The Kitchen Window

I have always felt the heart of a home is the kitchen.

Not just because meals bring families together or that food is generally common ground for the ages. It’s because that’s where happiness settles.

Living rooms are places we watch TV.  Bedrooms are where we sleep, rest when we are sick, or sulk when the world is mean.  My kitchen is the focal point of our home. It’s full of light, open and welcoming. I have always loved my kitchen.

The kitchen window faces my backyard. It’s above the sink which is beautiful because I can watch the kids in the yard, stomping on marigolds, or as a football launches into my tomato plants. The large stock fence was never painted and is weathered from years of storms, snow, sun and gardening. I could look out that window to see the fruits of our labor as the cucumbers grew up the netting vine, the cantaloupe spread out as it grew flowers.  The rich green grass boasted of the love, tenderness and attention we spent growing it.

Where the kitchen was the heart, the yard was the soul of our family.

I was standing at the kitchen sink, admiring the fresh red spots I could see from the window indicating I had tomatoes ready to pick. The juiciness would mean a thick, savory sauce would be on the menu for dinner tonight. I was counting the number of red spots I could see from the window in the sea of green plants when the phone rang.  I sighed as I dried off my hands on the dish towel and took one more look out the window before I answered.

When you hear the words "your child over-dosed on heroin and is at the emergency room, come now because she might not make it" your life changes forever.

I spent countless days, nights, weeks and months trying to chase recovery for my daughter. By the time I realized that the one that should be chasing clean time, and a better life was my daughter and not I, my utopia in the yard had changed dramatically.

The tomatoes perished without the loving hand to water them and pick the ripened fruit. The mint grew wild, taking over and strangling the cilantro and basil. The cantaloupe's flowers wilted and died, not producing buds to grow into melons. The cucumbers shriveled and hung limply on the vine. The eggplant curled, and withered. Cooking with them now would produce a grainy, bitter, taste, much like the way I viewed my life.

Looking out the window in my broken-hearted kitchen, into the backyard with the tattered soul, was a reflection of our true selves.

My daughter would never be the same. My life would never be the same.

The love and attention I had put into my garden, I had also put into raising my daughter. No amount of love or begging would be bring either her or my garden back now.

Melanie Brayden 

Melanie lives in Danvers, MA with her life partner, her three kids, 
his two kids, two cats Diego and Blu and their dog Bud. 
Her oldest child, her daughter, is a heroin addict. 

Melanie began a blog, The Addict in My Basement, 
to chronicle her struggles as the mother of an addict. 

Mechanics, Sexism and Me

When you are five foot one and three fourths inches tall (my license says 5'2") and fairly young looking and kind of social friendly and awkward at the same time, mechanics are going to take advantage of you. Not all, of course. I have a place that is amazing and has treated me with nothing but respect and honesty but I was shaking in my boots when he told me I had to go to the dealership to fix my problem.

They saw me coming from a mile away, with my dickies bag that dates back to 1997 (those motherfuckers were made to last) and messy hair and tattoos and all the other goofy ass shit I do or wear.

My last car gave me so much trouble, I got to learn a major lesson. Always, always, always take a man with you. Or your incredibly amazing female friend who will call them on their bullshit because she actually knows what she's talking about. But unfortunately I did not have these essential people with me during this last experience.

I was berated for no good reason. Not listened to. Not taken seriously. And it sucked.

There were so many things I wanted to say to the man who so utterly pissed me off that I wish I could do it but I won't. It's not right but I will tell you. I wanted to say:

"I'd try to get you fired but on the off chance you found a woman to procreate with and the even smaller chance you actually feed your kids, my morals won't let me."

"A man has never made me feel tall in my entire life."

"Your face sucks."

"I wouldn't even have to lift my arm to punch you in your sucky face."

"You must be a descendant of Napoleon Bonaparte."

"Is your middle name Prick?"

And a bunch of other stuff. I know in my heart that if I were 6'3" and male, he would not have spoken to me the way he did. That's why I almost always believe people when they think they were treated unfairly because of color, race, gender, sexual orientation, etc... because once you definitely have, like there is absolute proof of prejudice, you know what it looks and feels like when it happens again.

Because there is no way for me to ever prove that this man was thinking, "It's okay to treat her like shit, she's just a little girl," but I just know it.

