Addiction Part 3: Smashed

 Addiction

Smashed

There is no greater feeling than falling in love, and no greater pain than when you lose it.

*sigh* I am not the broken one; I tell him as I turn to him and smile. You're broken, you've been smashed into a million little pieces and I cannot put you back together. All the kings’ horses and all the kings’ men have refused my pleas.

He looks at me as though I sliced his heart in two, knowing that I was hurting him. He slowly straightened his posture, looked me in the eye and said, you have the devil in you. You are mean and nasty and one day you will find yourself alone. 

Those words ring in my head like a loud bell, every hour on the hour. He was my addiction. My drug; I was addicted to his kisses, his touch, his laughter, the way he made me feel and the sound of his voice. To this day his memory haunts me, chasing me through the halls of my brain like an axe murder. 

Nothing in my 30 years could prepare me for this. I had overcome addiction many times before just casually setting down the pipe, the bottle, my pack of smokes, the needle. Many times over I picked up the same objects again and again, waiting for death to come knocking. 

My son was born September 15, 2000 and at that moment I knew that I had a purpose. He was born at exactly 1316, 21 days before my 21st birthday, at the same time I was born. During his life I continued to struggle with addictions, smoking, drinking, meth....those were my choices now. I was never good enough for my son's dad, or my mom, or my sister. I was always struggling to fit in, to find my spot. But at the end of the day I knew I could come home to that sweet smile of my son and things would be ok. 

And then I met Joe, a few short months after I kicked my husband out of the house for cheating on me, a few short months after my mother had been diagnosed with cancer, I met Joe. And I knew the moment I laid eyes on his beautiful, loving face, that I would never love anyone as strongly and as purposefully as I did him. I knew he was the one I would spend the rest of my life with. Thinking about that moment now as I write this makes my heart beat faster, my legs weak, and my palms sweaty. But, with in an instant I remember that I won't get to come home to him. I won't ever kiss his lips again, or hear him laugh in my ear. I won't ever feel his touch burn through the layers of my skin caressing my soul. His smell has disappeared from my memory. The light in his eyes when he saw my face has since faded and we are reduced to 3 or 4 word text messages every so often. 

Joe was my greatest addiction, my weakest moment, the hardest thing to let go and even harder to accept his words. Never, has a man looked at me with such awe and love as Joe, to him I was the most beautiful woman in the room. No one could break his loving gaze and yet I was the vilest. I was the meanest woman he had ever been with, evil to the core as he would say. When we fought he would tell me that I was the poisonous yet most beautiful creature he had ever encountered. And to that I admit I was mean. I was venomous. I bit him with words strong enough to hurt the toughest man. 

I was spiteful and angry. I was loving and caring. I was loyal and stood by his many attempts to get clean. OH? My dear audience, I failed to mention....Joe was not only addicted to me like I was to him, but he was addicted to opiates. If ever there was a mistress it was Opium (well, synthetic opium best known as opiates or opioids), like our relationship his love for me and opiates spiraled out of control and I along with it. I used occasionally. I lied about it, as a good addict does. I fought day in and day out for the love of my fiancé, my soon to be husband to be returned to me. I held his head when he overdosed and was puking, I cleaned him when he shat his pants, time and time again I lifted him up, drove him to the hospital, denied relationships with my adopted brother, his family and friends I had known all my life. Time and time again I sat in the uncomfortable chairs at Community Bridges, listening to the friends and families of other addicts beg and plea for their loved ones to come back. When it was my turn, I sat silent. I wasn't there for them, I was there for him. 

Time and time again I had to threaten his drug dealers, who finally after asking around after me discovered I was not joking when I stated plainly that if they came near my house again I would kill them. Time and time again I had to control his intake, and hide his drugs. Time and time again I had to suffer through my own anxiety and pain because I could not have Xanax or pain pills in the house. Finally in February 2011, I gave up, and after years of fighting, violence and pure hatred. I checked out. I wanted nothing more to do with him, his addictions, his family or his ego. About that time, is when he came back to me, but by then I was angry, I was hurt, I had built walls to keep him from loving me. 

Rewind about 8 months. He attacked me, choked me, held a knife to my throat and threatened to kill me and my son, because I refused to let him leave. Because I knew he was going to use. I held him hostage until he fought back. I wasn’t scared that he would do anything, I was afraid he was going to use. He was going to leave me. The police came, arrested him, and kept him away for 2 days. Up to this point, that was the worst 2 days I had to suffer through. He came home at 3am 3 days later, after I bailed him out of jail with the help of his dad. He knocked on the door, and I welcomed him home with open arms. I hadn't missed something so much. 

I wrote a letter to the courts, claiming it was the drugs that we were working on getting him assistance and counseling. The day he went to court I discovered that he had cheated on me a year prior. I confronted this woman, as though we were junkies fighting over the last hit. I confronted him, made him grovel at my knees for abusing my trust and my love. Over the next few months from September, things were chaotic but peaceful. We battled with addiction to each other and with opiates, we fought and made up. We kissed and we hated each other. And with each passing day our lives became irreversibly out of control. A black hole spinning and twisting, eating everything in its path until one day, I came home from work to find him on the floor, naked, he had downed 33 30mg oxy’s, a handful of Xanax and then some. I came home, and he was slumped on the floor, head between his legs and incoherent. Once more, I lifted him up, cleaned him off and held him. We were the poster children for co-dependent relationships. I continued to enable him. I had assisted him in getting to this level. 

I left my amazing job to move closer, so that I could be with in a cab ride or bus ride home. I refused to let him break me and I kept him hooked with my smiles and kisses. Empty words whispered in his ear, empty promises. I love you's and even the I want you's. We lost our truck, we struggled to pay our bills, because I had taken a 10$ hit on employment, he lost his job due to the drugs, and we were barely getting by. Another round of community bridges, home detox, and trying everything to help him get clean, while i became more and more twisted in my lies and deceit, while I hung over his head pulling the strings on this lovely Marionette of mine. Do this and you’ll get this, do that and I will give you my body. And he did. I broke him on December 19th 2010, right before Christmas. 

He cried that he couldn’t do it anymore and we checked him into a dual diagnosis clinic. I had just started a new job and was scheduled to fly to Wyoming for a few days before Christmas. I had to cancel. I was his only emergency contact and while I had pushed and fought him to this point, I couldn’t let him die alone. So off he went, to the clinic, no shoe laces, 3 gallon zip lock bags of all of his medications, memories of friends we lost, of friends he lost because of our abusive relationship. We took him to the clinic, the look on his face killed me inside, it broke my heart into a thousand pieces. Shattered my soul. Not 25 minutes after checking him in, I had a pipe in my mouth and I had forgotten about our fights, I just wanted him. I wanted him to be next to me. Kissing me, loving me. Fucking me. Because he was better than any high I had ever experienced. He was worse than any low I’ve come off of. I was addicted to him. He was addicted to me. 

