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.”

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What Would You Do?

neurosis

What would you do if it were me face down on the sidewalk instead of you?

Ambaum Boulevard and SW 124th Street.

What if I called you on a Saturday afternoon begging for you to come to me.

An intersection, my only offering.

Would you come for me?

If my body couldn’t move because it needed a syringe, would you come?

What would you do if I were writhing in front of my dealer’s house?

Alone. In pain. In tears.

Wanting to die.

You were the only person left in the world I could call.

All other bridges I had burned.

What would you do?

I can tell by your voice you remember the pain.

But where is your compassion?

I know you remember.

The anguish of the mind.

The agony of each bone.

The ache of every muscle.

How did I get here?

How could I let this happen?

Again… and again.

Would you give me 20 bucks and watch me crawl like a beggar through my dealer’s doorway?

Maybe you would show up to scream at me for destroying our lives?

Or would you simply pick up my frail, run-down body out of the street and take me to a hospital?

Perhaps you would call the police?

At least I would have a place to go.

Three hots and a cot.

Or would you let me suffer?

Like I let you suffer.

Covering your ears praying it’s just a nightmare.

Or would you simply stop answering the phone and wait for me to stop breathing?

What would you do?

I called the police that day.

I was too far away to make it to him.

I didn’t want him to die.

He handed me the intersection.

So I turned over his life.

It’s not where he wanted to end up that day.

But he is alive.

What would you do if the father of your chiildren called you from the floor of a sidewalk…

What would you do?

man on sidewalk

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.

3721598-silk-flowers-on-a-cemetery-grave-headstone-mother-Stock-Photo

Invictus

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.

3721598-silk-flowers-on-a-cemetery-grave-headstone-mother-Stock-Photo

DRUNK

alcoholism

Let’s get really drunk.

Let’s get fucked up.

I don’t want to feel how much I hate myself.

Let’s wait until morning, shall we ?

So I can yell and scream about how fat I am because I drink too much.

About how miserable I feel because I want to write my memoir,

But I can’t because I work all the time.

And when I an not working, I am with you and the kids.

I want to drink until I can no longer feel.

I do it nearly every night.

I have to work tomorrow.

I know I will wake up a mess,

I will care when I see the bags under my eyes.

I will hate myelf.

Something I am used to though.

Right now, I have  a beer and a shot in front of me.

Been drinking since the AM,

I don’t give a fuck right now.

I am a tortured soul.

If it weren’t for my 2 children, I would die right now.

I hurt,

I will hurt tomorrow.

I was once a homeless crack addict,

This should not be as bad as it feels,

As horrible as the past,

But it is.

My name is Melisa.

I am an alchoholic.

And no one understands me..

So here’s to another day of drunkesness,gaining weight, and forgetting I am a parent of 2 beautiful children,

Fucking miserable.

I just wanna be high all the time….

Help me.

Please.

Intensive Care

sad bride

She woke up in an unfamiliar place.

She saw what resembled silhouettes.

Blurry outlines hovered over her.

There were six of them.

She closed her eyes, then quickly opened them, anticipating what stood before her would appear different.

She squinted and could only piece together parts of the whole.

Whatever that whole was, she didn’t know.

Blurry, yet serious faces and white coats hovered over her.

A man with a clipboard spoke.

She suddenly sensed she was a lab rat.

She couldn’t identify her surroundings.

She looked around in a panic.

Her eyes crazily scanning everything in their path, trying to make sense of what was happening.

She tried to listen, to make out his words, to understand why he was invading her space.

He must be in charge of something… the other five?

The leader of some purpose?

He asks her a series of questions…

She could not understand as she was occupied with her struggle to find herself.

Disoriented… drugged perhaps?

His voice was just as blurry as his face.

 

She suddenly became aware,

A hospital.

The man with the clipboard was not a nurse.

He did not resemble the doctors who had been invading her curtained cave.

He seemed out of place.

She hears the word Psychiatrist.

