HarveyMilkStool, I thought of you today…
Before starting: The exercise calls me to write for at least 15 minutes, and however long I spend writing today to be my average writing time for the rest of this month’s course’s exercises. A lot of people have been saying on The Commons for this month’s course that they find the time passes too slowly. Not for me. I have, so far, found myself having to stop myself when I’ve already gone over. I’ve heard the term “bloggorhea” (like diarrhea of the mouth, but transferred to blogs) used to describe tendencies like mine to just write endless posts about what I find interesting. I think my challenge this month will be to find a better “economy of words,” as my friend Nancy (an acclaimed gallery artist and former high school English teacher) from my young adulthood claimed was the only real thing my writing lacked. And here I go doing it again. Time to just do the exercise.
Write about the three most important songs in your life — what do they mean to you?
1. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata in C Minor, as performed by Vladimir Horowitz on a cassette tape recording made during the early 80’s. Also called “Pathetique.”
I still have the cassette, somewhere. The music encoded on the magnetic tape of that cassette has been fuzzed out by the noise created by having played it many too many times. I would play its movements, then rewind, then play it again, and rewind, repeating these as often as I needed to until the tears would slow down and eventually dry up. I was so often so lonely that I would pity myself my (total) lack of any friend my own age – all my friends were adults, who understood my plight all too well, but they couldn’t take the place of the scoffing, mocking, bullying adolescents who were my peers in school. I often used to say, “I didn’t have friends, I had books,” growing up, but that’s not completely true. I had Vladimir Horowitz’s fingers caressing those white and black keys, comprehending the absolute despair that overwhelmed me, soothing my pain. No other interpretation of that sonata has sounded so right to my ears since, no other version does for me what that one did then. I found another Horowitz version recorded a couple of decades later, but it doesn’t have the same passion, the same skill, it is a faded replica of the older one’s glory.
2. For My Lover – Tracy Chapman
When I was 12 or 13, I was given my first CD boombox. My dad had already started collecting CDs, cassette tapes were still sold in stores but it was clear that CDs were the wave of the future. With that boombox, I was given the three CD’s that were my favorites of my dad’s collection: Joni Mitchell’s “Ladies of the Canyon,” James Taylor’s “Greatest Hits,” and Tracy Chapman’s debut album. All three were rotated and played on repeat, but the latter was the one that spoke to my adolescence in a way the other two did not. It was difficult picking just one song from that album – “Fast Car,” “She’s Got Her Ticket,” and “Baby Can I Hold You” were also top on the rotation of songs to get repeated on my headphones and sung along to under my breath at night, but “For My Lover” spoke to a time of great tribulation when I was 14. I had been dating a 19-year-old, and he got me pregnant. I miscarried soon after, but my mom (shortly after he had left town to go home to live with his parents again) went through my room, found my diary, and read the entire thing to find out what was going on in my life. She tried to have the older boy prosecuted for statutory rape, to which I responded that I would volunteer to testify for the defense and appear in court wearing the sluttiest outfit I could find to prove that I had initiated the relationship and that he didn’t know my age until we were already involved. I felt like I was in prison, I felt like I was being punished for my choice of lover and for protecting him and, in a way, that was true.
3. My Dad’s Gone Crazy – Eminem
This rap song starts out with the sound of someone chopping up lines on glass with a razor and then snorting something with a straw, only to follow with the sound of a toddler asking, “Daddy, what are you doing?” The song speaks to the craziness of addiction, the anger and self-righteousness that goes along with it, the rebellion against society, and the grief at what is happening, what he is doing to himself and those who love him still in his life. ‘Nuf said.
It is winter there now, but the temperature there is probably warmer than it is here right now on this almost-summer day. This is the same time of year as it was when I was there, and although fourteen years of time and a few lifetimes’ worth of experiences have passed in my life, there are still a few strong sense-memories that remain in the leaky bucket full of holes that I call my memory.