He was released December 24th, we had some sort of a Christmas. He stayed in the room while I stayed in the living room, I cleaned, made food, and went to a friend’s house like I had for the last 13 years of my life in Phoenix. Slowly but surely our entanglement slowly undid itself. We were no longer two lost lovers, we were no longer one half of the others soul. We lived, side by side in our house that once was, barely being held together by my son and our niece. The kids were the only reason our house still stood. We barely talked like we once did and avoided eye contact as often as possible. He would go to his sister’s house and come home late; I would lay on the couch and listen to the Beatles, or hank the 3rd, or NOFX. I would go for late night walks to cry, because I didn’t want him to see me cry. 

Like everything living, our love had died a violent and bloody death. Together our last act as a couple was to kill and bury our love in the back yard. One night, on one of my walks, he caught me. He caught me crying, and for just a split second our love was as pure as winter snowfall. He held me and I cried. We laughed at moments in our relationship where we held each other up when times were tough. Mine was the day my mom passed away, I had been sitting at my computer, and all of a sudden I heard this high pitched giggling sound....I turned around to see him one nut out, underroos up to his nipples and his finger up his nose. His was the day brought Gianna back into our lives, I had been pushing him to make up with his sister, as I already had, and she and I had arranged for me to bring Gigi home for the weekend, all Joe needed to do was make the call, he made the call and the light came back into his eyes once he saw her beautiful face. 

Our addictions finally came a horrific end when I traveled to West Virginia and cheated on him. Never in my life had I cheated on anyone. I was always the forever faithful girlfriend even after men time and time again cheated on me. And I told him. I had finally shattered his soul. He fell to his knees and I had never known weakness until that point, through all our battles, our tears, our bruises and our name calling. What I had done to him did no compare to those things. I asked that he leave, with a weeks’ notice. I went about my business, work and home, work and home, work and home. We slept together, we fucked, we got high off of each other until the very last day. Every morning he would ask if I was sure. He was willing to work it out; he was willing to keep feeding into this ever growing black hole that had now consumed so much of our normal lives that we couldn't control it. I told him I was. It had to end. The misery, the fighting, the name calling. It all had to stop. 

The morning he left, I took my son out to breakfast. We got our hair cut. And by the time we came home, he was gone. His side of the closet empty, his side of the sink empty, his medicine cabinet empty, shower...empty. We agreed on some things, I kept the things we had collected together. He sold the TV, xbox, PS3, laptop and iPad. His side of the room empty. My life was now empty. What I had known for 2 plus years, my soul, the other half of my heart was empty. I went through withdrawals, screaming and crying. I didn’t eat for a week maybe more, and any time I could I got high. I got as high as I could. 

I finally moved his sister in, and with that the reboot of an addiction I had kicked 5 years prior. Meth. While his sister looked like a typical tweeker, I kept my round full face, my eyes anything but lively. But that was due to my soul slowly dying. My skin still soft and supple. Tan. My teeth intact and my overall appearance didn’t change. But inside I was a rotten corpse, maggots eating through my flesh. Skin crawling, hallucinations that I could hear him outside my bedroom door. Smelling his clothes and buying the same body wash and shampoo to make him reappear. 

We tried a long distance relationship that withered miserably like flowers under a heavy frost. He couldn’t trust me (and with good reason) and I couldn’t trust him. We fought, and again I killed his soul a 2nd time, berating him for leaving when he should have stayed, cursing him. Crying for him to come home. Anger swarming within me. Little by little I pushed him further and further away. I completely severed my love with him. As I pushed him away, I got higher and higher. Days and nights came together, I lost count of sleep, of days, of people. I just did. I worked, I came home, I got high, I cried, I walked the streets until I had to go to work the next day. 

I stopped using on October 12th 2011, 2 days later a lady ran a red light and nearly took my life. I hit the windshield head on, and walked away with nothing but a scratch. It was at that time I decided my best option is to leave. Leave my playground, leave my playmates, leave my playthings and get sober. With a big insurance check coming, I made arrangements to move to Tennessee, for my ex-husband to assume full custody of my son, and put my stuff in storage. Sick and alone, I drove 2300 miles to Tennessee. Ever so tempted to keep going to Pennsylvania, where Joe was. I stopped in TN. I stayed there for 5 months, and in that time I learned a lot about myself, my addictions and my actions towards Joe. 

Joe, the love of my life. I can’t say he is the one that got away, but I can say that he is my soul mate. Where the gods separated us, we have been brought together many times over the course of many lives, and each time ended in tragedy. One day, I will look upon his face with love again, and one day he will hold me like he used to, calling me beautiful, his touch burning through my skin to my soul. When that day comes I don’t know, but until then his prophecy remains. I am and will always remain single. 

Addiction Part Deux: Red Velvet and Guns

 

Addiction

Part Deux

Red Velvet and Guns

Webster’s defines the word fall as the following:

Fall verb \ˈfȯl\

: to come or go down quickly from a high place or position

: to come or go down suddenly from a standing position

: to let yourself come or go down to a lower position

 

 

               The house with the red velvet carpets, the high tin ceilings, the luminous and open living room and the brass bed. I had Flannel penguin sheets courtesy of my sister, Clothes in black bags, and bay windows overlooking the yard. My mom and dad had a brass bed and on the first night we were there he got his head caught in between the bars. He was pissed, angrier than a snake in a jar.

               When someone falls from grace, they say it’s to sin and get on the wrong side of god. When my dad fell from grace I was 9, He fell from the pedestal I had placed him on. My mom for the umpteenth time had started a fight with him, I really don’t remember about what, but it was serious.  I had been watching my dad for the last few days as he came and went, running in and then gone again in a flash. I knew what being high was. I had heard my mom and sister talk about it; I could smell it on my mom and my brother. I knew he was high. I could feel it.

               How does a 9 year old know when she is surrounded by addicts? When she realizes that she is one as well. I fell from grace; I was no longer a child in god’s eyes. My innocence had already been taken from me; I was living in hell and trying to take a side. By this time I had already been introduced to Mein Kompf and Ernest Hemingway. I knew I was different, and I don’t think I fought it. The day came. This was the last day I would see my dad until I was 15, going 120 on I-25 in Albuquerque in a Ford Taurus SHO driving him and his buddy around to different bars.

               My mom sat me down, told me we needed to hurry, pack everything as quickly as I could. Luckily my bags were already packed. Screw Gucci luggage, I was rocking the black trash bag. She loaded the bags into a truck, A peach-ish Ford F150 single cab truck. Maybe it was gold. I don’t remember. I remember my dad pulling up in his candy apple Chevy. He was wearing a black wife beater and black adidas jogging pants. He smelled of stale cigarettes and old spice. To this day, when I smell this scent on a man, I am launched back in time to that day. And inside I sigh.

