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Tuesday, December 25, 2012



Ad the angel said unto them, Fear not, for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you this day is born in the City of Bethlehem, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good willn toward men'".
Luke 2:10


Ad the angel said unto them, Fear not, for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you this day is born in the City of Bethlehem, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good willn toward men'".
Luke 2:10

Merry Christmas!


Monday, December 24, 2012

March Twenty Fifth

On March 25, 2013, our family is going to change.

I was told on November 5th 2007 that I had had a partial hysterectomy. Turns out that translates to "we cut away 70% of your uterus because it was ruptured, but you're not thirty yet, so we're going to keep you nice and fertile." And fertile I have been. In the past four years, I have had eight miscarriages. That stopped shortly after my birthday, and I had no explanation for it. Until now. As of Saturday, December 22, 2012, I am twenty five weeks pregnant, carrying what seems to be an indestructible baby. I don't know the gender, but I was first told by a physician that my baby was dead and they wanted to collect the cells from my womb and close off the cervix.

Too late for that now!

I'm not sure how healthy my baby is going to be. I've taken Metformin, Cymbalta, Effexor, Fentanyl, Glipizide, blood pressure medication, cholesterol medicine, I've gotten drunk, I've taken reds, talwin, roxys. And still Little One danced for the ultra sound for us. Little One's heart beat is strong. Little One will be born on March 25th, 2013.

The doctor who examined me said that it would be a bad idea for a vaginal birth, and I was relieved. I have never had a vaginal birth, and I don't want one. It's only recently that I have been waking up having an orgasm, being able to orgasm by simple penetration. Yes, I enjoyed every single minute of it. *swoons*

My husband started drinking on Tuesday night. I'm not sure why, just that for nearly the last week, all he has ingested is two bottle of Jack Daniels' whiskey a day. His eyes had red rims around them. His face was splotchy pale, and when I demanded that he eat something, he threw it back up immediately.

I'm no longer wearing my wedding band. Back on Wednesday, August 11, 2004, he promised me that he would never drink alcohol again after we had an argument and I ended up falling onto the hard concrete ground, and he thought I had tried to attack him, and he fought back. I suffered a concussion, a broken wrist, on my right hand, a fractured cheek bone, and a broken knee. I still feel the pain from that hurt knee to this day. When I found out through his father that he was drinking heavily again, there were many thoughts that swirled through my head. The one I want answered the most is "Why? Why are you doing this when it's so close to Christmas?" Then I slipped my wedding ring off. It's a gold band with diamond "shooting stars" across the top. Inscribed on the back is L'amore è per sempre. Italian for "Love is forever.", the lyrics to a love song that he wrote for me for our wedding, and is now amongst the hundreds of his on iTunes.

Looking at the ring, I cry. I remember when he loved me enough to not drink any alcohol. When I meant something more to him than a burden. The sadness flows through me steadily because I still love him. But I cannot risk him becoming violent. In my mind, I keep remembering when I was eight months pregnant with Chloe and his brother beat the shit out of me. My head injury was so severe that my blue eyes were black from the retina spreading so big, I couldn't see, I fumbled for the door to escape, and he struck me from the back of my head. I don't remember anything after that. I'm hoping that I passed out and that nothing happened between his brother and I. Now I come home from a two-week hospital stabilisation, and I find my love asleep on the living room floor, whiskey bottles surrounding the trash can, the Christmas tree on its side on the floor, no wrapped presents under the tree.

I did the best job I knew how to: I pulled my drunk husband onto our sofa, and covered him with a quilt. I cleaned up the liquor bottles, and started a small fire in the fireplace. My father in law and I picked up the Christmas tree, and straightened out the few presents that were scattered under the fallen tree.

The kids never woke up. I'm going to let Santa take the credit for me cleaning up Christmas.

I'm not sure what I am going to do next. What will be will be. But I know the kids deserve a decent Christmas, and Little One deserves to know their father.

Have a happy, peaceful Christmas, everyone. I'm going to post my usual Monkees graphic because the Monkees never get old! Neither does my graphic!
On March 25, 2013, our family is going to change.

I was told on November 5th 2007 that I had had a partial hysterectomy. Turns out that translates to "we cut away 70% of your uterus because it was ruptured, but you're not thirty yet, so we're going to keep you nice and fertile." And fertile I have been. In the past four years, I have had eight miscarriages. That stopped shortly after my birthday, and I had no explanation for it. Until now. As of Saturday, December 22, 2012, I am twenty five weeks pregnant, carrying what seems to be an indestructible baby. I don't know the gender, but I was first told by a physician that my baby was dead and they wanted to collect the cells from my womb and close off the cervix.

Too late for that now!

I'm not sure how healthy my baby is going to be. I've taken Metformin, Cymbalta, Effexor, Fentanyl, Glipizide, blood pressure medication, cholesterol medicine, I've gotten drunk, I've taken reds, talwin, roxys. And still Little One danced for the ultra sound for us. Little One's heart beat is strong. Little One will be born on March 25th, 2013.

The doctor who examined me said that it would be a bad idea for a vaginal birth, and I was relieved. I have never had a vaginal birth, and I don't want one. It's only recently that I have been waking up having an orgasm, being able to orgasm by simple penetration. Yes, I enjoyed every single minute of it. *swoons*

My husband started drinking on Tuesday night. I'm not sure why, just that for nearly the last week, all he has ingested is two bottle of Jack Daniels' whiskey a day. His eyes had red rims around them. His face was splotchy pale, and when I demanded that he eat something, he threw it back up immediately.

I'm no longer wearing my wedding band. Back on Wednesday, August 11, 2004, he promised me that he would never drink alcohol again after we had an argument and I ended up falling onto the hard concrete ground, and he thought I had tried to attack him, and he fought back. I suffered a concussion, a broken wrist, on my right hand, a fractured cheek bone, and a broken knee. I still feel the pain from that hurt knee to this day. When I found out through his father that he was drinking heavily again, there were many thoughts that swirled through my head. The one I want answered the most is "Why? Why are you doing this when it's so close to Christmas?" Then I slipped my wedding ring off. It's a gold band with diamond "shooting stars" across the top. Inscribed on the back is L'amore è per sempre. Italian for "Love is forever.", the lyrics to a love song that he wrote for me for our wedding, and is now amongst the hundreds of his on iTunes.

Looking at the ring, I cry. I remember when he loved me enough to not drink any alcohol. When I meant something more to him than a burden. The sadness flows through me steadily because I still love him. But I cannot risk him becoming violent. In my mind, I keep remembering when I was eight months pregnant with Chloe and his brother beat the shit out of me. My head injury was so severe that my blue eyes were black from the retina spreading so big, I couldn't see, I fumbled for the door to escape, and he struck me from the back of my head. I don't remember anything after that. I'm hoping that I passed out and that nothing happened between his brother and I. Now I come home from a two-week hospital stabilisation, and I find my love asleep on the living room floor, whiskey bottles surrounding the trash can, the Christmas tree on its side on the floor, no wrapped presents under the tree.

I did the best job I knew how to: I pulled my drunk husband onto our sofa, and covered him with a quilt. I cleaned up the liquor bottles, and started a small fire in the fireplace. My father in law and I picked up the Christmas tree, and straightened out the few presents that were scattered under the fallen tree.

The kids never woke up. I'm going to let Santa take the credit for me cleaning up Christmas.

I'm not sure what I am going to do next. What will be will be. But I know the kids deserve a decent Christmas, and Little One deserves to know their father.

Have a happy, peaceful Christmas, everyone. I'm going to post my usual Monkees graphic because the Monkees never get old! Neither does my graphic!

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Resentment

Fifteen days ago, I fell from grace.

I walked out of my home to see a family member at a show, and ended up shooting up, not once, but twice. I was pissed at myself for that. I could only think of all the things I had lost by making that mistake. My memory was blotchy. I couldn't remember things normally, and I had a few flash memories of said male family member on top of me.

But that couldn't happen, right?

If it did, it's the first time heroin took my conscious mind with it.

Or maybe it was something more than the herion. Maybe my own mind thought that the memory was too painful to keep, and forced me to forget. Fuck'd if I know.

It can't be heroin.

My mind went blank on the Sky Ride at the fair. I was a little afraid of it, and when the car rocked back and fourth violently as it was lurched forward to the steep, eighty-five foot cable, I clamped my eyes shut and started murmuring that everything would be okay. It wasn't going to fall. The last thing I remember is my friend James taking  my hand and telling me it would be fine. I peeked at him, just for a split second, and saw his sincere smile, and then shut my eyes again. The next thing I remember was the gondola docking at the same station we had taken off from. My mind had kept me from remembering a twenty minute ride? What the hell did I do Friday?!

After the ride, James led me to a park bench, and we sat down while I took in the reality that we had not fallen from the high cable, and we were still alive. He hugged me, he kissed my cheek. I accepted his affection, and suggested we go on the Giant Wheel -- a Ferris Wheel that was twenty feet taller than the sky ride that I had just been on.

I have no memory of the ride on the Giant Wheel.

James told me we were the last to get on, and someone had gotten tangled in a gondola they were leaving, and we were stranded at the tip of the wheel for at least forty-five minutes.

No memory of that. No memory of panicking. James insisted that I did not panic, or even see distressed after he took my hand on the Sky Ride.

