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. 

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.