All of them?

Except for the man with clipboard, the others must be interns.

All five of them.

Why her?

Was she some kind of case study?

Her memory was coming back in pieces.

She remembered what she did.

 

A relapse.

His new job.

His first paycheck.

They were only married 1 month.

It was her voice this time that spoke out in the car after cashing his check.

“What if we only used a little?”

Usually it was his suggestion.

Hardly subtle… He never asked.

He just did it… made the deal… She was in the crossfire. Always.

But, occasionally it was her idea.

She romanticized the drug… the high… the ritual…. the escape.

She caused this this trip to the ICU.

She nearly died from the shame of suggesting a fifty dollar high that turned into an entire paycheck.

She had always known when to stop.

That was the difference.

She honestly only wanted fifty dollars of dope.

Just a taste.

For him, every high ended up leaving all they owned up in smoke.

She lay In a hospital room drenched with shame.

She couldn’t stop what she had started.

Would she ever learn?

ambulance

 

She was severely disappointed when she looked over at the monitor to see she had a heartbeat.

Some people attempt suicide for attention, a cry for help.

She truly wanted to leave this earth… her existence just a cloak of blackness.

She still wants to disappear at times.

Drive off the freeway.

Into a river, a ditch, oncoming Mack Trucks.

It would be so easy.

Maybe too easy.

However, this girl is a fighter.

She does not take the easy way out.

She clawed herself out of the darkest hole, the fire burned her fingers into blood… now scars.

She will never forget the pit from which she crawled.

 

The psychiatrist’s monotone voice somehow awakened her from her spiral of introspect.

“Were you trying to harm yourself?”

No, you fucking morons, I always swallow an entire bottle of Seroquel to help me sleep.

“You had cocaine in your system…did this cause your suicide attempt?”

Did medical school offer a one day lecture on addiction to lead you to this conclusion?

Yes, clipboard man and your servants, when I come down after a 3 day crack binge I always attempt to kill myself.

 

In reality, she has tried to die many times, crack binge or not.

The desperation, the doom, the depression and the shame were unbearable.

She told her first grade teacher she wanted to die.

Apparently her formative years created this longing to separate herself from the world.

As the group of psychiatrists asked her questions and diligently scribbled their interpretations of her responses on their clipboards.

She answered as she always did.…

She told them what they wanted to hear.

“No, I do not feel like harming myself at this time.”

This is the only way to walk out of a hospital without taking a trip to the psych ward.

You must convince them you are okay.

Lie, so you can leave.

Looking back on those 3 days posted up in a Motel room smoking crack followed by the 3 days hooked up to a breathing machine.

She knew the anguish, but still longed for the immunity of life.

 

She couldn’t breathe on her own for 3 days.

She almost succeeded this time.

She thought for sure this time she would fly away from her earthly body and be free.

Free from the self imposed prison of drug addiction.

Free from her mother, from him, from herself.

The doctors had just removed the tube from her throat.

It hurt to talk.

The doctors discouraged talking,

But apparently the psychiatrists insisted on questioning her.

Either she was a mystery to them or they were on a mission to gather conclusions and move on to next crazy person.

 

As the psychiatrists opened the curtain to leave her bed, she felt violated.

She had just woke up from a nightmare.

She was expected to answer generic questions from students who just wanted to hear her say she was all fixed and able to be discharged, to save them from more research and paperwork.

She wanted to scream… “No I am not fine!  I want to die!  I hate that I have failed again!”

But they were gone.

She was alone with herself,

Her worst fear,  yet her favorite place.

Nurses had been coming in out and of the room.

She was now aware of the immense pain.

Physically and emotionally.

Of course she was not going to tell them she wished she were dead.

She would have been placed in four point restraints.

A memory from her Harborview visit at 14 struck her in the brain.

The ICU was enough.

She needed to process that she had nearly died.

 

She laid there and slowly regained strength.

She struggled to breathe on her own.

People came to visit her.