I want so badly to ask if I screwed him on either ride, but, believe it or not, I am embarrassed. I'm also angry. I'm angry at my husband for jumping into the gondola two spaces a head of us, and for only buying a one-way token. I couldn't walk the midway, so to get back to our families after the Giant Wheel ride, we had to take the Sky Ride again. Or so I was told. I blinked walking away from the Giant Wheel, and opened my eyes to find myself in the car, on the way home.
Fifteen days ago, I fell from grace.

I walked out of my home to see a family member at a show, and ended up shooting up, not once, but twice. I was pissed at myself for that. I could only think of all the things I had lost by making that mistake. My memory was blotchy. I couldn't remember things normally, and I had a few flash memories of said male family member on top of me.

But that couldn't happen, right?

If it did, it's the first time heroin took my conscious mind with it.

Or maybe it was something more than the herion. Maybe my own mind thought that the memory was too painful to keep, and forced me to forget. Fuck'd if I know.

It can't be heroin.

My mind went blank on the Sky Ride at the fair. I was a little afraid of it, and when the car rocked back and fourth violently as it was lurched forward to the steep, eighty-five foot cable, I clamped my eyes shut and started murmuring that everything would be okay. It wasn't going to fall. The last thing I remember is my friend James taking  my hand and telling me it would be fine. I peeked at him, just for a split second, and saw his sincere smile, and then shut my eyes again. The next thing I remember was the gondola docking at the same station we had taken off from. My mind had kept me from remembering a twenty minute ride? What the hell did I do Friday?!

After the ride, James led me to a park bench, and we sat down while I took in the reality that we had not fallen from the high cable, and we were still alive. He hugged me, he kissed my cheek. I accepted his affection, and suggested we go on the Giant Wheel -- a Ferris Wheel that was twenty feet taller than the sky ride that I had just been on.

I have no memory of the ride on the Giant Wheel.

James told me we were the last to get on, and someone had gotten tangled in a gondola they were leaving, and we were stranded at the tip of the wheel for at least forty-five minutes.

No memory of that. No memory of panicking. James insisted that I did not panic, or even see distressed after he took my hand on the Sky Ride.

I want so badly to ask if I screwed him on either ride, but, believe it or not, I am embarrassed. I'm also angry. I'm angry at my husband for jumping into the gondola two spaces a head of us, and for only buying a one-way token. I couldn't walk the midway, so to get back to our families after the Giant Wheel ride, we had to take the Sky Ride again. Or so I was told. I blinked walking away from the Giant Wheel, and opened my eyes to find myself in the car, on the way home.

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Abnormal

I seriously dislike the family that I married into. They weren't like this when I initially met them some twenty two years ago, back in 1990 at the Cancer Treatment Center of Chicago. They were happy, normal people. I'm not sure what happened to them between then and now, other that random, casual sex with any willing partner they could find, extreme alcoholism, and enormous drug overdoses, addictions, self harm, heart break and failure.

We all experience one or more of those in our life. We don't all go off the deep end and start to set up the ones we love.

At least I never did.

If I had a problem with one of my family members, I sat down and talked with them. Saw their point, told them my complaint, and we worked together to compromise. But I am a sane and rational person. Over the past ten years as I tried to sit down and talk to Billy or anyone in the family keeping the fighting going, they would flip out. Name call, lie, claim exaggerated versons of my life and problems. I noticed this happened around February or April of 2002, and it's drove me insane ever since. I feel as though I am constantly walking on eggshells, that any little thing, such as the wrong juice poured at breakfast, would set off a psychotic episode.

We were all heavily medicated. Thorazine. Risperdal. Prozac. Cymbalta. Zoloft. Abilify.

We had all seriously attempted suicide, going so far as fighting others to let the sick person blow their brains out, overdosing on pills that only accomplished liver damage, or getting caught stealing barbiturates from hospitals or clinics.

We spent hour after hour in family therapy, telling a stranger why we no longer functioned as a family or even as people who could stand to live knowing the other was alive somewhere in this world.

We were suspicious of each other.

We lied to one another. Billy claimed "demon possession" when he physically beat me so bad I had a concussion, and brain damage so bad my "blue eyes turned black" or the retina was so huge because of the brain damage. Dennis claimed to have "multiple personalities" or "disassociation identity disorder," self-diagnosed, of course, and "Trevor," the oldest person in his community was the one who was the alcoholic, the drug addict, and the one who hated me and repeatedly smacked me when I "got out of order."

I stayed with this family because it was better than going back to my parents. Especially my mother. I knew if I lived there, I would relive several days of my teen years, and I never want to relive them. They are what caused the psychosis in my initially. Situations where I had to stay home from school with chicken pox for two weeks and the third week was spring break, so I got nearly a month home from school, and I was punished for it, by my mother sending my female cat to the animal shelter and made me watch euthanasia videos the entire time I was home from school. If I wanted to watch TV, I could only watch a euthanasia recording.

When I tripped, slipped on  the ice, and fell into my drunken failure of an uncle, and he thought I 'pushed' him, my mother punished me for that by breaking the neck of my tom cat, the brother of the female cat who had died a year earlier. She came into my room with the cat still alive, and made me watch her break his neck. I screamed and cried in horror, but it did no good. She threw the cat, his nose gushing blood, onto me in my bed in the middle of the night, shut and locked my bedroom door from the outside.

The last episode that I remember was when I was 16 and my dogs had gotten pregnant and given birth to a total of twenty puppies. It happened while I was in college that day and she was mad that I was "wasting money" by furthering my education. I came home one day and she told me to "go clean up the mess in the back yard" I thought I would be scooping dog shit. What else could be out there that needed cleaning so badly? I got outside in the middle of December, to find both adult dogs and nineteen of the twenty puppies murdered. Slaughtered. Blood staining the dead brown grass. Pieces of meat and fur were all over the yard, as if the dogs had been run over with a lawn mower. I remember I went numb, didn't talk for months after, and that I methodically cleaned up the mess. I buried the dogs deep in the wooded area behind our house so that no one could find the evidence. I remember sitting on the swing that night, sobbing, when a lone little female puppy, the runt of the litters, came out from where ever she had been hiding, and nuzzled against me. I picked her up, stroked her, and called Billy. I told him what had happened and begged him to come get that puppy. He agreed.

My mother enjoyed abusing those puppies that I spent days after school playing with, teasing, and playfully tossing them in a pile of leaves I had raked up. I would come in from the back yard after hours of playing with the babies, covered with muddy puppy tracks on my white shirts and jeans. Leaves clung in my hair, pebbles and pieces of sandstone stuck to the sides of my sneakers. I was a mess, but I was happy and I felt alive for the first time in my life.

My mother's entire family hated me before they ever physically met me. They called me filthy names before I had ever set foot in their homes or general presence. All lies my mother told them from the day she was given me back from the loving foster man, a transexual, who was treating me good and loved me dearly. My mother hoarded dogs for years. Little dogs. Poodles and chihuahuas. She had over a hundred of them. They were not allowed out of the house. My brothers and I were not allowed to clean up their shit from the carpets, or the hardwood floors. If they shit on our beds, and that was a common occurrence there, we couldn't clean the shit off. If they shit on the table, same rule. She would clean it, when she got time. But she was usually passed out on  illegally acquired tranquilisers and to this day, there is still dog shit from those dogs ground into her living room carpet. Cockroaches were so thick in there, if you left the light off to walk to the bathroom, you would step on them and leave a trail of footprints of dead cockroaches to and from where you had gone in the night.

The house had a strong ammonia smell all the way through it, and still does to this day. In 2016 the dogs and their waste will have been there thirty years. The smell would burn my throat and my eyes were constantly watering. My mother chain smoked and talked on the phone by the hour. If I dared open a window, she would nail it shut. If I tried to go outside, she would claim that "child services" would see me out there and take me away and put me in a place where I would be raped, maimed and killed the first day. She moved in a "male friend" who molested me more than once while she was on the phone. If I interrupted her on the phone, she would throw coffee mugs at me, or punch me in the head, showing off for her drunken friends who happened to camp out in our kitchen every day. When I told her what had happened, she called me a whore and a liar. To this day, she defends the assholes, even though one confessed that he did do it.

My mother would get drunk with my uncle as soon as my dad would leave for work. She would get my uncle and his girlfriend fighting by saying that she was screwing my uncle (she was; I caught them many times in the act), and they'd leave fighting. Fifteen minutes later, while I would be doing my homework, she would come in and make me go to their house with her. She could easily drive across town to their house to get in the middle of their drunken fights, but she couldn't drive me three blocks away to the school so I could participate in sports or extra curricular activities.

I learned to entertain myself, locked in that bedroom, with nothing but my note books, secret photos of my friends from school, and my collection of rainbow inks pens. In 1991, at the age of 10 years old, two months before my 11th birthday, I started my first journal. Writing kept me from going insane. I wrote down what happened at home. I wrote my fantasies, I wrote poems, I wrote plays, I started taking the journals to school and write there. I would write how the kids would make fun of me because I constantly smelled like cigarette smoke and dog piss. Sometimes the first ten or so exhales I would do in the clean school air, was pure second hand smoke that I had inhaled the seventeen hours I had been away from the school. By the time I was fifteen,  I had been prescribed all the breathing pills, inhalers and even oxygen known to medical science. In 2003, when I went to the doctor I now go to, he asked me if I had worked in a coal mine all my short life.

