Thirty One Days

It's been thirty one days since I touched a narcotic.

No heroin.

No morphine.

No fentanyl.

Not even any ambiene.

I'd pride myself on this accomplishment, but it's also been twenty days since I've eaten any solid food. I'm not starving, but I don't feel my best. This fasting is for my surgery on Monday. They didn't tell me to fast, but I want the anesthetic to really kick in, so I'm not eating until the day of the surgery (afterwards) and while I want to say that I am never going to touch narcotics again, I know that's just not true. I know that eventually I will fall from grace.

I've separated myself from my family. I miss them incredibly, but at the same time, I can't go home until Sunday. Just in time to miss Matt's birthday. But I am happy. I had a good run out here in old LA and I certainly feel closer to my friend Sid for this experience. I'm hoping to come back in the summer and really see all that Los Angeles has to offer. Good stuff that is.

So if you're in Recovery like I am, congratulations! If you've made it as far as I have, double congratulations! If you're further, you need a medal. At first I was weak. I stayed up all night with sweats, neuropathy, horrible pains. But I feel better now. I feel like I can conquer this and get on with my life. My doctor says there is no end. That I will soon be back mooching pops off of people and blowing my money on heroin. No, not likely.

Now I must head off to bed. It's only 8pm here, but I feel like it's 10pm. I just haven't adjusted to the new time zone. I guess since I'm leaving in a couple of days, there's no need to try, now.

It's been thirty one days since I touched a narcotic.

No heroin.

No morphine.

No fentanyl.

Not even any ambiene.

I'd pride myself on this accomplishment, but it's also been twenty days since I've eaten any solid food. I'm not starving, but I don't feel my best. This fasting is for my surgery on Monday. They didn't tell me to fast, but I want the anesthetic to really kick in, so I'm not eating until the day of the surgery (afterwards) and while I want to say that I am never going to touch narcotics again, I know that's just not true. I know that eventually I will fall from grace.

I've separated myself from my family. I miss them incredibly, but at the same time, I can't go home until Sunday. Just in time to miss Matt's birthday. But I am happy. I had a good run out here in old LA and I certainly feel closer to my friend Sid for this experience. I'm hoping to come back in the summer and really see all that Los Angeles has to offer. Good stuff that is.

So if you're in Recovery like I am, congratulations! If you've made it as far as I have, double congratulations! If you're further, you need a medal. At first I was weak. I stayed up all night with sweats, neuropathy, horrible pains. But I feel better now. I feel like I can conquer this and get on with my life. My doctor says there is no end. That I will soon be back mooching pops off of people and blowing my money on heroin. No, not likely.

Now I must head off to bed. It's only 8pm here, but I feel like it's 10pm. I just haven't adjusted to the new time zone. I guess since I'm leaving in a couple of days, there's no need to try, now.

How I'm Able To Get Prescriptions

Some one asked in the comments how I'm still able to get prescriptions when clearly I abused (and still have abused narcotics this year) narcotics in the past, to the point of addiction? It's very simple. I was diagnosed with cancer, for the third time, in 2012. Cancer that has eaten away at parts of my spine and the discs in my back. That's very painful, even for someone who hadn't ruined their pain tolerance with the use of narcotics. My spine is actually broken from an accident I was involved in in 2003. I was hit by a car while taking the trash out. So never take the trash out. ha ha. In all seriousness, this is something that only surgery will cure and right now my doctor won't approve surgery because he says I'm "too heavy" at 122 lbs, and that he's uncertain how my cancer is going to pan out. I'll go into this more when it's not the middle of the night and I'm updating my birthday want/wish list.

I posted this on my blog last month. I hope I don't sound like a total bitch. I was just posting the facts, ma'am.

