Come Back To Me…
I didn’t mean to disappear… We left where we were to head back up north after finding out our older son was getting high again and our younger son was in the ICU – was in the area less than 72 hours and swung by my mom’s house.
Someone (I have my suspicions who) called in an anonymous tip to the local police that we had active warrants, and sure enough, they showed up.
I was sentenced yesterday – my probation was extended, and I’m court mandated to go to an inpatient treatment program. Jeff will be sentenced this coming week – praying that he gets the same sentence, as opposed to the 3-5 years in state prison the prosecutor is asking for. I miss him like crazy – it’s been almost 3 months since I’ve felt his arms around me…
But? We’re clean and sober. And we’re gonna stay that way. So much to say, but it’s almost 5am, and my ass needs to be up in a few hours to start working on finding a place to stay. Damn, it feels good to be back here.
When you find you, come back to me
Take your time, I won’t go anywherePicture you with the wind in your hair
I’ll keep your things right where you left them
I’ll be here for you
Avoidance…
I’m good at that shit. Normally I’d be on FB, or random stumbling, or anything, just to avoid this page. But it’s gotten to the point where I’m avoiding the computer completely. **Other than to watch Season 4 of SOA, which is now available on Netflix, and my ultimate obsession. Season 5 makes a lot more sense now that I’ve seen 4, lol…**
Yeah, there I go again. Effective 10 minutes from now, we’ll have 24 days clean. 24 days without opiates, whether it be a pill that gets swallowed or sniffed, or a bag of dope that gets shot. I didn’t think we’d make it. We got high on a Tuesday morning, as usual. Then packed up the truck and the Candy-Kitty and took off. We’d said our goodbyes to the boys – to both C at the group home, and D the night before, along with a few of the other ones we consider “our boys”. By about 6pm, we were starting to have some issues with the truck, and it wasn’t looking good. We were doing Suboxone therapy so that we could make it through the withdrawal “easy”. Bullfuckingshit. I’d had people (multiple) tell me the 10 strips we bought should get us through a month, weaned down slowly. The strips didn’t last 3 DAYS. And they didn’t do shit. We wound up getting off the highway, and stopping at the first cheap chain motel we saw, neither of us were in any shape to drive, and neither was the truck. We each crawled into a bed in the room Tuesday evening, and didn’t really move from those spots (except to fight over the bathroom) until mid afternoon on Friday, when one of Jeff’s family members came to get us. The kick was horrible – no better with the suboxone than it was the first time, kicking on a hard cot in a cold jail cell. At least this time we had pillows and a decent bed, though.
My body had a real hard time coming out of the kick. Jeff was a little quicker than me, pushing himself to function somewhat by Friday, and completely by Monday. Me? I was still hallucinating (I’d also run out of xanax so was dealing with the benzo withdrawal on top of the opiate withdrawal – YAY me). 2+ weeks into it, and Jeff took me to the ER because I still couldn’t keep food down and was so weak. Amazingly, the tox screen they ran showed me STILL POSITIVE for opiates, more than 2 weeks after I’d touched them. I’m just now getting back to eating (not much, but something) and being able to stand for more than 2 minutes without feeling like I’m gonna pass out.
This shit is hard. My body aches and hurts in ways I’d forgotten about. I’d been on pain meds since… 2001. Continuously. And then I moved past the prescriptions. My pain was controlled. Now? It’s so far from controlled that it brings tears to my eyes at times. Same with Jeff – there’s a reason we were started on narcotic pain meds to begin with – because we NEEDED them. So what do we do now? It’s a scary thought process. Because I know that if/when I pop a 30 to make the pain go away, somewhere in my head, there’s a voice that’s going to be saying – “you’re wasting your time and money. You know the other shit works better for the pain. It’s cheaper, it kills the pain better, and then there’s the high…”. We’ve been trying non narcotic options, but nothing is working. We’re 34 & 39 years old, not 90. Chronic pain truly sucks. Sucks even more when you’re an addict.
Avoidance… avoidance of writing here. Why? Because I’ve always been on something when I wrote. Always. Fear that I can’t write sober. Avoidance of making decisions. We’re welcome where we are long term, but we already know it’s not going to last long term. There’s dynamics in the house that put us BOTH in a really bad place. Not a healthy place at all.
But the important thing? Is that the track marks on our arms are slowly fading. The urge? Not so much. We’re in Smalltown, USA here, but traveled an hour to what passes for “big city” around here to see if we could find ANYTHING. Wasted gas, wasted trip. Nada. We would’ve settled for the damn synthetic weed, the research chemical shit. Just something to ease the pain for a little while. So far, no luck. We know 5 people, all straight arrows. Gonna take some time, I guess, to either get used to the pain and just suck it up, or find something to treat it with.
But for now, we’re sober. And our son is thrilled with that – he’s proud of us. That means the world. My mind is all over – it’s time for sleep here. But I do plan on getting back to blogging. This calmed me a little, distracted me some.
I’m Movin On
You know that moment when you’ve just decided enough is enough, things CANNOT stay the way they are, and you’re going to change shit, even if it kills you? Yeah. I’m there. And that moment gave me the motivation I needed to get stuff started, get my ass moving, and start making our dreams and goals a reality. One step at a time (I can’t handle a DAY at a time yet), but we’re doing it. We’re moving on. No more bitching about how bad it is and how good it could be. Just action – to change it from what it is into what we want it to be. And for the first time in a LONG time, I’m not only NOT hopeless, I’m actually hopeful. I’m not apathetic, I’m optimistic. And determined like I can never remember being before in my life. I look at our boys, and I want better for them, especially D – C has all he could want and need. But I can’t sit around and have a pity party anymore. I deserve better, Jeff deserves better, D deserves better… everyone I love deserves better. And it’s up to us to make that happen. So that’s what we’re doing. Hoping, praying, and crossing my fingers that I stick with this. I’m well known for starting strong, and then just… well, losing interest. This isn’t a project though – it’s my life. It’s my family’s life. And together, we’re gonna make it happen. Yesterday was filled with toxic people. Today? It won’t be. And neither will tomorrow, or the days after. I saw too clearly how they drag me down yesterday. I do a good enough job of that on my own, I DON’T need my parents or so called “siblings” reminding me that I’ve never been good enough for them, I can’t be trusted, and I never WILL measure up. My ex drilled that into me for 16 years and I walked out on his ass. Why would I now allow others to do the same to me??? Why HAVE I been allowing it? So… we’re moving on. Life won’t be perfect when we get where we’re going. But it WILL be better than it is where we are now. There’s a few I’ll miss. Very few. But they’ve all been issued invitations to come visit once we’re on our feet, to see what it CAN be, instead of what they’re used to. I’ve had enough, Jeff has had enough, and so has D. We’re outta here. (Not HERE here – this blog means a lot to me, and I’m going to start utilizing it for what it was meant – to better myself, to learn to believe in all those dreams that I gave up on long ago, to make me into the person I know I can be. Not the one that I’m tired of being.
Yeah, that was a rant, sorry bout that. But it needed to come out. Now, it’s time to get my ass outside for some fresh air, then back here to cook Jeff a nice(ish) dinner, and start purging and tossing and packing.
As I mentioned on Twitter yesterday – UP FOR ADOPTION – 34yo female, comes with fiancee, 18yo son, 14yo disabled son with little time left with us, a kitty, and a shitload of baggage. But even with all that? We’re worth it.