My father, who worked from 3pm until midnight every night, seven days a week, never witnessed what had gone on there. When I tried to tell him, on the rare occasion that he would ask me where the bruises or cuts came from, I would tell him. But he never believed me. I told teachers, they laughed it off. I told my family doctor, he did not believe me, either. I told every adult I came across when I was away from my parents, and they failed me. I was never removed from that environment. Living there was worse than when Dennis' family was feuding, as my mother was not afraid to hit me repeatedly. I remember times when her drunken friends had to pull her off of me because they were afraid she was going to kill me. I used to go to school in the mornings after, with vision that was still blurry from the blows to my head, a broken wrist, or the swollen face that was painful to move.

I cried for help so many times during those days, and no body came.

I don't know if it was because they enjoyed me being abused or didn't believe I was, that I was just bruising myself, from age six until fifteen, to lie and get my parents in trouble, but there was never an investigation. There was never even a phone call. It was just me against the biggest bully in the world, and there were many times that I didn't think I was going to survive.

I always turned to Dennis' family to get away from my own. It was better than what I had, even though Dennis has his own horror stories to tell. I always dreamed of running away from my home and going to live with them. The past five years, I longed to get away from them. It's a vicious cycle that one can never fully recover from. When I tried to run away, my friends would tell my mother. There was hell to pay when I got home.

Dennis never told. We used to hang out in the crawl space above my mother's house while she was drinking, doing tranquilisers and screwing my uncle, and entertain ourselves. Sometimes that involved lighting the antiqued glowing candles and pretend to be doing seances, or we'd light them for the warmth. The crawl space was freezing in the winter and late fall months. We would talk or read, or I would write in my journals while Dennis would rummage through old books and magazines.

All in all, it was abnormal. The story of my life.
I seriously dislike the family that I married into. They weren't like this when I initially met them some twenty two years ago, back in 1990 at the Cancer Treatment Center of Chicago. They were happy, normal people. I'm not sure what happened to them between then and now, other that random, casual sex with any willing partner they could find, extreme alcoholism, and enormous drug overdoses, addictions, self harm, heart break and failure.

We all experience one or more of those in our life. We don't all go off the deep end and start to set up the ones we love.

At least I never did.

If I had a problem with one of my family members, I sat down and talked with them. Saw their point, told them my complaint, and we worked together to compromise. But I am a sane and rational person. Over the past ten years as I tried to sit down and talk to Billy or anyone in the family keeping the fighting going, they would flip out. Name call, lie, claim exaggerated versons of my life and problems. I noticed this happened around February or April of 2002, and it's drove me insane ever since. I feel as though I am constantly walking on eggshells, that any little thing, such as the wrong juice poured at breakfast, would set off a psychotic episode.

We were all heavily medicated. Thorazine. Risperdal. Prozac. Cymbalta. Zoloft. Abilify.

We had all seriously attempted suicide, going so far as fighting others to let the sick person blow their brains out, overdosing on pills that only accomplished liver damage, or getting caught stealing barbiturates from hospitals or clinics.

We spent hour after hour in family therapy, telling a stranger why we no longer functioned as a family or even as people who could stand to live knowing the other was alive somewhere in this world.

We were suspicious of each other.

We lied to one another. Billy claimed "demon possession" when he physically beat me so bad I had a concussion, and brain damage so bad my "blue eyes turned black" or the retina was so huge because of the brain damage. Dennis claimed to have "multiple personalities" or "disassociation identity disorder," self-diagnosed, of course, and "Trevor," the oldest person in his community was the one who was the alcoholic, the drug addict, and the one who hated me and repeatedly smacked me when I "got out of order."

I stayed with this family because it was better than going back to my parents. Especially my mother. I knew if I lived there, I would relive several days of my teen years, and I never want to relive them. They are what caused the psychosis in my initially. Situations where I had to stay home from school with chicken pox for two weeks and the third week was spring break, so I got nearly a month home from school, and I was punished for it, by my mother sending my female cat to the animal shelter and made me watch euthanasia videos the entire time I was home from school. If I wanted to watch TV, I could only watch a euthanasia recording.

When I tripped, slipped on  the ice, and fell into my drunken failure of an uncle, and he thought I 'pushed' him, my mother punished me for that by breaking the neck of my tom cat, the brother of the female cat who had died a year earlier. She came into my room with the cat still alive, and made me watch her break his neck. I screamed and cried in horror, but it did no good. She threw the cat, his nose gushing blood, onto me in my bed in the middle of the night, shut and locked my bedroom door from the outside.

The last episode that I remember was when I was 16 and my dogs had gotten pregnant and given birth to a total of twenty puppies. It happened while I was in college that day and she was mad that I was "wasting money" by furthering my education. I came home one day and she told me to "go clean up the mess in the back yard" I thought I would be scooping dog shit. What else could be out there that needed cleaning so badly? I got outside in the middle of December, to find both adult dogs and nineteen of the twenty puppies murdered. Slaughtered. Blood staining the dead brown grass. Pieces of meat and fur were all over the yard, as if the dogs had been run over with a lawn mower. I remember I went numb, didn't talk for months after, and that I methodically cleaned up the mess. I buried the dogs deep in the wooded area behind our house so that no one could find the evidence. I remember sitting on the swing that night, sobbing, when a lone little female puppy, the runt of the litters, came out from where ever she had been hiding, and nuzzled against me. I picked her up, stroked her, and called Billy. I told him what had happened and begged him to come get that puppy. He agreed.

My mother enjoyed abusing those puppies that I spent days after school playing with, teasing, and playfully tossing them in a pile of leaves I had raked up. I would come in from the back yard after hours of playing with the babies, covered with muddy puppy tracks on my white shirts and jeans. Leaves clung in my hair, pebbles and pieces of sandstone stuck to the sides of my sneakers. I was a mess, but I was happy and I felt alive for the first time in my life.

My mother's entire family hated me before they ever physically met me. They called me filthy names before I had ever set foot in their homes or general presence. All lies my mother told them from the day she was given me back from the loving foster man, a transexual, who was treating me good and loved me dearly. My mother hoarded dogs for years. Little dogs. Poodles and chihuahuas. She had over a hundred of them. They were not allowed out of the house. My brothers and I were not allowed to clean up their shit from the carpets, or the hardwood floors. If they shit on our beds, and that was a common occurrence there, we couldn't clean the shit off. If they shit on the table, same rule. She would clean it, when she got time. But she was usually passed out on  illegally acquired tranquilisers and to this day, there is still dog shit from those dogs ground into her living room carpet. Cockroaches were so thick in there, if you left the light off to walk to the bathroom, you would step on them and leave a trail of footprints of dead cockroaches to and from where you had gone in the night.

The house had a strong ammonia smell all the way through it, and still does to this day. In 2016 the dogs and their waste will have been there thirty years. The smell would burn my throat and my eyes were constantly watering. My mother chain smoked and talked on the phone by the hour. If I dared open a window, she would nail it shut. If I tried to go outside, she would claim that "child services" would see me out there and take me away and put me in a place where I would be raped, maimed and killed the first day. She moved in a "male friend" who molested me more than once while she was on the phone. If I interrupted her on the phone, she would throw coffee mugs at me, or punch me in the head, showing off for her drunken friends who happened to camp out in our kitchen every day. When I told her what had happened, she called me a whore and a liar. To this day, she defends the assholes, even though one confessed that he did do it.

My mother would get drunk with my uncle as soon as my dad would leave for work. She would get my uncle and his girlfriend fighting by saying that she was screwing my uncle (she was; I caught them many times in the act), and they'd leave fighting. Fifteen minutes later, while I would be doing my homework, she would come in and make me go to their house with her. She could easily drive across town to their house to get in the middle of their drunken fights, but she couldn't drive me three blocks away to the school so I could participate in sports or extra curricular activities.

I learned to entertain myself, locked in that bedroom, with nothing but my note books, secret photos of my friends from school, and my collection of rainbow inks pens. In 1991, at the age of 10 years old, two months before my 11th birthday, I started my first journal. Writing kept me from going insane. I wrote down what happened at home. I wrote my fantasies, I wrote poems, I wrote plays, I started taking the journals to school and write there. I would write how the kids would make fun of me because I constantly smelled like cigarette smoke and dog piss. Sometimes the first ten or so exhales I would do in the clean school air, was pure second hand smoke that I had inhaled the seventeen hours I had been away from the school. By the time I was fifteen,  I had been prescribed all the breathing pills, inhalers and even oxygen known to medical science. In 2003, when I went to the doctor I now go to, he asked me if I had worked in a coal mine all my short life.

My father, who worked from 3pm until midnight every night, seven days a week, never witnessed what had gone on there. When I tried to tell him, on the rare occasion that he would ask me where the bruises or cuts came from, I would tell him. But he never believed me. I told teachers, they laughed it off. I told my family doctor, he did not believe me, either. I told every adult I came across when I was away from my parents, and they failed me. I was never removed from that environment. Living there was worse than when Dennis' family was feuding, as my mother was not afraid to hit me repeatedly. I remember times when her drunken friends had to pull her off of me because they were afraid she was going to kill me. I used to go to school in the mornings after, with vision that was still blurry from the blows to my head, a broken wrist, or the swollen face that was painful to move.

I cried for help so many times during those days, and no body came.

I don't know if it was because they enjoyed me being abused or didn't believe I was, that I was just bruising myself, from age six until fifteen, to lie and get my parents in trouble, but there was never an investigation. There was never even a phone call. It was just me against the biggest bully in the world, and there were many times that I didn't think I was going to survive.