It may not sound like it, but there only one other time that a man tried to con me and I've let myself get this upset. That was not a mechanic so it's not just car guys. But the two instances wouldn't have happened if I weren't me. I had been judged because I have a vagina before but these two instances were so blatant, that I have had to make an effort to remind myself that those dickheads are people too. Maybe the sucky faced guy's mom just died or something awful like that. Not excusing it but you never know and keeping that in mind makes it easier to accept and move on.

To be treated differently for who you are, what you look like or even just how you "seem" can feel like an arrow shot into your soul and that is where the outrage comes from. It comes from your soul. Soul rage has power if used in the right way, be it trying to prevent just one other person from having to go through the same thing or organizing a peaceful protest with hundreds of participants, these are the instances where anger is a good thing.

I can only imagine what the Trayvon Martin's and Michael Brown's, Matthew Sheppard's, Kristina Gomez's and so many others around the world had/have gone through.

And just like the above mentioned, there are way too many to list all the women who have died simply because they were women. Every single day, women are beat by their husbands/boyfriends because they think they can. Every day women are getting paid lower wages for doing the same work as their males counterparts. Many men can bring sexism to it's highest degree and turn himself into misogynist. Ted Bundy is a classic example.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am not man shaming. I love men. Always have. A lot of times, I have an easier time talking to men. One of my closest friends in the entire world has a penis. I'm not a hater but I am a realist. And I am a woman. And I've been treated like shit because of it.

While this was the worst experience I have ever had with sexism so far, and it severely pales in comparison to what others have been through, it was yet another reminder that sexism is alive and well and always will be.

Melissa Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats. Some are super colorful and some are dark just like her stories. She is a mother, a friend, a writer, a survivor, a warrior, a yogi, a listener, a talker and a lover of all things art. 

Suicide Surviving to Life Thriving

It was this morning eight years ago my knees gave out and I hit the ground. 

The concrete was the only thing strong enough to support me after the words landed in my life.  My brother had just walked toward me with his head held low.  I could see he was searching for something.  He took me gently by the arm as I asked him “John, what’s wrong?”.  He hesitated for a brief second, while I stood staring.  Then he lifted his gaze to mine and he said “Tara…..Dad killed himself”.

That’s when I crumbled to the ground.  I was half holding on, half begging for it to swallow me whole.  It’s the moment I heard my spirit break and shatter into pieces.

I don’t often let my mind wander to that string of seconds.  It’s too difficult to relive.  The powerful impact, a swift and violent punch to the soul, is still something I physically feel as if it’s happening all over again.

In eight years I’ve learned to revisit this moment sparingly and only when absolutely necessary.

As I look back, I recognize massive shifts in my perspective and awareness.  Time is now measured by before and after.  Dad’s suicide the harsh beginning to a brand new reality.

In eight long years I’ve learned (the hard, bumpy, bruised knee and bloody knuckled way) of navigating Grief, living with Depression and managing two full-blown assholes called Anxiety and Panic.

In this time I’ve also learned how to patch my broken spirit back together into a mosaic puzzle I’m growing proud of.

It’s no secret that my family and I have experienced a great deal of loss that didn’t stop after Dad.  Tragic loss.  Unbelievable loss.  Too massive for our minds and hearts and souls to absorb.  Too big to hold on to and too heavy a burden to carry.

So what do you do with it all then?  If you can’t carry them, hold them or tuck them all away...where does it all fit?

Eight years ago I was certain I would drown in the murky water of it all.  I had no clue what my tomorrows would look like under all this heartache.  I had no space big enough to store it all.

Fast forward to today, after a tremendous amount of hard work and digging deep, the one and only thing I know for sure is that letting go of it, bit by bit, is the only option.  It’s not about storing it.  It’s about releasing it.

Release.  What an epiphany (when I allowed myself to have it).

Talk about true grit.

Each day I work at it.  I supplement the dark moments with memories that are lighter, happier and healthier.  It’s not always pretty.  In fact, it’s a hot mess.  Emotions swinging around like Kettle Bells, me doing my best to focus my energy on the positives and not feed the gluttonous negatives that wait anxiously in the wings.

I study.  I read.  I try my very best to be understanding and have compassion.  When I can’t do any of the above I turn the kindness onto myself and soothe the parts of me that ache.  In time, the gift I’ve been given in return for my hard work is Belief.