I updated my recovery blog this weekend. Someone asked how I still get prescriptions. I’m inrecovery. Being in recovery means that I have the trust of my doctor and pharmacist. I’m in chronic pain and I have x rays that show this. I’m not exaggerating my broken back or my herniated discs, or my arthritic knees. These ailments really haunt me. Because he doesn’t want to be responsible for my pain management, my doctor sends me to a pain specialist. I get Fentanyl and Percocet, even though they are essentially the same thing. I flush my pain meds because I tend to lose myself in them. I do the same with muscle relaxers and sleeping pills. It’s sad and tragic that my body has betrayed me, but the real reason I started abusing drugs in the first place was to attempt to relieve my back pain. I wasn’t always a junkie. I took opiates because I researched them. At the time I started my true addiction, I was hooked on opiates because I had no doctor and no way to get to one, so I turned to street drugs, buying Percocet and heroin, snorting cocaine here and there. Today I’m under a doctor’s care and strict drug testing. So even when I do street drugs, and I haven’t touched any sinceFebruary, I am usually caught and my pain medication taken away. At first it’s no big deal, but when you’re going three to six days without any form of relief, it really gets to you. Plus, when I test positive for street drugs, I’m under surveillance by the police, so I don’t dare buy narcotics.
I feel that going three months without buying narcotics on the street is a good thing. I passed out because I was on narcotics in front of the doctor, and I spent a couple of days in the hospital because of it. I never want to do that again, so I’m abstaining from buying illegal narcotics. That includes marijuana.
So that’s how and why I still get prescriptions. Plus the majority of my prescriptions are insulin, anti-diabetic medications, blood pressure pills, cholesterol pills and other medicines that are not opiates. I take one sleeping pill and two muscle relaxers at night to help me sleep. While I wish I had the control released sleeping pill, I have to make due with what I’ve got.
I never really went through withdrawal. If I did, I don’t remember it. I’m sure I went through some kind of withdrawal, because I was on an anti-withdrawal medication. Alas, I do not remember it.

Being in recovery excites me. It makes me feel that I'm not weak, that I can over come anything. If I can over come a drug addiction, I can over come anything.

If I'm in recovery, why do I keep this blog?

Why do you blog? Why did you start blogging? Do you still blog for that same reason?

This blog is about recovery, before, during and after drug addiction. Obviously I didn't wake up one day and say, "I think I'll be a drug addict from now on!" No one does that. Many of us in recovery are regretful of that first use. I, however, am not. It gave me something to touch base on with the man that I am now married to, who gave me four beautiful children. It made me who I am, fighting pain of a disease that is eating away at my body. It gave me so much more than it took away from me. For a while, though, that wasn't true. For seven years, someone I was close to would die. Usually terrible, and usually I witnessed it. The life of drugs is like that. You see death. You see painful deaths. You get raped. You get robbed. You get tricked and conned. I was a victim of all of that. The small amount of joy drugs brings you at first is not worth the path it leads you down, but you don't realise that in the beginning. No one does. And if they do, they don't care.

So be smart. Don't start.

Some one asked in the comments how I'm still able to get prescriptions when clearly I abused (and still have abused narcotics this year) narcotics in the past, to the point of addiction? It's very simple. I was diagnosed with cancer, for the third time, in 2012. Cancer that has eaten away at parts of my spine and the discs in my back. That's very painful, even for someone who hadn't ruined their pain tolerance with the use of narcotics. My spine is actually broken from an accident I was involved in in 2003. I was hit by a car while taking the trash out. So never take the trash out. ha ha. In all seriousness, this is something that only surgery will cure and right now my doctor won't approve surgery because he says I'm "too heavy" at 122 lbs, and that he's uncertain how my cancer is going to pan out. I'll go into this more when it's not the middle of the night and I'm updating my birthday want/wish list.

I posted this on my blog last month. I hope I don't sound like a total bitch. I was just posting the facts, ma'am.

