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

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.

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.

Chronicles from the Edge . . .

Being acutely aware of how depressed you are is an interesting life experience.

Before, through other Loss Chaos, I was depressed.  I just didn't realize I was depressed.  There's a special kind of freedom in that.  The unknowing allows you to fade, resistance free, into the gray underworld of being numb.  

Now, let's flip that coin.  Here, in the Land of Awareness, things are different.  I am fully awake to the fact that many of my interests have quieted to a whisper.  Let's take food, for example. Why bother going through the hassle of preparing some fantastic meal when I can't TASTE anything?  You can ask me if I'm hungry but my mind goes blank.  Quietly searching.  I have no idea if I'm hungry.  So I just sit, with my head tilted to the side, wondering if I am hungry.  I keep waiting for my brain to light up with some spark of inspired thought, but nothing happens.  So, in the end my response seems to keep coming in the form of a shoulder shrug, followed by me saying I'm certain I should eat and finally stating "whatever" sounds good.

At this point in time, you can apply the same thing to activities, movies, anything really.

Now with that said, what has managed to pique my interest is the difference between these two states (The Unaware versus The Aware).  And how am I sure I fit in one category versus the other this time?

Well, that's where Tea & Tiramisu enter, stage right.  

So far, these are the only two things I have any interest in consuming.  Chai tea and a dessert that Whole Foods makes, which I am 100% certain is sprinkled with pixie dust and topped with Heaven flakes.  That's it. Nothing else sounds good.  

Now, trust me, I am well aware that my body MUST be hungry.  It's just my nerves aren't firing the way they usually do.  I usually light up when you say "pizza".  Not right now.  Salsa & chips would usually have me singing.  Nope, not today.  Things are misfiring, or not firing at all.  

Please allow me to clarify one thing...so I don't have my family on the horn worried that I'm not eating….that's not the case at all.  I eat but only because I know I should eat not because anything sounds good, tastes good or turns me on.  And certainly not because my body is telling me I'm hungry.  My body and my spirit are doing one thing and one thing only.....they are grieving.

What I find most alarming about all of this is that I am wide awake to it...and it's kind of nutty knowing your tastebuds (for example) are on hiatus while Grief has depressed your system.

Now, let's move on to another mind-bender, music.  I am a self confessed music lover with a very wide spectrum of genres that get me moving.  Normally I can count on velvety singers and soul stirring lyrics to make me swoon.  However, there are only a few songs that currently have the power to dive deeper than Depression's thick layer of mud and actually touch my soul.  I know all of this because I've been listening to A LOT of music waiting for my normal go-to's to move me....and they don't.  They just fall flat.   Each time I press "play" nothing sets a spark, and I wonder....What the fuck is going on?

The truth is, KNOWING that you can't FEEL what normally sets your soul on fire is, well, it's a bummer on top of the bummer you are already depressed about.

However, I've decided to lean toward the intrigue rather than away from, well, everything.  I've chosen to consider all this awareness the positive side effect to my current state while I continue to experiment with anything that will set a spark.

So with my chai tea and Whole Foods happy cake in hand, I'll keep leaning toward the light and away from the gray nothingness that sits on the other side while I play this song on a constant loop because it's one (of only a few) that pick me up and take me along with each and every beautiful note.

Phosphorescent's "Song for Zula"

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.

Loss Lines

“How much tragedy has to happen before I split wide open?” 
– Alisa Mullen

I can feel the fault lines trembling and quaking....but I haven't split yet.

Or maybe I have and I'm in denial.  Or delusional.  Or incapable of knowing that I'm broken, haphazardly down the middle.

Edges sharp like blades.  Others frayed like wire.  Some sections dull, void of any threat.

I am exhausted.  

Too tired to blame.  Too unsteady to play host to anger.  Too sad to do anything but shed salty tears.

My little brother is gone.  Lost.  Lifted to his eternal home.

He slipped through our grip....yet my fist is still clenched.  Knuckles still white.  Muscles aching.

Letting go, even after he has gone, feels impossible.