Belief that letting go is the gateway.  It’s where I will find the shift from surviving suicide and tragedy to thriving, one day at a time.

Each day I apply this practice I can feel myself healing.  My clenched fists begin unfolding, my sadness slowly lifting, my resentment tasting less bitter and my anger simmering.

Somewhere along the way I realized that surviving simply wasn’t enough for me.  I wanted more.  Thriving, in the face of it all, was my only true option.

So with that I decided I would let go, piece by piece, and set all those experiences ablaze on a trail of a life well lived.

Tragic loss, great love, mosaic soul patches and all.

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

La Pura Vida

In the spring of 2006 I set off on a journey with a dear friend of mine.

It was one of those “take a time-out from your life” kind of adventures and I was in desperate need of it. You see, at this point my life was a constant state of Chaos, and I was over it. So I decided that I was going to allow myself to hit the coveted snooze button and go on a treasure hunt for that shiny gem known as Clarity.

Our plane touched down, we de-boarded and there we were…Paradise had been found! We made it to the lush, tropical, untouched purity of Costa Rica.

I could feel a shift as soon as my feet landed on the tarmac. I shed some layers of clothing (it was cooking hot) and though I didn’t know it yet, I also shed some of those pesky inhibitions that were cramping my Spirit’s style.

The first few days were spent lounging, reading, swimming, sunning and detoxing the stressors I left at home.  The cotton candy sunsets, bold iguanas and opinionated howler monkeys took residence where the sights and sounds of city living once did.

Before I knew it relaxation had set in and running in tandem with it was the weekend.

My girlfriend and I decided to head out on the “town”. Now, by “town” I mean tiny little surf town on the edge of the Costa Rican jungle, of which you navigate by dirt roads and big smiles.

It was this night, in this town, backlit by stardust that I never knew to exist, that I met him.

Our paths crossed in a manner that only makes sense if you never question it. We fell into a state of normalcy that would historically have taken me aback. Lucky for me, I had just excavated a state of mind akin to blissful relaxation, so I decided to be Zen and just roll with it.

My mantra was something along the lines of “Tara, be Zen, roll with it, don’t question how or why....oh, and be sure to call the airlines and extend your stay”.

(FYI:  My mantra was a success.)

It was a whirlwind romance that made all the sense in the world. The only issue was…I was a world away from home.  

My last morning in Costa Rica pulled back the tropical blanket of my hiding spot.  My two worlds were now colliding.

He drove me back to my neglected hotel (and forgiving best friend) before the sun began to rise. We parked out front sharing a very long and hesitant farewell, filled with pleas and wishes by both of us that I could stay longer (maybe forever). But home and the chattering list of life obligations began to trickle into my Zen. The only words that found their way to my voice were the ones that said I couldn’t stay. I wanted to stay…but I couldn’t.

My heart and my soul slumped their shoulders in defeat. They were ambassadors of Paradise.

Before I could let him change my mind, I kissed him one last time, hopped out of the truck and bolted toward my room without daring myself to look back.

I flung the door open and my girlfriend greeted me with a look of shock and the following words: “I can NOT believe you are coming home!”.

My response was: “I can’t believe it either”.

I packed my bag in a fury. Within minutes there was a knock at the door. My heart jumped, my soul squealed in delight. I looked at my friend and said: “It looks like I’m staying after all!”.

I whipped the door open, ready to proclaim "Ok, I'm staying!" but it wasn’t him with one last request, it was our driver letting us know he was ready to begin our long journey back to the airport where this whole adventure began. 

I tucked my regret into one of my pockets, tossed our bags in the car, gave our surroundings one last look and crawled into the backseat. As I sank into my seat and closed my eyes, I did my best to reassure myself I was making the right, rational choice. Soon, the gentle rocking of driving on unpaved roads had me drifting off to sleep.

It wasn’t long into the drive that I could feel the car begin to slow and then come to a stop. I slowly opened my eyes. The dirt roads illuminated by the rising sun created a magical, dusty curtain over the countryside. I whispered to my girlfriend asking her why we stopped. Her eyes widened and she told me to look ahead, through the windshield.

That’s when I saw him.

Standing there, in the middle of the road, was a white horse so grand, so pure, so dreamlike I could hardly believe it to be true. He stood there, looking at us, unafraid, unwavering and beautiful beyond words.