I updated my recovery blog this weekend. Someone asked how I still get prescriptions. I’m inrecovery. Being in recovery means that I have the trust of my doctor and pharmacist. I’m in chronic pain and I have x rays that show this. I’m not exaggerating my broken back or my herniated discs, or my arthritic knees. These ailments really haunt me. Because he doesn’t want to be responsible for my pain management, my doctor sends me to a pain specialist. I get Fentanyl and Percocet, even though they are essentially the same thing. I flush my pain meds because I tend to lose myself in them. I do the same with muscle relaxers and sleeping pills. It’s sad and tragic that my body has betrayed me, but the real reason I started abusing drugs in the first place was to attempt to relieve my back pain. I wasn’t always a junkie. I took opiates because I researched them. At the time I started my true addiction, I was hooked on opiates because I had no doctor and no way to get to one, so I turned to street drugs, buying Percocet and heroin, snorting cocaine here and there. Today I’m under a doctor’s care and strict drug testing. So even when I do street drugs, and I haven’t touched any sinceFebruary, I am usually caught and my pain medication taken away. At first it’s no big deal, but when you’re going three to six days without any form of relief, it really gets to you. Plus, when I test positive for street drugs, I’m under surveillance by the police, so I don’t dare buy narcotics.
I feel that going three months without buying narcotics on the street is a good thing. I passed out because I was on narcotics in front of the doctor, and I spent a couple of days in the hospital because of it. I never want to do that again, so I’m abstaining from buying illegal narcotics. That includes marijuana.
So that’s how and why I still get prescriptions. Plus the majority of my prescriptions are insulin, anti-diabetic medications, blood pressure pills, cholesterol pills and other medicines that are not opiates. I take one sleeping pill and two muscle relaxers at night to help me sleep. While I wish I had the control released sleeping pill, I have to make due with what I’ve got.
I never really went through withdrawal. If I did, I don’t remember it. I’m sure I went through some kind of withdrawal, because I was on an anti-withdrawal medication. Alas, I do not remember it.

Being in recovery excites me. It makes me feel that I'm not weak, that I can over come anything. If I can over come a drug addiction, I can over come anything.

If I'm in recovery, why do I keep this blog?

Why do you blog? Why did you start blogging? Do you still blog for that same reason?

This blog is about recovery, before, during and after drug addiction. Obviously I didn't wake up one day and say, "I think I'll be a drug addict from now on!" No one does that. Many of us in recovery are regretful of that first use. I, however, am not. It gave me something to touch base on with the man that I am now married to, who gave me four beautiful children. It made me who I am, fighting pain of a disease that is eating away at my body. It gave me so much more than it took away from me. For a while, though, that wasn't true. For seven years, someone I was close to would die. Usually terrible, and usually I witnessed it. The life of drugs is like that. You see death. You see painful deaths. You get raped. You get robbed. You get tricked and conned. I was a victim of all of that. The small amount of joy drugs brings you at first is not worth the path it leads you down, but you don't realise that in the beginning. No one does. And if they do, they don't care.

So be smart. Don't start.

I Don't Really Wanna Be The Queen

Relapse is a scary thing. You take drugs, you think that you are in control, but you are not. You go to the familiar places, see the same old faces, you shake, you shiver, you're cold, you're hot, your nose runs, your breath is short. You spend money that could be better spent on something else. Relapse does this to a person. Relapse does a lot of things to a person, least of all throws them off the straight and narrow path.

The sores come back a few days after you start using again. Sores that you had healed up. They start out as itchy blisters, but you pop them when you scratch them. They itch so badly. They don't bleed when they are popped, they ooze a clear pus-like liquid. Plasma. Your body is so desperately trying to fight off the infection, the injury. But it's a losing battle.

You keep at it. You hurt yourself. Not just physically. You are mentally hurting. That's why you tie off your arm, and the arm of your companion. That's why you share a needle. That's why you mix up the morphine and inject it without a second thought. That's why you're in the mess that you're in. Emotion sickness. You self medicate because you're too embarrassed to get help. You want it now, not in six to eight weeks when your anti-depressant kicks in. Alcohol and drugs give you that calming medicated feeling. They chase away your emotions. You feel nothing and nothing feels like nirvana compared to where you were before.

I relapsed. I did morphine earlier this afternoon with my husband's guitarist. I provided the morphine, I was the one who administered it. I am ashamed and saddened that I did this. I am tired from the morphine. I am sleepy. I want to just lay down and not wake up. I am forgetful. I took three insulin shots tonight because I couldn't remember which bottle of insulin I had just taken. I want to be clean.

I crave to be clean. I wanted to give that to Dennis for his birthday next week, but I failed. I have no one to blame but myself. I wanted to get high. I was hurting, emotionally. I felt like Dennis did not love me. I felt like I failed my children, as if they would be better off with another mother. After shooting up, I knew all of that was true. I know if I don't give up drugs, Dennis will leave me. I can't make it without him. I can't make it on my own. I cannot drive. I cannot find the courage to put down the needles, the pills.