Flying for almost 24 hours of vomit-plagued turbulence. The flights were all full, so there wasn’t room to stretch out as had been predicted by my friend who had made the flight before, so when I disembarked in Melbourne, Australia, my legs were cramped and I was exhausted. I was not so exhausted, however, that I did not marvel at the scent of the air coming in my rolled-down taxi window once we left the airport traffic behind. I asked the driver why the air smelled so sweet, he responded only, “Eucalyptus trees.” Overhead flew a flock of budgies (like sparrows do here) to land, en masse, on a eucalyptus tree near the highway, brightly colored. Ahead rose downtown Melbourne, with skyscrapers about the same height as here in Seattle, but it seemed there were fewer of them, or maybe they were just spread farther out. The taxi let me out in a district filled with brick-faced shops and boutiques, tucked in between two buildings was an unassuming cement five-story extended-stay suite hotel in which resided my then-boyfriend.
Other sense-memories bubble up to the surface:
Queen Victoria Market on Tuesday – a seemingly never-ending square of tent-roof. I haggled for the first time in my life, quite by accident, when I put back the sport sandals I’d tried on after finding out their price – $60 Australian. “I only have fourty,” I explained. He quickly countered that it wouldn’t be a problem for him to take that $40 instead. But I wasn’t about to spend the rest of the week completely broke. He ended up taking $25 for them – at that point equating to about $13 US – for the Nike velcro-strap walking sandals (which are still functional 14 years later). My boyfriend bought me a small gold-wrapped clear opal pendant. I bought souvenirs for me and my family – “thunder” sticks made of koa wood for percussion, boomerangs painted with elaborate dotted designs, a painted didgeridoo that I never did teach myself how to play, a plethora of beautiful postcards. There wasn’t enough time to explore every table and nook, I spent half the day there and it wasn’t enough. The shops in the buildings out on the boundary held further treasures, a glass studio with small delicate glass unicorn, fairy, star, and other fanciful ornaments that I knew wouldn’t survive the trip home. Flags and kites a few doors down. I glutted myself on the eyefuls of things I wished I had the resources in my wallet for, to take them all home.
Queen Victoria Beach, the sun shone brightly but the temperature was mild and balmy as it was there all week. The rich creamy frozen yogurt cone on the walk there, the big wooden roller coaster from bygone days with a ginormous bright-painted clown’s face over the entrance. The painters and sculptors set up on tables and blankets along the sidewalk bounding the beach. The orange-peach color of the carved stone blocks holding the plaque announcing the name of the beach also proclaimed the cause of the color of the sand – pale orange under an unbelievably blue clear sky. I had the beach, due to it being a workday, almost to myself. I spent the rest of the day collecting shells, beach glass, driftwood and sand to take with me. I was lucky, later, to discover no ban on bringing natural materials from there into the US. The customs agents simply shook their heads to each other like I was nuts.
- The streetcar trolleys. I rode a few during my stay, a novelty for me. I would have been petrified to try to drive and weave in and out among them, but the drivers downtown seemed not to care. Drivers seemed very polite to each other in a way that just isn’t seen here. I saw no evidence that road rage ever existed there, which boggled my mind. Maybe it was because there was rarely even a hitch in traffic.
- Anytime I stopped to look around to gain my bearings, someone would always seem to appear to help me find my way. My helpers would invariably explain that all Australians go on “walkabout” at some point early in their adulthood, thus feeling a keen empathy for lost travelers. Through them, I was pointed in the direction of all my soon-to-become-favorite attractions.
The botanical gardens were filled with tropical plants, larger versions of the small succulent “air plants” that we nurture in miniature here in the States, their versions sometimes dwarfed my body in comparison. Tall palm trees and vivid exotic blooms of every color surrounded me at every turn.
Public art was almost everywhere. An archway made of giant neon-color pick-up sticks, statues, other metal and stone sculptures, plaques announcing the history of this or that artfully-designed brick, stone, or wood-carved edifice abounded. A long lush walking park extended across through downtown, along both sides of the small Yarra River. Mosaics on the path and walls of nearby buildings, more sculptures, frequent rich red-bricked archways under bridges adorned the park, making the long walk well worthwhile.
