Let's Give This One More Try.

nineteen, again and counting, again

Things are okay today, almost. Everyday has it’s enemies. Sitting, waiting for the opportunity to take everything you’ve worked for, whatever that may be. More or less, it doesn’t matter because you worked for it. The miracle of this new lifestyle is I can choose not to play in the shadows with my enemies. I’ve been testing this new theory that if you come out of your room every once in a while, you meet new people. I’ve been trying not to be so shy. I find myself feeling stupid more often than not but, I also find myself laughing more than I have in a long time. Maybe, just maybe, it’s worth the trade off. I know if nothing else I need to learn to be comfortable with who I am and what I say, how I feel and how I look. I need to learn what is appropriate to be said as well, though. Doped up anything you say or do feels like flying so much so that you don’t give shit about those below you. All of a sudden, I care what people think, how I make people feel, what’s right, and what’s wrong. The beginning of this journey, you know “to recovery”, is going to hurt like hell, if I do it right. I have to let go and trust that through the pain I’ll unleash working the steps will come true serenity. I want peace, for the first time in my life. I want to be okay with being alone while at the same time being sure that’s not the only thing I do. Having fun with people in recovery but still keeping in mind that the 13th step will always be in the rooms. It doesn’t matter how sweet he’s talking, how great of a listener he is, or how many secrets he tells you. He’s still a candidate, whether he knows it or not. And of course that doesn’t mean they’re all like that. It just means its best to keep your shirt on, at least until, well actually I don’t know. I just have to be careful, at all costs. I need to focus on me. I need to attend more meetings. I need a job! And I need to let go of the resentment I’ve gained against the directors here. Whether or not it’s right doesn’t matter because they’re only trying to help me stay clean. And clearly, I can’t do that very successfully on my own. My boyfriend, or lack there of, is becoming more and more complicated. He wants sex and hell, so do I but I am in a halfway house! I say that so many time I could type it in my sleep. It’s like he forgets and all of a sudden thinks I’m refusing to see him. There is a side of it that is my fault. It takes me a little while to warm up to him when we hang out. I’m not sure why, mostly because I’m completely sober, but also perhaps it’s because I am far from comfortable with my body. He mentioned the other night hoe much better I look than I did when I was strung out, under weight, and so fucking lifeless looking. I have a hard time accepting that I might look better then than I do now but I’m trying to work on myself physically/mentally while remaining content with who I am at the same time. Regardless, I love him so much. And I’ll let you know if that ever changes. He got me this beautiful necklace for Valentine’s Day. We’re going to be okay. That’s it, for now.

I hate lying to those who deserve the truth.

So, instead of lying I try my very hardest to dance around the truth.  I do believe tonight was a success though I regret it.  No worries though, I regret 75% of the things I do or at least I should.

I live a double life and I am just fine with that.  One rule of living a double life though, is that no one can be apart of both lives.  Unfortunately that means I have to be a bit lonely at times, but for me it’s worth it.  I need to be more strict on the rules of living a double life.  That’s for sure.

I don’t know why I’ve always got to have a thorn in my side.  Perhaps, I like the adventure of getting it there.  I’ve gone back and forth for the past six years of my life.  Boys, razors, boys, razors.  Everyone hates the way I live my life.  Everyone, but me.  Maybe I’m lacking in self conscience right now but I’m enjoying myself.  I’m wreckless with this life because I don’t want to be living it in the first place I guess.

dry

I’ve been writing in my journal lately. I find it healthy, however, I find it necessary to also keep my tumblr updated. With that said, my life is one casualty after another. Perhaps that’s an exaggeration. Allow me to explain. I have yet to move back home, just stalling really. I know that when I get moved back in nothing will have changed. I’ll be put in the middle of my parents marriage. I’ll be required to do everything around the house because apparently, my sister is too sensitive to be upset at all. The lady is still in my life. My hands are dry and I want a cigarette.

“Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known.”

— Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

“I don’t think any of us can speak frankly about pain until we are no longer enduring it.”

— Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha

So, much

There is so much that needs to be mentioned. That is, of course, if anything truly needs to be mentioned on Tumblr. How cynically cliche of me. Addiction is such an ongoing vile, forlorn disease, as they say. Whether I’m sober or not the misery of it all never truly fades. I’ve done some things I never thought I’d consider in my darkest nightmares and the truth is in that moment it seemed like I had no choice but to hold my breath and put one foot in front of the other. That’s all there is worth saying. Jessie, my boyfriend, is the only thing in my life that has given me a glimpse of hope in things to come. I don’t know who or where I would be without him. He’s been staying with me therefor making closing my eyes on these cold nights possible, or so it seems. As miserable as I may sound every step I take with his hand in mine takes me one step closer to creating the life I pray I’ll one day have. Thank you. I love you. After several attempts in contacting me, Brandon has managed to put himself back into my life. He had asked me to come see him for a couple of weeks so finally after talking to Jessie about it I agreed to meeting him. It always starts the same way, too. He brings up the way our relationship ended then proceeds to ask me if I was given the chance again would I give him/us one last go. My response this time explained that even though I’m no happy with who I am or what my life is I couldn’t be happier with the man in my life. I’m sure there are certain things in my life that would have probably turned out in someway more positive or at least tolerable but in the long run I honestly don’t think it would’ve been worth it. He went on to tell me he’s still in love with me and would like to try again if at all possible. He had me download some sort of application that would allow us to talk without his psycho girlfriend from finding out (she checks the phone bill every month and calls any number that is unfamiliar). I didn’t directly answer his question about trying again although I’m not all that sure why. Perhaps, in the hidden places of my heart I was deceived, thinking it could be possible to find some level of happiness in doing so; if only for an instant. I’m pretty sure though I was only thinking all this because of what I always imagined we would be not necessarily because I actually thought I would genuinely be happy or content. My response lingered also because I didn’t have the heart to tell him I wouldn’t be open to the thought of trying it. After all, he was my first love and there will always be a part of me that he has taken that I will never get back; a place in my heart unfortunately reserved for him. In the end I’ve found the man of my wildest dreams. A man that didn’t exist up until a year ago. A man that picked up the shredded pieces Brandon left me with and made something beautiful and capable of a love that can’t be defined. Cliches aside, I’ve found something in Jessie I can no longer live without and I thank my God for that with every breath He blesses me with. I love you, I love you.

This Sunday, I share my story at church. I have 7 minutes to explain 26 years. When the pastor asked me to share, he specifically requested I replicate what I shared last year at the Recovery Community Inc fundraiser. I’ve spent some time trying to recall that was. I’m going to use this space to aid my memory:

I grew up in a good home. My parents are still married. I had everything I needed and most of what I wanted. Something wasn’t right, though. Even at 12, I remember never feeling good enough. That’s when I began cutting myself. That worked, for a while. It was than that i began signing my journals with “not alive at 25”. I’d decided I didn’t want to live longer than that. That was the deadline I put on the universe to make me want to live. Eventually, I got caught cutting. I had to find another way to ease what I thought was pain. I lost my virginity at 13. My problems had been solved. I spent he next couple years sleeping with my peers. I didn’t really want to but they made me feel important. I was making good grades. I was a great cheerleader. I was popular. I went to church. For some reason I still cried myself to sleep at night. The only things that stopped the tears were self harm or sex. Both of which had continued to get me in trouble. When I got drunk for the first time, I thought I’d found the cure to depression. I was invincible! Until my senior prom when I realized being drunk took away my motor skills so severely that I could keep unwanted hands out of my pants. Shit. What now? I knew what I was doing wasn’t working but I was also certain I wouldn’t be content without some form of relief.