To make a sad story sadder, I took three pills just a few minutes ago. I cannot help myself. My doctor wasn't kidding when he said that I needed help. I just can't do it. Is there a drug to cure drug addictions? If so, where can I buy it? I don't want to deal with doctors, cops, nurses. I want to help myself. I'm sure that if I can help myself, I will get better. But I need that push. That extra push to get clean.

Relapsing has made me feel worthless. I want to scream at myself. I want to punish myself. I did it because I am in a rut, and I paid dearly for it. I got sores on my hand, near where I shot up. They were blisters that itched and drove me crazy. I felt like I was jumping out of my skin. My arms felt like they were made out of rubber. Nothing felt right. I didn't get the wonderful high that I wanted. I felt like shit for an hour afterwards. My husband's guitarist didn't make a pass at me, but he let me lean against him as the morphine raced through our blood streams. Giving me access to clean needles was a mistake my doctor made. I feel that shooting up is something that I can do at leisure now. It's okay, it's safe now. There's no way I can get any blood-born pathogens if I use a clean needle every time.

It's not safe when I buy. There is always a chance that Byron will kick my ass again. He has beaten me up twice in our relationship of customer/dealer. There were times when  he demanded sex instead of money. He takes advantage of me. I let him. If I were a stronger person, I could walk away from this all. I could walk away from Byron when he's about to rape me, or demand that I suck his dick. I wouldn't need anything that he sells. I wouldn't come on to my husband's guitarist, his best friend, offer him sex while high. I wouldn't have pressured him into screwing me. I wouldn't have offered to suck his dick.

But these things happened.

I did them.

I did them all.

And because of that, I am an unfit mother. I am someone who doesn't deserve to have her children, her job, her husband. I want to associate with gutter trash? I should be in the gutter. It's just that simple.

I want to be a slut who will sleep with anyone who has a hit or two on them? I should become a prostitute and just screw men to get high and give me twenty bucks at a time for food and shelter. Live in motels. Never mind where I came from or who I am.

The reality of it all is that I am not this person. I do not deserve to live the life of an addict.

Yet here I sit with tears running down my cheeks, wondering what the hell happened to me. I was not like this when I was younger. I hate who I secretly have become. I have become the slut, the addict, in a rut with emotion sickness that is slowly killing me.

And I don't know what to do.

Relapse is a scary thing. You take drugs, you think that you are in control, but you are not. You go to the familiar places, see the same old faces, you shake, you shiver, you're cold, you're hot, your nose runs, your breath is short. You spend money that could be better spent on something else. Relapse does this to a person. Relapse does a lot of things to a person, least of all throws them off the straight and narrow path.

The sores come back a few days after you start using again. Sores that you had healed up. They start out as itchy blisters, but you pop them when you scratch them. They itch so badly. They don't bleed when they are popped, they ooze a clear pus-like liquid. Plasma. Your body is so desperately trying to fight off the infection, the injury. But it's a losing battle.

You keep at it. You hurt yourself. Not just physically. You are mentally hurting. That's why you tie off your arm, and the arm of your companion. That's why you share a needle. That's why you mix up the morphine and inject it without a second thought. That's why you're in the mess that you're in. Emotion sickness. You self medicate because you're too embarrassed to get help. You want it now, not in six to eight weeks when your anti-depressant kicks in. Alcohol and drugs give you that calming medicated feeling. They chase away your emotions. You feel nothing and nothing feels like nirvana compared to where you were before.

I relapsed. I did morphine earlier this afternoon with my husband's guitarist. I provided the morphine, I was the one who administered it. I am ashamed and saddened that I did this. I am tired from the morphine. I am sleepy. I want to just lay down and not wake up. I am forgetful. I took three insulin shots tonight because I couldn't remember which bottle of insulin I had just taken. I want to be clean.

I crave to be clean. I wanted to give that to Dennis for his birthday next week, but I failed. I have no one to blame but myself. I wanted to get high. I was hurting, emotionally. I felt like Dennis did not love me. I felt like I failed my children, as if they would be better off with another mother. After shooting up, I knew all of that was true. I know if I don't give up drugs, Dennis will leave me. I can't make it without him. I can't make it on my own. I cannot drive. I cannot find the courage to put down the needles, the pills.