I always turned to Dennis' family to get away from my own. It was better than what I had, even though Dennis has his own horror stories to tell. I always dreamed of running away from my home and going to live with them. The past five years, I longed to get away from them. It's a vicious cycle that one can never fully recover from. When I tried to run away, my friends would tell my mother. There was hell to pay when I got home.

Dennis never told. We used to hang out in the crawl space above my mother's house while she was drinking, doing tranquilisers and screwing my uncle, and entertain ourselves. Sometimes that involved lighting the antiqued glowing candles and pretend to be doing seances, or we'd light them for the warmth. The crawl space was freezing in the winter and late fall months. We would talk or read, or I would write in my journals while Dennis would rummage through old books and magazines.

All in all, it was abnormal. The story of my life.

Friday, September 7, 2012

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Something That Won't Go Away

When I arrived home, sure enough, a little travelling suitcase was waiting for me at the doorway. So was my dog. Kids weren't there, Husband wasn't there, father-in-law wasn't there. But my mother sure was, along with Creep! Brilliant!

I'm starting to wonder something. If I had been referring to him as Creep since I started my blog back in 2000, would he still be up my ass constantly, today? Sadly I think the answer is yes.

I had left my backpack from work on the porch before coming into the house. When Creep jumped out of his chair to take me to hell, I asked if I could bring my computer along. My mother seemed pissed off immediately, but Creep asked why I would need it. "Well, I have to get work done there. Probably while you're sleeping off the treatments," I replied with a small smile. I didn't think it was going to work, but Creep assumed that he was going to sleep after I let him fuck his brains whatever, since he has no brains, out. And he allowed me to bring my computer along. I assumed my mother was going to have one of her friends probe it, to see how much money Husband and I had, by one of her computer-savvy friends. A friend who would "make a mistake" and fuck up my computer royally, and I'd be left with the damaged goods.

I gathered up the computer, cord and the little pencil case that I had packed the night before, and went back downstairs. My suitcase was already in Creep's car. I air kissed my mother good bye, shut the door, grabbed my backpack and hurried to Creep's car, jumping in the backseat. He was surprised. "What are you doing back there?" he asked. "You're not going to fondle me at all while we go through this," I said. He started to say something. "And you can fuck me when you love me," I added. He seemed to wither at that statement, and backed the car out of the driveway.

I tucked my computer and cords into my backpack, stuffed the pencil case in the pocket. I had prepared for this little trip last night. If I absolutely had to do this, I was going to play by my own rules.

Creep has taken me right where I thought he would: His property on the lake. I found it pretty funny because he and my best friend Matt picked out this place when Creep was pretending to be gay.

My mother explained to me that I had to come on this trip to get Creep stable to live alone, something he has never done in his miserable life, but now has to since he's alienated his family and friends for that rancid invalid who abused us and he clung to since she occasionally sent him movies of her over-grown vagina in action. The whole story came out in the open (no pun intended) about a year ago when she started faking cancer and dying within a year or so. Fed up, Creep finally walked away from her after nine years of us having to put up with her abuse. By then, what few family and friends he had had either died or disowned him. I was one of the latter.

Creep wants to go back to his "old life" and show us that he is the person he was pre-April 2002, and get back to his old profession, clandestinely writing love songs to me and dedicating performances to me. However, it seems odd that according to his blog, and the voice messages I listened to on his phone, the dumb shit uses his widely know birthday as his password everywhere on everything, I am dead and he's no monster, his living friends and family are SEW MEEEEN and not speaking to him now that he's reaching out to them, how insane and fucked up they are for ditching him "when he's down" after he took the side of an abusive bitch who was harassing us by posting "anonymously" about us online, gave pictures of me to my stalker, told my stalker where my new website was, and forwarded it my emails to her, and the best of all ........ In Creep's blog, I am dead, and he wasn't allowed to go to my funeral, so he's going to have this memorial show for me on the top of the Tower on September 29th, or the day that his youngest son, another person he blew off to be with that bitch, was diagnosed as terminal, all to raise money to purchase head stones for his two sons, his dead dog, and I.

Hello?

Are you still there? Or was the drama too much for you?

I think I condensed six years worth of drama into that last paragraph. You had to be there to experience it. I frequently wrote about the "anonymous" who trolled me on my blog. Those entries are private now, so you can't read them there anymore.

I have CDs full of his chat logs with this bitch. I let him use my old computer to talk to her, and it secretly saved the chats. He spilled things that I had told him in confidence to her, without her even asking for them. He volunteered pictures of me to her. Sent her pictures and videos of me. Printed out photos of me for her. Sent her flowers on my credit card, because it was my computer and the info all posted instantly to the "billing" page. Lied about me. Left away messages that he knew she would read, waxing poetic about his forbidden love for me. Ranted and raved with rage that I married his "fat, loser brother" instead of him. Bragged, when the goings got tough, that he took my virginity. The lies. The stories. The fake domains. It was all so much and it seems to never end! After reading that these past couple of days, I didn't want to help. Fuck him. Diabetes can be figured out. Not every middle-aged man with it needs a three-week live-in with a private nurse that they have been lusting for since she was ten years old.

Needless to say, I don't want to do this. But I do want to keep the peace in the family and my own little group of friends. I have asked people to start sending me their sides of the story with links to this blog. I sent questions. I asked for answers. I don't expect to get any, but they have been asked. I think Creep does need a shut in for three weeks - in an psychiatric hospital. How could he do these things to me, and then wonder why I never loved him truly? I may never know.

The good part is that we're not going to stay at this lake for the full three weeks. I agreed on until Sunday because I have to go to New York Monday night and be home Wednesday afternoon. People are expecting me there, and I can't let them down. So Creep wants to spend those last couple of weeks at my place. Sure. Why not? My bedroom door has an internal latch-lock and an adjourning bathroom, and Josh has since trained me in firearms and I studied up on barbiturate mixtures. I think I can handle myself at home. I also insisted that Husband and the kids meet us up at this lake house, and have a little vacation of their own. I'm going to make it in to work this week, with three days off next week, and Chloe will make it to school all this week and next week.

No worries.

Just the annoying fact that people in my family still think I am a nurse and treat me as one. I am no longer a nurse! Just because I kept my RN card updated doesn't mean I really want to be one anymore.

G'Night all you happy people.
When I arrived home, sure enough, a little travelling suitcase was waiting for me at the doorway. So was my dog. Kids weren't there, Husband wasn't there, father-in-law wasn't there. But my mother sure was, along with Creep! Brilliant!

I'm starting to wonder something. If I had been referring to him as Creep since I started my blog back in 2000, would he still be up my ass constantly, today? Sadly I think the answer is yes.

I had left my backpack from work on the porch before coming into the house. When Creep jumped out of his chair to take me to hell, I asked if I could bring my computer along. My mother seemed pissed off immediately, but Creep asked why I would need it. "Well, I have to get work done there. Probably while you're sleeping off the treatments," I replied with a small smile. I didn't think it was going to work, but Creep assumed that he was going to sleep after I let him fuck his brains whatever, since he has no brains, out. And he allowed me to bring my computer along. I assumed my mother was going to have one of her friends probe it, to see how much money Husband and I had, by one of her computer-savvy friends. A friend who would "make a mistake" and fuck up my computer royally, and I'd be left with the damaged goods.

I gathered up the computer, cord and the little pencil case that I had packed the night before, and went back downstairs. My suitcase was already in Creep's car. I air kissed my mother good bye, shut the door, grabbed my backpack and hurried to Creep's car, jumping in the backseat. He was surprised. "What are you doing back there?" he asked. "You're not going to fondle me at all while we go through this," I said. He started to say something. "And you can fuck me when you love me," I added. He seemed to wither at that statement, and backed the car out of the driveway.

I tucked my computer and cords into my backpack, stuffed the pencil case in the pocket. I had prepared for this little trip last night. If I absolutely had to do this, I was going to play by my own rules.

Creep has taken me right where I thought he would: His property on the lake. I found it pretty funny because he and my best friend Matt picked out this place when Creep was pretending to be gay.

My mother explained to me that I had to come on this trip to get Creep stable to live alone, something he has never done in his miserable life, but now has to since he's alienated his family and friends for that rancid invalid who abused us and he clung to since she occasionally sent him movies of her over-grown vagina in action. The whole story came out in the open (no pun intended) about a year ago when she started faking cancer and dying within a year or so. Fed up, Creep finally walked away from her after nine years of us having to put up with her abuse. By then, what few family and friends he had had either died or disowned him. I was one of the latter.

Creep wants to go back to his "old life" and show us that he is the person he was pre-April 2002, and get back to his old profession, clandestinely writing love songs to me and dedicating performances to me. However, it seems odd that according to his blog, and the voice messages I listened to on his phone, the dumb shit uses his widely know birthday as his password everywhere on everything, I am dead and he's no monster, his living friends and family are SEW MEEEEN and not speaking to him now that he's reaching out to them, how insane and fucked up they are for ditching him "when he's down" after he took the side of an abusive bitch who was harassing us by posting "anonymously" about us online, gave pictures of me to my stalker, told my stalker where my new website was, and forwarded it my emails to her, and the best of all ........ In Creep's blog, I am dead, and he wasn't allowed to go to my funeral, so he's going to have this memorial show for me on the top of the Tower on September 29th, or the day that his youngest son, another person he blew off to be with that bitch, was diagnosed as terminal, all to raise money to purchase head stones for his two sons, his dead dog, and I.