               Leggers. That was his name for me, leggers. He knew it was coming, he knew and he didn’t stop. This must have been the moment when a little girl realizes her dad; her idol wasn’t the super hero she thought he was. This was when I realized my dad was a fuck up. I sat on his lap, I didn’t want to, and I could see the look of fear on my mom’s face, and what did she know that I didn’t.  He pulled me close, and at that moment I didn’t want him to touch me, he was disgusting. I knew he was high. He was high and he was trying to hold me.

               My mom told him that we were leaving; she said my brother is waiting, and if I don’t call him and let him know I’m safe, you’ll go away. Shannon, she said, let her go. And like that, that would be the last time I saw my dad for a while. She took me by the hand and led me to the truck, where our stuff was, where my uncertain future was. Velvet carpets were a thing of the past. Uncertainty and new adventures waited. That was the first time I ever saw true fear in my mom’s eyes, the last time was right before she passed, and in our 30-something  years together, those were the only 2 times.

               Our adventures to Texas brought us down a long highway, dark and menacing. We arrived in Ft. Worth, which to this day I STILL do not know why we went through Ft. Worth instead of cutting down through Lubbock, down the 84, through Brownwood and Killeen. On the interstate in Ft. Worth, we happened to be driving next to a limo, remember this is 1989, the height of the party century, where disco and bad haircuts were the in thing, these kids were partying, and all of a sudden my yelled, DUCK! And of course in my innocence, I popped up and said where? I think I may have given my mom a heart attack, and for whatever reason that was the most exciting part about my trip to Austin.             

               A Couple of days later we arrived in Austin Texas, on my sister door step. Surprise, your mother and sister have now followed you to Texas. I had a pretty normal child hood at this point. I fucked off as much as I could. My mom thought it would be cute to buy me Barbie’s, and of course I thought it was cute to burn, cut, mark and destroy them.  She was never home, which was honestly no surprise to me, because growing up she was never there.

               I think this was about the time I took up smoking. My dad had smoked camel non filters most of my life, and my step grandfather had smoked pall mall non filters. I am sure when I was 6 or 7 I picked one up and smoked it. I am sure I enjoyed the buzz it game me, the light headedness and that euphoric feeling for 10 seconds. I’m sure I did. I was 10. By this time I had moved to 4 different schools from Albuquerque to Austin. I think this was the school that turned things around for me and my mom.

               She was always away, and I was always into something. Reading, friending  weird girls who thought quarters and garlic would keep the hippies away, blinding little boys who grabbed me and attempting to kill myself a 2^nd time by mixing chemicals. I hated my school, and more so hated my teachers. While everyone else was learning about the Dewey decimal system I was busy locking myself in the bathrooms to read a new book.

               Normalcy in my life was restored for at least a year. Nothing really off the wall or insane happened. And I think for once I felt like the rest of the kids my age. Except my mom was a cocktail waitress, and I would dance on the dance floor of the bar she worked at. I didn’t have many friends, and I was ok with this. I had books and for this short time, books were my addiction.

Addiction Part 1: Growing Pains

 

Addiction

Part One:

Growing Pains

By Alle “undergroundalle” Cramer

 

          If you're reading this you have probably stumbled upon Gringo Bill's website by accident because you were up at 2:30am surfing the internet for I can haz cheezburger. This is how addiction starts. Its like a whisper in your ear “ It’s ok, just do it. It won't hurt anyone really.” Then before you know it, its rushing toward a small vietnamese village at a million miles an hour while you're running behind it in a ball of chaos, fury, confusion, and sadness.

          Dont worry buddy, its all good. you can slow down for now. Your addiction isn't THAT bad and really is not even hurting anyone else. Right, and the Germans didn't kill jews, attila the hun wasn't a sonofabitch who mercilessly raped and pillaged.

 

          So lets get to what addition is. Websters dictionary defines addiction as: ad·dic·tion  noun \ə-ˈdik-shən, a-\

: a strong and harmful need to regularly have something (such as a drug) or do something (such as gamble)

Society defines addiction as the desire and inability to maintain control over something/someone/someplace. To be an addict in todays society is to fall head over heels for something (anything) with our respite. Could it almost be likened to having OCD? ADHD? Maybe, but let’s take a look at the bigger picture. I am going to share a story with you about my early childhood, one filled with adventure, horror, drama, comedy, and maybe even some factualities. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show…..its bound to be a good one.

 

 

“Why does it have to be so damned cold?” I think to myself as I stand on the side of the gas station waiting for the grey hound bus to arrive. Its 1998, it’s cold, and I am in Albuquerque, NM waiting for a bus to take me home to Phoenix. I just watched them put my brother in the ground, I’m coming down from a 2 week meth binge, and my dad is no where to be found. What a surprise there. He has never been there. Unless he needed something or he was on furlough from the “farm”. I feel as though the world is folding in on me, and the only thing I can think of is getting back to phoenix and hitting up my dealers house. Man what I wouldn’t give for a big bowl of smurf dope, I can smell it as the torch melts the first few crystals, the first hit is always the best. It’s the smell of chemicals, mixed with addiction. Addiction. It’s a word I’ve been best friends with since I was 12. First it was sex, then marijuana, it was heroin for a short stint, then alcohol and now I find myself addicted to meth. Don’t get me wrong, I still dabble in all of the above on occasion, and I definitely still have sex as much as a fat kid eats Twinkies, but my one true love will always be meth.

 

What, you are asking yourself, would bring me to this level, this level of self loathing and destruction? Over the years I have asked myself the same question, and now that I’m pushing 30, I think I finally have the answers.

 

I started drinking when I was 12, I had sex when I was 12 and smoked my first doob when I was 12. 12 was the magical number. But let’s travel even farther back to a time where innocence should have been but was replaced with feelings and thoughts of suicide, hatred and self loathing.

 

My very first cognizant memory was when I was 4. It was dusk and we were visiting a friend of my mom’s, more than likely she was inside getting high as I was running around outside, alone. I guess in that time there wasn’t too much concern for child predators. Or at least she wasn’t too concerned. This family lived next door, I used to play with their kids all the time and they had a German Shepard. This dog was always around the kids, never snapped at any of us. He would always walk me back next door, making sure I got home safely. One night, something must have been triggered and as we were walking home, I remember walking beside him, then I remember him on top of me, growling, and trying to eat my head whole. I was confused, I was scared and I was alone.

 

I remember hearing yelling, as my mom’s friend Lucy came running out with a broom, all the while my mom was on the porch. Why wasn’t she helping me? Why wasn’t she running to my rescue? I remember sitting in the front seat of the car, more specific Lucy’s El Camino, asking my mom to stop pouring water on my face, because I can’t see and I it’s drowning me. I remember lying in the urgent care hospital bed, crying for my sister, crying for my grandma. I can remember closing my eyes, and opening them and my sister was there. Holding my hand, telling me it’s ok. And it was ok, she was there. She was there to protect me. I didn’t want my mom, I wanted my sister. I wanted my dad, but thanks to my mom, he was locked up again. I guess it’s not her fault really, but at the time I felt it was. I felt that she could have done better to keep him clean and keep him out.

