Ladybug - Part 7: What Is Worse?

In this life, we all have that one person you would do anything for. You would do anything to protect them, anything to take their pain and sorrows away, anything (even in a sense) die for them. 

My person is "R" and I have a confession to make: For the last 7 months or so; I have been carrying around a secret. A secret that has left me broken, anxious, frightened, angry, sad and the list goes on and on. I will start from the beginning. I remember this day like it was yesterday. R called me on a sunny September afternoon. I thought she was calling to iron out our plans for the evening as we had tickets to see one of Boston's sports teams play in town. In the nail salon (turning away so I wouldn't get the evil eye from the tech doing my nails) I answered her call. However; what I heard on the other line was something I never thought I would hear in a million years: 

"Ladybug, I relapsed. I have been using for months. I just can't lie anymore. I can't do this anymore." 

I tried to get words out but I just couldn't get my brain to process what I just heard. The only words I managed to mutter were "I will text you. I am in the nail salon." Of course, I had my suspicions and actually had come out and asked "R" if she was using. As someone who sees addiction day in and day out at work and someone who went through it herself; the symptoms are usually there. It just depends on whether or not your heart can see them; not your eyes. So, that day started a journey for "R" and myself. One that has left me changed forever. In the beginning, I was one of the only people that knew. Each time I was called to pick up the body of a heroin overdose at work; I worried that at any point in time that could be her. I was terrified when my phone rang and when it didn't. 

When you see someone you love go through what you put your own loved ones through; your perspective changes. I don't think any addict - regardless of where they are in their recovery; regardless of how many times they have taken a personal inventory or how many times they have gone through the 12 steps ever truly knows what it is like to be on the other side. Before Thanksgiving, R went into her first detox. Before she went, though, she asked a question. I don't know if it was directly at me or if it was just her 'talking out loud' but it has stuck with me even as I sit here, months later. She said out loud: "What is worse...being the addict or being on the other end of the addiction?" Without hesitation, I answered her truthfully and honestly: "There isn't even a comparison between the two". 

See, when you are in the middle of a run and there is no care for yourself, you reach a place of not caring about anything or anyone. Of course, it isn't really "you" that doesn't care. It is your diseased mind, body, and soul. That is why addiction is so devastating. You lose yourself along with your will to want to get better. The addiction takes your self-worth away from you. It's not a slow process, either. It's a 'one minute you give a fuck about your life: yourself, family, and friends. Then, the next minute you don't." Of course, I had no idea that "R's" relapse would, in the end, lead me on my own personal journey of revisiting my own addiction but...that is for another post at another time.

To be continued... Signed, Ladybug

Anonymous Submission

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

Ladybugs - Part I  

Ladybugs Part II

Ladybugs - Part III

Ladybugs - Part IV

Ladybug - Part V 
Ladybug - Part VI

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. 

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.

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

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)

Truth Is . . .

Most of my Facebook friends don't know the truth about me.  They know what I post or what they remember.  

Truth is, I'm a drug addict. I'm a womanizer. I'm an alcoholic. I'm a thief. I'm a convict. I'm an asshole. I'm not a good person. I've dealt with death, child abuse, fires, homelessness, & much more. 

Don't you dare feel bad for me. I'm a man that has lived life! 

Truth is, I'm a dad. I'm giving. I'm loving. I'm honest. I'm loyal. I'm trustworthy. I show up on time. 

See we are judged by the things we have done yet those actions don't always define us. Just because you knew me then doesn't mean you know me now. 

Once an addict always an addict.  True. But that doesn't mean I'm not a good person. I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of, yet more that I am. 

I thought there was no way out. Now I can't imagine going back. 

Every door seems closed, until you open it. I can't believe how things can be. I never thought there was another way. 

Just because you struggle today doesn't mean tomorrow is just another day!

Written & Shared by the courageous Bobby White.

Ladybugs: Part V "The Fight"

When you find yourself so broken that death seems like a viable option; it changes you. 

I wish I could pinpoint how it changes you but I can't. I can only tell you it simply does. 