“I’m Moving On” Rascal Flatts
I’ve dealt with my ghosts and I’ve faced all my demons
Finally content with a past I regret
I’ve found you find strength in your moments of weakness
For once I’m at peace with myself
I’ve been burdened with blame, trapped in the past for too long
I’m movin’ onI’ve lived in this place and I know all the faces
Each one is different but they’re always the same
They mean me no harm but it’s time that I face it
They’ll never allow me to change
But I never dreamed home would end up where I don’t belong
I’m movin’ onI’m movin’ on
At last I can see life has been patiently waiting for me
And I know there’s no guarantees, but I’m not alone
There comes a time in everyone’s life
When all you can see are the years passing by
And I have made up my mind that those days are goneI sold what I could and packed what I couldn’t
Stopped to fill up on my way out of town
I’ve loved like I should but lived like I shouldn’t
I had to lose everything to find out
Maybe forgiveness will find me somewhere down this road
I’m movin’ onI’m movin’ on
I’m movin’ on
Not Afraid (Okay, I lied… YES, I’m Afraid)
When I first started blogging, I used to look at this blank white space and get excited. I saw the potential it held – it could become anything, it was up to me. I could make someone laugh, smile, or cry. I could make a reader think, examine themselves the way I intended to examine myself.
This was way back at the beginning of my first blog – maybe 2007? I had a niche, somewhere that I fit very clearly into. My blog was very specific as to its content, its readers. There came a time where that blog came to the end of it’s natural life. I was no longer living the lifestyle that I had been writing about, the purpose of the blog no longer existed. So away it went, disappearing from the internet (other than the cached files in Google, of course – because we all know that once something appears online, it never really goes away).
Not long after, I started a new blog. Not so specific, more along the lines of this blog… more a journal than anything else. I struggled with the face that I didn’t “fit in” anywhere. I certainly wasn’t a mommy-blogger, I wasn’t crafty or a DIY’er, I wasn’t LOL funny or a brilliant poet. I didn’t have expertise to share or hints to give (I still don’t, in case you were wondering). Now, everyone blogs, for such diverse reasons – you don’t need a “why”. You don’t have to fit into a category. Just a few years ago, if you said (or wrote) that you blogged, the next question was almost always “What kind of blog?”. Uhm, gee, I don’t know, the kind where… uh… well, the kind where I write about my life? You’d get a confused look or a repeat of the question, with the person putting extra emphasis on the word KIND, as if you were too dumb to understand the question the first time. Now, the answer can be a simple “oh, it’s a personal blog”. I remember quite a few bloggers going through that whole where do I fit in thing around the same time as me. I guess it was kind of like a virus, and all us bloggers naively passed the germ from one to another unintentionally. I didn’t have a purpose for blogging the second time, other than the fact that I had fallen in love with it the first time around. That blog faded away… I didn’t really intend to stop blogging, but my life was in turmoil – there was no room for blogging. (Yes, my life is also in turmoil now, that little fact did not escape my notice. But this time, I’m choosing to blog through the turmoil.)
I love to write – often I find it easier than speaking. I’ll post openly here about my addiction, my mental health issues, my medical problems, my emotional turmoil – yet I cannot name a single person (other than Jeff) that I speak freely to about ANY of those subjects, let alone all of them. Even here, I’m still kind of standing at the edge of the water, inching my way in. Every few steps forward finds me taking a step or ten backward. There are days where I’ve backed up so far I’m standing on dry sand, and others where I’m in up to my knees. A full dive in would (to me) include using my real name, and linking to my real facebook page, where any and all, friends and frienemies could come and read the pages where I pour out my heart. That’s not gonna happen. One day? Maybe. Not now, not while certain people still have the power to harm me, not while words that I write have the power to put me back in jail. I’d like to get in the water, though, and swim. I want to keep walking forward, deeper into the water, until I’m standing on my toes to keep my head above water (that’s not too hard, though – I really AM short). So that a few steps backward doesn’t mean dry land, it just means chilly shoulders. Because when you’re in that deep, it’s more comfortable IN the water than it is out.
I’m just tired of the cycle of depression, of physical pain, of self abuse, of self hatred, of using not even to get high anymore but just to get numb. I want off this ride. And to anyone who hasn’t been on this oh-so-fucking-fun ride of addiction, the answer is simple. Just get off. To anyone who doesn’t comprehend chronic pain, it’s also simple. Just get off. The one thing that (most days) keeps me from crying in pain is the thing that’s destroying my life. ANY addiction is hell. Opiate addiction is hell to the 10th power. Throw chronic pain and bipolar (mainly depressive) in and I’m left running in circles that leave my head spinning and my stomach queasy. I want off… but I don’t see a stop button, or an off switch – and the ride is moving too fast to just close my eyes, jump off, and hope for a soft landing. Step 1 is clear – get clean. But to complete step 1, I need to first cover steps A, B, and C. And it’s seriously overwhelming. Nothing is going to get better until we’re clean. But getting clean is so much easier in theory than in practice. When I’m not dope sick and going through withdrawal, it’s easy to say “This was the last time. We’re clean, tomorrow morning, no matter what”. Then tomorrow comes, and we wake up sick… and tough it out a few hours. By halfway through the day, what seemed like a wonderful plan the night before now feels like sheer lunacy.
I know there’s a way to do this. A way WE can do this. I know there is. Because this? Living in a shitty motel, struggling to pay the rent daily, putting Jeff’s life at risk every day to drive into the city to an area NO sane person feels safe in to buy what we need to keep a roof over our heads and from being sick… this isn’t us. We’re better than this. And I can say this right now – because while I’m nowhere near high (or numb), I’m also not sick. That’s coming in a few hours. Then? It’s not as easy. We deserve better than this. I could pull out the letters we wrote back and forth when we were in jail, talking about getting out and going to meetings, going to church, how we would never go back to the way we were living before we got locked up. And we didn’t – we went even further down. Then, we had a beautiful home, a nice car, and D living with us. Now? Well, you know the now.
We have somewhere to go… somewhere safe, free, and supportive. Yet with our habit, we haven’t been able to save up the money to get there – and if we’re going there, we have to go there clean. Sober. They’re eagerly waiting for us. And yet here we are – months after we said we’d already be there, we’re still here. True, we’ll miss the boys – but D (our oldest) understands why we’re going, and is already planning a road trip (seems teenage boys will take any excuse to hop in the car and drive a few hundred miles, lol). And C (our younger) doesn’t comprehend a calendar – he’s not going to hold it against us. But staying in the area we’re in isn’t an option. Not if we a) want to stay out of jail or b) want to stay clean. And we want both of those things.
We’re know the odds are against us. But we’re fighters, both of us. We wouldn’t still be going if we weren’t. But this hurdle is a big one. And while we’re each others biggest cheerleader, strongest support, and best friend… we also have the ability to drag each other down. It’s so easy to feed into each others addictions. He might be having a strong, hopeful day, and I’m having a weak and pessimistic day, or vice versa. We’re determined as hell NOT to give up this 3rd chance we’ve been given. We’ve been blessed to get a 3rd shot at making our love work – when many don’t even get a 2nd chance. To throw it away a third time… no. We’re gonna do it. Not doing it is NOT an option. I will not leave my children without a mother and/or a father because I or we were too weak to get clean.
I’m just ready for life to not be so hard. I know, nobody ever promised it would be easy. I’m okay with not easy. But this hard? Damn. Really??? I miss the Jeff from when we first got together, and I know he misses the Bonnie from back then. I miss LIVING – what we’re doing now is merely existing, and that’s a sad way to live your life. I want to laugh again, to smile again, hell, some days I’d even like to CRY again. I want to do things again – take walks, go to the beach or go fishing, jut ordinary, everyday things. We also want bigger things… to travel, to take a vacation. to not have to go back to jail, ever again. We want to buy an RV and get a dog. We’d even (God willing) down the road, maybe like to add to our family. I’m fixed, so it sure won’t be easy (or cheap) but it is possible. As long as we are the way we are, those things are not going to happen. But sober? They can.