Heroin took him.  It was not the other way around.

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.

Uneasy Conversations

It's never an easy conversation to have, to let someone know you have a mental illness. I often wonder, do I have a mental illness, am I living with a mental illness or do I suffer from a mental illness? And what will people think of me if I tell them? Or worse, how will they treat me? Will they treat me differently? Will they treat me like I'm CRAZY???

Because, contrary to popular belief, I don't feel that because someone has a mental illness, they are crazy. It's just something, another thing, I have in my life that I have to deal with. I deal with it on an everyday, pretty much every moment, basis.

There may be times when I have stress in my life that I handle it a certain way and immediately, in the back of my mind, I question if I'm getting sick. Maybe it's the way I react to something or if I'm being overly emotional about something. It sucks that I have to second guess my emotions and wonder if I'm getting manic.

Those around you make it difficult too. Either they know nothing about the subject and think you're harmful and don't want to let their kids play with yours or they are your loved ones, who think they can read all the signs and diagnose you as sick when, in reality, you may just be excited about something.

STIGMA. That's a powerful word. And it's so true. I wish I could live in a world where I could just randomly talk about having bipolar disorder and not be judged and to not have people compare me to psychopaths.

Do I sometimes get sick? Yes. But I'm responsible about it. I immediately tell my doctor, tell the people around me or if it comes down to it, go to the hospital. Not everyone with a mental illness is a psychopathic criminal.

I have 4 children who I love with all my heart. I would never, ever harm any of them or anyone else's. Yet, I can't tell other parents about my illness in fear that they won't let my children play with theirs. It also hurts, sometimes, when people think that, because they can't see my physical scars, it's just something you have to work harder to get through or that it's not even a real disease. When you manage it so well your loved ones sometimes forget you have it to begin with, when you speak without thinking or are moody or go from one extreme to the next, they get annoyed with you.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is, it's hard enough to have bipolar disorder and it sucks more having everyone else around you making you feel worse for having it.

-Anonymous

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

Claws. . .

17 right, 39 left, 5 right.  

I open my locker and take the books I’ll need until I come back again at lunchtime.  Ding, ding, ding, ding … our High School bell was a series of seven “dings.”  By the seventh bell, you had to be in your seat or you were late. Thankfully, during freshman year, my first period class was Algebra and it was directly across from my locker.

Mrs. D. taught Algebra and she had an unbelievable resemblance to Dr. Ruth.  It was truly uncanny.  She was all of five feet tall and always dressed in red or colored business suits.  Her lapel or shoulder was adorned with a little jeweled insect, usually a ladybug or a bumblebee.  She had a huge collection of them and they changed according to her outfit.  I found them beautiful and intriguing.  She used to tell us that on weekends she would do math problems for fun.  It was beyond my comprehension that anyone would do that.

She would begin to do roll call and I could feel the knots in my stomach starting to build.  As she worked her way towards the letter “N”, my anxiety would take over and so would the nausea.  “R.N.?”  “Present!” and then he would look over and leer at me. 

R. had one purpose in high school and that was to make my life a living hell, in every way possible, every single day.  I would pray every morning that he would be absent but that was seldom the case.

After first period, I would make my way to the other classes throughout the day.  I would strategically plan the best way to avoid him.  Yet, like some sort of a plague, he was always there, usually with the other “macho” guys in school calling me a faggot every chance they got.  When verbal slurs wouldn’t do, he’d follow me into the bathroom and kick open the stall and then laugh.  I would always go into a stall, using the urinals would be just asking for them to stand around and try to pick a fight with me.  To date, I almost always choose a stall over a urinal.

When the guys weren’t bothering me, their girlfriends were. Passing me notes in class telling me that they found me “hot” and asking if I would want to go out with them.  They’d laugh hysterically while I read it, and would then try to exaggeratedly “flirt” with me to see how the “faggot” would react.  I was a daily source of amusement for them.  As if beginning the day like this wasn’t bad enough, I also had R. and all his gang for last period, an all-male PE class.  

