My Morning After Pill


Sitting on the floor

Staring out the window

Wiping off the polish

Lost in a trance

Listening to GaGa

Post Superbowl

Acetone morning

Child on her left

Controllers and LeBron

Has no clue mama’s gone

Looking straight ahead

She listens and nods

One say he’ll remember

Mama in her towel

Singing

Painting

Dancing

Her portable speaker

Words give her life

Feeling sexy today

She never knows

Yesterday

Today

Both afraid

But born this way

Her eyes touch the screen

But she can’t see shit

Training herself to separate

What’s love got to do with it

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

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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Intentions

codependeny

She, the beautful one, is twenty-two years young.

She has so much to say,

But fears she’ll come undone.

What if the words come making no sense?

Maybe no one is listening.

Seems she only has fragmented thoughts,

Often not ever making it onto the page.

Just better to remain silenced, she thinks.

At 22, she should have this down,

Like walking to the mailbox.

In.  Out.  Open.  Close.  Repeat.

All that changes is the terrain,

The footwear,

The weather.

She walks down the same steep, concrete stairs at 22 as when she was 14.

The former a chore for approval and excitement.

The latter, just a burden.

Nothing in that box but bills, bills mommy paid.

Little did she know her mother’s helpful intentions were chaining her down,

One leg at a time, one arm at a time.

Finally stealing her voice.

She is now paralyzed by the very person who gave her life.

Fatherless? Just Tell Me The Truth.

fatherless-chalkboard

As a young girl, she pondered her purpose.

Questioned the tragic event of her birth.

Where did her dad go?

To be exact, he was at the bar when she fell from her mother’s womb.

One year later, he left and never returned.

She has always been grieved by his absence, but never angry.

Not at him anyway.

Her resentment toward her mother, however,  grew more with each passing day.

The facade of her mother lit a spark inside of her.

How long can a mother tell a lie?

How long can a woman pretend a bad man is a good man?

Her daughter grew up in a warped fairy tale with false expectations.

Good or bad is irrelevant.

For it is honesty that is worth comfort in a child’s eyes.

She knows this from her own experience now.

This little girl is grown and now has two children.

Two children whose father has disappeared.

The circumstances are different of course.

But fatherless is fatherless.

These children shine because their mother never lied.

They will not grow up resenting their mother for painting a pretty picture of smoke screens.

Their father is not a bad man, but he chose bad things.

They know this.

There will be no surprise.

The inevitable disappointments will hurt,  but knock them down with less force.

They will be strong, independent individuals who know reality from a dream.

Their mother grew up riding her bike up and down the alley anticipating every car turning the corner just might be her dad.

She was disappointed.  Her disappointment turned into a life of pain and depression.

And a relationship with her mother she would rather forget.

She learned from her mother what not to do.

She loves her kids so much that she will not lie, no matter how bad the truth.

There is no shame in the truth.

There is no shame in authentc love.

Fade To Black

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Birth.

My first trauma.

An uncontrollable tragedy.

The first of thousands.

A tiny snowball at the top of Kilimanjaro.

Gathering catastrophe upon descent.

A collision.

A vacancy.

Raised by fear.

Noises.

My mother’s sheets.

Brown and orange stripes.

Fiona Apple… Criminal.

Stains on my homework.

Coffee this time.

Maybe Red Wine.

Let’s drive to the mountains, she said.

The Ocean.

Your Father’s ashes are there.

 

My first breakdown.

Stuttered.

Stammered.

My own name.

It wouldn’t come out.

M m m m Melisa….

Ran away.

5th grade.

Scared to read.

Would rather be missing.

Milk Carton.

Have you seen me?

Red face.

Nicknamed Mars.

An alien.

Alienation.

Alone with myself.

Metallica.

Ride The Lightning.

Fade To Black.

The last song played.

Left for the paramedics to find.

In case I didn’t make it.

 

Alone yet together.

We collided.

Diseased.

Criminals.

Hurt to live.

The longest drive.

Radio.

Abortion clinic.

Matchbox 20.

If You’re Gone.

Forever imprinted.

The Fetus.

 

You found me.

I went back.

Emptier than before.

Being insane is what makes me interesting.

Fascination Street.

There is no Cure.

Tell Me I Can Stay

bipolar

Who says I can’t.

Who says I have to write “can not” instead of “can’t” to be a good writer.

I do.  I say.

I say I can write it that way and I say I can live that way.

I don’t say it as much as I think it.

I can’t do this anymore.

I just CAN’T.

 

Why did you say I don’t need to come here anymore?

What do I have to do to convince you that I really am crazy, I just hide it well.

Perhaps hiding it makes me more crazy.

If you let me go, I may just let go too.

Snap.

 

I resent that you said that.

Am I wasting your time?

Am I wasting mine?

I hate myself today just as much as I did the first day I walked in here and sat down in this chair.

If I am so much better now, why do I still self destruct?

 

Why do I eat and drink so much,

Wake up the next morning, curse myself in the mirror and do it all over again?

It’s almost 1 pm.

There’s a bottle of wine in the cupboard.

I want it.

I have to leave here in 3 ½ hours to come and see you.

I never drink first.

Not because I care about myself,

But because I care about you.

I suppose it would be disrespectful.

And I would be mortified if you smelled alcohol on me and confronted me.

Not to mention drinking and driving.

But shit like that never stops me.

It’s high risk behavior.

Isn’t that why I am here?

 

I didn’t quite make it the bathroom in time this morning.

Laxatives.

I stopped taking them for a while.

But it’s a small price to pay to feel just a little thinner.

I need to get rid of everything I ate and drank last night.

An eating disorder?

Ya.

But I don’t look like I have one.

Just like I don’t look crazy.

 

She said she loved me this morning.

I said “Thank You.”

I am not sure I am in love anymore.

I am not quite certain how to love.

 

The other one called and told me she fell last night and had to 911 for help to get back in her chair.

I felt empty.

Sad.

Disgusted.

I gave my feelings away a long time ago.

I have nothing left to give.

I have half of my life left.

Yet all of my feelings have been used.

 

Do I sympathize?

Empathize?

I can’t even remember the difference.

 

Sometimes I watch her from the chair.

My blood boils as she breathes.

She breathes heavily because she is in pain.

It irritates me.

Why so dramatic?

She’s supposed to taking care of me, god dammit.

My drama.

My pain.

This is about me.

 

I have nothing left to give.

I am numb.

She’s watching a comedian on TV.

I had to come to the bedroom to write this.

I can’t listen to a man rant about fat women, crack cocaine and blow jobs.

There is nothing funny about that.

Not to me.

Doesn’t she know that?

Most of my trauma comes from crack pipes and forced sex.

I can feel the anger well up in my throat, the tears behind my eyes.

I want to scream.

But I can’t.

I feel crazy.

But I can’t let it out.

I hate myself.

 

Who are these women I speak of?

They’ll never know.

I’ll never tell.

 

People don’t change.

So why am I sitting here?

Why am I on my bed instead of at the table?

Healthy people can laugh when they hear jokes about blow jobs and crack.

 

So then why I am I here with you?

If I am so healthy why the hell am I here?

Tell me you didn’t mean it.

Tell me I can stay.

Even though I can’t change.

I want to stay.

No one else gets me.

I have no where else to go.