 

I remember staring out my window at the hospital, there was a bar across the street, and I could have sworn I would watch my mom walk across the street and go in there and not come out for hours. I remember going through the double doors, into surgery and begging my sister to come with me, because I was scared. I remember my sisters face, as they took me back. Anger mixed with fear mixed with hate. I can remember praying that she didn’t hate me, praying that I hadn’t messed up again. I didn’t know that her anger was towards my mother, and I would later find out that once again she wasn’t around to protect her children.

 

Fast forward a few years…..we had just moved into a house off of Los Padillas, this house had an acre of land and this huge hay loft in the middle of the field. I used to walk to school, which was a few blocks away. I would hunt for crawdads in the irrigation ditch behind our house; I would sit and watch the sunset with my best friend Freddy. Freddy was just as broken as I was. I was destined to marry him. He was my first kiss at 7; he was the only person who understood what it felt like to be ignored. His dad used to beat his mom, he would come home from work and get drunk and the yelling would start. I could always guarantee that Freddy would be with me until his mom called him home. He lived right next to us, and sometimes his dad wouldn’t let him come over. So we would sit by the chain link fence our fingers interlaced, ants crawling over us. Laughing about the time when the crawdad pinched my finger and it wouldn’t let go.

 

We would tromp through his mom’s vegetable garden, helping her pick cucumbers; we would lie on his bean bag chair in the family room watching movies or T.V. We would always watch Transformers, or G.I. Joe, or He-Man. He wanted to be He-Man when he grew up and I wanted to be She-Ra. And we would have a big farm and raise animals and kids and have a garden. He told me he would never hit me, and I told him I would always love him, unconditionally. I told him that would forever be best friends, no matter what. And when we were 30 if we weren’t married we would marry each other. I sometimes lie in bed wondering where he went. What did he end up doing with his life? Does he love his wife, his kids and his family? Did his dad finally stop hitting his mom? Does his mom still have a garden? Did he get his ranch with the animals and never ending love? I wonder if he ever thinks about me, and for a fleeting second I can feel him. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but it feels true.

 

That house was a house of discovery for me. There were other houses along the way, the house on silver, where my sister locked me in the basement, the house on copper where my mom would bring Charles over to hook her up with coke and weed. There was the house where I last saw my dad until I was a teenager. I will get to all of these, but I want you to see that I wasn’t always broken. I wasn’t always chaotic and angry. I was made to love. I see that now, I am a caregiver, I am a lover and I am the true essence of a mother. I am a fountain of never ending love. So why, why am I so broken? Maybe I feel broken, but in all reality I am completely whole, with a few nicks and scrapes.

 

That house, in Los Padillas, nestled in the south valley just out side of Albuquerque was the start of many things for me. It was where my fondest memories were created with my father, where my mother would become jealous and threaten to call my dad’s PO. Where my brother Michael would take care of me when I was sick, and call me a runt and a jerk when I invaded his button collection. Where I would find the dirty needles and cotton balls, the bent spoons behind my dresser, and they didn’t belong to my dad. Where I learned to set the timing on a 1984 Nissan Sentra, and where I would remember walking out to my dads shop, two seconds after he had just mainlined a spot of heroin. I remember having my first holy communion, my grandma so proud of my white dress and perfect veil. I remember my mom intentionally burning my veil because she was jealous that my grandma was paying attention to me. I remember all my aunts and uncles, and cousins and family coming to visit and my mom sitting in her room getting high. My dad, my grandma, they were proud of me.

 

I remember my dads 1957 Candy apple red Chevy pick up, fully restored with a wooden deck bed in the back, and bouncing on the seat as we drove down the street coming home from baskin robbins. Lynrd Skynrd playing on the radio, the windows down, the wind tossing my hair around and my dad laughing, calling me leggers. I remembered being loved. I remember my dad loving me and my mom hating me. I remember my sister visiting and my mom ruining the visit. I remember lying in bed at night listening to the sounds outside, wishing Freddy could be with me. A child at the age of 7 shouldn’t know what sex is, or what feelings this act invokes in you, but I wasn’t a normal child. I was a child who had been molested, by people she trusted. I was a child who understood what addiction meant, but would never completely understand what addiction was until I was 12.

 

We moved from that house, we moved from that house to another house. This house was downtown. It was a 2 story town home. We moved from that house, from Freddy and from those long gone memories. The day we moved, I never saw him again. I never saw the boy I was supposed to marry and have a family with. The boy who would grow up to be a man, who would love me unconditionally and cherish every word I said.

 

This new house was cool, it had a spiral staircase up to the 2nd floor, my room had a view of the city, and the kitchen had brown Saltillo tile. This was my last Christmas with my father, right before he went back to the joint and right before we moved to Austin. I didn’t care what I got for Christmas, as long as I could sit on my dads lap and open presents. As long as I could smell his old spice cologne and feel his stubble on my face when he woke me up Christmas morning.

 

Everywhere I went I made friends. I made one friend here; she was a lonely old lady. Her name escapes me now, but I remember how she loved turtles, despised slugs, and would tolerate little kids. She always had treats for me, and would always let me feed the turtles. She had 25 or 30 turtles through out her house. We would sit outside and pour salt on the slugs to kill them. We would let the turtles run (more like meander, because her turtles didn’t run!) through her small veggie garden. We would giggle and eat fig newton’s and tease the turtles. I remember times like these randomly, they come and go. I don’t know if it’s the drugs that I’ve done or possibly the fact that I’ve blocked a lot of trauma and heartache. Either way, they follow me where ever I go, always and forever lingering.

 

It was at this house where I first thought of suicide. A thought that would haunt me for years to come and will probably still haunt me on my death bed. It was Christmas Eve, my mom and dad were fighting and I was upstairs, in my room, twirling and dancing in the new skirt and top my dad had gotten me for Christmas, I could hear the sound of music coming from the T.V., I was watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, in full Christmas cheer when my mom came home. She was angry at something, something I did, something someone did to her, something she did. It was never the same scenario; it was always something different that made her angry. But you always knew, even if it wasn’t you, you would get the worst of it.

 

She never hit me; she would attack me with words. Words were her weapon of choice. She was a smart woman; she knew that if she could get you, she would do it with words. She would shoot words at you hotter than 50 cal bullets whizzing past your head. Her words could tear you down in 10 seconds flat, or your money back. Her favorite word was “asshole”, oh man she loved to use this word on me. “Why are you such a little asshole?” “Quit crying you asshole.” Little did she know that later in life that word would instill violence and anger in me, an anger that no one would contend with, an anger to make Hitler himself shit his pants. Words, words that she was so good at tossing about, would some day come back to haunt her. But that’s for later in this tale. Right now I want to give you the foundation for where I came from, what I’ve done, and where I am now.

