again, a worst case scenario. It’s also a critic voice though. One that slates and brings up all this proof of all the times before that I’ve failed or have been ill and had to quit or just not started in the first place, or struggled through and fucked myself sideways and felt like absolute shit (which I cannot do anymore…the pushing madly part).

I feel so frustrated. I feel so utterly convinced with all my heart and soul and body that I’m going to be screwed and have health struggles forever, that i can’t see. I can’t see properly. I can’t see all the ways in which this possibly isn’t true. I can’t see the beauty and potential and opportunity that lies within myself. I can’t see the madness in this theory.

I can’t see me. I can only see my mum. It’s a fucker.

What I’m getting at, is that it’s fucking hard when you have constant health struggles to really believe that things are going to be different. To believe that my body will get to a place of health and stability and strength – the place I know it can be and has been and knows how to be. A place where I feel able.

But funnily enough it feels very much like the journey of trauma and learning to trust that my life won’t be as jam packed and as traumatic as it has been before… To learn to know this is possible, is just like the unconditional love thing – the idea that I can live a life where I’m not constantly traumatised and under stress is like someone playing a practical joke. But it’s not as strong as before. It still puzzles me, because I still have these theories. I still feel like my life is different, and destined to be different, to everyone else’s. Because they are them and I am me.

But it doesn’t work like that. When I look at people who are healthy and happy and surrounded by love and not chaos or pain or abuse, I can have that too. It’s not some fairy-tale that’s out of reach for me, just because I’m me.

Just like the idea of my body healing isn’t either. Just because my history has offered me so much proof that this theory could be true, there’s also the mystery and complete unknown that lies ahead too.

20131228-120542 AM.jpg

Freedom

20131222-064327 PM.jpg

Oh man, YES. Freedom is the word of the day today. Freedom with myself, my pure and simple, wild and open, self.

Freedom from the world, from the city, from the worries, from the madness, from the emotional drought. From the chaos, from the chase, from the trying,
and from the hidden grace.

A spray painter I spotted today thought so too:

20131222-064430 PM.jpg

The art of asking

Learning to ask for help is like learning a new language or a musical instrument. It’s an art form. And it takes time. We stutter, we stumble, we sometimes cock up royally, but we’re always learning and we do always get there – wherever ‘there’ might be. It’s a constant journey, and just like with a language or with an instrument, you can never stop learning, you can never stop learning when it comes to asking for help. Partly because, what you’re asking for help for is constantly changing – sometimes only very slightly, sometimes dramatically – every single day.

Watching this beautiful TED talk below I felt like I connected with so much of what she said, in a direct and indirect way. Since having my two slipped discs arrive on my body’s doorstep, it’s like I’ve been handed a new text book on a new way of living, I just haven’t learnt the language properly yet – I’ve been on the beginners course, until now. It’s a text book in which I’m learning a new kind of life. One I need to learn to lead to help my body heal. And one I’ve been thrown face (or back) first into. Literally. It’s a life my body’s been trying to get me to lead for a while now, through various things – chronic fatigue, adrenal fatigue, viruses, ptsd, etc, and I have been getting there slowly and brilliantly, compared to how I used to be. It’s a life of gentleness, love, calm, compassion and not STRESS…and a life led with support. The latter has been the hardest thing to get my head around. Actually no, it all fucking has. When I first started learning about all this stuff – gentleness, compassion, unconditional love & care, calm, slooooowness, safety, comfort – it was like a foreign fucking language you only heard spoken on the movies. The idea of it actually existing and being a possibility for me, was like a hilarious joke that I didn’t ‘get’…except eventually I did get it, and I did discover – and am continuing to discover – that this life can be for me. And is.

My back has meant that I have to learn to ask for help, to ask for support, and in ways I never knew how to before – because what I was asking for help with, was different. I was on the beginners course of learning the asking-for-help-language and that probably definitely helped bring me here – to the intermediate text book stage of asking for motherfucking support. This support is for daily physical needs. Basic chores. Basic. Stuff. But essential stuff. Stuff we all need, and when I pretend I don’t and throw my text book out the window, it all goes to shit. It’s stuff I’ve always been able to just do before – even if it was with a bitch of a struggle, I could still do it – but right now this is where I’m at. And yeah I need people to support me in these ways, but I now am able to support myself in ways I wasn’t able to before. In ways I used to ask for help with/for…I can now love me, whereas before I desperately needed other people to love me for me. I still get that – obvs – but just not as deeply.

It’s swings and roundabouts this asking for help/support, and this self love, journey. Sometimes I love watching myself unfold along the ride, and sometimes I motherfucking hate it. But I am cultivating the ability to have compassion for whatever I’m feeling – hatred or appreciation – and a compassion that’s unconditional, a compassion that is observing, rather than judging. I still feel very much at the beginners stage of this cultivation, but sometimes I catch glimpses of myself and I feel like a fucking pro. And I’m guessing that’ll keep on happening.

That’s pretty beautiful.