As a little girl, I had dreams… and they did NOT include being a heroin addict in my 30’s, having spent time in jail, and facing MORE jail time. I was gonna be a teacher, or a counselor of some sorts. As I got older (read: raped at 11, heroin/crack addict at 14, knocked up and in an abusive relationship at 15, had a newborn baby with a fatal diagnosis at 19), those dreams changed. I was going to be a counselor, for sure. Maybe for pregnant teens, or addicts, or rape/domestic violence victims, or families of special needs kids – but regardless, I was determined to be the one DOING the helping, not the one NEEDING the help. And I’m feeling the stirrings of those dreams again. I see our situation, and I wish I had someone, anyone, to turn to, that could help me climb out of this hole we’re in – to show me a way out. I want to be that someone for others like me. But in order to do that? I have to get out of this hole. I can’t help anyone from way down here at the bottom.
Right now? I’m determined. To make changes, to make something happen, to… to something. Anything. Because anything is better than nothing. So tomorrow, I’m going to take one step. Not sure what it’s going to be yet, but it will be a step. And maybe the next day it’ll be easier to take 2 steps. All I know is that I can’t keep sitting here whining about how bad it is. It’s not going to get better all by itself… only I can do that. So… now that it’s almost 5am, I think maybe I’ll try to sleep. Because I have something to do tomorrow.
I deserve more than this. Jeff deserves more than this. Our boys deserve whole parents. I want to stop hiding – from myself and everyone else. That means I have to stop doing shit that needs to be hidden. But I know I can do ONE thing, make ONE change tomorrow.
Then maybe I’ll get something posted (2 days in a row!!!??? SHOCKING!!!) about what that something I accomplished was.
Thanks for listening to me ramble…
Bonnie
“Not Afraid” ~ Eminem
I’m not afraid (I’m not afraid)
To take a stand (to take a stand)
Everybody (everybody)
Come take my hand (come take my hand)
We’ll walk this road together, through the storm
Whatever weather, cold or warm
Just letting you know that, you’re not alone
Holla if you feel like you’ve been down the same road (same road)[Intro (during Chorus ^above)]
Yeah, it’s been a ride
I guess I had to, go to that place, to get to this one
Now some of you, might still be in that place
If you’re trying to get out, just follow me
I’ll get you thereYou can try and read my lyrics off of this paper before I lay ’em
But you won’t take the sting out these words before I say ’em
Cause ain’t no way I’ma let you stop me from causing mayhem
When I say I’ma do something I do it,
I don’t give a damn what you think,
I’m doing this for me, so fuck the world
Feed it beans, it’s gassed up, if it thinks it’s stopping me
I’ma be what I set out to be, without a doubt undoubtedly
And all those who look down on me I’m tearing down your balcony
No ifs, ands or buts, don’t try to ask him why or how can he
From “Infinite” down to the last “Relapse” album
He’s still shitting, whether he’s on salary paid hourly
Until he bows out or he shits his bowels out of him
Whichever comes first, for better or worse
He’s married to the game, like a fuck you for Christmas
His gift is a curse, forget the Earth, he’s got the urge
To pull his dick from the dirt, and fuck the whole universeI’m not afraid (I’m not afraid)
To take a stand (to take a stand)
Everybody (everybody)
Come take my hand (come take my hand)
We’ll walk this road together, through the storm
Whatever weather, cold or warm
Just letting you know that, you’re not alone
Holla if you feel like you’ve been down the same road (same road)Okay quit playing with the scissors and shit, and cut the crap
I shouldn’t have to rhyme these words in the rhythm for you to know it’s a rap
You said you was king, you lied through your teeth, for that
Fuck your feelings, instead of getting crowned you’re getting capped
And to the fans, I’ll never let you down again, I’m back
I promise to never go back on that promise, in fact
Let’s be honest, that last “Relapse” CD was ehhh
Perhaps I ran them accents into the ground
Relax, I ain’t going back to that now
All I’m trying to say is get back, click-clack, blow
Cause I ain’t playing around
It’s a game called circle and I don’t know how, I’m way too up to back down
But I think I’m still trying to figure this crap out
Thought I had it mapped out but I guess I didn’t, this fucking black cloud
Still follows, me around but it’s time to exorcise these demons
These motherfuckers are doing jumping jacks now!I’m not afraid (I’m not afraid)
To take a stand (to take a stand)
Everybody (everybody)
Come take my hand (come take my hand)
We’ll walk this road together, through the storm
Whatever weather, cold or warm
Just letting you know that, you’re not alone
Holla if you feel like you’ve been down the same road (same road)And I just can’t keep living this way
So starting today, I’m breaking out of this cage
I’m standing up, I’ma face my demons
I’m manning up, I’ma hold my ground
I’ve had enough, now I’m so fed up
Time to put my life back together right now! (now)It was my decision to get clean, I did it for me
Admittedly, I probably did it subliminally
For you, so I could come back a brand new me you helped see me through
And don’t even realize what you did, believe me you
I been through the ringer, but they could do little to the middle finger
I think I got a tear in my eye, I feel like the king of
My world, haters can make like bees with no stingers
And drop dead, no more beef flingers
No more drama from now on, I promise
To focus solely on handling my responsibilities as a father
So I solemnly swear to always treat this roof, like my daughters
And raise it, you couldn’t lift a single shingle on it!
Cause the way I feel, I’m strong enough to go to the club
Or the corner pub, and lift the whole liquor counter up
Cause I’m raising the bar
I’d shoot for the moon but I’m too busy gazing at stars
I feel amazing and I’mI’m not afraid (I’m not afraid)
To take a stand (to take a stand)
Everybody (everybody)
Come take my hand (come take my hand)
We’ll walk this road together, through the storm
Whatever weather, cold or warm
Just letting you know that, you’re not alone
Holla if you feel like you’ve been down the same road (same road)
I was sad, and then I wasn’t…
I don’t like where I’m at. I’m not quite sure exactly where that is, but I DO know that I don’t like it. I don’t even know where to begin on the map to find “here”. NY? China? Australia? Yeah, I really AM all over the place lately. Cause those 3 places aren’t all that close together. I mean, I sucked at geography, but I’m 99% sure they’re a fair distance apart. Right?
I’m stagnant. We’re surviving day to day, barely… and in so many different ways. Financially. Emotionally. Spiritually. Physically. I feel like I’m falling apart – and I’m watching Jeff struggle to hold HIMSELF together, forget about piecing my million little pieces back together. The words that come to mind are hopeless, terrified, lonely, desperate, on the edge, ready to break, physically in horrible pain, sometimes wishing as I go to sleep that I just won’t wake up in the morning. It’s just too hard. And I don’t know if I can do it. Putting off all the things that need to be done to better our life… because right now I feel like doing them is pointless.
I had that post started… Lets be honest, we all know when I say “started”, I probably mean either a) I titled it or b) I typed about 100 words and maybe inserted an image. This one was dark, I was NOT in a good place. I just couldn’t pull out of that pit of despair and hopelessness, that certainty that no, everything is NOT going to be alright. ,
And then I received a Tweet (yes, I was hiding over on Twitter to avoid blogging, lol – sue me) that just lifted my spirits. And instead of going to sleep worried and filled with anxiety, it was with the start of a smile Thanks, @osaxy – you said just what I needed to hear, just when I needed to hear it. But, that doesn’t change where I WAS. So I posted above what I had written (until that Tweet), because that’s where I was. And when I’m there? The pain seems completely unbearable. I’m okay today, though. Jeff and I broke down and yelled and cried and said mean things and wonderful things and honest things… and it was needed. We were both holding too much back. Too much in. Too much being kept from each other. Tonight? I believe we’ll make it.
