“We’re all mad here.”

 

This building looms over a small town in upstate NY, it’s windows resembling beedy little eyes that scrutinize your every move. It sits upon a hill, surrounded by dense woods on every side – the driveway encircling the whole length of the place before coming back out again. You come in the same way you leave. The halls smell of Lysol and ammonia, if possible, with a teencie weencie hint of death.

I hate it with every fiber of my being. Besides prison, it is the one place that truly scares me to the point of being on my best behavior.

“Jail was preferable. There they only limited you physically. In a mental ward they tampered with your soul and worldview and mind.”― John Kennedy Toole

I sat in the waiting room of ‘Bunner Street’, gripping my purse and Dunkin Donuts coffee in both hands. A death grip of sorts, if you will. I didn’t trust anyone who walked through those front doors and made their way down the puke green colored halls. Not one.

Including myself.

One thing that nut-jobs love more than money and random shit in a purse, is caffeine. It’s fuel for my crazy furnace. Er.. I mean, their. Their crazy furnace.

Okay, okay. Obviously, if I’m sitting here I am no better than the rest. I have a hideously tragic past that keeps poking its nose into my future business, and it’s really starting to piss me off. I have a MONTH left of going to The Anti-Drug Warehouse when my counseor tells me I need to have a mental evaluation before graduating… No ifs, and’s, or buts.

So there my butt sat. In an orange chair that has been carefully screwed to the tile floor, waiting for my 2nd day of probing and truly invasive question session to begin.

The first day was more panic stricken, to be honest. I wasn’t sure if they were going to admit me again to the ‘upstairs unit’. The one in which you cannot leave no matter how much you beg, bribe, or bat your lashes. The one where you are stripped of everything but clothes, and cannot touch anything remotely resembling a shiv.

Side note:  The Hubbs reminded me (from what must have been my ramblings of the shittiest week of my life) that we did origami constantly – which could have resulted in some psychotic mastermind in creating a shank for pastel colored stabbings … But, fortunately for me, they had us all doped up to the point of barely remembering how to tie a shoe, let alone make an elaborate poker o’ death.

When I first walked in, the door that led to that particular special place in Hell was displayed right to the left of the entrance – a stairway laid out right below it. It was kind of like they dangled it in front of the people who went to outpatient. Kind of like a “Hey, shit could be worse. You could be locked in here.”

Huge 7 foot windows dragged down the rest of the hallway, just so you could see the poor soul’s socks, or bare feet slowly creeping along – no where to go, but wanting to find somewhere to hide so desperately.

To get away from the rest of the people in that hallway. That cold, locked hallway.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like they prodded us (all the time) and threw moldy pieces of meat or bread at us through bars. They gave it to us on plastic trays, at little round tables, while speaking to us ever so softly with rehearsed lines. Like, Siri on Xanax. Or, a female version of Ben Stein. Shrug. Either/or is an acceptable comparison.

Anyways, back to what I was saying – this was day 2, and I was 62% sure they weren’t going to try to keep me in there. So I sat waiting somewhat patiently, refraining from mapping out my escape route like I did the previous morning.

Doc calls me in, and off I went to be diagnosed and informed on whether or not I was going to be a patient of Hill House.

“You are being admitted. I will see you once every two weeks, and from there we will decide what medication to put you on, and if we need to increase or decrease our sessions.” Plastic smile ensues.

She was a cute, round little doctor who obviously had her own demons she had to deal with. Constantly fiddling with a yellow post-it pad by her keyboard, her other hand on the mouse as she looked up the next series of questions. She let “My therapist needs a therapist” slip in mid-conversation, and in turn, my spine went less rigid and I relaxed in the office chair.

It’s nice to know that I’m not alone when it comes to being a completely derailed individual. That everyone has their own little closet full of skeletons. That I was where I needed to be at that very moment. It showed me that not everyone is cookie-cutter perfect, that some are a bit fierce.

There’s a place where all writer’s get their inspiration from… No matter where it stems, I do know one thing.

We’re all mad here.

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In Case of Emergency – Twirl in a Field.

In case of emergency – freak the fuck out.

Lately, I’ve been insanely busy with life. And I mean EVERYTHING that life entails. Everyone and their mother has been so far up my ass, I couldn’t tell you where they start, and I begin. Football games for my little boogerman, bake sales causing encounters with my arch nemesis, job interviews from Hell, and slight misconceptions of what I can physically handle.

I haven’t written on this blog in quite some time, trying to get my other one off the ground, but I must say I MISS YOU ALL. Adulting is Hard, period. (But, if you haven’t checked it out yet – it’s right HERE. Subscribe, comment, or seethe with hatred. Either or.)