 

That night I knew something was bubbling up inside of me, I was 8, my thoughts should have remained on waking up to finding presents left by Santa Clause, and the thought of a snowy Christmas morning. Instead they were tuned to thoughts of suicide. She was pushing the only person I could feel safe with away. She had pushed my sister out of my life, and now my father. I was 8. I don’t recall what they were fighting about; I think it had something to do with money or drugs or something. The week before my cousin had stayed with us, and apparently he had written a check from my mom’s account and cashed it, and I think that she had blamed my dad. Because at the time, no one from her side of the family could have done any harm.

 

I remember opening these wooden shutters, they were a rough wood, the kind that leaves splinters, and they smelled of oil and mildew. The kind of mildew you find in the forest under rotting tree stumps. I remember opening them, I remember lifting the window up, and I remember pushing out the screen and watching it fall into the snow below. Beneath my window was my dad’s prized possession, his truck. I remember feeling sad about me falling on the truck, although I was 8, I was still a porky kid and I would probably cause some damage. I looked up, and I could see the lights of the city, I could feel the crisp air whipping my face and I could smell burning pine in the air. It was Christmas Eve; families across the valley were sitting down to dinner eating Tamales, and chile rojo, biscochitos, and empanadas. They were singing and welcoming weary travelers celebrating la posadas, luminarias were being lit, abuelitas were singing traditional cantadas and the air was filled with the essence of Albuquerque.

 

I was a porky 8 year old girl, with braids standing in a window watching over the city, I could hear the laughter of the city, and I could see the city moving, breathing. I stood in my window, my heart racing, the cold air hitting me. I heard my dad’s voice, then I felt his arms wrap around me. The arms I felt safest in. The arms that held me as a baby, carrying me out of the delivery room, the arms covered in prison ink with women behind chain link fences and prison guard towers watching over them, with Spider webs, and “ruka’s” with big tits. I felt his arms wrap around me and hold me. I could smell his cologne, and I heard him say it was alright, that it was ok. He was here, he would protect me. I don’t know if he knew what I was thinking that night, or what happened, but I know he saved me. I was 8 years old. He closed my window, closed and secured the shutters, and sat down with me for a bit. When he left, I could hear them fighting. This time they were fighting over me. She was jealous that he had left her to check on me. She was yelling at him that I could have taken care of myself, I was ok alone. I was a big girl.

 

I remember gathering all of my presents I had been given, mostly from her, I kept the black and white checked skirt and top, and I threw them down the stairs at her, hoping something would hit her. I was angry at her for all the names, she called me, all the cookies she burnt, and all the times she spent away from me. Wasn’t she supposed to be my mother? Wasn’t she supposed to be the one to protect me? I threw my presents down the stairs, went back to my room and locked the door. One solid push was all it took for my dad to open the door, and I can remember him standing there smiling, his blue eyes sparkling, his hair a mess from running up the spiral staircase, and the slight smirk on his face. That smirk told me I had pissed her off for good. That smirk told me she was gone. She had left. She would be back, but for now she was gone. He came back and in his arms were all my presents. He helped me organize my room, put everything away. Then we went downstairs and while he ate cottage cheese with sugar, I ate vanilla ice cream and we watched frosty the snowman.

 

I was asleep when he left. She had come home drunk, high, and yelling. I think he hit her. She deserved it. I remember the yelling. Always yelling. I fell back asleep, and when I woke up he was gone. There was a note, telling me to be good, he loved me and would see me soon.

 

And like that he was gone. I wouldn’t see him again for a few months. Not until we moved into the house with the high ceilings and red velvet carpet. Once again my mom had managed to run him off. I never knew until later in life where he went. I never asked him, and he never told me. There are so many memories of my dad, and hopefully I can touch on all of them. There is so much to be told about this life, and the person who holds it. The good, the bad and the indifferent. While the preface might be depressing or seemingly filled with a horrible child hood, there are good memories. There are memories of sitting in the kitchen with my grandma, of sitting on my dad’s lap watching Dune, or learning to swim or participating in the posadas. This is merely a foundation for what’s to come next.

 

Machine

I need a machine. 

I need a machine where I can rest my feet, where it fixes my feet so they don’t look like I’ve been running through a field of rocks

and broken glass. 

I need a machine. 

I need a machine that I can stick my legs in, so it fixes the bone spurs in my heels, the shin splints from kick boxing and running. 

Where it fixes my torn ACL/MCL and meniscus and tells my knee cap to sit still. 

I need a machine. 

I need a machine to tone and tighten and lift and smooth my worn and worked thighs and buttocks. Whose loads have been great from child birth to running after the toddlers to running from my problems. 

I need a machine. 

I need a machine to smooth my sagging belly, where my 2 healthy beautiful strong vibrant boys were carefully grown and nurtured, to smooth my claw marks and lumpy skin so that it hangs taut over my hips and....well you get the picture. 

I need a machine. 

I need a machine to lift and engorge my breasts that could never feed my boys, to smooth my love rolls and back fat. 

I need a machine. 

I need a machine to fix my shoulders and arms and elbows and hands and fingers. The ones who have held crying babies, smoothed hurt feelings, braided long warrior hair, carried the burden of being a son and a baby and a young man. 

I need a machine. 

I need a machine to plump my lips, and fix my eyes, to pull my face back and make me look youthful again. 

I need a machine to erase the worry lines, and wrinkles and streaks from tears running down my face from holding sick babies and laughing babies and dying friends. 

I need a machine. 

I need a machine to quiet the voices in my head, to calm the ever raging storm of anxiety and depression, to clear the fog and help the light and beauty shine through from all the laughter and joy that my.....machine....has brought me.

I need a machine. 

I need a machine that is exactly what I am. Who’s heart and hands are strong and loving. Who’s body has been young and fertile and old and weary. 

I am a machine. The machine that gave birth to 17.3 pounds of beautiful, plump, vibrant warriors. Who have carried them, held them, fought with them, and wiped away their tears. 

I am a machine who has weathered he rough seas and dangerous lands to be a mother. A fighter. A woman, in a sea of snakes and monsters. 

I. Am. A. Machine. 

I am not made of fluff and pink. 

I am strong, with rolls and lumps and marks and cracks and creaks and gray hair. 

I am a machine. 

Who wants to watch what magic her children will make. 

I am a.......ma.....mother. A mom mom. A momma. A mama. A mamita. A mami. 

I am a mother. And I am a machine. 

Phoenix, the city of heartache

Phoenix, the city of heartache

Riding the 16 from Broadway to Bethany Home.