Hello?

Are you still there? Or was the drama too much for you?

I think I condensed six years worth of drama into that last paragraph. You had to be there to experience it. I frequently wrote about the "anonymous" who trolled me on my blog. Those entries are private now, so you can't read them there anymore.

I have CDs full of his chat logs with this bitch. I let him use my old computer to talk to her, and it secretly saved the chats. He spilled things that I had told him in confidence to her, without her even asking for them. He volunteered pictures of me to her. Sent her pictures and videos of me. Printed out photos of me for her. Sent her flowers on my credit card, because it was my computer and the info all posted instantly to the "billing" page. Lied about me. Left away messages that he knew she would read, waxing poetic about his forbidden love for me. Ranted and raved with rage that I married his "fat, loser brother" instead of him. Bragged, when the goings got tough, that he took my virginity. The lies. The stories. The fake domains. It was all so much and it seems to never end! After reading that these past couple of days, I didn't want to help. Fuck him. Diabetes can be figured out. Not every middle-aged man with it needs a three-week live-in with a private nurse that they have been lusting for since she was ten years old.

Needless to say, I don't want to do this. But I do want to keep the peace in the family and my own little group of friends. I have asked people to start sending me their sides of the story with links to this blog. I sent questions. I asked for answers. I don't expect to get any, but they have been asked. I think Creep does need a shut in for three weeks - in an psychiatric hospital. How could he do these things to me, and then wonder why I never loved him truly? I may never know.

The good part is that we're not going to stay at this lake for the full three weeks. I agreed on until Sunday because I have to go to New York Monday night and be home Wednesday afternoon. People are expecting me there, and I can't let them down. So Creep wants to spend those last couple of weeks at my place. Sure. Why not? My bedroom door has an internal latch-lock and an adjourning bathroom, and Josh has since trained me in firearms and I studied up on barbiturate mixtures. I think I can handle myself at home. I also insisted that Husband and the kids meet us up at this lake house, and have a little vacation of their own. I'm going to make it in to work this week, with three days off next week, and Chloe will make it to school all this week and next week.

No worries.

Just the annoying fact that people in my family still think I am a nurse and treat me as one. I am no longer a nurse! Just because I kept my RN card updated doesn't mean I really want to be one anymore.

G'Night all you happy people.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

The Way I Loved You

[NOTE: I was going to post this on my domain blog, but the only form of internet is my phone, and I don't have my password memorised, so I can't log into it right now. I can't reset the password from a mobile phone anyway. When I get home, and get to a computer, this may mirror on my website. Thank you for the patience and support while I am going through this particularly difficult time. Love can heal what Love has harmed.]

I feel sick, as if I am going to start throwing up any minute now, despite the fact that I have not eaten anything today but my morning meds.

I am shaking.

I feel numb.

My vision is slowed down to a crawl when I move my eyes around.

Funny thing is, I haven't taken a single pill that could fuck me up this bad.

No, this time it's a panic attack, brought on by the fear of what I am going to be facing when I get home.

It started at the morning break...

All the students here are on Fall Break, but I still assigned them to turn in their composition books today so I could have some free days to read essays, grade them, record the grades and have them ready to turn back in on Monday. I was doing good. Waking up this morning, and checking my calendar, I saw it was the would-be 50th birthday of my first love. The man whom I never slept with, but that I loved with all my heart. He taught me to look up at the stars, and told me that was the best tranquilizer know on the Universe. I only knew him three years, and then he died. It was a different death for me, because I witnessed it. I watched him struggle and die...

Wiping the tears of the past from my eyes, I went to work anyway, listening to happy music and pushing the thought of seeing my first love die out of my head. It worked. I was plucky and strict as the student stumbled in bleary-eyed and dumped their composition books into the cardboard box I had set up, and then shuffle back out of the school. Break time came around and I decided to call home. My mother answered. She told me something that changed me.

I am going to be needed for the next three weeks. Needed to accompany someone I don't particularly like, who has a habit of leaving huge bruises and scars on my face and down my arms when I don't do what he demands. She seemed happy telling me this. Of course she's happy. She lives to see me miserable. She told me that she had packed me some clothes and as soon as I come in from work, he will be there to take me with him. I felt sick. Nausea rolled through my stomach. I felt the saliva build in my mouth, warning me to get to a trash can or a sink, a toilet, outside, so I could puke up all the Smart Water I had chugged this morning.

"What does he want me for? Does [husband] know?!" I demanded.

My mother said something muffled and I heard my husband reply to her: "Tell her it's just twenty-four days. It's not going to kill her. Besides, she needs to contribute to my family for a change."

Gee, I love you too.

I've thought about this long and hard. Knowing what I know has made me feel worse. My arms feel as if they'er on fire, but I have not been out in the sun. I feel like I am going to throw up, but nothing has come up. I am shaking. The room is slanted. I have sat at the table for my students to drop off their composition books, but I am not keeping track.

My husband doesn't believe me. After all these years and all the confession and apologies where he said he would never allow me to be alone with that creep, here he is, saying that he's been tricking me all these years?

I'm in no condition to go back to work, and I'm certainly in no condition to drive home. Why would I want to go there? What ever is planned for the next twenty-four days is not good. It's not something that I want to be involved in.

I feel like I want to cry, but the tears won't come.

Shortly after hanging up from my mother, I called my man to see if he really didn't believe me. He said that things are different now, and it was me, after all, who said they needed a break. Yes, I said it would be nice to go on a vacation, but with my loving family. He wasn't angry or shitty to me, nor was he cold. He truly believes that I will be okay. He truly believes that I will make it through this just fine.

I have been getting text messages from Creep ever since. He even told me he has a "special ring" I can wear instead of my wedding band. Um, how about no?

I don't answer the texts, but he knows that I am reading them. I always read my text messages.

I have reached out to several friends today, practically begging them to help me. I have done all but get on my knees and beg to be hidden, to be suddenly unavailable at 2pm today, so that I don't have to go through this.

So far I have gotten no responses.

I'll post updates to Twitter as I go along. For now I have an hour left. For the first time since I worked here, the work day is going by too fast. I am also going to either cross post this to my site, or provide a link to it. I will keep everyone updated. I promise.

The email that goes directly to my phone, which I assume I will be allowed to take with me, will be the only connection to the internet for a while, I assume. Feel free to email me. I love interactions with humans. Who knows? I may become so brainwashed in the next three weeks that it won't matter anymore, whether people talk to me or not.
[NOTE: I was going to post this on my domain blog, but the only form of internet is my phone, and I don't have my password memorised, so I can't log into it right now. I can't reset the password from a mobile phone anyway. When I get home, and get to a computer, this may mirror on my website. Thank you for the patience and support while I am going through this particularly difficult time. Love can heal what Love has harmed.]

I feel sick, as if I am going to start throwing up any minute now, despite the fact that I have not eaten anything today but my morning meds.

I am shaking.

I feel numb.

My vision is slowed down to a crawl when I move my eyes around.

Funny thing is, I haven't taken a single pill that could fuck me up this bad.

No, this time it's a panic attack, brought on by the fear of what I am going to be facing when I get home.

It started at the morning break...

All the students here are on Fall Break, but I still assigned them to turn in their composition books today so I could have some free days to read essays, grade them, record the grades and have them ready to turn back in on Monday. I was doing good. Waking up this morning, and checking my calendar, I saw it was the would-be 50th birthday of my first love. The man whom I never slept with, but that I loved with all my heart. He taught me to look up at the stars, and told me that was the best tranquilizer know on the Universe. I only knew him three years, and then he died. It was a different death for me, because I witnessed it. I watched him struggle and die...

Wiping the tears of the past from my eyes, I went to work anyway, listening to happy music and pushing the thought of seeing my first love die out of my head. It worked. I was plucky and strict as the student stumbled in bleary-eyed and dumped their composition books into the cardboard box I had set up, and then shuffle back out of the school. Break time came around and I decided to call home. My mother answered. She told me something that changed me.

I am going to be needed for the next three weeks. Needed to accompany someone I don't particularly like, who has a habit of leaving huge bruises and scars on my face and down my arms when I don't do what he demands. She seemed happy telling me this. Of course she's happy. She lives to see me miserable. She told me that she had packed me some clothes and as soon as I come in from work, he will be there to take me with him. I felt sick. Nausea rolled through my stomach. I felt the saliva build in my mouth, warning me to get to a trash can or a sink, a toilet, outside, so I could puke up all the Smart Water I had chugged this morning.

"What does he want me for? Does [husband] know?!" I demanded.

My mother said something muffled and I heard my husband reply to her: "Tell her it's just twenty-four days. It's not going to kill her. Besides, she needs to contribute to my family for a change."

Gee, I love you too.

I've thought about this long and hard. Knowing what I know has made me feel worse. My arms feel as if they'er on fire, but I have not been out in the sun. I feel like I am going to throw up, but nothing has come up. I am shaking. The room is slanted. I have sat at the table for my students to drop off their composition books, but I am not keeping track.

My husband doesn't believe me. After all these years and all the confession and apologies where he said he would never allow me to be alone with that creep, here he is, saying that he's been tricking me all these years?