It was the only time I’ve ever been out of the country. I have yet to see Canada or Mexico, even though they are both much closer and in the same hemisphere. Hopefully that will soon change. But the trip to Melbourne resides in what remains of the lighter side of my memories, from a time when I could not have comprehended even the possibility of the darkness to follow starting a scant six years later that lasted until the end of last year. It was a summer, or rather a week of Australian winter, of innocence, something which I am ever grateful to have experienced.
An old friend stopped by today. He asked me how I was doing, and how I was staying away from pot, considering my husband and non-program friends all smoke it. He and I used to smoke it together, back in the day, and he still smokes it now.
The thing is, although for long periods of time I used to smoke it several times a week with my lovers, friends, and later my husband, pot is the one drug I never had a problem putting down. I never craved it when I wasn’t smoking it, and on many occasions I would stop smoking it for months on end with no issues. I never stole to get pot, I never spent my rent money on it, I never prostituted myself for it, and I was almost always honest about my use of it (excepting at job interviews). Once I joined a 12-Step program, however, that all changed. I stopped consuming it altogether, partly out of respect for people who did do those things to get pot, and partly because I believe in the fundamental principles of the program in treating the disease of addiction.
You see, I don’t really have a drug problem, I have a reality problem. The drugs I took were just a poor method of dealing with reality and my resulting feelings. Almost anything can take the place of drugs in an addict’s efforts to not face reality – sleeping, eating, shopping, gambling, shoplifting – anything that can give a little thrill that allows us to ignore what we really feel about the way things really are.
The whole point of drugs, for me, was that I was willing to go to any lengths to change my perception of reality into something different, to numb my feelings so that I wouldn’t have to face them the way they were. Feeling depressed? Overwhelmed? Irritated? Lonely? Angry? Sexually frustrated? Instead, I would focus intensely on my next “score” (what some programs call “chasing the bag”) that would get me the drugs I wanted, so I could feel “better.”
Eventually, the drugs stopped making me feel good, and instead just made me more miserable. I no longer got “high,” but I was so deeply enmeshed in the habit of chasing drugs – doing drugs – chasing more drugs, that I had alienated myself from any remaining resources (family, friends, therapists, case managers) for other kinds of real help. I had managed to change my reality so completely that I had become an outsider to everything and everyone, especially myself. The last thing I was willing to do was to wake up and face all the damage I had done to myself and all those close to me.
At the end of the road, I spent countless hours contemplating suicide. I started shooting without cottons (extremely dangerous and deadly), I tried to overdose a few times, without success. The thing was, a small sliver of my conscience remained, despite all my efforts to ignore and destroy it so that it wouldn’t bother me anymore. I couldn’t kill myself. I couldn’t get high anymore. I couldn’t get numb anymore. Drugs only increased my misery… yet I couldn’t stop, not on my own.
See, thinking about a problem will not solve it. Only action can do that. I had trained myself into countless methods of avoiding responsibility for my own behavior. I couldn’t think my way out of the prison I’d placed myself in, no matter what I tried. My thinking had become flawed, by my own unintentional design. I thought of everything I had lost because of my drug usage… and that only made me want to use drugs more.
So anyway, back to pot. Pot is not my problem, but if I smoke it, I get loaded. Allowing myself to artificially change my reality in any way allows my “stinking thinking” to get going, to say that if one drug is okay, then the others might be okay too. It’s a slippery slope. I know, intuitively, that getting baked, or tipsy on alcohol for that matter, would allow it to be all too easy, with my lowered inhibitions, to think “just a little” of another drug would be okay. Just “one hit” of crack, of meth “a few” whip-its, or pills, one slip-up leads to two, and then a thousand. I know this.
There never has been a time, since I started hard drugs, that I could do “just a little” of anything. Stopping is always a gargantuan task for me, once I start I must move heaven and earth to get myself back to ask for help stopping again. I’ve relapsed so many times in the last two years that I know all too well what “just a little” would cost me. Everything.