So, here’s some absolute shit that has been happening in the life of Misty lately.

I’ve been sober for 6 months and some change (Thank you, sweet baby Jesus) and so far, so good. I haven’t had insanely overwhelming urges to go use, which is surprising because everywhere I look, I see people relapsing.

Overdosing.

Dying.

It physically hurts to see this. Diva called me the other day telling me all about how a close family friends son was released from jail, and immediately went and got a bundle of dope. A few moments later, he overdosed – his friend who was with him, passed away while he laid there unconscious.

I can’t imagine how he’s feeling right now. The guilt. The shame. The absolute grief that overwhelms the body and soul. The inner battle of using again just to make the feelings go away..

I become so consumed in the feeling of being blessed, I can’t help but fall to my knees, and thank God for the second chance, and for my family who has stuck by my side even in my darkest hour. But in just one second I could be right back in that spot where I was.

In that familiar darkness. The never ending hole of despair, my nails bleeding from trying to climb out, my soul crushed and barely hanging on.

The trick to staying sober, is embracing your addictive tendencies. Kind’ve like, ‘keep your friends close, but your enemies closer’.

My advice would be this…

Keep it on the surface and never, ever, let it be pushed down and ignored. It’s a serious disease. I’ve come to the brink of death dozens of times, and you would think I would’ve just have been like “Ah, well apparently this shit is dangerous, so I’ll just – you know, stop.”

If you were in a car accident every time you stepped in the car, would you drive again? Or would you say, fuck that death trap of metal, and walk your happy ass to where you needed to go? Exactly. A car would be the enemy. Your kryptonite. The one thing that could take you out in a seconds notice. You know this. You accept it, and you avoid it.

Why can’t addicts do the same?

I can’t give you the answer to that. I honestly do not know who can. All I know is, is that I’m embracing who I am, and dealing with it every single day. I’m breathing it, living it, and trying my hardest to come to peace with it.

Do I base my life around my addiction? Yes. Yes, I do. Think I’m going to go to the bar with some old friends because its one of their birthdays and they invited me? No. That’s like someone who’s allergic to pollen walking through a field of flowers in spring, twirling and singing like the girls do in tampon commercials.

It’s just unrealistic. When I’m on my period, I’m in sweats and swimming in my sea of blankets, all the while shoving chocolate and Doritos in my mouth. Not to mention, in between chomps I’m nagging at the fiance for leaving the toilet seat up or not clipping his toe nails to my liking.

You’re twirling in a skirt in a field? I’m twirling my hair in my fingers trying to figure out how I got Cheetos dust in it when I clearly haven’t eaten those cheesy, crunchy gods in 4 days.

Pickin’ up what I’m throwin’ down?

I hope so. Because, this Adulting shit is exhausting.

When Adulting turns into Black-sheeping.

No, dear readers, I have not died, nor have I randomly relapsed and overdosed myself into an early grave. I’ve been ‘ghost’ (clever girl) for over a week, setting things up and being pissed at the world for my horrible wishy-washy ways. I’m surprised I haven’t had cover ups on all of my tattoos because I cannot seem to be dedicated to one idea.

While adulting is definitely hard, someone else must have thought about that beautiful little gem before I… Bastards. How dare you be more creative and on point before I had the chance to think of it?

Rude.

That, my friends, is when it hit me. Right in the face. A sucker punch of creative juices slopped across my tired mug while I was coming back from a long day of laser tag,  movie theater sitting, and experiencing the wonders of 5 Whits…. With a side of Dave and Busters. (Minus the alcohol, obviously. Still clean, and still dapper as fuck.)

Black sheep chronicles.

I know. Amazingly accurate.

So when I’m finished tweaking my site, expect huge things to come. I’m stoked as all hell, and you should be too.

My new beginnings of new beginnings before my previous new beginning…

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.

After darkness, the light follows.

I am the poster child for procrastinating my life away. At 29, I’ve accomplished basically nothing besides my sobriety, and giving birth to an absolutely amazing little boy who has the world at his fingertips.

Regrets are huge in the addiction recovery lifestyle, causing most addicts to continue using – the weight of the guilt overpowering the will to become clean and start fresh.

Honestly, I do have some regrets (who the hell doesn’t?), but mostly I am grateful for where, and who I am now. If it wasn’t for my crazy, horrible past, I wouldn’t be the strong-minded woman that I am today. My struggles and past experiences are a part of me, no matter how shitty they were, no matter how hard I wish that they weren’t, they aren’t going anywhere. Personally, I find it’s better to embrace them then try to fight against something that cannot be changed.