When I was offered an opiate, an OxyContin pain killer to be exact, it was as if my prayers had been answered. Finally! Something to make me feel as beautiful and genius as ever without hindering my motor skills! It didn’t take long after that. I went back for more a couple times. After about two weeks, when I asked for more, the dealer only had heroin. I wasn’t afraid of anything. I googled how to shoot heroin and never looked back. The habit became expensive. I was physically dependent, dope sick without it. Over the course of the step few years I stole from my parents, from my boyfriends parents, my neighbors, until finally I thought there was nothing left to sell. I was homeless, hopeless, and seemingly helpless. I called my drug dealer. I asked if he could just front me some heroin one more time. I promised him I’d pay him soon. He told me he wasn’t giving me anymore fronts. He told me he had a better idea. He told me that if I sucked his dick, he’d give me drugs and money. I hung up the phone. I called my boyfriend and told him the preposterous proposition I’d just been given. My boyfriend reminded me that we’d both be sick the next day if I didn’t do it. I swallowed what little bit of pride I had left and called the drug dealer back. We met at toysrus is river gate. I treated it like a date, he treated it like what it was. When I was finished, I threw up. I went back to hotel I was staying in at the time. I showered and scrubbed my skin until it bled. I hated myself even more then that I ever did before. I promised myself it was just one time that tomorrow I’d be able to keep a job and that would keep my high. It didn’t just happen once. To tell you he truth, the first two weeks of it were terrible. It was awkward and disgusting. Pretty soon, though, I couldn’t feel anything anymore. Every ounce of dignity I thought I’d ever have was gone. I was a prostitute. After I while, I remember getting a call. It was time to go. This time, the client I was meeting lived pretty far out. I stood up from the hotel bed and stepped in something wet. I was wearing socks. I hate stepping in something wet while wearing socks. I looked in the mirror. My hair looked wet. It wasn’t. It had just been that long since I’d washed it. The clothes I was wearing were stolen. I was hungry. All of a sudden, I thought of my father. I thought of the pony rides he used to take me on and how he used to tell me I could be whatever I wanted to be when I grew up. I thought about who I actually became. It was a brief moment of clarity that faded when the phone rang again. It wasn’t long after that that my boyfriend decided to get clean.

I was terrified of being by myself, so I went to a mental hospital and told them I’d kill myself if they didn’t get me off the drugs. I called my mother. I told her I’d be home soon. She told me I wasn’t welcome. Thank God. My parents cutting me off is what saved my life. I went to halfway house in south Nashville. It looked exactly what you might honk a half way house to would look like. I kept using so I got kicked out. That’s when I met lyn. I came to rci and had a home. I laughed until I cried with women just trying to make it through one more day. I was taught how to mop, and not to wash towels with anything but towels. I cried with women when I had nightmares about the men that abused me while I was on the streets. I prayed with Lyn. I played volleyball with other residents. I remember a few months had passed and i unpacked my suit case. I had decided that was home. It still is. I have a house in Donelson. I’m in school to be a nurse. I have a car. I’ve received medical treatment for the hepatitis I contacted while on the streets and been cured. While those blessing are appreciated, the greatest gift recovery has given me is a desire to live. No matter what happens, I want to be alive to see it. None of this would have been possible had it not been for recovery community. I’m 26 years old and I haven’t wanted to die it quite some time. I have 3.5 years clean. You know, the only reason I started going to church was the make sure Godwhy was teaching my boyfriend at the time the right stuff. I remember when I walked in here for the first time. The shame that was on my shoulders. I never stopped believing in God. There was a lot of pain in that. I didn’t feel worthy to be in a building where I knew God was. The jokes of me because two years later, I’m still attending this church and it not to protect Justin anymore. It’s to thank God for my life and to learn how to show others his mercy. I still have nightmares about the men. Sometimes, I still feel disgusting. In those times, I looked down at my hand and see my wedding band. I’m reminded that God can turn a hoe into a housewife, and I am worthy of that gift.

So I just read that out loud at it was about six minutes. That makes me feel better. Maybe it is possible after all. Writing it though took much longer and now I’m tired.

To be continued..

“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.”

— Jane Austen, Jane Austen’s Letters

check in

I haven’t said very much, lately. I’ve been writing a lot more. Tonight I went to the carnival, threw up on one of the rides, and had the time of my life. Last night, I played volleyball then a friend rented a bicycle downtown and had me sit in the basket as we rode through the park. Everything is going to be okay. Jess and I aren’t together. Some days are great and some days hurt like hell. I’m still staying clean. I’m still in the halfway house. I’m gaining my parents trust back. I’m working. I’m smiling. I’m not giving up.

lost dreams awakened

I gave blood Tuesday. I’m not telling you because I want to boast about being charitable. I’m telling you this because I was never supposed to be permitted to give blood. Being diagnosed with hepatitis c meant no sharing nail files, no EMT license, and certainly no giving blood. Now that I am cured, I can do all those things. When I was thirteen I wrote a bucket list. Giving blood was on that list. I can now cross it out because my God does phenomenal things in my life. We do recover.