The mom on the bus, eyes filled with madness. Maybe hardness. Kids well behaved. What does she do? Pain on her hands.
Passing through the barrio, sideshow queen walking the street
Back tattooed up and wearing a red dress. What has she been doing.
Women grouped together like a school of fish, lesbian? Maybe who have they been with?
Secrets of this city sit 5 feet from me on the city bus. Heartache. Abuse. Struggle it's real in the city of heartache. Watching the scenes pass like a movie. I wish I could make you feel what I feel when I ride this bus. Graffiti, pain, suffering, Virgin Mary praying over her lost children. Garfield commons, new paint I could smell the crack and meth. The fresh paint and the carpet.
The smell of food cooking.
People get on and off. The bus stops. Lives keep moving. I can't tell you what I'm feeling. Sadness. Excitement. Something exotic. Thomas and 16th street.
Fear.
Anger from the one in the middle. Hurt. She's been crying. Her eyes give her away. I study them. I'm the hunter they are the prey. Only I won't devour them. This city will. Their sadness will.
Gold hoop earrings. White bike Cortez. This bitch is the one that's rough around the edges. Do anything to make her shit happen. Old needle marks, pipe burns. What did she want to be when she was a little girl?
The oleander bushes reach like they are in a prison. Reaching through the bars in courtyards surrounded by abandoned buildings. Phoenix Indian hospital. Tragedy.
Pugzzis torn down. Handcuffs. Camelback mountain stands like a gargoyle over the city of ashes.

My Wild Grace

I think love comes in many forms. For me it comes with the breath of each new season, the birds, the blue skies and babies laughing.

It has been a long and arduous journey since 2014, Since then I have moved 3 times, Met a man, broke a mans heart, met another, became pregnant, got married, gave birth and changed jobs so that I can stay home and take care of my child.

I am trying to wrap my head around everything that has happened, and I'm especially trying to understand how to be a good wife, mother, lover, friend, and all the while be good to myself.
This is a scary juggling act. I never know if I'm going to drop the balls, or if they will hit me, or if they will just up and disappear.

I am trying to be patient, to understand how to be a wife a second time around, a healthy lover, and not jealous. But it's a struggle, because I am for questioning WHY, why would this man who loves me so much, WHY would he find me attractive? But, every night he comes home, he smiles at me, he comes home and loves me. And my jealousy fades. Because really its not his insecurity, it's mine.

Learning to be a mother again, 15 years later, is also tiring. Because you want to make sure that you do things better than you did with the 1st, and hope that they both do amazing things with their life.
That they love, and live and laugh and create things with their hands. To be healthy and a part of society. To be human, and to serve those who wholeheartedly and with out prejudice.

And then there is me. I am trying to accept myself for what I have become, my belly, which has held 2 healthy babies, stretched to its limit. The belly for which they lived, grew, listened to life on the outside. The soft mushy fat, my jiggly bottom. I love each curve, each stretch mark, each ounce of fat and each cellulite mark.

It is with joy, I accept my new life. With happiness, tears and laughter I welcome in a new life to love and cherish. My husband, and all of his wonderful flaws. The struggles I feel with my eldest son, raising a teenager to be a good man, responsible, and instill a strong work ethic. It is with honor, that I accept this new roll. I welcome it with arms wide open, and embrace the hardships, the fights, the laughter, the tears and mostly the love.

It is with an open heart and and open mind, that I accept my life.


Cheers!

Alle

Sometimes...

Sometimes things are easier when you don't say anything at all. I am having a really hard time with all of this. I feel as though the passion that he once felt is no longer there. My neighbor tells me she heard "questionable" noises coming from my house Saturday morning.....I was at work.

What am I supposed to think? The lingering kisses that once were are no longer there, the burning touch, the softness of his hands, and tenderness of his love. I am not angry, or upset but rather saddened. Saddened that what was once such a passionate tale of two people coming together to become one is no more.

Sometimes things are easier when you embrace ignorance, when you allow things to be. But my heart breaks every night when I go to sleep. The tears flow steadily and I swore that I would never again cry myself to sleep. Is this my fault, is it just me? Do I have such a horrible self image that I project it upon my relationship? I am so scared of this wonderful thing that I have to destroy it?

I don't know but I hope that I can overcome what ever I am scared of. I hope that I can overcome my fears and accept that this person truly does love me. I am so afraid of being loved that I sometimes lose sight of whats in front of me.

Today Remains the same

Fast in the swirling light
i find comfort in the depth of your eyes
breaking this moment is like destroying
fine china, breaking glass grating on the ears

Loneliness holds me back
from showing you how i really feel
destined to walk this road alone
I cant explain the way you make my heart feel

anxiety, sweaty palms, racing heart
body moves, slow touch, kiss and hug
its like thread slowly being pulled through the
eye of a needle i cant see
blinded by the emotion and
entranced by the movement of your smile

today remains the same, but tomorrow
will fade,knowing you're not here
but like all things natural
my body keeps moving away from you
not understanding the way the make me feel
scares me.

scarred from the inside out I twist and turn
under your watchful eye
i squirm when your hands are close to my heart
i refuse to give into your smile
the look in your eyes
the way your voice sounds in my ears

I am broken, and want to remain as such
there is no forethought only the now
don't try to convince me otherwise
the slow painful memory of you will fade
and I will still be OK

Planned Parenthood, Politics and Susan G Komen foundation.

I have been reading in the news the last 2 days that the Susan G Komen foundation is going to cut funding for breast cancer screenings to underprivileged and poor women. I have been trying to "get behind this" as Captain Kirk AKA William Shatner, and I just can’t get behind this.
Cutting out funding for something that you make millions off in donations each year worldwide shows you’re true colors. Some may say that you’re supporting the killing of innocent babies, however Planned Parenthood does much more than abortions. They provide low cost birth control solutions, low cost OB/GYN services, family planning, sexual education, and services for teens, young women, rape victims, and women nationwide. The goods out weigh the bad when it comes to this subject.
Here is a little tip......
Planned Parenthood is the nation’s leading sexual and reproductive health care provider and advocate. For 94 years, millions of women and men have turned to Planned Parenthood for vital sexual healthcare services, sex education, and sexuality information. Today, the work of Planned Parenthood is carried forward by more than 30,000 Staff members and volunteers. In 2008 (the latest year for which we have figures), Planned Parenthood provided more than five million people worldwide with the means to make responsible choices about their sexual and reproductive health.(Planned Parenthood Federation of America[PPFA®] is a founding member of International Planned Parenthood Federation, whose affiliates serve tens of millions more.
http://www.plannedparenthood.org/files/PPFA/fact_ppservices_2010-09-03.pdf
In 2008, PPFA-supported partners served 1,078,000 individuals in 11 developing countries with reproductive health care and education. In addition, we worked to raise awareness of international reproductive health and rights issues and mobilize support for responsible U.S. laws and policies. We created briefing sheets, talking points, and a wide variety of other advocacy materials, posted them online, and distributed them to Planned Parenthood affiliates and activists.