I was broken and damaged, the only thing keeping me among the living was a thread. Even though there had to have been a part of me that wanted to live, I continued to test my thread's strength:

...by swallowing too many sleeping pills which ended with me intubated.
...by overdosing and being hit with narcan more times than I can count.
...by shooting heroin and cocaine for almost two weeks until ending up in Somerville Hospital.  To this day I am still unsure of how I got there.

As selfish as this may sound I was like a cockroach: I just couldn't die. 

The last and final time I “actively” tried to take my own life was in the back of my busted up car that I was living in. I drank half a bottle of windshield washer fluid. 

You might be asking yourself “what's up with the windshield fluid?”.  And I can honestly say that I have no idea. I'm sure I could've attempted to harm myself in another way, however, it was just there at that moment, an option at that time. 

Of course, there were multiple detoxes, halfway homes and psych wards. All with no success. My final count of detox units is between 15-20. I completed approximately half of those; ending up in a long-term setting (like a halfway house).  However, no matter the setting or the facility I just could NOT keep myself clean. 

Out of everything that I have been through it is this part of my story that I find the scariest. But not for the reason you might be thinking. This part frightens me the most because once you look at death in a positive light (ie: to end your pain and to stop from hurting) you seem to never let that go. It just gets buried deep down where no one can ever see it. Almost like a dormant gene or something. 

So, even years later, when you think you have life figured out and your shit is all together: BAM! The demons in your head begin to taunt you and you must remind yourself over and over again… 

“I must fight. I must keep fighting."

Anonymous

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

Ladybugs - Part I  

Ladybugs Part II

Ladybugs - Part III

Ladybugs - Part IV

Ladybug: The Lottery of Life

As odd as it may sound, some days I want to quit.  I want to throw up my white flag and just surrender…go be a drifter or even a hobo; taking train to train, beach to beach.

See, the older I get the more things hit me. They hit me like a ton of bricks to the stomach. I feel everything deeper as time goes by and that feeling of uncertainty becomes a more frequent affair. 

When you come from where I have come from and been where I have been - simple things like scrolling my Facebook feed can mean the difference of a tragic day or not. 

It's almost daily I see things like “RIP” or "I can't believe it; I just saw them yesterday…”. Because that's just how it is when you come from a city like Somerville where overdoses happen all too often. 

Amidst the death and sadness, though, is a sense of camaraderie. Where everyone knows everyone and, regardless of what park you spent your summers at, in the end we all came from the same exact places…homes with secrets and struggles. 

Most of us with our reduced and free lunches, free after school programs and even free field trips.  We all had the same set of values: we stuck by each other through it all. 

We come from a certain type of community that if you didn't grow up in it - you wouldn't understand it. That's why when a fellow kid from "The Ville" passes it's not that everyone "comes out of the woodwork”, I think it's more than that. I think it's something deep inside of us thinking exactly what I'm thinking at this moment…"Why them and not me forcing us to come together as one?".

I'm sure you're thinking "what the f*ck is this girl babbling about?". And frankly, I am not even sure I know. However, what I do know is that sometimes I feel better when I write. Writing helps me cope with the tragedy and sadness I see so often. It helps me cope with the guilt. Because, in all honesty, I do feel guilty.  

I feel guilty that somehow I have had the winning numbers in the lottery of life. While others, who were no different than myself, succumbed to their illness. What made them different than me? How did I manage to do the impossible (to get and STAY sober)? I know it was not for lack of effort. Because I know my fallen brothers and sisters suffered just as I had. And God did they suffer; longer, harder, and truer. 

Which is why, for me, I have to wonder who really wins the lottery of life?

Submitted Anonymously by the widely celebrated author of the Ladybug series.

Ladybug - Part IV "Lifer"

I have a confession to make: you aren't the only ones who have heard my story before. I have stood in front of medical students and veteran doctors alike and told [parts of] my story in hospitals across the Boston area. I do these talks not because I am paid, or because I get some sort of prize at the end like a sticker or lollipop. No, I do these talks for two reasons: the first is education. You would be surprised at how many doctors are not educated about addiction and medications to treat it. The second: to earn some positive karma points (in the hopes that it crosses out some of the shitty things I have done). In our society, judgement day is every day. I know that even after all these years I still get the eye when my criminal record pops up. Explaining why you were arrested for possession of hypodermic needles, possession, larceny, or any of the other fuckery that I was arrested for is never an easy task. And while society can be harsh, it is still nothing like the judgement of junkies.

