90 days sober

I wish my insides matched my outsides.

Then I could more than halfway feel pretty.

Then when that creep gives the animal call,

Then when that man gives the nod,

Then I could muster up

The look in my eyes that matches the pain in my heart to say“fuck you”

Oh why can’t I, oh God?

Shitty Spa Day

Woman Has Diarrhea Holding Her Butt on Isolated White Background

If I don’t die in my sleep, I will wake up tomorrow 8 days sober. I haven’t put together 8 consecutive days of sobriety in almost 10 years.

However, my pain pill addiction is a beast of its own. I am fiercley in love with opiates. I know this because pills consume my every thought, and I hate them as much as I love them. That’s what love is, right?

So after scoring Oxycodone from my crack head ex-husband who just got out of the hospital after breaking 3 ribs in a botched robbery attempt, I decided to cash in my Mother’s Day present:  I called and scheduled an appointment for an hour-long massage, followed by a body slimming mud wrap and a pedicure from a fancy hotel spa.

I had been taking enough pills to knock out small horse over the last few days. This I never intend to do, but always do.  This behavior is never intentional, but always the case. Because I am, by definition, insane. I repeat the same behavior over and over, each time expecting a different outcome. It’s always the same. As an addict, I think, “I’m gonna save them for when I need them this time.” Yeah right, I take them everyday until they are gone.

Because of the amount I had been taking, I took a few laxatives the night prior to my spa appointment.  Once again, enough to make a small horse shit out its lunch for an entire week.  Opiates halt any and all activity in the gut.  This is the down side of taking pain pills.  I have an eating disorder as well, so looking fat devastates me.  Sometimes the laxatives work, sometimes not. Even without the opiates, my system doesn’t cooperate. I am in no way regular. A can consume a can of refried beans, a handful of prunes and a cup of coffee…most would be bursting at the seams. Nope. Not this girl. Needless to say I was disappointed when I didn’t poop yesterday morning. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t bloated for the massage. I guess I am addicted to laxatives too. Jesus.

My appointment was set for 1:15.  By 11:30 I felt the rumbling begin. “Oh thank god,” I thought at my desk. Come on, come on, come on,” as I anxiously watched the clock.” I happily pranced to the bathroom knowing my day at the spa was going to be just as I envisioned. But I should have know better.  Laxatives completely flush me out. COMPLETELY.  At least give it an hour, maybe 2 until it’s a clear liquid.  Then I know my tummy is empty and I feel thin.  I raced to the bathroom 2 more times before I left for the spa.

“Shit, I thought as I sat on the toilet with my head in hands. Why did I do that? I should have just waited until tonight to take them… Or I should have taken a couple more to make sure I was done by this time of day.” There is a fine line you must walk when taking laxatives. I didn’t want to wake up at 3 am with diarrhea.  First of all, my girlfriend would know, who’s all about letting nature perform this act as she is ‘miss normal’ in all areas. Secondly, she would shit if she knew I was taking pills again.  I had diarrhea. And it was only starting.  Fuck, there was no way I was making it to my anticipated and much needed spa day without the fear of when I was going to shit again. I needed at least 5 or 6 trips to the toilet and time was running out.

Upon my arrival, the spa staff insisted I was 15 minutes late and I insisted I was fifteen minutes early.  I was escorted to a small room to change into my hand-selected robe.  Now, feeling pressure because apparently I was making everyone wait who was scheduled to pamper me (Pampers would have been perfect), I rushed across the dimly lit hall to the bathroom.  A tiny and elegant room. I sat down and poop shot out of me at max speed. Dread hit me harder than shit hit that porcelain.  And oh my god, that smell could empty an auditorium faster than Milli Vanilli.  I felt a little relief when I spotted the purple can. You know, the lavender-scented Lysol?  Of course that’s the one they chose.  The yellow or green can doesn’t scream luxurious spa like the lavender one, those let you know you’re in gas station or an old person’s house. After leaving the bathroom, I was positive everyone would know it was me who created that god awful smell.  I walked in to meet my massage therapist.  It was a guy.  An extremely hot guy. He must have been in his late 20’s.  He had mocha skin and perfectly chiseled muscles. He spoke with a seductive voice. He had a smile that came with a flirtatious smirk and the sexiest set of dimples. I was about to get a full body massage from LL Cool J and I was clenching my ass.