My girlfriend turned to me, she held my hand and she said: “Tara, what do you think he’s saying to you?”.

I would love to tell you I listened to his message that day, turned around, drove back to my love and stayed in that little casita on the edge of the Costa Rican jungle forevermore…but I can’t.

Instead, what I can tell you is that I did, in fact, find the clarity I was searching for on that adventure in Paradise. I can tell you, with certainty, that I was forever changed. I can tell you that I married this man, barefoot with flowers in my hair, in a tiny chapel on an orchard with trees dripping in twinkle lights.  I can also tell you that I believe in magical white horses who are messengers and reminders of the life you are meant to live.

La Pura Vida was first published on 12 Months of Lent.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

It's Not Okay

When a loved one dies, it's not okay but you will be.

When your loved one is sick, it's not okay but you both will be.

When a lover breaks your heart, it's not okay but you will be.

When a friend disappoints you, it's not okay but you will be.

When someone you love doesn't support you, it's not okay but you will be.

When you're in physical pain, it's not okay but you will be.

When worry keeps you up at night, it's not okay but you will be.

When you feel alone and scared, it's not okay but you will be.

When someone violates your mind, spirit, body or all three, it's not okay but you will be.

When defending yourself becomes moot, it's not okay but you will be.

When you lose the ability to do something you once loved, it's not okay but you will be.

When you feel money issues will cripple you, it's not okay but you will be.

When injury or illness literally cripples you, it's not okay but you will be.

When neighbors and fellow Americans senselessly hurting each other seems like too much bare, it's not okay but you will be.

When war all over the world makes you feel helpless, it's not okay but you will be.

When any or all of these things happen, it's not okay but you have the power to make yourself be.

Anonymous

The Past

Liam Thomas

Tara's nephew, soulmate and fellow Storyteller.

Messages from the Grave

Learning a lesson is sometimes really hard. There are lessons in life that are learnt easily, like the time I was so proud of myself for unclogging my kitchen sink. Single mother, first time something mechanical/plumbing happens that requires serious attention. I was not calling a man. A man was not fixing this drain, damn it, I could do it myself. I got a bucket to put under the drain trap; I found tools to unscrew the pipe from the drain. The drain came apart, dirty water littered with food and God knows what else poured in to the bucket. I used a wire coat hanger that I straightened out to stick up the pipe and hallelujah out comes a big ball of spaghetti and potato skins, stuck at the elbow! I threw the junk away; cleaned up my mess and proceeded to dump the shitty water back into the sink. Instantly my feet were soaking wet and I heard a loud splash. I never reassembled the drain to the pipe so the water rushed out all over me, the floor, the bottom of the cabinet, soaking everything including my pride. But I learned a lesson. I can fix the drain and make sure the drain and pipe are back together before pouring anything down it. I only had to do that once to learn that lesson!

There are other lessons in life that are harder to learn. We don’t always learn them right away. I have learned a lesson from someone who was once very important to me. Unfortunately, I learned it long after he died. My daughter is a heroin addict. She suffers from a terrible disease. She would risk her life and probably the life of those around her if it meant copping dope.  We have enjoyed clean time, and we have suffered through relapses.  During those relapses I have begged and pleaded for someone to help, for us to be able to find a cure. I have called on those who have passed before us, praying for them to watch over her and guide her so she can live. In those moments, I can’t help but think of the souls that have been lost to addiction. I know many people who have lost their battle and I am sad for them, but there is one person who I feel sorrow for. One person whose passing was the most stunning and shocking. One person whose life was important to me and important to people that I cared for. And in those of my darkest hours it is not him that I pray to, it is him that I beg forgiveness.

This person struggled with addiction for as long as I knew him. He was probably the first person in my inner circle that I would have seen in active addiction. I just didn’t know it. I wasn’t aware enough, or present enough, or educated enough to understand what it really meant. I remember when he was actively using and we would all drink and party and have fun. And then it went too far and he was in recovery. He had to stay in recovery. He had a family and a life. He thrived. He succeeded. And then he relapsed and he stole and he lied. I was angry at him. I thought he was no good. I judged. I made judgments. He found recovery again. This time stronger, more involved. I saw his time at meetings as time away from his family, not home with his kids, his wife. I never said anything out loud, but I didn’t understand. Not understanding is ok, as long as you work to understand. I didn’t. I held my own opinion because I was holier than thou and I had a right, an entitlement to judge. When he would leave Sunday dinner to go to a meeting, I rolled my eyes. When his kids or wife were sick, but he left them alone, I was disgusted. What could be more important than his family?