See, what a lot of people don't realize is that no one is harder on addicts than other addicts. If you got high off of pills you probably thought you were better than a heroin addict. If you got high off of crack cocaine; you were looked down upon by those who only snorted the drug. This attitude that we had, myself included, even came to sobriety. 

See, if you were on the methadone clinic you beneath all of the above mentioned. From the beginning of my drug use, it was ingrained in me that methadone was “bad” and that it was the same as shooting dope. That people on the clinic were “lifers” doing life sentences handcuffed to another drug. Because methadone was “just replacing one drug with another drug and a person on the clinic isn't 'really' clean... I believed it all and judged every soul who made that choice. I think part of me thought I would be able to get clean once the time came… 

Unfortunately, that time came and went many times. I spent countless days in detoxes and halfway houses but sobriety just never stuck. The cravings were so, so strong. I always ended up in the same place: relapsing. I knew I had an addiction but didn't realize the mental aspect of it until I started to attempt sobriety. As a heroin addict, I was always concerned with the physical aspect of my addiction: muscle aches, anxiety, hot and cold flashes, nausea, cold sweats, and restlessness. 

After so many failed attempts at getting clean, it started to take a toll on me. I was overdosing left and right and was mentally fucked up so it made things worse. I was tired of the life and tired of spending day after day chasing my next fix. The drug that had been my friend, companion, and lover was no longer. As the days went by and the relapses added up; I didn't want to live anymore. It's quite simple when I look back: I was so desperate to stop the madness and I thought the only way to do it was to either stay sober or die: By the drug that I loved or by my own hand…

Anonymous

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

Ladybugs - Part I  
Ladybugs Part II
Ladybugs - Part III

Of Damaged Goods and Positivity

Maybe two or three souls in the universe know this secret about me….I am, in a way, two-faced.

When I go out into the world, people see a poised, always fun-loving, perpetually happy, down-to-earth girl with all her shit together; someone confident and sure of herself and her place. Well, this is not so. In private, in those moments when only the few can witness, I am full of anger, fear, anxiety, and doubt. I am most certainly not that self-assured person the rest of the world gets. I can feel very lost, confused, despondent. Insecure.

Why?

Is it because of my addict mother; and the resulting environment in which I grew up? I really don’t know. But I think and think and think on it, and wonder if….

She is everything that’s wrong with me.

Her promises of “never doing it again” dissolved into falsities every time and she always claimed “I’m not high” or “I wasn’t high then” when she clearly was.  Are these the reasons I question the lot of what everyone says or automatically think they are lying to me?

Is she why I’m so shy and introverted, because it was always easier to hide than explain my home life to friends?

It seems impossible for me to simply trust. Is that because childhood was a series of one disappointment after another?

Is that environment the reason I still let my imagination run wild with terrible thoughts, too often jumping to conclusions, because I was never really told about what was going on and had to fill in the blanks for myself?

Parties, gatherings, and being out in public whenever it involved my mother while she was high were certainly strained and uncomfortable.  So do I tend to feel socially awkward because it’s become expected that all encounters must be like that?

Is this all why I feel threatened and assume everyone and everything is against me, because it seemed like the whole world was back then?

Is she the reason I have a need to completely control my universe, because I (or anyone else) could never control, sway, or help her?

Is my default position one of nervousness and anxiety because that’s the behavior she modeled?

Am I very reserved because joyousness and being carefree tended to get crushed by harsh realities that no child should have to endure?  Perhaps my reticence was the only calm I could muster in my life.

Am I programmed to ignore issues and pretend problems aren’t there because no one ever really addressed hers head on?

Do I find it so hard to change because she never did (never will)?

Can I not admit when I’m wrong because until just recently she hadn’t, and because all my life I watched her not own up to her mistakes?