I would do everything within my power to escape PE class and the changing room.  We’d have to change out of our school uniforms into our PE shorts and tees.  I hated this part of the day more than any other.  As a norm, it started with insults and ended with socks, shoes, and dirty clothes being thrown at me.  I hated it so much that at one point I tried to go to the guidance counselor, Mrs. F., and explained what was going on in hopes that I could be excused from PE all together.  She told me that I needed to grow a tougher skin and stop being such a wimp.  She was the same guidance counselor who, when reviewing my Career Aptitude Test, told me I would only ever be suited to be a florist, flight attendant or dog walker.  “What a waste of a good education”, she said.

There was also Mr. L., our religion teacher. Part of his syllabus was to tell us that being gay was a guaranteed acceptance to hell.  He preached this often and forcefully during his teachings.  

I wish I could say that I endured this only in High School but nothing could be further from the truth.  My earliest memory of abuse was in 3rd grade, Mrs. C.’s class.  My mom picked me up from school one day and I said to her “two boys called me a fag at lunch.  What does that mean?”  I remember her face turning red and her getting nervous.  She said it was a bad word and asked why they called me that?  I replied “I don’t know.  Is it a really bad word?”  She said “Yes, very.”

As the taunting went on through grade school, so continued to grow my anxiety and depression.  By the time I made it to high school, I was a very unhappy person.  Year after year of being treated like this leaves an indelible mark on your soul and your psyche. I didn’t come out until I was 19.  My self-hatred was that strong. 

Fast-forward twenty years and countless hours of therapy later and I’m an openly gay adult.  My family is completely accepting of who I am and I am blessed to share my life with my husband, Oscar, whom I’ve been married (not legally though thanks to Florida’s laws) to for the past 5 years.  He has been a never ending fountain of support and love for me.  I thank God for him daily.

I was having an argument with my sister once and she said,“Why are you so angry, it’s like your claws instantly come out!”  Ahhh, my claws, ever ready, always sharp.  The thing is that not everybody should be experiencing my claws.  For that matter, they should always be retracted when it comes to my family and friends.  I wish I could put them away.  Moreover, I wish they didn’t exist.  

It is said that “anger only consumes the vessel that contains it.”  I don’t like being an angry person.  Frankly, it’s rather exhausting.  I’m thankful to have the life I do today and I’m proud to be the man I’ve become.  I do my best to lead a positive and meaningful life.  However, when anything goes wrong, when someone irks me, when I feel mistreated, ignored, or even looked at the wrong way, my claws come out.  I’m not proud of them but they are an intrinsic part of me.

I’ll be forty in a few years and ironically I received the invitation to my twenty-year High School reunion just a few days ago.  Will I go? Probably not.  Yes, times have changed.  Thanks to Facebook, I’m friends with a few of the people I went to High School with.  It’s interesting, many of them never looked at me twice when we physically knew each other.  Now, they “like” pictures of my husband and I on vacation or having a romantic dinner.  Yet, I think I’m quite content with never having to walk into my High School again.

This is the age of the, “Stop bullying” and “it gets better” campaigns.  What I would have given for these campaigns to have existed when I was in school.  We are formed by our experiences.  My experiences created these claws.  I have written this piece in hopes of being able to begin to declaw myself and to realize that I no longer need them. Yes, one must always be able to defend oneself and those one loves.  I continue to work on constantly being a better version of myself.  My life has been a series of transformations and reinventions. These claws are heavy, cumbersome, and get in the way of all I do.  It is my hope that I will continue to grow and that soon these talons will cease to exist.

Santi Gabino

I have the pleasure of knowing Santi, personally.  

He was a beacon of light and guiding hand on one of the most important and cherished days of my life.
Santi & Family open the doors to their farm, inviting the world into a space worthy of fairy tales.
What's more powerful than the scenery is their cornerstone:
A family that loves so purely it's palpable to all that get to bask in their presence.
A celebrated Executive Chef, Santi will wow you with a dining experience 
making sure your moments are savored for years to come.
(bio written by Tara Mazzeo Jackson)