This was my first full body massage.  I had never had a massage from a man (with the exception of my ex-husband, thereby making it perfectly acceptable to fart.)  No one asked me upon scheduling my appointment if I had a preference for a male or female.  I would have chosen female, but whatever. It was too late. As I sat there soaking my feet and clenching by butt cheeks together wishing I had just a little more time to shit before my massage, he explained to me what would transpire over the next hour.

“What do you mean by full body?” I blurted out.

He flashed a dimple.  I wondered if he was thinking, “Thank god I didn’t get another cow shaped house wife whose muscles I can’t even get to under all the Twinkie residue.”

“Well, I will start with you on your back. I will massage your neck and temples. Then I will turn you over and continue with your shoulders, arms, lower back. Then I’ll do each leg starting with your glutes and thighs slowly moving down to your calves and feet.”

Oh my fucking god! Did he just say glutes? This amazingly hot version of Drake is going to rub my butt. What if at that very moment I have to shit?  I’ll clench and he will know because my cellulite will pop out. Why is this happening?  I just wanted to enjoy a massage.  I am supposed to be relaxing. What a fucking idiot. Of course I screwed this up. I screw everything up. Even my own Mother’s Day present.

“Does that sound good?” Usher replied.

“Yes.” I said pensively.

“Okay, go ahead and take off your robe and get under the sheet face up.  I’ll be right back.”

Oh my god. Turn me over? There is absolutely nothing one can say in that situation that doesn’t  scream sex.

“Just relax, be listless, he whispered. Let me do all the work, when I move you, just be heavy and let it happen, don’t try to help.”  I can’t believe he can describe a massage without knowing he sounds like a steamy R&B song.

I was naked and so not fearless. Without those damn laxatives everything would be perfect right now. I could relax while LL Cool J squeezed my butt cheek and appreciated that I’m not just another white girl with a flat ass, but a rather ample ass any black man would admire. But I was so nervous.  I had to shit. Why god why?  I knew he could tell I was tense.  He’s a massage therapist for fuck sakes. “It’s ok girl, just breathe. You’ll be fine. It’ll pass,” I reassured myself.  I prayed by the time he got down there I didn’t have an urge to poop.  What if some just slipped out and I couldn’t stop it?  I wondered if that had ever happened to him before, some lady just farting in that small room.  Except for this wouldn’t be just any gas, it would be lethal and possibly visible.

Glute time had arrived. I quickly went back in my memory to anatomy 101.  My glute was in fact my buttocks, right? Why didn’t he just say buttocks? Maybe he meant upper thigh. I silently panicked, “Okay, it’s happening, there’s no getting up and running.” I suppose I could.  But I’m the type to lay quietly holding my breath, hoping nothing horrifying happens.  I’m not the type to speak up and blurt “Stop, I have use the restroom, or… Stop, I made a horrible mistake by coming here. I have to go. I forgot to pick up my kid.  Don’t worry, your tip will exceed your expectation.”

This immensely hot massage therapist who just stepped out of Playgirl magazine was ready for my ass.  He slowly rolled up the sheet all the way until I felt the entire right side of my body exposed to the warm air. I felt his hand wrap around my ankle.  He lifted up my leg ( I swear my vagina was in plain sight for him to examine while my leg was extended, thank god I had shaved). If he was my boyfriend, this is when penetration would occur. He tucked the sheet under me so it wouldn’t be in the way. He saturated his hands with oil and immersed his hands into my gluteus maximus. My eyes bounced back and forth inside that horseshoe shaped hole from wide opened to squeezed shut as my brain screamed” Please don’t have to shit, please not now. Just a few more minutes. Damn why can’t I be enjoying this like I am supposed to? God this feels good. Deep breath.  It’s all good. He’s moving down. He’s going down. It’s almost over. He’s at my calf. Okay, Breath. ” I had made it through one ass cheek.