Then his family broke up. I didn’t see him as much, which was sad for me. I loved him like I loved his wife. I was close to both of them equally. It was a loss to me. It was a great loss but divorce is tricky and sides are taken. Right or wrong, I didn’t see him anymore. If I did I was polite. I was happy to see him doing well, I saw him with a new woman and she was pretty and kind and she made him happy, and I was happy for that. I was glad he was doing well.  I never knew he wasn’t doing well. I had no idea how bad things were for him. I didn’t try to find out either.  He knew the devil was calling his name. He knew he was in over his head. He was angry and bitter and he missed a happiness he once had. Not from lack of love, he had a woman who loved him and children who adored him. But the evil in drug addiction blinds a person to those things, all you see is desperation.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

He may not have died with a needle in his arm, but the needle took his life all the same. His was an act of fraught. His act changed the course of many lives. I can’t describe the anger I felt at that. I wouldn’t be able to do justice to the range of rage. As I walked through the motions of his death, cleaning his apartment, picking his clothes for burial, helping arrange the funeral, and finally, placing his ashes in a grave I was furious. I almost couldn’t contain my anger. Because I was ignorant. It wasn’t until five short months later that I found out about my daughter's heroin addiction.  Before it was my child, before it was my family, I didn’t get it. How could I? Even though we were close, it wasn’t the same. There is no way to see the wrath of addiction unless it’s in your house, your blood, your life.  I was unforgiving until I realized I was the one that needed forgiveness. I wish I could tell him that I don’t judge him. I want him to know that JoDee has shown me why it’s so hard. I always thought he made a choice to put drugs before his family which ruined his life. But it is so much deeper than a choice. It’s something unseeing and not tangible that drives the car of desire we all ride in. No one can see it or touch or smell it or feel it because it is buried in your soul.

About a year ago I was sitting in the hospital room with JoDee, during another one of her overdoses, and I started praying to him. I kept asking him over and over and over why he didn’t do something from the other side to help her. Why couldn’t he send her a message or an epiphany or something to show her that this was a road to death? I told him I was sorry I was so angry when he died and I understood better now. I cried until I fell asleep. And suddenly there he was. Standing in my driveway, staring at the sun. I asked him where we were and he told me the past and the future. I asked him what was going to happen and he told me to prepare for the tornado. He told me a storm was coming and I needed to be ready and be strong. I asked him why he couldn’t stop it, why didn’t he do something. He said to me that he was doing something; he was showing us what happens if we aren’t honest, if we don’t speak about what we feel because the darkness lives inside lies and pain. He started to fade away and I yelled not to go because I was afraid. He gave me a hug and told me I was forgiven. And then he was gone.

I have never dreamed about him since then and I don’t know that I will. He has so many people that want to see him in their sleep, I will be grateful for my one visit. He looked like he did when things were good for him. He looked like he was at peace. I woke up with a feeling of appreciation for his struggles. I learned that there are people we loved and cared for on the other side, but they can’t help. Addiction can’t be stopped by praying it away. I had to stop wasting energy praying for a miracle that wasn’t going to happen. The miracle happens when the addict follows the steps, asks for help, and finds reason to live. I have to fight to keep my daughter alive until there is nothing left to fight for or until she learns to fight for herself. It was a hard lesson to learn and I’m not sure I would have gotten there if he hadn’t shown me that. 

Today I am happy to report she has been clean just shy of 60 days. Just for today, we can celebrate our success, mourn our fallen loved ones, pray for those still struggling and be grateful we are still here to do it.

Melanie Brayden 

Melanie lives in Danvers, MA with her life partner, her three kids, his two kids, 

two cats Diego and Blu and their dog Bud. Her oldest child, her daughter, is a heroin addict. 

Melanie began a blog, The Addict in My Basement, to chronicle 
her struggles as the mother of an addict. 

Bottled Up

I've spent my entire life trying to recover from YOUR disease.

I've spent my entire adulthood trying to no longer be affected by YOUR selfishness.

I've spent the last 12 + years sheltering my children from YOUR wrath of painful words.

I've allowed YOUR problems to infiltrate my marriage.