The following link will take you to local women in Athens, Ohio and how PPFA has changed their life...
http://www.athensnews.com/ohio/article-27377-local-women-testify-to-the-benefits-of-planned-parenthood.html

Here is an excerpt from the PPFA Rochester site....Notice ABORTION SERVICES is listed under the NOT COVERED SERVICES.

Who is eligible?
You must meet these requirements:
Male or female of childbearing age including teens and college students
New York State resident that meets satisfactory citizenship or immigration requirements
Eligible income level
Must be able to have children
What services are covered?
This program provides coverage for family planning-related health care including:
Most FDA approved birth control methods, devices, and supplies including birth control pills, condoms, the patch, Nuvaring, IUDs and the new method, Implanon
Emergency contraception and follow-up care – Plan B
Male and female sterilization
Preconception counseling, preventive screening and family planning options before pregnancy
The following services are also free when they are part of a family planning clinic visit. You MUST have these services as part of or follow up to a family planning visit or they will not be covered by the Family Planning Benefit Program.
Gynecological exams including clinical breast exam (mammography not included)
Pregnancy testing and counseling
Reproductive health information, education and counseling services related to pregnancy, sexually transmitted infection risk and family planning options
Screening, treatment and medications for sexually transmitted and genito-urinary infections
Screening for cervical cancer (Pap smears) and if needed, repeat Pap smears and colposcopies
Screening, diagnostic, lab testing and referrals to primary care providers for health conditions such as high blood pressure or diabetes that affect contraceptive choice
HIV counseling and testing
What services are NOT covered?
Fertility treatments
Abortions
Problem-centered visits not originally diagnosed during a family planning visit
Services not related to family planning
Here is the link to the PPFA wikipedia link.....
"The origins of Planned Parenthood date to 1916 when Margaret Sanger, her sister and a friend opened the first birth control clinic in the U.S. in Brooklyn, New York.[8] It resulted in her being jailed.[9] In 1938, the clinic was organized into the American Birth Control League, which became part of the only national birth control organization in the US until the 1960s, but the title was found too offensive and "against families" so the League began discussions for a new name.[10] By 1941, the organization was operating 222 centers and had served 49,000 clients.[11] By 1942 [4] the League had become part of what became the Planned Parenthood Federation of America."

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Planned_Parenthood

Come on people! Look how far we've come. It's important to teach our children about responsibility, the importance of sexual education and the prevention of STD's, unwanted pregnancy, and healthcare. By continuing to support the decision of the Susan G Komen foundation you are sending a messaging stating that getting a breast screening is a privilege not a right. It is our right as a society on the brink of destruction to speak out against things like this. It’s not a privilege to ensure you’re healthy, it’s a right. And by education, prevention and action we can as a whole nation support our many men and women who have to suffer through cancer.

Now don’t get me wrong, what the Susan G Komen foundation has done thus far is indeed impressive, however.....its time they put down their political "talking stick" and stand up for what they were dedicated to doing. Breast cancer research and prevention. You can’t do that if you one day decide to fund low income screening and then surreptitiously decide to pull that. What does that say about the true nature of your "cause?"

I am asking everyone who reads this note to pass it on. If we can make the "I can has cheezburger" kitties viral, and the techno Viking video viral, we can sure enough pass this note on to our friends and social media outlets. I have for many years supported the Race for the Cure, however I will no longer support a foundation that refuses to do what it was originally created to do. Research and treatment of breast cancer for EVERYONE, not just those that can afford it.

Take a stand, let your voice be heard and pass this on!

Sugar in the Box

He loved her sweetly, never letting go
she pushed and shoved
demons from her past wont let her grow
he loves her gently, making her his world
she left him there his life unfurled

She was his sugar
she was his world
everything she said
was everything he did

On a lazy afternoon
he had come home too soon
to find his sugar on the floor
needle in her arm
darkness at their door

He cried over her asking lord why oh why
was his sugar gone, and he was left alone to cry
he sat there for a while
crying and begging
begging and pleading

Then the day came for him to say goodbye
he held that white rose
tears falling from his eyes
wondering why

With his sugar in a box,
his car packed
he left the dusty roads
never looking back.

Faded Glory

With the wind at her back
she moved east, picking up the road
as the miles blew past
faded as her tan she no long felt alone

She wore the smile of faded glory on her face
with new risks to take
and a breath of confidence
she kept going east
new dreams new faces
unfamiliar places and a place to start new

As the miles rolled by Johnny sang softly
showing her that walking the line was right
her memories of drugs, sex, and rock n roll
melted away as new ones began

She wore the smile of faded glory
the sun shining on her skin
with each new town the passed
she left the last one behind

faded glory of a hometown queen
faded glory of hazy dreams
faded glory of memories long gone
faded glory of lost and twisted dreams

with one last stretch she yawned lightly
her faded glory had gone completely
she was a new girl with a new world.

Unknown

Little boy is now a man
walking the line as best he can
no woman by his side
to share the secrets of the night
little boy lost in flight

Never knew if his daddy was a rolling stone
always left behind
always left alone
imagination as far as the stars
underneath his shirt were hidden scars

Struggled with the devils brew
Secrets kept hidden
nobody knew

He met her by accident
close enough to make two into one
with blinded love they left
in a space bound rocket ship

Hold on baby, dont let go
we dont have far to go
I wont leave you behind
just keep walking that line

Oh my....

What a chaotic, insidious week this has been! While it hasn't been bad its just been long, and forever ending. Good news....I have a job, I have 2 jobs. Bad news, well there isn't any.

I have been contemplating change in my life and while I thought I controlled my destiny the universe had a different plan. Move to PA? Possibly....move to NM? Possibly...NOPE! I am going to stay right here until the time is right for me to move where ever it is that I am supposed to move.

My son started school Thursday, and he went back to Jiu Jitsu. It was like watching a makeover! He was laughing, smiling and his energy changed. I think it will be good for him to go back and participate however small the participation is, it will teach him some respect and in the end do him some good to get his frustration out on the mat. How proud I am of him. I couldn't have been more blessed.

On to another topic, I have a few stories brewing in my skull that I am trying to make sense of. My stories always hit me at just the right time....but always leave quickly leaving me to figure them out. Way to go creativity! Thanks!

I know I said I would try to post everyday but I have had the desire (yes I am lazy thankyouverymuch) and I really haven't had anything too spectacular to report until today. I get to see my best friend who just came home from a 3.5 month deployment in Japan, I get to see another dear friend whom I've know since 98 and I think things are starting to turn around. But don't worry, I will keep one eye on the path in front of me and one eye on everything else. So for now I am going to nuzzle up to my sweet child, wait for the alarm to go off and get him off to school and his dads for the week. Happy Friday world! Thank you for being there when I needed you!