As my perfect shade of chocolate massage therapist pursued my other side, by the time my vagina-exposing, sheet-curling moment began, so did my tummy. As the gurgling increased, I was sure he could hear it. I pictured the smirk on his face. That half smile. And oh, those dimples.  It was happening, I needed to pass some gas.  Except in this situation, the only thing passing would be liquid down my thigh, not to mention a smell reminiscent of a dead possum from the garage. I squeezed. I had to.  As I clenched my face and my ass, I hoped he wouldn’t start rubbing before it passed.  He had to have seen my butt squeezed so hard there was no doubt I was holding in a fart.  Mortified, it finally passed.  I hoped nothing had bubbled out while almost passing out from a mixture of fear and holding my breath.  He began the final stretch of my massage.  Damn it felt good.  No one ever rubs my ass. By this point, relaxing was out of the question.  I just breathed and waited.

“Okay, we’re finished. Take your time getting up. You may feel a little light-headed. Your robe is on the chair.  I’ll be waiting for you outside the door with a glass of water.”

“Jesus Christ,” I thought as I walked out of the room.  I felt it come on like someone had just turned on a water hose inside my gut.  I had to go.  For real. I was gonna blow.  I graciously took the glass of water.  I waited for him to finish his spew of directions telling me to “just relax” and wait for the next person who had apparently been tapping her nails waiting 15 minutes to pamper me.  Of course she was ready. Of course she was ready.  I, however, was not.  As he walked away, I set down my glass, clenched my butt cheeks together and tip-toed to the bathroom.   It smelled like a newborn’s diaper in there; from one hour ago when I shit the first time.  Embarrassed, because now every employee knew it was me who rancidized their entire facility, I sat down and let it out.

I was now ready for my mud wrap.  “It’s okay,” I thought, if anything leaks out,  at least I’ll be covered in mud. I’ll match.”

I made it through the rest of my appointment without incident. Well, except the part where I split my pants in the crotch while getting dressed before my pedicure. I looked in the mirror from behind. It was only visible if I bent over.  How fitting. A hole conveniently placed so I could shoot out shit while getting my toe nails painted. I hoped the manicurist wouldn’t mind.

“I’m so sorry for the mess, Miss manicurist. And about that dead possum smell.  Don’t worry, your tip will exceed your exception.”

Still Not Sober

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For those who read my last post, as I expected, I failed in my attempt to stay sober.

I am not sure I can do this.

When it rains it pours. My family is toxic. Something I have known most of my life. After having to drag my 2 kids out of my moms house because she was high on meds and her house was so torn apart there was nowhere for the kids to sit or sleep. I threw cut up straws I found in her direction and told her I will not watch her die. Once again, my son is traumatized by addiction. My daughter is a little tougher. She actually started to help clean up while Nana screamed at me for calling her out on her billshit. I offered to help as well, but there was no where to start. She is in a wheel chair, attempting to manuever her way through piles of crap. I can’t watch anymore. She has been doing this for 15 years. I took the kids over to spend the night. There was no way I would leave there. We left. My son, with tears in his eyes, told that I should be there helping her the whole drive home.

In my son’s mind, it is just like I am to blame for his father being on the street smoking crack, in and out of jail. Because we should be together in his eyes. He doesn’t understand I had to pull them and myself away after years of drug abuse, in addition to physical, emotional, financial, sexual, and psychological abuse as well.

Later that night after the episode at my moms which I was pretty torn up about, (no one should see their mother that way), my cousin came over. I cried in her arms over our fucked up family. She consoled me about my mother by handing me 6 vicodin. My drug of choice. I woke up this morning wishing I had saved one. I knew better yesterday. I had drank a bottle of wine, so my judgement was altered and I just didn’t want to feel. That’s what addicts do. I am sitting here in pain. All kinds of pain. No vicodin and a house void of alcohol.

I am depleted of energy. I am done with my mom. I am done with my ex. I am done with cousin. I am done with this pain.