To make a sad story sadder, I took three pills just a few minutes ago. I cannot help myself. My doctor wasn't kidding when he said that I needed help. I just can't do it. Is there a drug to cure drug addictions? If so, where can I buy it? I don't want to deal with doctors, cops, nurses. I want to help myself. I'm sure that if I can help myself, I will get better. But I need that push. That extra push to get clean.

Relapsing has made me feel worthless. I want to scream at myself. I want to punish myself. I did it because I am in a rut, and I paid dearly for it. I got sores on my hand, near where I shot up. They were blisters that itched and drove me crazy. I felt like I was jumping out of my skin. My arms felt like they were made out of rubber. Nothing felt right. I didn't get the wonderful high that I wanted. I felt like shit for an hour afterwards. My husband's guitarist didn't make a pass at me, but he let me lean against him as the morphine raced through our blood streams. Giving me access to clean needles was a mistake my doctor made. I feel that shooting up is something that I can do at leisure now. It's okay, it's safe now. There's no way I can get any blood-born pathogens if I use a clean needle every time.

It's not safe when I buy. There is always a chance that Byron will kick my ass again. He has beaten me up twice in our relationship of customer/dealer. There were times when  he demanded sex instead of money. He takes advantage of me. I let him. If I were a stronger person, I could walk away from this all. I could walk away from Byron when he's about to rape me, or demand that I suck his dick. I wouldn't need anything that he sells. I wouldn't come on to my husband's guitarist, his best friend, offer him sex while high. I wouldn't have pressured him into screwing me. I wouldn't have offered to suck his dick.

But these things happened.

I did them.

I did them all.

And because of that, I am an unfit mother. I am someone who doesn't deserve to have her children, her job, her husband. I want to associate with gutter trash? I should be in the gutter. It's just that simple.

I want to be a slut who will sleep with anyone who has a hit or two on them? I should become a prostitute and just screw men to get high and give me twenty bucks at a time for food and shelter. Live in motels. Never mind where I came from or who I am.

The reality of it all is that I am not this person. I do not deserve to live the life of an addict.

Yet here I sit with tears running down my cheeks, wondering what the hell happened to me. I was not like this when I was younger. I hate who I secretly have become. I have become the slut, the addict, in a rut with emotion sickness that is slowly killing me.

And I don't know what to do.

Never Getting Well

I screwed up a couple of times. The last one being last night. I really didn't need a fix, I just wanted to sleep. Sleep doesn't come easy for me. I lay awake at night by the hour with the perfumed candle burning brightly. The candle doesn't bother me, nor does the light from it keep me awake. I usually wake up from bad dreams.

Using, to me, is my way of life. There is no way I can get through this without some form of help. Being on insulin now doesn't help because there are hypos all around.

I felt pretty good when I wasn't using. I was happy. True happiness was a rarity.

I'm happy to say that Dennis didn't fall from grace with me. It was just me. Just my own little problems. Just my own little issues that seem to never be fixed.

Pray for me. I want to kick this. I want to get well. I don't want to be an addict forever. I don't want to struggle with this forever. I want to feel happy all the time, not depressed and vulnerable. Not afraid and weak.

Drugs scare me. Coming off drugs scares me even more. Withdrawal scares me. Maybe some day I won't be so afraid.

I screwed up a couple of times. The last one being last night. I really didn't need a fix, I just wanted to sleep. Sleep doesn't come easy for me. I lay awake at night by the hour with the perfumed candle burning brightly. The candle doesn't bother me, nor does the light from it keep me awake. I usually wake up from bad dreams.

Using, to me, is my way of life. There is no way I can get through this without some form of help. Being on insulin now doesn't help because there are hypos all around.

I felt pretty good when I wasn't using. I was happy. True happiness was a rarity.

I'm happy to say that Dennis didn't fall from grace with me. It was just me. Just my own little problems. Just my own little issues that seem to never be fixed.

Pray for me. I want to kick this. I want to get well. I don't want to be an addict forever. I don't want to struggle with this forever. I want to feel happy all the time, not depressed and vulnerable. Not afraid and weak.