I’ve left out the image I intended to put there because of a post I read over at Barking Mad – about stealing. Lol… she, too, distracted me at the exact moment I needed it – just as I was about to use a (stunning) image found on Google that I really hadn’t planned on sourcing at all, and now I’m having a really hard time sourcing it period – but I’ll get it up here eventually!!! It’s too gorgeous not to share.
Never win first place, I don’t support the team
I can’t take direction, and my socks are never clean
Teachers dated me, my parents hated me
I was always in a fight cuz I can’t do nothin’ rightEveryday I fight a war against the mirror
I can’t take the person starin’ back at me
I’m a hazard to myselfDon’t let me get me
I’m my own worst enemy
Its bad when you annoy yourself
So irritating
Don’t wanna be my friend no more
I wanna be somebody elseI wanna be somebody else, yeah
LA told me, “You’ll be a pop star,
All you have to change is everything you are.”
Tired of being compared to damn Britney Spears
She’s so pretty, that just ain’t meDoctor, doctor won’t you please prescribe me somethin
A day in the life of someone else?
Cuz I’m a hazard to myselfDon’t let me get me
I’m my own worst enemy
Its bad when you annoy yourself
So irritating
Don’t wanna be my friend no more
I wanna be somebody elseDon’t let me get me
I’m my own worst enemy
Its bad when you annoy yourself
So irritating
Don’t wanna be my friend no more
I wanna be somebody elseDoctor, doctor won’t you please prescribe me somethin
A day in the life of someone else?
Don’t let me get meDon’t let me get me
I’m my own worst enemy
Its bad when you annoy yourself
So irritating
Don’t wanna be my friend no more
I wanna be somebody else“Don’t Let Me Get Me” ~Pink
Not Gonna Be Fun
I came across this in the $1 aisle at Target today, and like a dumbass, I bought it. Because… well, I have REALLY bad eating habits. Like today? I ate 4 Oreos. Nope, not missing the rest of the list, that’s what I ate. In a 24 hour period. Well, probably more likely a 48-72 hour period.
Posted from WordPress for Android
I wrote that up there on the Tuesday the 5th. Tonight is Saturday the 9th. Since I wrote that… I’ve kept track of what I’m eating. And in all honesty, I’m eating more than usual, because I know it’s being tracked, and Jeff has really been on my ass about it (though, looking at what I’m eating, I can’t fault him). So, here we go. My menu for this past (almost) week.
Tuesday: 4 Oreos and probably 3 sips of the milk I dunked it in.
Wednesday: (coerced – he wouldn’t eat unless I ate with him) 3/4 cup rice krispies, half a banana, and about 2 oz of milk (cause I couldn’t drink the leftover milk)
Thursday: 1 cup dry froot loops (all on my own – I just wanted to make him happy)
Friday: uhm… a cookie. A chips ahoy white fudge chip cookie.
Saturday: Just downed 6 oreos and I feel like my stomach is going to burst (this was after Jeff offered me some of every single food item we have in the hotel room, which is quite a variety).
So yeah. My eating habits? Suck. I was diagnosed as anorexic when I was 14, and have struggled with it on and off (mostly on) since then, so 20 years now. Holy shit. I was 14 TWENTY years ago – all of a sudden I’m feeling my age, lol@!!!
I had a really bad stretch this past year. Here’s kinda how it’s gone over the past few years. Around 2005/2006 I had a really bad manic episode, so they added an antipsychotic to my antidepressants. That antipsychotic added about 40 lbs to the healthy (though NOT happy) 120 I was at the time. So at 5′ ZERO inches, I was 160. Way overweight, by anyone’s standards, not only mine. I couldn’t get the weight off… I had gone from being in a size 2 to a size 13 in less than 6 months, and even though I stopped the medication, the weight stayed on.
I finally started losing it in 2009 when I was getting ready to and finally did leave my ex – stress, alcohol and pills don’t do much for you calorie wise. It came off pretty steadily, and I stayed at that 120 until last year.
Opiates aren’t healthy for the body in any form, but it turns out that heroin is a lot harder on your system than prescribed (though abused) narcotics. When I got locked up, I was 96 lbs. At my worst, a few weeks later, I weighed 82 lbs. The hell of heroin withdrawal stripped the last few pounds of anything that resembled fat or muscle. Even I could see how sick I looked, how unhealthy. I was so glad that Jeff was only able to see me in passing, through the glass, in baggy clothing. That he couldn’t see how I was literally down to skin and bones. That my (though nowhere near perky, thanks to my kids, lol) 36C/D boobs were lucky if they would fill an A cup. (I bitch because my boobs sag from gestating and breastfeeding 2 kids – but let me tell you, I was so glad there were no mirrors, because there was NOTHING there but skin. To me, that was the worst part of the extremely low weight. Every morning, I woke up with new bruises, depending on how I slept. If I slept on my right side, my ankle, knee, hip, ribs, and shoulder would be black and blue. Every day.
I was trying to get into rehab (I was clean in jail, didn’t think I needed it, but hey, if it would get me out of there…) to avoid a jail sentence, and was told straight out that no rehab would take me at that weight. They wouldn’t take the risk, medically. So I busted my ass to add some pounds back on. I’d take the servings of potatoes that anyone else didn’t want at breakfast, lunch, or dinner, and save them in a bowl until bedtime – mix in a tiny bit of seasoning from a package of ramen soup, and eat it, cold.
Let me tell you… I am the definition of picky eater. I make 3 year olds look easy. I have a very short list of foods that I eat – though Jeff has been working on getting me to at least TRY new things. Ask me if I like something, and I’ll tell you no. Chances are, I’ve never tried it. I didn’t try seafood (other than tuna or fish sticks at age 7) until 2 years ago. Lol – that I actually DON’T like.
The local newspaper where we were locked up ran an article last year bragging about how they feed their inmates on FAR less than$1.00 per day. Think about that. I don’t care how you’re cooking in bulk, to feed a person what’s considered a balanced diet (3500 calories per day – keep the inmates lethargic and lazy) on less than ONE DOLLAR per day, for all THREE meals. I didn’t eat a bite for the first 2 weeks. The water is noted for having one of the highest arsenic contents in the country, so gagging that down wasn’t easy either. Turns out you CAN taste arsenic… or something else in that nasty water. But, eventually, even I had to eat. Slowly, my standards lowered. What I gagged at the sight of during week 1, I was calling my “favorite meal” by week 12. With Jeff and I both locked up, there wasn’t anyone on the outside that could help us out with money to buy they fancy stuff – ramen, sugar, coffee, crackers, peanut butter, even things shampoo that works, or conditioner or underwear, stamps and paper to write home… you’re given a comb, a pen, shampoo that doesn’t work, soap that could clean your car tires, a 4″ toothbrush, and a sample size deodorant. Anything else is a luxury you must pay for. Anyway… my whole jail experience and perspective on inmates and the justice system is another post.
For the first few weeks, I threw up everything I put in me – food, water, juice, anything. I couldn’t keep anything down. But like I said, your standards drop. So around week 4 I started gaining… by the time I left after a little over 3 months, I was up to 111.
And since getting out, I’ve gained another 10 or 15. I’m at about 122, last I checked. Healthy, according to charts. But I’m miserable – I feel huge at this weight. I cried the first time I saw the scale go over 100 pounds. Seriously – I went back to my cell, laid on my bunk, and cried. I was content at 99 pounds. Maybe it’s a mental thing, the double digits as opposed to the triple.