I could go on and on about my super-fast fuse, my impatience, my emotional volatility, my constant expectation of disappointment, my….patterns that need to break.

I guess I have been conditioned.

Now maybe it seems like I'm just looking for someone to blame, or grasping at straws, but there really does seem to be a correlation in my eyes.  And I’m not the only one who has put forth this theory.  The fact is -- as I got older, the more in depth I came to talk to my mother about her addiction, the more details I learned, and the longer I had to pretend to be strong and tough; keeping up appearances….the more depressed I became and the worse my own secret existence got.

So, the beans are spilled.  I am damaged goods.  I learned from destructive and inconsistency, and became them myself.  Certain parts of my private life have spiraled out of control to a pretty dark place.  I realized the other day, as small a detail as it might seem, that I don’t even sing in the car anymore. I used to do that, a lot. What happened to me?

I’ve had friends tell me I am very brave for my writings on the subject of my mother. Brave? I say scared, and worried about the consequences of putting this all out there where she too can find it. They think I am strong. Strong? No. It’s only because of those friends and their support that I have been able to do this at all. Unstable is probably a better descriptor of me right now. Definitely weak.  Certainly wary and always ready for battle; feeling fight-or-flight; claws at the ready.

But no more. Something has got to give. I’m getting too damn old to let it affect me like this anymore. So now I’ve written it down for all the world to read. It’s as real as it’s ever going to get. Change begins today. She is her own version of two-faced; switching from good to wicked, seemingly randomly, at the drop of a hat. But I do not want to be, I can’t be, her!

She brings so much negativity, and I don’t want to write about her anymore. I’m tired of feeling compelled to check my trash and message filters when I don’t even want to hear from her, and then having to consult with others to find out if what she wrote is even true.  I don’t want to spend any more time talking about her, and what to do about her, when she isn’t even around or in any condition to participate.  I am drained of worrying what she will do in response to me refusing to see her; when she’s left at home alone.  I want to be able to encounter other people in the world who have her same issues and not be triggered immediately by them into an adverse mood.  I can no longer reward her cyclical behavior by continuing my presence in her life even if only on the goods days – it feels too….inauthentic, like I’m pretending.  I need to not feel like I can overcome the guilt only when I am so angry that it’s superseded.

I’m turning the corner. Healing.

I recently made the decision to cut her out of my life at least for the time being; until (if ever) the good parts of her far outweigh the bad and I can forgive her; until the point where she can control herself and respect my needs, too. She needs to be a choice, a desire; not an obligation.  Maybe it won’t be the entire solution to all of my misery, but that was step one -- removing a vast unyielding uncertainty. Now, starting at this very moment, I am going to practice being trusting, being confident, being enthusiastic, being more engaged, being even-keeled, being more attentive, being more happy, being more stable….being more alive.

Positivity!

Until I damn well get it right.  For me, and for you.

I need you now, world, because I am going to take you for all the strength and support you will afford me, until I truly am what everyone thinks I am, what I want and need to be -- brave, secure, confident, full of self-esteem, and all those other things that I so desperately long for. And it will be hard. And I will screw up along the way.

Small victories – one at a time.

It’s time. My life depends on it.  I no longer want to have to put on that second face – I need it to actually be my one face.

End rambling.  Reboot.

Robin Donoghue

The sly and trusty Robinator is a square peg – 

not fitting easily into any single category, living not just inside and outside of the box, 

but all mixed up in a pile of them. She’s a walking contradiction  (in the good way) – 

having a wide, diverse range of interests, not being defined by any one thing, 

and willing to try pretty much anything at least once. 

Born and raised in Somerville, this lifelong athlete, foodie who almost always ends up with 

pasta sauce on her (especially when it’s white) shirt, mother of two cats, free-spirited hippie at heart whose socks never match, is socially awkward, yet a flirt, too.  She enjoys photography, traveling, generally being creative, and practically requires having pockets.  When she grows up, she wants to get an RV and be a nomad with her dear husband, or live on a self-sustaining 

intentional community with all the best people she knows and loves.