Drugs scare me. Coming off drugs scares me even more. Withdrawal scares me. Maybe some day I won't be so afraid.

Drug Free Month

Husband and I are trying our hardest to not fall off the bandwagon this coming month. It's big news because we both have been hitting the bottle and the narcotics hard. Me especially. They threw me in the hospital twice this month and that's something that I wish I had not done. My doctor says I need help (no shit!) but I just don't know where to seek it. I want to get well, I really do. This blog is about recovery and I need to recover as best as I can.

Drugs have made me the person I am. I won't lie about it. Because I have done them I have the family I have, the education I have, the children I have, and the life that I have had. They have also contributed to my health in a severely negative way. I have shelves of journals that tell the same tale. I have notebooks that I have written the same thing over and over again in. They all say the tale of recovery then failure. They go back to 1992.

Drugs don't define me.

I worked up the nerve to talk about my problem with my doctor, and he said I needed help but did not offer it.

Heroin has become my world and earlier this month I drug an innocent person into that world. I watched their eyes glaze over as I injected the poison into their blood stream. I did that. I introduced them to a world that has taken me for rides that only others can imagine. Rides that have recently ended in hospital ED's and rooms. I don't like being in the hospital. They ask too many questions, there are too many coppers wandering around, and I just don't like being away from my home life.

So I want to try to get clean next month. March will be a drug-free month if I can help it. I am going to try hard. My last day I used: February 17, 2014. I want to make it to St. Patrick's day without using. Then I can call myself a success. Wish me luck!

Husband and I are trying our hardest to not fall off the bandwagon this coming month. It's big news because we both have been hitting the bottle and the narcotics hard. Me especially. They threw me in the hospital twice this month and that's something that I wish I had not done. My doctor says I need help (no shit!) but I just don't know where to seek it. I want to get well, I really do. This blog is about recovery and I need to recover as best as I can.

Drugs have made me the person I am. I won't lie about it. Because I have done them I have the family I have, the education I have, the children I have, and the life that I have had. They have also contributed to my health in a severely negative way. I have shelves of journals that tell the same tale. I have notebooks that I have written the same thing over and over again in. They all say the tale of recovery then failure. They go back to 1992.

Drugs don't define me.

I worked up the nerve to talk about my problem with my doctor, and he said I needed help but did not offer it.

Heroin has become my world and earlier this month I drug an innocent person into that world. I watched their eyes glaze over as I injected the poison into their blood stream. I did that. I introduced them to a world that has taken me for rides that only others can imagine. Rides that have recently ended in hospital ED's and rooms. I don't like being in the hospital. They ask too many questions, there are too many coppers wandering around, and I just don't like being away from my home life.

So I want to try to get clean next month. March will be a drug-free month if I can help it. I am going to try hard. My last day I used: February 17, 2014. I want to make it to St. Patrick's day without using. Then I can call myself a success. Wish me luck!

Out of Control

My drug use has caught up with me.

My doctor knows, and he was being all discreet about it until I needed him at my hearing today, and then he made his views public. He saw the needle marks, he knew that I had been visiting Byron, he knew that I had done meth. It's becoming out of control again. I never had infected needle marks on my arms, though. That part that he told was a lie.

Anyone know why Blogger is double posting my posts? It's really annoying.

My drug use has caught up with me.

My doctor knows, and he was being all discreet about it until I needed him at my hearing today, and then he made his views public. He saw the needle marks, he knew that I had been visiting Byron, he knew that I had done meth. It's becoming out of control again. I never had infected needle marks on my arms, though. That part that he told was a lie.

Anyone know why Blogger is double posting my posts? It's really annoying.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

Make It Go Away

Not an easy subject to write about: I want some things to go away. The emotional stressors of life are piling up on me and have been for months. Gotta do this, gotta be there. It's enough to make one want to find a convient hole in the ground and crawl into it. I've been asked for my opinion on things and then had insults and lies hurled at me when I was honest. When I cry, I am weak. If I am caught taking my daily medication, I am worthless. Why does it have to be this way?