I have to make a better attempt at sobriety instead of using my painful past and my screwed up family as an excuse to drink and use.

It’s Sunday. I always drink when I watch football. Always. I will sit and bear it as long as I can. I can already envision myself going to the mini mart for one beer. I use the excuse of not wanting to withdrawl. I know it’s more psychological than physical. I am so disappointed in myself.

I have to do this. I want to do this. Let’s try again.

#GOHAWKS

Bottoms Up, My Struggle With Alcohol

whiskey

The first night was easy. I was still hungover from the night before, New Year’s Eve.  I wasn’t planning on drinking any more than a glass of wine, well maybe a bottle, at home and just watch TV until I was tired.  I have never been a big fan of staying up too late and getting less than 7 hours of sleep.  Not since college anyway.  And now the bags under my eyes in the morning are enough to get me in bed by 10pm. As if the alcohol didn’t do enough damage. I would rather have my alcohol and go to bed early than stay sober and stay up too late.  As if I had a choice. I am an alcoholic.  Every morning, I walk across the hallway into the bathroom, begrudgingly turn on the light, and am either relieved at my reflection or absolutely mortified at the bags under my eyes.  They are so puffy, it appears as though I was socked in both eyes.  At first, I lean into the mirror as if I were a man trying to find that last nose hair he just can’t grab. Then I turn away as if I had just witnessed a horrible murder and try not to look again. Then comes the shame. And the frozen spoons.  And whatever miracle product I have discovered that says it cures morning bags and dark circles.

 

The second night?   That’s tonight. Not so easy.  You see, I have never made it past the second night in my attempt at sobriety.  It is just too hard.  I give in too early.   I told my daughter my New Year’s Resolution was to stop drinking.  That may have been a huge mistake.  I guess I was looking for a little more accountability.  If I make a promise to a 13 year old, maybe I will be less inclined to destroy it. .  

I detest New Year’s Resolutions. They are a major set up to fail.  Let’s take the one thing we love the most, but is most likely killing us, put it on a pedestal, and tell the world you will never do it again. Crazy stupid!  Yes, the good intentions are in your heart.  But it’s a way out for when we fail.  And usually we do. So I can say when my daughter sees me with a glass of wine or a beer, “Oh honey, New Year’s Resolutions are just attempts with good intentions. They rarely come to fruition.”

 

My alcoholism is to the point of no return.  I don’t think I can ever be a normal drinker.  Alcoholics don’t drink like everybody else.  I can’t have just one.  What is the point?  It doesn’t change how I feel.  And isn’t that the point?  I hate to feel.  Always have.  I suppose that is why I am in this predicament.

 

I am taking my kids to their Nana’s house tonight.  Christmas break is almost over. She wants them to spend a couple nights as she claims she never gets to see them.  For myself, I will be walking into a household pharmacy. I will have a nice selection of morphine and dilaudid, muscle relaxers and valium.  She doesn’t keep much alcohol around anymore, but there will be some.  All I have to do is ask with my puppy dog eyes.  Another quality of an addict…  Manipulation.  Now you know where some of these issues I have originated. At least ninety percent of my family are addicts. Most of them still using.  I am the youngest.  I am 40.  

bottoms up

 

So tonight will be a huge test.  The odds are stacked against me.  I usually fail.  I have always failed at this.  I have been to treatment twice.  Once 15 years ago and the other 8 years ago. I am afraid. I wish I could just be a normal person and go out and have a good time.  I used to be able to have a drink or two without blacking out or becoming obnoxious.  I could handle a bottle of wine at home in the evening without yelling at the kids. My body is changing and so is my ability to handle my liquor.  In other words, my alcoholism is progressing and I am afraid I cannot beat it.

 

People’s secrets keep them sick.  I have close to a hundred, I am sure.  And I will fight til the death to keep it that way.  I can never work the steps of AA, because the 9th step is righting all the wrongs you have done in your addiction. In person! There is just no way.  Maybe that is the root of my drinking.  I am killing pain I do not want to feel.  I can’t bear the thought of having all of those secrets rush to the front of my head. I have worked too hard to suppress them.  What in the hell do I do with them?  It’s easier just to stay sick and keep the mess buried in the dark places in my head.