Like ships passing through heavy fog, She couldn’t remember who they were.

She heard voices pray for her.

She felt her hands being grasped by the hands of others.

She slowly faded in and out of consciousness.

Shame and self loathe oozed out of her pores.

“I am so sorry,” she screamed inside her head, wanting someone to hear.

 

It was her mother who found her barely breathing.

She was laying right next to him…

They were taking a nap, coming down from the high.

He didn’t know she had taken the pills.

She knew he wouldn’t notice.

But her mother…. she came in the room.

A mother knows.

 

There she was again.

Starting over.

With him?

Should she run?

 

He was by her side when she could open her eyes.

His eyes were red and swollen from crying.

In the parking garage,

He had been screaming and begging for God to keep me alive.

At the top of his lungs, with all the strength he had left, he begged.

He didn’t care who was watching.

He swore on his life,

He promised he’d never pick up a crack pipe again.

He promised to always protect her.

She knows he meant those loud cries with every fiber of his being.

She saw it in his eyes.

He wanted God to hear him.

He knew God heard him.

 

She believed in his belief.

Just not her own.

She didn’t believe in God.

She still doesn’t.

 He hurt her…

Continue reading

Haunted Treasures

nepenthe

Roaring background noise.

In the rubble lay her desperation.

She is now chained to her reverie.

She stares at her future with grief and fear.

Sad how she takes responsibility for the actions of others.

It is her nature now,

The Heroine of her tragedy.

The woman she swore she’d never become…

She is terrified of her own self.

As for him,

Her own sworn protector.

Those were just words.

Only a piece of paper.

It’s foolishness how something so disposable can hold such depth.

When in reality, there was no depth at all.

She needed love,

Is that what it’s called?

You were not invited.

She noticed you looking at her.

This she had been waiting for since the day her daddy walked away.

The missing ingredient.

You couldn’t read her fragile state of mind,

How could you?

Some say it had been plotted out.

But how can a man so young be so intrusive with intent?

She will always defend the motives of her captor.

A snake,

A predator,

Stockholm Syndrome.

She was too blinded to give you any credit.

She did not think you could read her.

Once you discerned her spirit,

You tried to warn her.

She refused to listen.

Addicts are stubborn.

You were too late.

She was suffocating in revulsion,

Blindly to her demise.

She could reveal the good in anything…

In her father, her mother, even him,

But not herself.

What happened?

She was just a girl.

She couldn’t stop this?

None of you could.

Where were you?

One way street.

No U-turns.

Mysterious.

She must have mistaken you for somebody else.

Didn’t you feel it?

Her heart was depleted, all except for one piece.

She held it near, for she was only 18.

She gave it to you.

Why? She still does not know.

A girl is not meant to throw away her whole heart.

Just take it all…

Her mind,

Her soul,

Her spirit.

Then you took her body and did what you pleased.

She traded her dreams for you.

She exchanged her heart for yours.

Still defeated by herself,

She climbs mountains to find her soul.

Where does she start?

She doesn’t know where she’s from?

So much time spent exploring the inside of his heart,

That she lost her own…..time….. heart.

She fixed you,

And then she broke.

You found her when she did not want to be found.

She ran the other way as you screamed to lure her back.

It doesn’t make sense, does it?

The abused confuse mistreatment with affection.

She ran as if racing for the gold,

The screaming was for you…

Misery loves company!

She is truly sorry she could not help herself.

She is a beautiful soul who never saw her own beauty.

She floated away like a piece of driftwood in a river.

She will rebuild.

That driftwood is just disintegrated pieces of her past on the river bank.

She despises him,

She still rescues him.

She equates him with with pain,

Sympathy,

Empathy,

Urgency…

She is disturbed in his presence,

But is lost when he leaves.

How can she be addicted to someone so destructive?

Addicted to her own demise?

Hollow eyes.

Aimless steps.

On a mission with no destination.

This will consume her life.

It hurts to remember,

But it remains her treasure.

ironic