The People of Walmart, ain’t got shit on me.

Icharacteram constantly on the go, lately. If not for running small errands with the kids, for JHubbs, or with his mother, it seems like I am never ever allowed down time.

Today wasn’t any different. For some reason I let my fiance rope me into going to The Anti-Drug Warehouse with him (and when I say somehow, it’s because this assface cannot keep his eyes open to drive. I do not want to be widowed before married.) to keep him company. Apparently being there 3 days a week, 2 hours a day, isn’t enough.

Now, like all men, he claims that they messed up the time on his appointment, and instead of it being 9:20 in the mother effing AM, it was 10:40 – which is a slightly more humane time.

He said, “It’s just a doctor’s appointment, babe. I’ll be in and out in about 5-10 mins, babe. No one will even see you, babe.” Which, honestly, usually happens. This doctor is no joke. A ‘wam, bam, thank you ma’am’ kinda guy. So, I woke up, grabbed my purse and a cup of coffee, then out the door I went with him like the amazing fiance I am.

Which brings us here.

Since he’s been sleep deprived due to being the bread winner and working from 4-6 AM, he fell asleep within minutes, while I sat there in disbelief at my predicament.

  • My hair? All over the damn place.
  • Makeup? Non-existent. Well, wait, I lied – left over eyeliner was rubbed furiously around every inch of my face during my coma-like slumber, making me look like a cracked out racoon.
  • Clothes? PJ’s, red flanneled, and completely unflattering in every aspect.
  • Bra? HA. Bra’s are for people who actually have chesticles. I, for one, do not.

So, naturally, I hid in the car while he snored and sputtered, trying to crawl into the glove box before anyone could witness this catastrophe.

WHY the Hell didn’t I just throw on a bra? A shirt that wasn’t a 3xl? Perhaps even a pair of ACTUAL pants? I mean, I could be on “The People of Walmart” at this point, and everyone would’ve just nodded as they scrolled through the horrific pictures.

Whatever, right? At least I didn’t have to go in the building. I can just wait it out, and when he was done, we’d be on our merry way back home where I apparently belong.

Until it happened.

I had to fucking pee.

But THIS wasn’t just a normal, ‘oh jeez, I gotta pee – eh, I’ll wait.”

This was like “If I don’t go now, I’m gonna piss myself”, kinda problem. In a panic, my mind raced with ways I could get in and out of the building without anyone seeing me. I imagined myself flipping through the air and into open windows, dashing down the halls with my shirt over my face, and being victorious, I saw myself sitting in the women’s bathroom with a cigarette lit, and a smug little smile on my unwashed face.

So what did I do?

I stayed in the car, like any mildly ridiculous woman-child would do. I held onto my ‘dignity’ (if that’s what you wish to call it) for one more day, and vowed never to leave the house without at least a bra on.

Lesson learned.

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Mermaids, sh’melly hippies, druggie sympathizers, and lessons learned.

When one is in recovery, and SERIOUS about said recovery, you have to go through certain.. ‘levels’ of torture. For instance, like most of you know, I go to The Anti-Drug Warehouse (outpatient) 3 days a week. (It was 4, but I was dropped a day since I’ve been clean since 4/09/15.) And this place… Oh, lawd baby Jesus, this place is something else.

druggie1Just like the inpatient portion of the program, the outpatient is equally as incompetent. Yes, it got the job done, obviously. Yet the care they give, and the people they hire are seriously lacking. Personally, I like to have counselors and group leaders that are recovering addicts/alcoholics themselves, so there’s an understanding of Shit, I completely understand how fucked up you are, because I TOO was once a complete mess like yourself.” Not, “I’m sure its tough, I wouldn’t know exactly, but here’s some ‘tools’ to help you recover because I simply cannot relate to whatever the Hell you’re going through right now.”  I mean, its like having someone with an amazing metabolism saying, “I know how hard not eating whatever you want to MUST be! However I don’t understand, I am sincerely sympathetic, and now I’ll tell you what you can do to loose weight,” while all along they’re shoving their face with chicken wing pizza, cannoli’s and carbohydrates by the butt load. I. Just. Hate. You.

Can you dig? That’s just my opinion though. I’m sure there are plenty of people out there that are drug rehabilitation counselors that have dealt with addicts all their lives, so can somewhat relate.. But besides that, I’m just not a fan of the non-addicted trying to tell me how to recover. Shrug.