I'm in no condition to go back to work, and I'm certainly in no condition to drive home. Why would I want to go there? What ever is planned for the next twenty-four days is not good. It's not something that I want to be involved in.

I feel like I want to cry, but the tears won't come.

Shortly after hanging up from my mother, I called my man to see if he really didn't believe me. He said that things are different now, and it was me, after all, who said they needed a break. Yes, I said it would be nice to go on a vacation, but with my loving family. He wasn't angry or shitty to me, nor was he cold. He truly believes that I will be okay. He truly believes that I will make it through this just fine.

I have been getting text messages from Creep ever since. He even told me he has a "special ring" I can wear instead of my wedding band. Um, how about no?

I don't answer the texts, but he knows that I am reading them. I always read my text messages.

I have reached out to several friends today, practically begging them to help me. I have done all but get on my knees and beg to be hidden, to be suddenly unavailable at 2pm today, so that I don't have to go through this.

So far I have gotten no responses.

I'll post updates to Twitter as I go along. For now I have an hour left. For the first time since I worked here, the work day is going by too fast. I am also going to either cross post this to my site, or provide a link to it. I will keep everyone updated. I promise.

The email that goes directly to my phone, which I assume I will be allowed to take with me, will be the only connection to the internet for a while, I assume. Feel free to email me. I love interactions with humans. Who knows? I may become so brainwashed in the next three weeks that it won't matter anymore, whether people talk to me or not.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Weak

I got weak yesterday and had to apply a narcotic patch. I was jittery. I cried at the drop of a hat, and for some reason the stars were against me, and every where I turned, there was something that caused the tears to flow. I don't get high from these patches, but I get some kind of relief from the jitters, the jumping out of my skin, and the pains of living. Today, after a long sleep and dreams of going to Las Vegas, I have woken up with my apathy back, calmed jitters, and my skin is sane. I can't remember when I changed the patch last time, but it had been over a week. Maybe that is a good sign.

Here's to a calm, happy weekend, every body!

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Birthday wishes to me! Today I am 32. Doesn't seem realistic to me, but what can I say?

Leave your birthday wishes here, since my server is being a bitch and not loading my site properly today.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Nothing

I purchased a domain to match this site URL, but we all know that I won't do anything with it. Possibly have a WordPress installation. Domains expire. This page is free.

I had so much planned for today, but it all turned to shit. I was going to dig into my files and find a decent photo of myself for the side bar. I was going to make a new layout with graphics. I was going to find some of my old scans or at least the images that I wanted to rescan. But I did jack shit. Went to work. Came home. Laid in bed. That killed me. Once I hit the bed, I couldn't get back up out of it. I just went in and out of sleep for hours.

For now I've doubled up on my meds. I know that I shouldn't do that, but I can't help myself. I am suffering. I need something to comfort me. Say a little prayer for me. I am slowly breaking down.
I purchased a domain to match this site URL, but we all know that I won't do anything with it. Possibly have a WordPress installation. Domains expire. This page is free.

I had so much planned for today, but it all turned to shit. I was going to dig into my files and find a decent photo of myself for the side bar. I was going to make a new layout with graphics. I was going to find some of my old scans or at least the images that I wanted to rescan. But I did jack shit. Went to work. Came home. Laid in bed. That killed me. Once I hit the bed, I couldn't get back up out of it. I just went in and out of sleep for hours.

For now I've doubled up on my meds. I know that I shouldn't do that, but I can't help myself. I am suffering. I need something to comfort me. Say a little prayer for me. I am slowly breaking down.

Monday, May 28, 2012

Domain

I purchased a domain for this blog. Now the big question is, will I actually use it? Would anyone want me to expand my blog to a full website about drug abuse and recovery? I love to write, so I would love to make a functional, up-to-date website about the truth of drug use, abuse, recovery, and all the nasty choices we make to keep up that lifestyle.

I ask because I have been blogging the shit outta my other domain, and I really enjoy working with it. I am not keeping a paper journal at this time, so that is where all my extra writing energy is coming from.

Questions? Comments? Suggestions? I'm always open to them both. I write for myself, but I really want feedback on my writing, so this has to be somewhat user content.

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to those that celebrate it. I spent the evening consoling poor Champ. His mother stopped having anything to do with him when he came out. Something stupid about never being able to be a grandmother now. The catch line that I blurted out was, "Haven't you told her that gays have discovered a miracle? Babies without sex! Seriously! The hetero people almost never use that method!" Champ was laughing that contagious laugh that he has with in seconds. That's my friend! I don't understand how a mother could disown a child because of who or what they are. I remember back when I was doing research for a paper I was writing on genetics, and parents were using a new kind of test to check and see what gender, eye colour and hair colour their babies were before they were born, and a whopping 16 out of 26 parents aborted their baby because it was not going to be the star of the football team, have the correct gender, hair or eye combination. It made me sick, researching that paper.

I looked down at my two boys playing "pick boogie" with their napping sister (yes, that game is exactly what you think it might be!), and I wondered how anyone can not love their children because of their sexuality. How could a human being kill a child (third trimester abortions here) because it was not going to live up to their "American Dream"?

I want to write more, but my back is hurting from sitting in this chair all day working on files and sites and installs. All I did was sit and work. It really did a number on my back, and I'm afraid that I am going to have to reach for that Vicodin after all. Maybe even the other medications that I was prescribed over the past week. I do not feel comfortable with taking them, but I will, just because I am sore tonight and I have to be at my best tomorrow, for appointments.

Sorry for a shite post, all. I promise better things are in the horizon. Even if I have to upload and post boring pics of my babies, maybe one of Mommie. Have a happy rest of the weekend, all!
Happy Mother's Day to those that celebrate it. I spent the evening consoling poor Champ. His mother stopped having anything to do with him when he came out. Something stupid about never being able to be a grandmother now. The catch line that I blurted out was, "Haven't you told her that gays have discovered a miracle? Babies without sex! Seriously! The hetero people almost never use that method!" Champ was laughing that contagious laugh that he has with in seconds. That's my friend! I don't understand how a mother could disown a child because of who or what they are. I remember back when I was doing research for a paper I was writing on genetics, and parents were using a new kind of test to check and see what gender, eye colour and hair colour their babies were before they were born, and a whopping 16 out of 26 parents aborted their baby because it was not going to be the star of the football team, have the correct gender, hair or eye combination. It made me sick, researching that paper.

I looked down at my two boys playing "pick boogie" with their napping sister (yes, that game is exactly what you think it might be!), and I wondered how anyone can not love their children because of their sexuality. How could a human being kill a child (third trimester abortions here) because it was not going to live up to their "American Dream"?

I want to write more, but my back is hurting from sitting in this chair all day working on files and sites and installs. All I did was sit and work. It really did a number on my back, and I'm afraid that I am going to have to reach for that Vicodin after all. Maybe even the other medications that I was prescribed over the past week. I do not feel comfortable with taking them, but I will, just because I am sore tonight and I have to be at my best tomorrow, for appointments.

Sorry for a shite post, all. I promise better things are in the horizon. Even if I have to upload and post boring pics of my babies, maybe one of Mommie. Have a happy rest of the weekend, all!

Thursday, May 10, 2012

you’re dead to me and I missed your funeral

I must be living on some alternate planet and time line. The doctor gave me Vicodin yesterday. Sixty of them. For the next three months. I'm screwed.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Changes in the Drugs


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I am going into a new phase of my life. My doctor wants to get me off as many of my medications as possible. I don't know if that is a good idea or not, medically speaking. I know there would be far less drama here if I were not on all those pills. I think my doctor assumes that I am going to kill myself because of the massive amounts of medication I am on with my depression. I will know more after next week when I get to see him.

Other than that, life is going flowingly. I am excited to be starting some new changes in my life, and I hope they all go for the better. Warm and positive thoughts!

I signed up for another way to follow this blog:
Follow my blog with Bloglovin.

I am going into a new phase of my life. My doctor wants to get me off as many of my medications as possible. I don't know if that is a good idea or not, medically speaking. I know there would be far less drama here if I were not on all those pills. I think my doctor assumes that I am going to kill myself because of the massive amounts of medication I am on with my depression. I will know more after next week when I get to see him.

Other than that, life is going flowingly. I am excited to be starting some new changes in my life, and I hope they all go for the better. Warm and positive thoughts!

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Tomorrow's Gonna Be Another Day

I stopped updating. The entire time I told myself that I would write again, only when I was ready and not before. I was ready many times, but I could not force myself to sit at the computer and write. Just write. Just close my eyes, think of my day, open my eyes and type for all that it was worth. I use to find that so therapeutic.

Then I relapsed. Then I relapsed again and ended up in the hospital.

Then I had the two positive drug tests and I felt ashamed. Ashamed not because there was drug use in my system, but because I wasn't just destroying my life, I was also taking my best friend down with me, and he was the one who provided the drugs. I forced him to provide the drugs. I belittled him when he asked me why. I told him that I had a back ache or that I had a knee pain and all that could settle my storm. This was someone who loved me and was taking care of me, or so he thought, and here I was, verbally abusing him and running him into the ground.

That wasn't me.

Taking a look around the hospital ER room after an IV full of benedryl, fluids and an antidote, I was coherent again and able to take in my surroundings. My friend was sitting in a chair, in the corner of the room, looking scared. I quietly asked what happened and he said I was "rolling" for three days. On the third day, or that night, I started begging for help. I had not been eating. I had only taken one dose. Then I started seeing stars inside and floating. This went on for three days, and he had to call in to work, and he had to deal with my husband coming by asking for me. He thought he was doing me a favour by keeping me hidden from friends and family because they shouldn't see me like that.