I watched YOUR behavior ruin EVERY milestone moment in my life.

I spent years in therapy mourning an earth shattering loss only to find out what I was mourning was YOUR lack of love and nurturing in a time when I needed it most.

I've given everything I can to try and repair this relationship with you to no avail.

Your sense of entitlement to things that I have worked hard for is mind boggling.

Your inability to be accountable for the path of destruction that you laid before me for so long physically hurts my heart.

I used to wonder why I have no photo albums of my childhood, no memory books of my first words or school pictures but it's so vividly clear now...you were too busy entertaining your demons to be a parent.

I cringe when I hear others tell you how proud you should be of me, what a great job you did "raising" me and how proud they are of you for getting rid of your demon.

I got where I am today, not because of you, but in spite of you. However, you got sober thanks to me, because unlike you, I didn't give up on you...and it was the hardest thing I ever had to do...but YOUR disease was killing me.

I see snip-its from time to time of your potential to be a good parent, grandparent, etc. but, they are few and far between. And again I'm mourning. I'm mourning the fact that YOU'RE going to miss out on two wonderful gifts that you were blessed with because you feel that I owe you something for doing what's right.

What scares me most is that I see snip-its of you in me. I too dance with the same demon far too often and find myself yelling too loud and too much...but its not my voice I hear coming out, it's YOURS.  

The difference is, I'm going to take steps to change my path NOW and not be a burden to my children. I will repair the whole me, mind, body and spirit.  I will continue to be a positive influence, a nurturer, a provider and a safe spot for them.  I've seen what happens to a child when they are without all of those things.  It's by the grace of god I made it out alive.  

I wish I didn't have to be anonymous.  I wish that I could say these words to you in a way that wouldn't immediately bring you to become defensive but that's not possible. So, for now, I will hide behind my anonymity but no longer behind the bottle.

Anonymous

Ladybugs 6: "CHAINED"

"You aren't really clean."

Those four words have haunted me for the last 10 years and 11 months.

Next month, I will turn 31 years old. It has been almost 11 years since a methadone clinic saved my life. Saved me from myself. I walked into that clinic hopeless and on my last breath; the thread I was hanging on by had finally given out. I wish I could say it was solely my desire to stop shooting dope that led me there. It wasn't. What broke my thread was a friend's fatal overdose; a day that I don't think I could ever forget. On that day; through the empty eyes of a person who was a son, brother, and friend; I saw death in all its ugliness and sadness; and something changed.

Of course, I was like most addicts who end up taking those first steps into a clinic: I swore I would never go on methadone. No one hates "the 'done" more than other addicts. Addicts, myself included, would tell ourselves that being chained to a clinic instead of sticking a needle in your arm is worse. I told myself that I would rather die than get addicted to another drug. And that would have been my prerogative except for one thing: it was a lie. I didn't want to die. I wanted to fucking LIVE.

See, most people don't understand the purpose of a methadone maintenance program. People get caught up in the notion that you are replacing one drug with another. However; the purpose of programs like a clinic isn't to get a person drug free. No, its sole purpose is just to help a person STOP SHOOTING HEROIN. You are probably asking yourself what the point is? Why have a person substitute methadone for heroin? The main reason is simple: you can live on a maintenance program. Not only the breathing type of living but quality of life type of living. You can have a job, take care of yourself, take care of your loved ones, go to school, exercise, get your drivers license - the possibilities are endless. And that is the whole point: most heroin addicts can't do the things I just listed because they are ADDICTED TO HEROIN. That is the one part of the equation outsiders don't get: those on methadone aren't necessarily addicted to methadone. They are DEPENDENT ON IT.

...........................

Side note 3/3/15:

Another young life taken. Another mother and father mourn their daughter's death. Her friends, cousins, sisters and brothers are heartbroken. Another fatal overdose. I have lost count. As I thought back to my time on the clinic and wrote the above piece I couldn't help but think: what if the stigma wasn't there? What if heroin addicts could see beyond the judgement — would one of the many lives lost have been saved?

Submitted Anonymously

Please read the complete Ladybug series by clicking on the following links:

Ladybugs - Part I  

Ladybugs Part II

Ladybugs - Part III

Ladybugs - Part IV

Ladybugs - Part V

Tenderness & Tenderbits

This is today's Truthbomb from the ever-inspiring Danielle LaPorte.