commonaddictmisc

  • Our life is not over because we have a problem… Our REAL life is just about to begin. After we put the substance down – whether it be crack, dope, weed, booze – we find our true selves, and it is beautiful.
  • Never underestimate a junkie. Statistics show we are usually smarter than people who aren’t addicted to anything.
  • We have more ambition than most. Ever see a crackhead go without crack? Ha – not usually, because they will always find a way. Resourceful little buggers.
  • “You’re addicted to heroin, but that doesn’t mean you can’t drink, right? LET’S PARTAAAAAY!” No, dipshit. We can’t drink, smoke weed, or do any other kind of substance… Reason being, we will get a certain feeling from what we take, and immediately not be satisfied with it. It’s just a matter of time before we go and find our drug of choice. You’re either working towards recovery, or working towards your next relapse. Nothing in between.
  • When living with an addict, and their sick and need money to feel better – do not enable them. Rehabs are easy to get into, so are detoxes. Unless it’s alcohol or benzos that they are addicted to, they cannot die from the withdrawals – even if it feels like they are. Or want to. No sympathizing. The cold, hard truth is way better than a cold, hard corpse.
  • Just because we have a problem, doesn’t mean we’re scumbags living in a abandoned trailer letting our toddler run around with a diaper full of shit, and letting them play with matches. I live in an upper middle-class neighborhood, have a car, a beautiful bedroom, and working towards my Nursing’s license.. The stereotypes on television kill me – Thank you, Breaking Bad.

Can you tell I have OCD? Always having lists – those little bullets are ADORBS. *dreamy smile while flipping hair*. Anyways, back to the Anti-Drug Warehouse… How lovely of a time I had.

Even getting to group on Saturday mornings is a fricking nightmare. Not only do I have to wake up at the crack of dawn, but I get to tip-toe around my little booger while he sleeps resisting the urge to scream and wake him up. If I’m up, you’re up, sucka. I get down to The Bunn, and pour my first cup of coffee which tastes like watered down piss – thanks to someone not knowing how to make it properly. How hard is it to make jet fuel? Seriously, people. Get it together. Then, we wait for our cab (we as in J.Hubbs and I, he also comes with for groups) that comes 2 hours early due to group rides, and that in itself is a pain in the penis. It just so happens that this cab ride completely forgot about us, so we had to wake up Hubbs’ Mom, whom I like to call “Sandy” (In John Travolta’s voice, of course.)

When I actually stepped foot in the door and signed in, I was then ushered to the bathroom by a group leader with a mother effing surgical mask on! Why? Oh, because an idiot with a CONTAGIOUS viral infection – spread through touch and AIR?! (WTF – I hope I didn’t breathe, right?) came in and touched everything we touched (pen, sign in sheet, door handles – might as well have touched my fucking pancreas at this point) then told everyone how sick he was and had to leave.

Blink. Blink. Kidding, right? Nope. Serious. Might I add, while I was washing my hands, I had to hold my breath due to someone blowing up the bathroom something fierce, which just added to the discomfort and panic. I could taste it. *shudder*

But after all that, the group was amazing… Not to mention I had a large man compliment my hair, saying I reminded him of a Mermaid. COMPLIMENT OF THE YEAR! Clam bra included? Yes, and surprisingly affordable.

This is what I learned in group…

My story creates my reality.

To live my life reading and repeating my stories undermines who I truly am, and what I can become. I am not my thoughts, not my stories, and I am not my experiences. I have a choice in every single moment to scrap the old story and start a new page…

If not a page, then at least a few paragraphs.

Absolutely beautiful, and true… Life is what you make it. ✌

Sp-sp-sp-spit it out, junior!

I go to outpatient 4 days a damn week, and of course like everyone else there, I feel waaaay more superior than each and every single ass sitting in those chairs. I sit there impatiently while ‘worksheets’ are distributed amongst either an uncomfortably small group of 4 people, or 20 heavily medicated adults are mushed into the “front-room”, which is much like the redheaded step child’s corner.

grouppic

Exactly.

Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I look just like that. I try not to – no, really. I fricken try, man. I drink about a pot of coffee to my face and shuffle my butt to the cab to travel two towns over to get to this place I call, ‘The Anti Drug Warehouse’. Anyways, I’m getting off topic – back to my story.

I have ADHD, pretty badly sometimes and I can’t help but start nitpicking at things I can’t control. Like, I’m sitting in Anger Management getting ANGRIER than all hell over the people in the room over-sharing. And I mean, oooooover-sharing. Like, 23 stops past sharing.

How was your weekend?

Oh, it was lovely. My mothers sisters brother Kenny came, bringing his girlfriend Tabby who claimed she looked the way she did due to horrible menstrual cramps, while all the while my brother Billy said no, she just has resting bitch face syndrome – right before my sister Carly Mae said Oh my God, like I totally have that too but only when Jerry tries to poke me with it in the middle of the night when I am clearly sleeping and not in the mood for any sort of nasty bits.

Blink. Blink.

I mainly get so pissed due to the fact that we have an hour to do “check-ins” and we have to go over it with everyone in the room, so if you take 32 minutes discussing ONE barbeque I will seriously lose my shit. Please be somewhat considerate and keep it to 5 minutes. HELL, keep it to 2 minutes – we got shit to do.

This isn’t all my life revolves around – yes, it’s crucial at the beginning, but I cannot wait to move past all this and just have my normal, crazy, somewhat chaotic life back. But for now, I’ll blog about it and tell everyone about how my journey has been so far, and how it’s only going to get better.