 

I’ll keep you posted about tonight. Happy New Year.

 

Remember Me

fatherless-chalkboard

She was phenomenal in every way,

Yet unsure of how to accept a compliment.

Her beauty was captivating.

However, her shame blinded her from seeing her true reflection.

She wrestled with her obsession to scrub and organize her surroundings,

Always in an attempt to face her own neurosis.

Her thoughts are what killed her, you know.

She grappled with them through every second of daylight.

And she bantered with them not to lead her into the darkness at night when she closed her eyes.

Like a babe in the woods, she latched onto her thoughts as they became vultures with talons, not realizing their intention to ruin and deprave her soul.

With severed legs, she could not run.

With a torn and fragmented heart, she could not feel.

This extraordinary woman, lost in her own despair, sincerely could not find her way out.

She had become so addicted to wandering into the desolate closets of her mind, she knew that leaving bread crumbs would help her come back…

But the vultures pulled and tugged at the small thread of lucidity she held onto until she could not feel at all…

All of the small things mattered a bit too much.

The distractions of her worried mind.

Sadness disabled her heavy eyes from searching around to see the beauty of the world.

Just as often, she failed to look around to notice the charm of her little ones.

From time to time she caught glimpses of their joy, and at times their afflictions.

These moments were when the urgency to stay alive kicked in.

This rare and remarkable woman travailed until she grew weary.

Her body never gave up, but the venomous thoughts caused her mind to wither away.

This woman prevailed exquisite and admirable.

Yet, she did not know this to be true of herself.

This woman loved you enough to stay alive as long as she could.

She had to let go.

This phenomenal woman was your mother.

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Invictus

absence

Maybe not being able say “Happy Birthday” to your daughter on her thirteenth birthday is exactly what you need, so you can feel the depth of how low you have sunk this time.

The realness of the text message brought him back to reality, the same feeling he had been running away from.  It severed his heart.  And his heart bled shame.

He sat on the floor against the wall, at some junkies’ apartment or a cheap motel in which he bartered for shelter.  His phone slipped out of his hand to his side onto the floor.  He picked up his crack pipe with his other hand simultaneously, a movement so robotic it no longer required any thought, just the trigger of an addict’s feeling, if it deserves that much respect.  He exhaled the cloud of white smoke. It wasn’t the head rush, but rather the heaviness of his grief, that caused his head to collapse into his hands.  The pipe dropped and he let out a scream.  A wail that nearly emptied his soul.

On the other side of the world, or so it felt, I too, divulged a scream.  It was a cry of exhaustion. A plea of desperation. Okay, that sounds too elegant. It was more like an ugly explosion. I dropped to my knees with my hands cupped over my ears and I yelled as loud as my lungs would allow. I had to let go of the angush. The obligation of him I could no longer hold.  Like mothering a child, I was clinging to a responsibility.  But this burden was no longer mine to bear.

Happy Birthday my sweet girl.  May you never have to carry the burden of this man.  You are stronger without him. As am I. We are never broken.

Invictus.

Collide

shame

You are not what you have done.

Nor are you the result of what’s been done to you.

You are an angel.

You are not the beer bottles lined up against the wall from the night before.

You are not the empty wrappers in the garbage.

You are not the empty containers left on the kitchen counter.

You wish you could remember before you see it.

The rubble.

But it doesn’t work that way.

The black out begins at the first sip.

It ends after the last bite.

The fog is thick when you open your eyes.

Here comes the shame.

It is heavy.

struggle

Your true self is buried underneath what you see in the mirror.

You are not your gray hairs.

You are not your stretch marks.

You are beautiful to everyone, why not yourself?

An invisible string attaches the head to the heart.

Yours has been severed.

When you feel your heart, you over think.

When you think, your heart gets in the way.

You are not your identity crisis.

You are simply awaiting to emerge.

struggle quote