I swore that being in jail cured me of my anorexia. That I would never deprive MYSELF of food, of nutrition, of things I enjoy eating again, now that I’d experienced what it was like to have it taken away. But I do. I make excuses – we live in a hotel, we don’t have a lot of money, etc. But I don’t have caviar tastes when it comes to food (Shoes and purses, yes. Food, no.) Cereal, fruit cups, yogurt, bagels, grilled cheese, pizza, chicken noodle soup, anything italian… those are the foods on my “approved” list. And every single one of them (except the italian, pizza, and bagels) are currently in this hotel room, in the mini fridge or the drawer. Yet I don’t eat them.
I’ve learned not to feel, notice, or give in to the physical feeling of hunger. I don’t know WHY I do it. I don’t know if it’s a way of punishing myself, of depriving myself, of hurting myself. I’m currently wearing either a (little girls’) size 14 or a womens’ 5, depending on the brand, the style, and the fabric. How can I complain about my weight? I see so many women struggle with obesity, and I feel guilty. Guilty that I’m nowhere near obese and yet I see myself as fat and disgusting. Yet I can look at a woman who wears a 14, or a 22, or whatever, and SEE HER BEAUTY. I want to get to a point where I can see my own – regardless of the weight I’m at. I’m not sure if 99 is within the healthy range for my height. It’s become a mental obsession to me, though.
Yet I KNOW – with every bit of my brain, every bit of my heart, that NOT EATING AT ALL is not going to get me to that weight. I know from experience that my metabolism shuts down, and I stop losing. And now I have this obsession with walking… so I’m not eating at all and walking for 2-4 hours per day. The adding exercise to no food probably WILL have an impact. I don’t own a scale, so I’m not sure where I am right now – I haven’t weighed myself since October. But I know my jeans are tight. One pair doesn’t even fit anymore.
My caloric intake? Comes from what I drink all day. The only way I drink coffee is very light and very sweet. Iced coffee was a concoction we managed to make occasionally in jail – and that’s ALL I’ve been drinking since we got out. I take a 16 oz cup, add (OMG, I can’t believe I’m actually admitting this) 5 tsp sugar, 2 tsp instant coffee, and 2 sweet n low – then fill the cup with milk. No water, just milk. So I drink about 4 of those a day on average. I drink it to disguise the hunger, to be able to say “but look, I’m drinking a lot of milk”. I used to ALWAYS have a bottle of cherry coke with me. Then it was coffee from a specific convenience store, then hot chocolate made at home, then tea from home, and now this. But at least the coffee and tea contained water – it wasn’t pure milk. 64 oz of milk a day? Holy shit. That’s crazy. No wonder I don’t eat…
I haven’t even touched on what the horrible diet does to my pain levels, my autoimmune issues, or even my bipolar/anxiety.
I never claimed to be a rocket scientist – it just clicked in my head that the ONLY way I’m going to change my eating habits is if I change my drinking habits first. Ugh.
I just ranted here… I accomplished nothing, but I got a whole lot of shit out. The anorexia is just a symptom of my issues, I know that. I just need to be willing to do something about it, and right now… I don’t know if I am.
Bonnie
Comfort Zone
Forcing myself out of my comfort zone has become something I’m trying to do more frequently. Not really something I enjoy doing – at all. What I do enjoy, though, are the results.
I can’t say I ever really remember being prouder of myself than I have been over the past week or two. I’m getting out of the hotel room EVERY day, pretty much. Today? I’m skipping, for a couple reasons. Yesterday I had Jeff drop me off at a different shopping center (I’m REALLY getting bored with the one right here). He and D were headed to the junkyard for some man time (I’d much rather walk around Kohl’s, thank you very much) and parts for the truck. They were gonna be about 2 hours, possibly a little longer. Well, they dropped me off at 11:00, and I walked, and walked, and walked… until they finally picked me up at 3:00. Then I wound up having to walk over to the shopping center closer to me (it’s like a block away, not even a 5 minute walk) twice before 5pm. And then insomnia crept in and I was still awake at 4:50 – WTF? 4+ hours of walking, I should’ve passed out at 8:00 last night, lol… But, anyway. That’s one of the reasons I’m proud of me. I’m pushing past the depression, the anxiety, the fear, and the just in general I hate to exercise-ness and walking. A lot. I should get a pedometer – get an idea of how MUCH walking I’m doing.
My anxiety had gotten to the point where the ONLY time I left the hotel room was in the morning to go to the methadone clinic. And the entire ride there, the 5 minutes inside the building, and the entire ride back, I’d be on the edge of tears, visibly shaking, pale, heart racing and short of breath. Every morning this hour was hell for me – I spent it just on the edge of a full blown panic attack. The once a week I had to sit through an hour of counseling was hell. I didn’t walk across the street to the gas station to get milk or cigarettes – I had to wait for Jeff to get home. It was absolutely horrible – making excuses to my son as to why every time Jeff stopped by my mom’s house, I wasn’t with him. My brother asking me to go to a doctor’s appointment with him and not being able to do it for him. I finally gave up on it and was honest with them about my anxiety – they were both a lot more understanding than I expected.
I was stuck in this horrible cycle of anxiety, depression, and anger. Too anxious to go anywhere. Depressed from sitting in a dark hotel room day after day after day. Pissed off at myself for not being strong enough to overcome the anxiety so that I could pull out of the depression. And it just kept going around and around. Then I’d look at Jeff, and see how helpless he felt, how badly he wanted to help me, but not knowing how. Trying everything he knew, and getting reactions ranging from hysterical tears to angry or fearful silence to an occasional grateful smile. He was watching me fade away, regress back to the injured and broken (and perpetually drunk) girl who found him on Facebook back in 2010. See, he knew me at 15 – when I only had some of my issues. Sure, there were the scars from my childhood and the rape. He knew me as a strong, mouthy, opinionated, don’t-you-dare-tell-me-what-to-do teenager who was determined to make it, to have her baby and raise it, to defy all the odds and stereotypes. And that’s what he was expecting (only all growed up) when we reconnected in 2010. He had no idea that he was getting a woman with a “problem” teenager, a dying disabled preteen, and all the baggage that comes from being abused for 16 years. He couldn’t understand why I couldn’t fight with him – because I didn’t know how to. I wasn’t ALLOWED to fight with my ex. He couldn’t comprehend why I’d flinch if he moved wrong, or was SO anxious about pleasing him. He didn’t get my complete lack of self-esteem and self respect, my inability to believe that HE respected me, loved me (because I wasn’t loveable), found me beautiful… my inability to believe that he was in it for the long haul, that he wasn’t going anywhere. I believe him now :).
Wow, I got off track, I think. Anxiety, that’s where I was. I got a prescription for xanax, and that helped me get started on getting past the anxiety. At first, I was taking it every time I left the room. Actually, I’d take it in preparation for leaving the room – rather than wait until I was shaking and losing it, I found taking it when the anxiety first started, usually as I was getting dressed & ready to go somewhere, was how it worked best. If I tried to tough it out and put off taking it, by the time I took it, I’d be suffering and going crazy waiting for it to kick in. Then, I started experimenting with the adderal. I found that if I take that in the morning (though I did figure out the hard way that I need to take that earlier in the morning – if I take it too late, there’s no falling asleep that night), I’m able to focus, my mind is clearer. I’m able to approach the anxiety from a more rational angle, picking it apart and talking myself down some. With the adderal, I need less of the xanax. I find it strange that what’s pretty much a stimulant, an amphetamine, is helping my anxiety. It’s only a small dose, but it clears my head. And now instead of taking xanax 3-4 times a day, I’m down to taking it only that many times in a week. Granted, it’s been a “good” week. If I have a bad day, I take it. I’ve stopped beating myself up for needing it at times, that wasn’t helping me one bit. Now I have to convince my doctor to write me a script for the adderal, lol… I don’t think he’ll have a problem with it if it means less xanax, though – after my struggle with opiates, he’s concerned (who can blame him) about me abusing or becoming addicted to the xanax. Either way – less than 2 weeks ago, I had barely left the hotel room for 2 months. Walking out the door clinging to Jeff’s hand brought on a panic attack. Now? I’m able to walk around a shopping center, by myself. Not zombied out on xanax, either.