And I shouldn't be remembered like that.

Remembered? The next seven words made my hair stand up on the back of my neck: "I thought you were going to die."

Two days later I walked out of the hospital with him, holding hands.

I made some affirmations right then and there. No more drugs. No more asking for them. No more brow-beating one of the truly few friends that I have for drugs. No more. No more. No more. No more pushing others to do drugs with me. I didn't pick up a Bible and become religious in that time frame, but I became more spiritual. I scared someone who loved me dearly, and I should not have done that. On the long, silent drive home, he said that I knew I was dying. That he could not sleep because I might stop breathing and he didn't know CPR.

So I asked, "What now?" he shrugged. Sitting outside my house with a small overnight bag on my lap, I leaned over and hugged him. I held him in my arms. Our silent tears were all that we needed to realise just how real this all was.

I slowly went back on my prescriptions. For a day or so, I was too afraid to take anything, thinking it was an over dose of one of my prescriptions. I basked in the warmth of my daughter and sons showering me with "Yay! Mommy is home!" and my husband's look of relief before asking where I was. I promised to tell him when the time was right. I sat down and did glitter crafts with my boys and little girl. I diapered dolls with my little girl. I wore a pink gem stoned tiara and dressed up as the queen and the boys were my little princes. I got out my old pins and mounted them on a framed cork board with my husband. I wrote in the journal that sits on the night stand. I watched TV endlessly with him. I played video games with the boys. I played Nintendogs with Chloe. I returned all the phone calls that I had been thinking about getting back to. I bought my mother scented candles and Godiva chocolates. I bought my father a stuffed rabbit with chocolates. I told my parents that I appreciate them. I wore the hoop-diamond-drop earrings that my Nick bought me for Christmas on my 18th Christmas. I put on the simple silver ring for my wedding band. I took nothing for granted anymore. I ordered a new journal and some stickers with Chloe and we have been making little scenes in the pages of my journal.

I take nothing for granted now that I know it can all be taken away from me so quickly. I never would have known my life was ending.

The next part I did Sunday evening. I went to my friend's work and watched him take drinks to several of the tables, back a fourth. He didn't even see me there. Shame that he was working on that day. I ordered a glass of merlot and waited. When he delivered it to me, I stood and held out my arms to him. We were instantly pulled together in a tight embrace. I whispered in his ear that I loved him and thanked him for being there, for letting me live another day. When the hugging was over, I asked what was in that final pill. I specifically said nothing harder than a barb. He said he wasn't sure, he'd gotten it from the john that was always asking for me. I sighed and told him that we could still be friends, in fact, I had made him a cake that he needed to come over and celebrate with me with after his shift. He gave me a wide-eyed look. "You know what..." he began. I nodded. "I know it's your birthday. Happy twenty-fifth! Come by after your shift for cake and ice cream!" I replied. His face immediately brightened.

I celebrated my friend's birthday with him, just the two of us, just as he had envisioned it. I'm not going to lose a friend because of an accident. I apologised to him for all that I had done, and I hoped that he would forgive me. He says he has. We should go on an adventure. We will. Just not this week, or the next. I need to rest up.

It's good to be alive.
I stopped updating. The entire time I told myself that I would write again, only when I was ready and not before. I was ready many times, but I could not force myself to sit at the computer and write. Just write. Just close my eyes, think of my day, open my eyes and type for all that it was worth. I use to find that so therapeutic.

Then I relapsed. Then I relapsed again and ended up in the hospital.

Then I had the two positive drug tests and I felt ashamed. Ashamed not because there was drug use in my system, but because I wasn't just destroying my life, I was also taking my best friend down with me, and he was the one who provided the drugs. I forced him to provide the drugs. I belittled him when he asked me why. I told him that I had a back ache or that I had a knee pain and all that could settle my storm. This was someone who loved me and was taking care of me, or so he thought, and here I was, verbally abusing him and running him into the ground.

That wasn't me.

Taking a look around the hospital ER room after an IV full of benedryl, fluids and an antidote, I was coherent again and able to take in my surroundings. My friend was sitting in a chair, in the corner of the room, looking scared. I quietly asked what happened and he said I was "rolling" for three days. On the third day, or that night, I started begging for help. I had not been eating. I had only taken one dose. Then I started seeing stars inside and floating. This went on for three days, and he had to call in to work, and he had to deal with my husband coming by asking for me. He thought he was doing me a favour by keeping me hidden from friends and family because they shouldn't see me like that.

And I shouldn't be remembered like that.

Remembered? The next seven words made my hair stand up on the back of my neck: "I thought you were going to die."

Two days later I walked out of the hospital with him, holding hands.

I made some affirmations right then and there. No more drugs. No more asking for them. No more brow-beating one of the truly few friends that I have for drugs. No more. No more. No more. No more pushing others to do drugs with me. I didn't pick up a Bible and become religious in that time frame, but I became more spiritual. I scared someone who loved me dearly, and I should not have done that. On the long, silent drive home, he said that I knew I was dying. That he could not sleep because I might stop breathing and he didn't know CPR.

So I asked, "What now?" he shrugged. Sitting outside my house with a small overnight bag on my lap, I leaned over and hugged him. I held him in my arms. Our silent tears were all that we needed to realise just how real this all was.

I slowly went back on my prescriptions. For a day or so, I was too afraid to take anything, thinking it was an over dose of one of my prescriptions. I basked in the warmth of my daughter and sons showering me with "Yay! Mommy is home!" and my husband's look of relief before asking where I was. I promised to tell him when the time was right. I sat down and did glitter crafts with my boys and little girl. I diapered dolls with my little girl. I wore a pink gem stoned tiara and dressed up as the queen and the boys were my little princes. I got out my old pins and mounted them on a framed cork board with my husband. I wrote in the journal that sits on the night stand. I watched TV endlessly with him. I played video games with the boys. I played Nintendogs with Chloe. I returned all the phone calls that I had been thinking about getting back to. I bought my mother scented candles and Godiva chocolates. I bought my father a stuffed rabbit with chocolates. I told my parents that I appreciate them. I wore the hoop-diamond-drop earrings that my Nick bought me for Christmas on my 18th Christmas. I put on the simple silver ring for my wedding band. I took nothing for granted anymore. I ordered a new journal and some stickers with Chloe and we have been making little scenes in the pages of my journal.

I take nothing for granted now that I know it can all be taken away from me so quickly. I never would have known my life was ending.

The next part I did Sunday evening. I went to my friend's work and watched him take drinks to several of the tables, back a fourth. He didn't even see me there. Shame that he was working on that day. I ordered a glass of merlot and waited. When he delivered it to me, I stood and held out my arms to him. We were instantly pulled together in a tight embrace. I whispered in his ear that I loved him and thanked him for being there, for letting me live another day. When the hugging was over, I asked what was in that final pill. I specifically said nothing harder than a barb. He said he wasn't sure, he'd gotten it from the john that was always asking for me. I sighed and told him that we could still be friends, in fact, I had made him a cake that he needed to come over and celebrate with me with after his shift. He gave me a wide-eyed look. "You know what..." he began. I nodded. "I know it's your birthday. Happy twenty-fifth! Come by after your shift for cake and ice cream!" I replied. His face immediately brightened.

I celebrated my friend's birthday with him, just the two of us, just as he had envisioned it. I'm not going to lose a friend because of an accident. I apologised to him for all that I had done, and I hoped that he would forgive me. He says he has. We should go on an adventure. We will. Just not this week, or the next. I need to rest up.

It's good to be alive.

Monday, January 23, 2012

Over-Stayed The Welcome

I was never honestly happy today. The weather is nice, sure, but I wanted to share what little bit of happiness that I had left in me to ask a question. Something that I had planned 100% myself, without any help at all from Nick with the exception that just by chance I came upon his cell phone ringing and I answered it. I did a double take when I realised who I was talking to. I wrote down his message and then asked the question no musician wants to hear: "Can I ask you something?" "Sure!" Man, he was friendly!

I have a dear, sweet friend who is getting married soon, and if the person on the other end of the line was who I think it is, then I just had a wonderful idea for the wedding gift. I asked him if he was who I thought he was, and he said yes. Then came the worse question: "Do you do private parties and weddings?" He laughed. I tried to smile. We chatted a bit and I finally had him convinced to perform at the wedding. I was so happy. I was happy for her, happy for me, and happy for everyone who was going to be there.

Then I tried to share my happiness.

The friend that I set up the wedding surprises for, the perfume, the wedding singer, the hand-made invitations, wasn't too enthused with what I had put together. Yes, it was the best that I could do. I had those things when I got married, and they brought me good luck. The tradition goes that if something at your wedding brings happiness and good luck to your marriage, you should share it with a friend who is getting married. I tried. She wanted no part of it.

Horrifying thoughts of when Roxanna was an unfortunate part of my life, and I was forced to be nice to her while she cut me down, and talked bad about me behind my back to people who truly loved me. I had a small flash-in-the-pan thought that maybe that is what my friend is doing to me, now. Maybe I have over-stayed my welcome. Maybe we have grown apart. Maybe I was just fooling myself when I said that people genuinely like me and would have a better chance at being liked if my mother wasn't there to interfere. Maybe I am wrong.