Sounds easy, right? 

Defend your tenderness. 

Of course the things that sound easy never really are…are they?

Tenderness.  Those soft, raw, unexposed pieces of your heart and soul that haven’t been beaten to a pulp yet.

The parts that loss hasn’t carved into with the ferocity of a blade slinger.  

Suicide, drug and alcohol addiction, overdose, loss on top of grief on top of mourning.  

Years and years of mourning.

The weight of it all cripples any tenderness that has the balls to stand its ground.

Tenderness along with innocence are my casualties of circumstance.

What was once tenderness is now covered in scar tissue.

What was once innocence is now cold, hard experience.

What's even more concerning is whatever battleworn tenderness might be bunkered deep within can’t even find solace in my sleep.

This grieving and mourning and wailing doesn’t fucking quit.

I wake up with it.

I live my days with it.

I tuck myself in with it at night.

That's when things really get muddy.

As my eyes close and sleep takes over, my subconscious mind continues to rip apart at my tenderness.

Visions not suitable for waking hours.

Abysmal sadness.

So, so deep.  

It’s a wasteland of despair, my dreams.

I’m failing my tenderness.  

Unable to defend it.

Weak to protect it.

Lacking faith that I have any pure tenderness left.

My own truthbomb is this:  My tenderness is broken. 

Which leaves me with one question...

If defending it has failed and it’s broken to bits...

Is there HOPE to HEAL it?

Because luckily I can say...

Somehow, some way my hope is still in tact.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Promises . . .

I wonder what you promise to them when you first meet to make yourself so irresistible to so many? 

Do you promise him a lifetime of that euphoria that rushes over his body in those first few moments, but forget to tell him that warm embrace fades quickly leaving him trembling? 

Do you whisper in her ear that you will be her knight in shining armor, and rescue her from all of her worries, but it slips your mind to tell her that SHE will chase the dragon becoming her own worst enemy?

Do you dangle in front of their questioning eyes the key to a promising future, but fail to inform them that the door to their past slams shut leaving their loved ones behind?

Do you paint them a portrait of themselves depicting who they have always wanted to be, but cover the mirrors so they never catch a glimpse of the stranger they have become? 

Do you offer the moon and the stars on a silver platter, but never explain in exchange they would burn their world on a silver spoon? 

Do you pledge your love & loyalty to be with them until the end of time, but never say the end could be as soon as tomorrow?

I see YOU for who you are...

I remember THEM for who they once were...

YOU take them from all they had...

I hope for THEM for all they can be....

Heidi Donovan

An old soul who speaks the truth, personifies loyalty and can induce the kind of laughter that heals you.

In addition to all that (and unbeknownst to many), Heidi is also an incredibly talented wordsmith and photographer.  
Allowing only the luckiest and most trusted into her world of woven words and captured moments.

For years she's been steadfast in her "thank you but no thank you" response to requests to share her work.  
Until….The day she said "Yes" to being a storyteller here.

I don't have words to express how happy, excited and overwhelmed with pride I am 
to introduce you to one of my favorite writers (and one of my best friends) of all time.

(Bio written by the President of her fan club, Tara Mazzeo Jackson)

Grieving 101: The Emotional Marathon

“I can't be running back and fourth forever between grief and high delight.” 

― J.D. Salinger 

But I do.

It's exhausting, really.  It's something along the lines of an emotional marathon.  One that I find myself running every few years, against my will and against my wishes. 

Now, I've never run a real marathon before, however, this emotional marathoning isn't for the weak of heart either, that's for sure!  Each miserable stride burns more than the next breath.  You wonder how the hell you're going to get through this.  All those miles ahead, one thumping foot in front of the other.  Then, something happens along the way and everything quiets down for a moment when you realize... everything has gone numb.  You can't feel a damn thing!  Your reaction:  Hallelujah!  This respite allows you to coast for a spell.  Who cares if you can't feel anything.  Feeling, especially at times like these, is over-fucking-rated. This is your Menthol Mile, baby, and you better enjoy it.  Because slowly and then all at once the burn breaks through again and you'll be leaving a trail of smoke behind you for all the wrong reasons. In time, you'll stop screaming "holy hellfire" and simply accept the flames.  They are, some say, what make you or break you.