Something that I’m not sure is related, but it’s happening along the same timeline, so I can’t see it NOT being related – I’m sleeping better. A few weeks ago, I was taking xanax 2-3x per night to get to sleep. Bedtime, then 1 or 2 more times when I woke up in the middle of the night. I’ve always had insomnia issues – falling asleep, not staying asleep. I’ve taken a sleeping pill for… well, about 13 years now. When you have a kid whose life is dependent on machines, you learn to sleep halfway – part of your brain (or your heart?) listening for the beep of the machine that means your child isn’t breathing, or his heart stopped. You’re always listening for something wrong coming from their room. So when I finally got a nurse to come in and stay with him at night (he lived at home til 2010), I couldn’t really sleep. No deep sleep, I’d trained myself to kind of doze through the night. Started on sleeping pills, and never came off them. Well, until I was in jail. And when I got out, I didn’t have a prescription, so I’ve been off the sleeping pills about 6 months now. Now, I still have some difficulty falling asleep, but I’m not waking up and not being able to fall back asleep a few times a night.
I’m bipolar, I deal with chronic depression (with some mania thrown in just to mix it up a little and keep things from getting boring, ya know). I’m a worrier and have always had (what I considered within or just outside the normal range) anxiety issues. But NEVER in my life have I dealt with anxiety like I have in the past 2 months. But there’s anxious and then there’s borderline agoraphobic. Then there’s the insomnia.
There’s only one thing that changed about 2 months ago, when my anxiety spiraled out of control. And changed again about a week ago, when I began to get it under control. Methadone. Again with the whole is it related thing… In my mind, it’s too coincidental not to be. Don’t get me wrong, when we signed up at the clinic, they gave us a whole bunch of paperwork, and some of it was on the side effects of methadone. But it’s only now, in hindsight, that I can piece it together. Why is that, lol? One more reason I’m so thrilled to be coming off that crap. Every morning when we walk into the clinic, the nurse asks me how I’m feeling. And she looks at me kinda strangely when I tell her, “pretty good, actually”. I don’t think she believes me. But it’s true. We’re not feeling sick from coming off of it, and we haven’t gone back to getting high like we were before starting it – which isn’t the norm, I’m guessing. They started detoxing us when we were honest with them – we can’t continue to paying the fee, and can’t catch up on our balance. Instead of the standard 21 day detox, we got the 14 day screw you special, though. And they were very insistent on telling us, repeatedly, that within a day or two of starting the detox, we’d be using just as much as when we started at the clinic. They’re not too happy with us proving them wrong. 10 days ago we were at over 100mg each. Today we’re at just over 30mg. And we’re okay. We’re better than okay. And Tuesday is the end of the clinic, the end of getting high.
Shit. I just reread that sentence. The clinic part I’m thrilled about… the other part? Completely mixed feelings. That’s a post I know I need to write. Just not looking forward to it.
Enough for tonight… gonna veg in front of another episode of Hoarders until Jeff gets home. Today was a PJ’s day. Fleece neon leopard print PJ’s, of course. Or maybe I’ll start wrapping the presents that go in my sister’s box… all 41 of them. Yeah, I should probably start that if I wanna mail the box tomorrow, lol…
Candy ~ H-O-M-E
This is Candy Girl… in full stalker mode, lol… she loves the camera – which makes taking pictures hard. As soon as I pull out the cell phone and point it at her, she starts purring like crazy and runs over to rub up against it… not exactly the perfect pose. Getting her to stay far enough away to actually take a picture is NOT easy. Nor is getting her to stay STILL for the 0.3 seconds required to snap a decent shot. Most are pure blur, or a super closeup of her ears and the top of her head. She’s amazing – she’s got such a personality, but never fails to read our moods. If either Jeff or I aren’t feeling well, or are depressed and down, or if my anxiety is out of control, she goes into full snuggle mode. If she’s not “needed”, she loves to hide under the bed and scratch the hell out of our ankles as we walk by, or try to sneak into the fridge every time we open it to check for an open can of fancy feast, or sit on the toilet and watch the water swirl, lol… I’ve never really been a cat person, though I’ve owned quite a few. But she changed that, lol…
Note the lovely blue color of the motel walls – while I actually like a sort of french blue color, this one is kind of bright and overpowering, and they only bothered to do one coat over the textured wallpaper. Lovely, no? And goes so well with the burgundy diamond patterned drapes, burnt orange doors and trim, and the 37 colors on the flowered bedspread!!! But, for right now, it’s home. And we do what we can to make wherever we’re staying FEEL like a home to us. It’s important. Our life is very… temporary? transient? inconsistent? right now. So whenever we move into somewhere new (it’s usually every few weeks), I’m quick to set things up to make it as homey as possible. We have our 438 pillows, 2 comforters, featherbed and sheets. Those go right over whatever is on the existing bed. Then, my “kitchen” gets set up. The motels always have a microwave and mini fridge, then I have my Keurig coffeemaker, my crockpot, my little 2 burner hotplate, and 1 tote full of pots, pans, plates, utensils, cups and dishdrain. This motel has a dresser, and I was able to set up my entire kitchen right on top of that. I’m not a big fan of doing dishes in the tiny bathroom sink, lol, but it means there’s no letting them get out of control – there’s no room for that!!! We have a few framed pictures that we display, and then the little things that always go in/on our nightstands. It’s hard keeping things consistent, but it’s important. We’re under a lot of stress, and both still struggle with not having a real HOME. So, instead, I do my best to make where we are “home”. And so far, it’s working pretty well. We don’t have much stuff – though what we have is still too much. I’d say maybe 8-10 totes or so worth of stuff (you know, the ones that are like $6 at walmart), but that doesn’t include our bedding or the clothes hanging in the closet. One or two of those will be going back to my mom’s attic when we make our move – we don’t need to take our kitchen with us, or our Christmas decorations and ALL of Jeff’s tools. We’d like to get it down to 6 totes maximum, including bedding and clothing. Which means I have to go through all my clothes again :(.
It’s amazing, to me, how much I took having a home for granted. I’ve always moved around a lot, since childhood. Before I had my son (so 15 years old), I’d lived in… 13 different places. All within the same large city, different areas and neighborhoods, though. Then with my ex, we lived in 10 places in the first 8 years, then owned a home for 5 years until I left. I got my first apartment on my own in 2009, but only stayed there a year. Jeff and I have moved around some, first staying with his parents and helping them prep for a move south, then my mom helping her prep her house for sale, then into a lovely home of our own – it was a stretch for us financially, but we were so proud of our little farmhouse. We took on a roommate (oh, BIG mistake) and then wound up losing it and almost everything in it when we got locked up. I’m 34 years old, and I’ve moved… 28 times. NOT counting the hopping around we’ve done since getting out of jail. So maybe that’s why I’m so okay with the whole moving from hotel to hotel temporary living thing. I’m used to it. But until a few months ago, I always had a place – an apartment, a house, a room in a parent’s (or in-laws’) house, to call home. Home was an address. Homeless was something I never had been, and never would be.