It seems to happen when I'm in a good mood. Do they plan it that way?

I'm going to take some more leans and sleep until the pain stops. When ever that may be.
I was never honestly happy today. The weather is nice, sure, but I wanted to share what little bit of happiness that I had left in me to ask a question. Something that I had planned 100% myself, without any help at all from Nick with the exception that just by chance I came upon his cell phone ringing and I answered it. I did a double take when I realised who I was talking to. I wrote down his message and then asked the question no musician wants to hear: "Can I ask you something?" "Sure!" Man, he was friendly!

I have a dear, sweet friend who is getting married soon, and if the person on the other end of the line was who I think it is, then I just had a wonderful idea for the wedding gift. I asked him if he was who I thought he was, and he said yes. Then came the worse question: "Do you do private parties and weddings?" He laughed. I tried to smile. We chatted a bit and I finally had him convinced to perform at the wedding. I was so happy. I was happy for her, happy for me, and happy for everyone who was going to be there.

Then I tried to share my happiness.

The friend that I set up the wedding surprises for, the perfume, the wedding singer, the hand-made invitations, wasn't too enthused with what I had put together. Yes, it was the best that I could do. I had those things when I got married, and they brought me good luck. The tradition goes that if something at your wedding brings happiness and good luck to your marriage, you should share it with a friend who is getting married. I tried. She wanted no part of it.

Horrifying thoughts of when Roxanna was an unfortunate part of my life, and I was forced to be nice to her while she cut me down, and talked bad about me behind my back to people who truly loved me. I had a small flash-in-the-pan thought that maybe that is what my friend is doing to me, now. Maybe I have over-stayed my welcome. Maybe we have grown apart. Maybe I was just fooling myself when I said that people genuinely like me and would have a better chance at being liked if my mother wasn't there to interfere. Maybe I am wrong.

It seems to happen when I'm in a good mood. Do they plan it that way?

I'm going to take some more leans and sleep until the pain stops. When ever that may be.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Spare A Kidney ?


Well, it's finally happened. Come Monday I am going to be briefed on dialysis and then scheduled for my first trip some time next week. The whole idea depresses me like I have never been depressed before. Why is this happening? I have asked that question to myself many times. While I know why it happened, biologically and chemically, it was only a percentage that I was in, and the majority of this not happening was on my side. Yet it happened anyway.
My (asshole!) doctor wanted to blame the chemicals that I work with. They can cause severe kidney damage. Sure. If I had worked there for fifty years. He then blames the metformin that I have been on for the past four years. Well, he wanted me to take it because it causes weight loss. He also told me there were no horribly wrong side effects. Um, sure. See, I knew better. If I were an everyday person I could have a lawsuit against him at the moment, but as a bio-chemist, I knew the risks of taking the medicine and I still took it. Having my mother tell me that at 173 lbs, losing 30 lbs since Halloween night, made me less of an embarrassment to her. Of course she's in her 60s and living off me, but I'm the embarrassment because I was a few pounds overweight. Technically for my height I wasn't even obese, but I stopped eating, got depressed, and here I am. Though my loving doctor and mother want me down to 100 lbs even by summer. I was encouraged that I could do this. Ever see a 100 lb 6' 1" person? We don't look good. We look like we survived the holocaust. We have no energy. Ten years ago I was down to 100 - 90 lbs and I looked like total shit. No tits. No energy. Constant pains. But damn, I wasn't an embarrassment to my mother, her family, or my doctor. The people whom I should have truly been trying to please weren't interested in my weight; I've always been perfect to them.

I was put on a double transplant list yesterday. Monday I pick up my pager to wait for the news that there is a kidney or lung (yes, those are fucked up too). I'm not sure if this will affect my trip to Sydney, or the trip to Las Vegas in March. I've already paid for my tickets and I want to go. My plane to Sydney is supposed to leave on Thursday morning and I return on Sunday the fifth. I had everything planned, from a new camera to a ton of GBs of space to take pictures and video. I even stocked up on spare batteries and a fast charger so I wouldn't run out of juice on the trip. Then there's my "artisan" make up because I was supposed to be a part of the filming we're going to. I can't get on camera with a dialysis cath in my arm with the bruises to go with it. This all has screwed up my entire pleasure in looking forward to the trip; I haven't been to Australia for pleasure since 2003. Dennis was also looking forward to seeing DW again. I guess he can do that without me there, though. Nothing would be stopping him. I haven't told anyone about this, other than posting it here, for people to sympathise with me over it. Let's have that Pity Party for me!

On a lighter note, I have a couple of family members who are going to take blood tests and such to see if they match and I can get a kidney from them, possibly. I know my cousin BJ got tested. I'm not sure if I truly need my lung(s) replaced. That's one of the things we're going to discuss at the doctor's office Monday afternoon.
Oh, and my TimeCapsule died and went to hell a week ago. I've gone through the motions of removing the hard drive in it (and have the pictures to prove it), and now I am waiting on my check to go into my card so I can get a cord for it. I have another TimeCapsule, but I can't get the computer to recognise it. I hope that wasn't the error with my older drive. After harvesting that drive, I feel as though I can harvest the drive from my old strawberry iMac, just to get the data off  it. That would be pretty awesome if I could get that drive too. I may update next with pictures of me harvesting my TimeCapsule drive and the iMac drive, if I can get it out. Right now I have to sit at my desk and update, and that's a bitch. I usually update from my bed while I'm watching TV. Not anymore! Not until I can figure out how to get that TimeCapsule working. Any suggestions? Advice on anything I've posted? Email me if you do. Or leave a comment. Whichever is good for you.

Don't forget to add my feeds:
herethere, and facebook or just plain add me on facebook. I'll love you forever!

Well, it's finally happened. Come Monday I am going to be briefed on dialysis and then scheduled for my first trip some time next week. The whole idea depresses me like I have never been depressed before. Why is this happening? I have asked that question to myself many times. While I know why it happened, biologically and chemically, it was only a percentage that I was in, and the majority of this not happening was on my side. Yet it happened anyway.
My (asshole!) doctor wanted to blame the chemicals that I work with. They can cause severe kidney damage. Sure. If I had worked there for fifty years. He then blames the metformin that I have been on for the past four years. Well, he wanted me to take it because it causes weight loss. He also told me there were no horribly wrong side effects. Um, sure. See, I knew better. If I were an everyday person I could have a lawsuit against him at the moment, but as a bio-chemist, I knew the risks of taking the medicine and I still took it. Having my mother tell me that at 173 lbs, losing 30 lbs since Halloween night, made me less of an embarrassment to her. Of course she's in her 60s and living off me, but I'm the embarrassment because I was a few pounds overweight. Technically for my height I wasn't even obese, but I stopped eating, got depressed, and here I am. Though my loving doctor and mother want me down to 100 lbs even by summer. I was encouraged that I could do this. Ever see a 100 lb 6' 1" person? We don't look good. We look like we survived the holocaust. We have no energy. Ten years ago I was down to 100 - 90 lbs and I looked like total shit. No tits. No energy. Constant pains. But damn, I wasn't an embarrassment to my mother, her family, or my doctor. The people whom I should have truly been trying to please weren't interested in my weight; I've always been perfect to them.

I was put on a double transplant list yesterday. Monday I pick up my pager to wait for the news that there is a kidney or lung (yes, those are fucked up too). I'm not sure if this will affect my trip to Sydney, or the trip to Las Vegas in March. I've already paid for my tickets and I want to go. My plane to Sydney is supposed to leave on Thursday morning and I return on Sunday the fifth. I had everything planned, from a new camera to a ton of GBs of space to take pictures and video. I even stocked up on spare batteries and a fast charger so I wouldn't run out of juice on the trip. Then there's my "artisan" make up because I was supposed to be a part of the filming we're going to. I can't get on camera with a dialysis cath in my arm with the bruises to go with it. This all has screwed up my entire pleasure in looking forward to the trip; I haven't been to Australia for pleasure since 2003. Dennis was also looking forward to seeing DW again. I guess he can do that without me there, though. Nothing would be stopping him. I haven't told anyone about this, other than posting it here, for people to sympathise with me over it. Let's have that Pity Party for me!

On a lighter note, I have a couple of family members who are going to take blood tests and such to see if they match and I can get a kidney from them, possibly. I know my cousin BJ got tested. I'm not sure if I truly need my lung(s) replaced. That's one of the things we're going to discuss at the doctor's office Monday afternoon.
Oh, and my TimeCapsule died and went to hell a week ago. I've gone through the motions of removing the hard drive in it (and have the pictures to prove it), and now I am waiting on my check to go into my card so I can get a cord for it. I have another TimeCapsule, but I can't get the computer to recognise it. I hope that wasn't the error with my older drive. After harvesting that drive, I feel as though I can harvest the drive from my old strawberry iMac, just to get the data off  it. That would be pretty awesome if I could get that drive too. I may update next with pictures of me harvesting my TimeCapsule drive and the iMac drive, if I can get it out. Right now I have to sit at my desk and update, and that's a bitch. I usually update from my bed while I'm watching TV. Not anymore! Not until I can figure out how to get that TimeCapsule working. Any suggestions? Advice on anything I've posted? Email me if you do. Or leave a comment. Whichever is good for you.

Don't forget to add my feeds:
herethere, and facebook or just plain add me on facebook. I'll love you forever!
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