I have been too sick to eat much over the past month. Too sick to do much of anything other than lie in bed and watch TV. All that lethargy caused me to get a blood clot. That clot put me in the hospital for a week and made me fret over whether or not I was going to miss Christmas and the tree trimmings with my family. Life is being particularly shitty to me right now, and when I try to lean on others, they back away. Fucking fair weather assholes.

I wish there were a quick fix for post-traumatic stress disorder, and the psychological trauma that I have endured. The fear that I have had to deal with on a daily basis for the past decade has done a toll on me. There are no easy answers for the reason I am broken. There are no quick fixes to soothe my soul and heal my heart. All that is left is the option to live, and I have taken that option, and I am happy with it. Others, however, are not so happy that I am where I am in life. They are the aggressors of the fear that eats away at me on a daily basis. They are the antagonists that cause my self-medication so I won't care what they do or say. If I don't care, I don't react, and they don't know if they've gotten to me.

It will all be better soon. I just know it.

Not an easy subject to write about: I want some things to go away. The emotional stressors of life are piling up on me and have been for months. Gotta do this, gotta be there. It's enough to make one want to find a convient hole in the ground and crawl into it. I've been asked for my opinion on things and then had insults and lies hurled at me when I was honest. When I cry, I am weak. If I am caught taking my daily medication, I am worthless. Why does it have to be this way?

I have been too sick to eat much over the past month. Too sick to do much of anything other than lie in bed and watch TV. All that lethargy caused me to get a blood clot. That clot put me in the hospital for a week and made me fret over whether or not I was going to miss Christmas and the tree trimmings with my family. Life is being particularly shitty to me right now, and when I try to lean on others, they back away. Fucking fair weather assholes.

I wish there were a quick fix for post-traumatic stress disorder, and the psychological trauma that I have endured. The fear that I have had to deal with on a daily basis for the past decade has done a toll on me. There are no easy answers for the reason I am broken. There are no quick fixes to soothe my soul and heal my heart. All that is left is the option to live, and I have taken that option, and I am happy with it. Others, however, are not so happy that I am where I am in life. They are the aggressors of the fear that eats away at me on a daily basis. They are the antagonists that cause my self-medication so I won't care what they do or say. If I don't care, I don't react, and they don't know if they've gotten to me.

It will all be better soon. I just know it.

Another Night

Why is it that I dread the night so much?

The darkness? Or the fact that I cannot sleep anymore? I toss. I turn. I feel like I am crawling out of my skin. There is nothing that will relieve this in me. Nothing that I have, anyway. I know what will relieve it. Narcotics. After all this time, that is what I truly want. That is what I need.

My mum wants me to give her more money. Apparently, she found out about my four-month thing with Robert coming over, falling asleep after orgasm, and me getting first pick of his wallet. He doesn't care, but he doesn't like my mum, either. He tells me that the money cannot be spent on her. I tell him that I cannot keep the money if she finds out about it. At least her addiction is legal, she says.

I am never content at night. Stiff neck. Crawling out of my skin. Too hot. Too cold. Too achy. In need of a fix. Nothing working out. It's too dark. I do my best sleeping when the sun is bright in the sky and the air is warm. I want to stay awake at night and see the stars. It's been too long since I've seen the stars. Perhaps that is why I cannot sleep properly. I have been deprived of watching the stars dance in the sky at night.

Why is it that I dread the night so much?

The darkness? Or the fact that I cannot sleep anymore? I toss. I turn. I feel like I am crawling out of my skin. There is nothing that will relieve this in me. Nothing that I have, anyway. I know what will relieve it. Narcotics. After all this time, that is what I truly want. That is what I need.

My mum wants me to give her more money. Apparently, she found out about my four-month thing with Robert coming over, falling asleep after orgasm, and me getting first pick of his wallet. He doesn't care, but he doesn't like my mum, either. He tells me that the money cannot be spent on her. I tell him that I cannot keep the money if she finds out about it. At least her addiction is legal, she says.

I am never content at night. Stiff neck. Crawling out of my skin. Too hot. Too cold. Too achy. In need of a fix. Nothing working out. It's too dark. I do my best sleeping when the sun is bright in the sky and the air is warm. I want to stay awake at night and see the stars. It's been too long since I've seen the stars. Perhaps that is why I cannot sleep properly. I have been deprived of watching the stars dance in the sky at night.