Today, I repurposed the garden shed after it had been sitting, filthy, for the last year, after having been my meth/crack crash pad when my husband kicked me out of the house again for using drugs… yet again. I’d forgotten … Continue reading
This is related to my last post about carrying the message, but this post is more concerned with flushing those who focus on “the mess instead of the message” from one’s life, and how to bring about a more solution-based positivity into your own life. Insightful, and integrates several common-sense ideas into an original post.
Energy is the single most important force that constitutes the universe and therefore, also the human existence. For me, energy symbolizes efficiency, ardor, vitality, potency and more than anything else – spirit. The gigantic universe that we all are a part of, consists of light and dark matter. In the same way our lives comprise of people – both positive and negative. Either way, they have an impact on us. Interesting thing is that people can lie, manipulate their ugly intentions with welcoming actions, can indulge in sugar coated sweet talk even though malice is what is inside them and yet their vibes don’t lie. Just don’t. People may deceive us but their vibes don’t.
I recently came across this really interesting term – ‘Energy Vampires.’ What it signifies is people who can be synonymous to vampires in draining you, except that they don’t drain out blood, they drain out…
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Writing and Blogging For Therapy, by Ronovan.
I like this guy’s way of looking at things. If you blog, this is a great post to check out. It’s short and to the point, but thought-provoking.
“…what do I gotta do to get through to you to show you there ain’t nothin’ I can’t take a chainsaw to?”
–Eminem, “My Dad’s Gone Crazy”
I’ve been confused about the timeline of my addiction, because my memories are so hazy. For some reason, I’ve been trying to figure out when I switched from snorting the horrendously large amounts of ADHD medication I’d been getting prescribed (I legitimately suffer from severe ADHD, but I abused my prescriptions when my student loans ran out after I dropped out of college and no longer had the money for cocaine) to smoking crack. I’d narrowed it down to some point in 2011-2012, but I think it likely that it happened right after I dropped off the blogosphere (at the time, LiveJournal) in mid-2011. There is a blank for all of 2012 when I just didn’t write anything, during the time when I was vacillating back and forth between addiction and recovery and had gotten kicked out of the house. All of 2012, well the times I wasn’t actively seeking help for my addiction, I was out chasing my “bottom” (as in “hitting bottom”) in full force.
I’ve been going back through old 2011 entries, which have been imported into this blog, and I’m now in the process of making those posts public because I don’t need to keep them secret anymore. I am amazed at how I would make duplicate posts (which I’m deleting to save space and headaches during my own future searches of my material), not realizing that I’d posted the same things just a few days previously, and how I raved like the truly mad woman that I was then. If you’re interested in seeing how deep madness can take a person, check out this post from me at that time… you probably won’t understand most of it, but I was convinced I was under direct personal attack by a genius meth addict who had told me a few too many of his deep dark secrets. I quite probably was dealing with malware, and it’s possible that said meth addict did indeed infect my computers with malware also, but the situation was nowhere near as outlandish as I was convinced that it was at that time. Another one is this one, posted after walking through an “interesting” neighborhood alone at night for the first time in many years.
Psychosis is very real to a person who is caught up in it. Psychosis has nothing to do with what most people think it does – most people I encounter think psychotic breaks/episodes have something to do with psychopathy like that of serial murderers. Psychosis just means hallucinations, an imagination run riot with things that it presents to the senses with information that seems just as real as reality (perceived by everyone else) itself. I know psychosis well. I never thought I would go chasing my own psychosis down the rabbit hole as far as I did then, and later further still when I got into smoking and shooting shards (crystal meth).
My past brings me great grief, but if I choose to forget what happened, it’s all too easy to start wanting to get loaded again and numb myself into denial of all that I have done wrong, all the people I have wronged, all the deep dark dank cesspools of filth I not only sank into, but regularly reveled to bathe in back then.
P.S. – I’m fairly certain that somewhere in the FBI’s Cybercrimes Division, there’s a “zero file” with my name on it.