Enjoy:

Loving myself perfectly

I keep getting these little insights into the fact that I am parenting – and learning to love – myself, the way I was parented. (Not solely, but the foundations of what I witnessed growing up, are there. And of course they would be. That’s how it works. But it’s also what changes, and is changing slowly…and rapidly.) Something I have also noticed is that I am treating myself as I watched my parent treat or love themself, in the process of their role as a parent. In other words, motherfucking destructively. And stressfully.

Today’s little insight?

I don’t have to be fucking perfect. In other words, I don’t have to try to love and look after myself by doing everything perfectly.

And, more – or perhaps just as – importantly: love comes before action. And love is not always shown through actions.

This whole time with my back I’ve been desperately trying to parent and look after, and love, myself perfectly. So perfectly that it ends up being destructive. It ends up being too much. It ends up that I do so much I cannot keep up with it, or piss people off that there’s so much washing up, and I end up collapsed – burnt out and sore, in agony, my discs singing for forgiveness and gentleness.

20131210-051651 PM.jpg

I can show my love for myself with just breath. With gentleness. With calm. With choosing the option that’s less, that’s slower, that doesn’t ‘accomplish’ or bring as much. I don’t have to make all the different teas, hot water bottles, ice packs, food.

Other times, I can love myself through offering myself breath and one of these things – not all of them. I can cook myself dinner and only do half the things I was going to do. That way I don’t have so many dishes, I don’t throw my back sideways just through cooking, I don’t end up mind-blowingly stressed and anxious just so I’m not feeling the pain that’s burning away.

In other words – I can love myself by not doing. Just by loving. By offering my compassion, my gentleness, my mindful awareness. My mother showed her love – when it was being shown – to make up for her abuse, by giving. By stressfully doing, and then ALWAYS resenting. Always. Always. And what I watched, when love was being given, was not actually – what I’m learning now – a healthy kind of love. What love actually is. In her eyes she was giving a love she knew, but in my eyes now I see that that love isn’t true. Isn’t healthy. Isn’t me. But it just makes sense that the way I look after myself would mirror what I watched, witnessed. And now I get to filter out what I want and what I don’t. And most of its the latter, because what I want is gentleness and health.

20131210-052829 PM.jpg

Love can be given in so many ways. Just as giving can be done in so many ways. We don’t have to do in order to give. We don’t have to give in order to do. By just loving, we are giving enough. We are being enough. We are enough. And the way we show or give this love varies from person to person, and from moment to moment depending upon what we are able to give – emotionally, physically and spiritually.

In my case right now, the less I do the better. The less I do, the more I am giving to myself. The more I am loving myself.

That’s pretty fucking beautiful. Lets hope this realisation continues. Lets hope the stress head team stays at bay a bit or simply just that my love can outweigh them in what I choose to do. What voice I choose to listen to.

Tonight I choose to listen to the voice, and breath, of love and gentleness.

Changing patterns, generations long

394898_10150493249969440_1872875682_n

When you’ve grown up knowing abusive love, the grief that comes in adulthood – in the healing – is huge. The anger too. The rage that you never had what every child should have, and deserves to have – unconditional love. The rage that you have to learn it now, yourself. The utter inconvenience of being someone of 26 having to now learn what I wish I had known from an early age…from the day I was freakin’ conceived.

But the beauty in this, is that I am and I can. I could have spent a fuck load more years not, and swimming in a fuck load more pain. The beauty is that I am in the position to dedicate this time to myself. The beauty is in the fact that I had my crumble that brought me here. That I broke down and broke through. That I carried this weight for so many years but then found myself in the position to speak of it…to tell the tales. And I am still in this position. For once, and finally, my voice is being, and has been, heard.

I will never completely forgive this fact that I never had true love – I just don’t know how you can? I will never allow myself to resist the anger that rages and rises, and is fully here when I think of this subject. When this topic brews…this topic of love. It is something that will never go unforgotten – the feelings and beliefs I’ve carried all these years, from a model that was just as fucked and immature, and uneducated in the love world, as I was. In that sense, we were in it together. We were both as uninformed as to what unconditional love was, as each other.

That’s pretty fucking profound. That shows me I am doing what others have told me I am doing – I am healing generations of hurt, of pain, of grief. I am facing this shit now, so that my life will be held and happier. I am in this shit now so that I will be healthier and happier, and held. And so will my children. I am teaching myself what my mother was never taught. I am teaching myself what I deserve to know, and what – from now on – I will always know. This kind of stuff can’t be forgotten. This is love.

I am teaching myself what I never got to know. And I am learning it from those that are willing to give it to me, model it to me, and share it with me. And most importantly, share this journey with me. I am changing intergenerational patterns, and that is pretty fucking beautiful. I want to say I never thought it would be me, but that would be lying. I think somewhere inside me, I’ve always known I was different. I always have known I didn’t belong in a life abuse. I always, always, knew I never fitted in. And maybe this is why. I have always known that this life is for me: the one of love. I haven’t known how I would get here. I haven’t known whether it would last. And I have never really known whether it actually exists. And I have never known whether I deserve it.

But now I know I do.

And that’s pretty fucking beautiful too.

20131003-045144-PM.jpg