PS. ITS PRESEASON FOOTBALL....so that means the real McCoy is right around the corner and I CANT WAIT!

5 am comes too soon around these parts

5 am has come and gone, the remnants of the day before still linger, like a thick vapor reminding me of the past events. I am sitting here staring at the wall looking for some sort of inspiration, some sign flashing like the neon beer signs are the drive through liquor store, yet I see nothing. I rub my eyes, slowly shaking my head back and forth thinking that its the sleep deprivation that has me confused and turned around. But its not, in the end its my emotion that got me all ass backwards, looking for the key hole to unlock this door.

I remember a few years back that I once sat at the top of north mountain, watching the sunrise and remembering what the sunrise looked like at home. And I sat there in silence for the longest time and I couldn't remember. I couldn't remember what it smelled like in the spring, or how the coyotes sounded late at night.

Once again almost 11 years later, I am sitting here waiting, watching hoping for that sense of what once was. And then like a sack of potatoes it hits me. It never will be the same. And oddly I'm OK with that. I don't fear being alone, I am not afraid of dating and jumping through the hoops of impressing and pea-cocking to attract another mate.

I am afraid that the other person will forget about me. I don't want to be forgotten, OK well maybe I want people to forget the bad things I've done and the awful things I've said, but I don't want to be forgotten. Now maybe he will and maybe he wont. But like taking the trash out,  writing down how i feel helps me purge some of the clutter in my heart and brain. Until then then adventure continues....

If he misses me, then he does. If he doesnt then he doesnt. Ive got some pretty big plans and I dont want to be held down with the uncertainty of something I have no control over. I cant control what is and is not. I can only observe it from a distance, take notes and remember not to do that again. When its my turn to miss someone, I know I will let that person know, I will shout it to the sky, "Hey Fucker I MISS YOU! Hope youre well."

Breaking Daylight

The corridors of my mind flutter like flowers in the wind, ripping them from the ground, sending the petals floating through the red sky, on fire from the thousand lives lost in her beauty alone. Fate is not what is waiting for us around the corner but rather our own mind, endlessly wandering the empty streets of our soul looking for that one single flower growing through the cement waiting to be plucked gently and whisked away to be placed a jar on a shelf



This is the endless mind. The fruitful soul. The love a girl has for her boy and the adventures they find themselves on. With out the other they are just two flowers ripped from the earth to be cast upon the dirt without thought



Faith is not like fruit, it doesn't grow on trees, its nurtured and tendered. The same way our love has been raised. Slowly suffering the silent storms and bending but not breaking. When the leaves fall off, we know in spring they will grow back.



The backbone of our love is strong, held firm by thick roots that travel deep. There is always a beautiful sunset when you are with me.

Absence……….

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say evil is the absence of good, hate the absence of love, and death is the absence of life. There is never a time in anyone’s life where they feel the need to be absent in another’s life. Those feelings are deemed inconceivable, incorrect or rather taboo.

Boy meets girl. Girl falls for boy. Girl tells boy she loves him. Boy gets scared and out of duty reiterates that emotion. Now here is where things go wrong. Boy should have never told girl he loves her if he didn’t mean it. And girl should have never let boy tell her that he loves her knowing he doesn’t.

Absence of knowledge is called ignorance. If you know something and fail to tell someone is that absence of a conscience? For those of us who use self deprecating actions and have harmful morals is a threat only to ourselves. There is nothing grand about being grandiose or self righteous. There is nothing superb about being better, stronger faster. It only means you get to finish faster, and finishing faster isn’t always better.

Delay in commenting on how she is dressed or how he looked at her. Repeat frequently how you dress, how you get looked at. Delay in judgment for there is always someone judging you. Never hide your true intentions, just be. Never lie to mask how you feel, just feel.

Emotions run in all of us, no matter how hard we try to mask them, name them, or excuse them. Understanding your emotions is one of the greatest battles you will ever have to face as a human. Especially if you were ever a human in love, lust or the polar opposite, you still have un-handled emotions.

As humans, we are our own worst enemies, beating and stomping something so beautiful, so precious and delicate until it is no longer. Or melting and cooling it over and over until it is as hard as pavement we walk on each day. No one will ever know why we do what we do, but we just do.

Thoughts for the day……

A.

Bucket list (work in progress)

So in an attempt to add some sort of fulfillment to my life, I decided to create a bucket list....you know the ones you complete before you kick the bucket. Now don't get me wrong, I have no intentions of kicking the bucket anytime soon, but I figured every 30 year old woman who is in the middle of soul searching should have one.

So here is mine. I have organized it so that its by subject. Don't laugh, you know me and if you know anything about me, one of my most fatal flaws in my constant obsessive compulsive disorder in which things need to have a home, even if there isn't a category, i will create one just because I can.

So here goes nothing!

Let's start with Life, in this section I want to complete things that will make me have a happier, fulfilled life.
1. Finish my book
I have been working on this for almost a year now, I have a quarter of it completed, but I think once I am able to finish it and get it published I can bury that part of my life. This will definitely make me a better/happier person.

2.Lose 75 pounds.
For those that know me, I have always been chunky, fluffy, fat, round....what ever you call it I have always been hefty. I have tried and failed at many diets, and decided that I really need to buckle down and lose this 75 pounds that is haunting me. Not only for myself but for my son.

3.Learn to trust.
HA! This is going to be the hardest challenge of them all. But I think I can make it through it.

4.Laugh every day
5.Live Peacefully
6.Learn to forgive
7.Learn to overcome my fear of heights
8.Learn to use a gaming controller (ask Joe I suck at this!!!)
9.Do something spontaneous, there is no plan, I don't even have a clue as to what I want to do, but it has to be spontaneous and fun!
10.Volunteer more
11.Learn to become a better cook
12.Become more organized (I am trying to do that here....but I feel that I am failing miserably! LOL)
So because I cant really classify my bucket list, I am going to just add what I have. Really, how can you organize a bucket list? What the hell was I thinking?
13.Learn to speak a foreign language. Spanish, German, French, Italian, anything...but something new!
14.Finish school
15.Visit a new city every year
16.Learn about eastern religion and philosophy
17.Learn to crochet
18.Get a traditional Polynesian tattoo
19.Learn a new trade once every 2 years
20.Watch my son graduate college
21.get more tattoos
22.Visit a foreign country once every 3 years
23.Learn to play the guitar
24.Buy at least one piece of urban/outrageous art at least once a year.3
25.Invest. Those etrade commercials inspired me....MILKA-WHAT?

I am sure there are more.....but right now my mental capacity for thinking has reached its limit. I will strike out things I have completed, and add in a new post things I want to add.


I hope this inspires you to laugh your ass off, create a bucket list or overall make your life better by making those small changes.