I can’t wait to get where we’re going though… we’ll be living with family, we’ll have a room in their home, yes. But I know it’s going to feel like, it’s going to BE, home. Let’s face it – with the way the economy is headed, I think family members sharing homes is going to be becoming more and more common. The family offering us the room is having financial trouble of their own, so us being there will be a help to them, and it will be a huge savings to us over a hotel. And it’s family that we’ve both wanted to spend more time with, get to know better, anyway. What better way than to share a house, lol??? You REALLY get to know people that way!!! An adjustment all around, but that’s okay.
But… and this is me dreaming, of course – it’s nowhere in the close future. One day, we’re going to have a home of our own again. We’ll rent an apartment for just the two of us, at least initially. Hopefully, one day we’ll be in a position where we can BUY a home. We’ll paint the walls the colors we want, choose color schemes and curtains, furniture and bedding. We’ll sign the papers, get the keys, and walk into our new home together… you know, the way they show it on the real estate commercials. Because for “people like us”, people living on unemployment (for now) or paycheck to paycheck, with no health insurance and a vehicle that probably won’t pass inspection, people with serious medical and dental issues they can’t take care of because they don’t have the money, people with a criminal background and recovering (or recoverED) drug addicts – something like owning a home is seen (not only by society, but also by those of us living that way) as a fantasy – a dream that will never come true. An impossibility. But there’s one little thing not taken into consideration in that equation. Our determination. And this is a dream we’re not willing to give up on. Owning a home of our own. What does vary? Is the definition of “home of our own”, lol… Because if we’ve just watched the news, we’re in doomsday prepper mode and think that home should be an isolated cabin in the mountains somewhere with solar panels and plenty of hunting and farming land. If we’re in sentimental/nostalgic mode, we want either a nice house on a cul-de-sac in the suburbs with plenty of kids around, or a farmhouse on the outskirts of the suburbs. If we’re in screw what everyone else thinks mode, we revert back to what we were headed towards doing just under a year ago – downsizing (mission accomplished, lol – though NOT in the way we planned!!!) and buying an RV. We were a week away from putting a hefty deposit down on a beautiful used motorhome when we were arrested. Guess that wasn’t meant to be at that time. We had a whole bunch of plans surrounding that, having to do with how we’d earn an income to sustain us through the year, where we’d spend each part of the year, etc. That’s still a very important dream of ours… although we’ve gone from calling it a dream, to calling it a goal. To me, that makes it more – real. Attainable. Doable. Possible. But some days, yeah, we just want the American Dream. A house, white picket fence, 2.2 kids and a golden retriever, with a minivan and sports car in the driveway.
What’s come out of all of this moving and talking about moving and prepping to move again is this – to us, home is in each others’ arms. As long as his shoes are under the edge of my bed, as long as my nightshirt is hanging on the bedpost of his bed, we’re home. As long as we can hug and kiss good morning and good night, hello and goodbye… we’re home. As long as when I’ve just had a screaming match with my mother over my sister’s betrayal of me and her unwillingness to stick up for me, or when he’s been thinking about his adoptive parents disowning us, we can cry on the others’ shoulder and feel their arms wrap around us, we’re home. That cheesy saying? Home is where the heart is? Is so true.
Just a note…
This isn’t really a post – it’s just a note to say that I’ve updated the page some, including something that was kind of difficult to do (surprisingly). In the left sidebar, I added a link to Violence Unsilenced. Both the story of when I was raped at age 11, and the story of my abusive marriage appeared on that site. I’m not linking back to my pages – certain family members did read them, and do have access to them – I don’t want pingbacks leading them here. So, I’ve copied my stories and added them here as pages. I didn’t expect it to be difficult to add them – after all, they were posted way back in 2009. That was hard to do – I figured adding them would be no big deal, but it caught me off guard – I guess because I’m telling it to (some) new people? I AM going to write about the end of my marriage – it was definitely traumatic, and caused some serious damage. It didn’t end as nicely as the postscript on the page suggests it would have. His “revelation” only lasted a few days, then it was back to normal – it was all my fault, just what I deserved. But I survived – both the rape and the abuse. And they both played a part in making me who I am today. They made me stronger.
Oh – and while the postscript on the second story “revealed” my real name – it didn’t. That was also a pseudonym, though a little closer to my real name than the previous one. My ex is still out there – I don’t want him finding me, online or off. I haven’t heard from him since early 2010 – when he called me and Jeff let him know that his contacting me was no longer an option. He hasn’t bothered to contact either of the boys since then, either. My family is out there – and the same goes for them. I can’t risk them knowing some of what I reveal on my blog. There’s a lot of animosity, a lot of anger, and they would eagerly use what’s written here against me, to hurt me in any way they could.
Anyway… just wanted to say that the stories are here to read. I reread them myself, and damn, it was hard. I also reread the comments – and because of that, I’m asking you to please subscribe to VU if you don’t already – and when a story is posted, PLEASE – read it and comment. Even if you only type “thank you for sharing your story”… it means more than you could imagine to the person who wrote the submission. I’ll forever be grateful for that website – it gave me a voice when I’d been silent for way too long.
Writing, Fear, Sobriety, Kids… a little bit of everything
I had a… let me see if I remember – a 900+ word post here. I did, I swear. I started it the other day, and walked away at like 150ish words. Today, I came back and added the other 800 or so words. And WordPress autosaves drafts every few minutes. So I didn’t bother to do it manually – then I decided to add an image, because I like putting images into my posts. This one was funny. Anyway, WP didn’t like it for some reason or other, and wouldn’t insert it. Ok, fine, I give up on the image. So I hit “preview”, like I always do with my posts before I hit publish. And there was my 150 or so words from the other day. The 800+ I wrote today? Gone. Never saved. Not by me, because I trusted WP to do what it was TELLING ME it was doing. Down at the bottom of this white space I’m typing in, it kept telling me every few minutes that “draft saved at xx:xx:xxpm”. Today. A minute ago. Well, WP lied. Shit. Ah, I’ll be honest – it was a bullshit post anyway. It didn’t really say much at all. Guess that was the little angel on my shoulder or whatever’s way of telling me that the post sucked and I shouldn’t publish it, lol…
…Multiple hours later…
Spent way too much time looking up old blogs on Google Reader. Can’t find so damn many that I used to love – where did all my bloggy friends go??? My memory sucks, so that doesn’t help either. I remembered a few, and thought their blogrolls would help, but no. Then I went to Twitter and got lost there for awhile, too. All killing time to avoid coming back here.
And then I do come back, and I write bullshit. About cell phones and shit that means nothing – because I don’t want to write about anything real right now. So I just deleted the bullshit – a few hundred words of nothing. And then wandered away again, only to come back and feel like this page is scolding me for ignoring it. I did find a few of the specific blogs I was looking for – I’ll give myself credit for that, and they were worth the time spent searching. But that’s done, and now I’m back here, wanting to be anywhere else.