I don't know.  Sometimes I think "What the fuck?".  Sometimes I simply can't believe it all and I stand there wonderstruck, in the least magical way possible.  Every so often a wave of peace washes over me and I realize it's all ok, all of it, even the parts that aren't ok, if that makes any sense.

My thoughts ride a wicked pendulum.  They whip from side to side, up and down, from here to there, now to then and back again a million times in the blink of an eye.  Sounds fun, right? Yeah, just about as fun as that clown in Stephen King's "It" (insert shivers here please).  

It turns out my circumstances have demanded that I get good and clear on what I believe in….and I mean what I TRULY believe in.  As in...what is all of this heartbreaking, beautiful, chaotic, exotic, full blown insanity worth in the midst - and in the end - of it all?

My belief system, I've learned, is made up of the following:  Love, the amazing, true kind of love that makes all this shit worth while.  Heaven.  Family.  Life, this one beautiful life.  Friendship.  Forgiveness, regardless of what a battle it is to achieve it.  Impact, the kind you make and the kind that's made on you.  Karma, what you give, you get.  Peace, the sacred hunt for it.   And honesty.

It's my 3rd Emotional Marathon in 8 years.  

Although you'd think I'd be a frontrunner with all this "experience" the truth is, right now, I'm just pacing myself to get to the finish line without shitting my pants.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

This Old House

I remember my dad watching Bob Vila on Sunday mornings and didn't understand how he didn't die from boredom. I was a kid but now, with all the home makeover shows, I can see he was ahead of his time. So sometimes I look at my apartment, in a house that was built somewhere around 1900, and think WWBVD?

He would definitely rip up the kitchen floors with the foot prints of the workers who long ago did a half-assed job of installing it. Then the entire bathroom would be ripped down, especially the pink and forever stained porcelain tub in which no amount of cleaning will fix and he would make it bigger than the size of a closet. (Some of the big guys in my life have had some issues getting in and out of it.) And surely he would notice the crooked living room floor and do a bit of electrical work in my daughters room (which is actually on the agenda anyway.) But that's it. The damage from slamming the vacuum into the base boards is all me. The marks on the walls and damage to my what were once adorable kitchen chairs are from the cats and the toys everywhere are from my kid.

Then I think, I could really use that little lady from "Poltergeist" and have her work her magic on the one end of my house that is absolutely petrifying, Call me nuts, I've been called worse, but I swear, my apartment is haunted. I can't even explain to you the types of things we've heard, felt and seen in this place in the last ten years. It's part of the reason why my daughter still sleeps with me every night. (And because I know that there will come a day when she won't want to anymore.)

Then I think about all the trying times we've had in this place. Breakups, breakdowns, fear, sadness, years of physical pain from injuries and disease and more in the ten years we've lived here. I went through the hardest, to date, situations and problems in my life while living in this apartment.

Then I remember, my parents provided me with an amazing,  nice, cute place that is just the right size for my daughter and I. I walk into my big kitchen with the fabulous wall paper and tile from the 70's that I would not let Bob Vila go anywhere near. I look at my big living room, with it's tall windows that fill the room with sunlight. I look at my cozy bedroom big enough to fit a king sized bed and two huge bureaus. And I look at my daughter's sweet room, that despite desperately needing a paint job (we joke that she's been finger painting with dirt) is perfect for her. During the spring and summer, I open the windows, see the stunning garden my father has created and let the smell from the roses he planted waft into the rooms. There is nothing like having the smell of live roses in your home. It's just simply wonderful. Oh yeah, and central air. Be jealous, it's okay.

I remember that, along with the bad, some of the most amazing moments of my life have happened here. Just a week after moving in, we watched the Red Sox win the 2004 World Series here. This is where I brought my sweet little baby home from the hospital. This is where I've watched her grow from an infant to the incredibly sweet, kind and insightful kid she is today. This is where she will have most of her childhood memories. Birthdays, sleepovers, us cuddling on the couch and playing highly competitive rounds of air hockey. This is where I, myself, have changed and grown so much for the better that I no longer recognize the person I once was.

This is where we come to feel safe, warm, loved and comfortable. This is where we share meals and feelings. This is where we can dance and cry because no one is actually watching. This is where we live and work and play. So when it comes down to it, it doesn't matter what Bob Vila would do. It's what my daughter and I would do. And we will continue to grow up together and be grateful together because we have all we need in this old house.

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.