Because I created this space so I could have somewhere to be truthful. Somewhere that I didn’t have to put on the mask, smile, and say “everything is wonderful” when someone asks. Where I could admit that, no, I’m not clean yet. I’m trying really damn hard… or am I? I mean really. Am I trying as hard as I possibly can? Or am I making excuses so that I can still use? We’re on methadone. We’ve been on it about 2 months now, and 2 days ago we started the weaning process. Methadone is not a good drug for your body – true, neither is heroin or other opiates. But methadone is a nasty drug. And to be truthful, we couldn’t afford the $200 a week it was costing for the clinic. Not if we wanted a roof over our heads, insurance on and gas in our vehicle, and things like food. The clinic staff pushes for long term maintenance – like years of being on the methadone. Of course they push long term, that’s their income. But after 2 months on it, we’re still using. Granted, we’re using a LOT less than we were. And in that sense, it’s served it’s purpose. Since we’re not paying them, they put us on a 14 day detox instead of the standard 21 day ($$ talks), and we’re coming down 7-9mg per day. So far, it’s not that bad. We haven’t started using more to compensate, either. Still only once a day, as it has been for the past 6 or 7 weeks. And on day 14 we’ll take our last (useless) dose of methadone, get high that night as usual, and wake up the next morning feeling like total and complete SHIT. Because we’ll be starting to go through opiate withdrawal, but will still have another 12 hours of the methadone remaining in our system, so we can’t start the next step in our detox – the pill or sub lingual strip that has narcon or something similar in it. What it does is prevent you (pretty much completely) from feeling the withdrawal from the opiates, and it makes you physically incapable of getting high. You can ingest as much opiates as you’d like, in any manner, and you will not get high. What you will get is SICK. Sick to the point that you’ll think you’re dying – or, if you know enough to know that you’re not dying, you’ll just WISH you would, because what it does is take the usual hell of opiate withdrawal and multiply it by about 10. So the plan is that within 2 weeks, we will be completely clean. Off the opiates entirely. And we’ll only be on the narcon pill/strip for about 2 weeks. That’s another one that they push long term usage of, but once again, that’s the money talking. We don’t want to come off one drug just to be dependent on another. It’s still an addiction, regardless.
And when we take our last dose at the clinic, we’re hoping and praying that that will be our last day in this state. That we’ll have enough saved, transportation arranged, and everything set to go – a many many hour drive and many states away. There’s not much time between now and then… but we’ve been planning this move since October, when all went to hell with probation. Every time we’re close, something comes up, or something happens to change the plans. We were ready, but had no money. Then we were ready, but tied to the clinic and couldn’t find one close to where we’re going. This time, our biggest issue is money and transportation. The vehicle we’re driving isn’t the greatest, first of all. And it’s not ours, second. It’s my brother’s, he’s only allowing us to use it temporarily, since he’s NOT using it. I don’t know what his decision is about us taking it with us. Plus I’m SOOO anxious about the drive – being in the car is my biggest anxiety trigger. I need to stay awake to keep Jeff company and awake, but I don’t want to be on the edge of a panic attack the whole ride… or a xanax zombie, either. Just the thought of the drive has me on edge. We’re scratching up every dollar we can to get there, and I can’t wait for that part of this whole thing to be over, too. I just hate the whole scene and I want to be done with it all. But the thought of giving it up completely scares the hell out of me, pisses me off, so many different emotions that go with it all. We can’t keep living like this. We don’t want to. Deep down we know we’re better than this. Better than the drugs, the hustle, the waiting for the next high… We ARE better than this. We want so much more… we have dreams, plans, just like regular people – but we have this shit holding us back from everything else we want. It winds up coming down to a very basic choice – the heroin, or everything else we want out of life – our kids, (the remaining parts of) our families, jobs, a place of our own, maybe one day an RV, traveling the country. And we’re choosing everything else. Not the drugs.
This is so damn hard. And it’s fucking scary. I’m terrified of failing. I’m terrified of succeeding. I don’t know how we’re going to deal with the pain, the physical PAIN in our bodies that started us on those little 5-10mg percocet pills that led down the path to shooting up heroin. We’re going to have to manage with non-narcotic options… and I don’t know how well that’s gonna work. So what happens is that I just want to get high so I don’t have to deal with it, don’t have to think about any of it. And so begins the cycle. Because getting high doesn’t take the pain away like it used to – to be honest, I barely FEEL the high anymore. I just can’t let go of that last once a day, whether I feel it or not.
… and now it’s Monday. But that’s ok, because I wrote last night – I wrote honestly. That’s another fear of mine. Usually, when I write, I’m on something. Not 100% sober. Whether it was the pain meds in the beginning, or xanax or something else more recently… I’m afraid I won’t be able to write anymore. I’m scared that I’ll lose this, this that is so important to me. But if I have this, and not myself, it’s not really worth having. I’m not sure if I said that right… If I don’t have myself, because I’m buried under drugs, but I have my blog, my writing – then it’s not exactly a fair trade. Because while my writing might be a huge part of who I am, it’s not something worth giving myself up for. Lol – you get huge points if you followed that train of thought, because I barely can. I know what I mean, I’m just having a hard time putting it into words.
I saw my second sister the other night at walmart… it was so strange. To feel awkwardness with someone who once felt like a part of me, closer to me than my own husband. But we were civil, she seemed – well, I’d like to think she did – like she actually cared how we were doing. Mainly we discussed the boys. I’ve made the decision to sign guardianship of my younger son over to her. He’s medically so fragile, in and out of the hospital, constantly needing decisions made and fights fought for him. I’m not in a place right now where I can be that for him. I’m doing the best I can, but for now, she’s better suited to that role than I am. She was by my side as I made those decisions for years, her feelings on all of his care points agree with mine, down to end of life care decisions. She has a medical background from nursing school, and works with adults with special needs. She lives locally, and visits C at least weekly. Me? I visit him, though not as often as I feel I should. (I hate that word – should.) But if I’m back in jail, or halfway across the country, there needs to be someone legally able to make decisions for him, and I don’t want it to be the staff at the group home. They’re wonderful, and care deeply for the kids, but they’re not family. She’s his aunt, and loves him just as deeply as I do. I trust her to make the decisions in my absence. His biological dad is in jail (for violating his parole, which he was on for breaking into my brother’s home and assaulting me) and hasn’t seen him in years. I know that if I’m reachable, she’ll contact me for my input into the decision. If I’m not reachable, she’ll take into account my feelings on the situation. C isn’t going to live much longer – that’s a fact I struggle with facing every day. The oldest living child with his diagnosis lived to be 17 years old, and she was by far NOT typical. C is 14 now… so every hospitalization, I hold my breath. I struggle with leaving the area, because this is where he is. D can jump on a plane and visit us, or hop in the car with one of his friends and take a road trip. C is here, and this is where he’ll stay. But if we stay here, chances are that we’ll be back in jail fairly soon, and then I won’t have the option of coming back to see him. At least if we’re in another state, Sis 2 can call me and say “hey, it’s bad, you need to come back” and make the decision to keep him with us until Jeff and I can get here to say goodbye. If we’re in jail, saying goodbye won’t be an option. And I know that’s something that I’ll regret for the rest of my life – something I will forever struggle with forgiving myself for. So for now, the choice is to leave the area. And while I can’t sign custody over to her (the whole not dealing with the court system thing), I can sign temporary guardianship over to her, a notarized letter that will be accepted by both the staff at the group home and the hospital, when necessary.
I’d say I accomplished some real writing in this post, so I’m gonna go veg out in Google Reader for a little bit now. It’s my time of day where Jeff’s not home for a few hours, it’s just me and the Candy Kitty (she lived under the dumpster at the last hotel, she was the runt of the litter, and when I would feed the kittens outside our door, she always came closer than the rest – so she adopted us, and travels with us now. From a dumpster diver to a spoiled princess kitty who sleeps on daddy’s head or mommy’s boobs and drinks only running tap water, lol…). She’s napping, and I’m trying not to, lol… I’m proud of this post. I just let go and wrote. The trick for me is not to stop… once I miss a day, it becomes so much harder to come back, and gets harder with each day missed. So I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise myself. (And whoever’s reading.)
Learning To Believe Again 