At 17, I was in a tragic car accident which left 2 of my friends permanently disabled.. I had survivors guilt for a long time, since mentally, I was fine. Or so I thought. I’ve broken more bones than most. I’ve fallen off cliffs, I’ve been homeless, and I’ve been in more trouble with the law than any respectable mother should ever be. I’ve lost friends to overdoses, to freak accidents, and to suicide because of their addictions… It’s a wake-up call every single time.

The turning point of my pointless existence happened when I found God – not when I hit rock bottom. I had hit that years ago. Shit, I lived there for 6 years. For a long time I resented what happened in my life, and couldn’t follow someone who was supposed to be my ‘savior’, supposed to ‘shield me from evil’. Where was he when I needed him? THAT was the damn question that continuously went unanswered.

Until recently.

When I was in inpatient, I was withdrawing so horribly I couldn’t sleep, my arms and legs were restless, my skin crawling constantly, and I was so damn exhausted from the chase.

The chase of getting the money everyday to get what I needed, the chase of finding the drug, the chase of that initial feeling of carelessness that you experienced when you first started. I needed something else in my life. Something was definitely missing.

Something big.

I laid there thrashing, and looked over at the night stand and saw the Bible. In a last attempt to get some sort of sleep for sanity, I begged Him to take away the pain and to help me get some peace. Some fucking rest. I pleaded, I sobbed. I snotted. I have never felt so low and pathetic as I did that night.

Amazingly, a few moments later, I was fast asleep – dried tears stained my face, and when I woke, I was still gripping the Bible like it was the hand of God itself… If that’s not a sign I needed faith in my life, I don’t know what is.


Now, I wake up every morning with a new found sense of ambition. This inner light that I can literally feel with every breath I take..

It’s about damn time, because I’ve been in the dark for far too long; it is indeed my time to shine.

The worlds a rollercoaster, and I am not strapped in…

retro-rollercoaster

I’ve never been the one to wallow in my own shit. I usually wash myself right off, look to the brighter side of being covered in poo, or I remove myself from the situation. Recently I’ve been looking through ‘recovery’ posts and I can’t help but think “what the fuck, this is depressing as SHIT drivel.” Not saying I can write any better than anyone, please don’t take that the wrong way. What I’m saying is, is that being in recovery isn’t supposed to be sad… It’s an adventure. It’s just the beginning of the life you were meant to lead. Recovery, my friends, is a stepping-stone to greatness.

When stuck in a rut, I try different methods to try and get myself feeling like my actual SELF, which come on now, let’s be serious – I’m fucking awesome.. As is ice cream. WHICH, for example, is afuckenmazing. I love you, frozen treat of deliciousness. But when that goddess of a snack doesn’t hack it, I actually have to firmly plant my heels down to stop myself from jumping out of my own skin, fists bawled up in “Ill beat your ass” mode, and take action. Here’s a few that work for me:

Positive Self Talk –

  • “Ive got this shit, mang.”
  • “I’m human, we all make mistakes. But I make them 2 or 3 or 7 times just to make sure.”
  • “Even though I did ___, my ass still looks fantastic. Spankable, even.”
  • “I am as capable as anyone else out there – if they can do it, so can I. I am smart, confident, and capable. Not to mention really, really good-looking.”
  • I will give 100% today, and not fear things out of my control. God wouldn’t give me anything I cannot handle.”

Finding Everyday Pleasure –

  • Coffee or meal with a good bud, being out with friends and relaxing is something we all need – social interaction can help.
  • Rekindle a hobby. Remember making that ridiculous lop-sided sculpture in 3rd grade? Odds are you’re better at it now, so give it another try. Maybe even get a little “Ghost” action while doing so? That’s right, Patrick. Use those hands.
  • I, myself, love reading. Whether it be a crazy magazine, or fantasy novel, or even a blog post – it takes me to a different place. A place with no worries, or stress. It is my drug of choice, without a doubt.
  • Create a list of things you still wanna do in your life. Not so much a ‘bucketlist’, per say, but more of a Wish List… And get to making that happen. Get a jar, label it, and when you have a extra few bucks slide some of that hard-earned cash in it… It’ll be full before you know it. 💸
  • I don’t know about you, but I can never be satisfied without learning something. I recently signed back up for classes at my local college and I am ready to crack open those books! Like I said, it distracts you and distraction is good.

Distraction is what keeps me going, because boredom = relapse. Now, I am not going to sit here and say that life is a bunch o’ peaches, because we all know it’s not. I’m not going to be that FB friend that says “Oh em gee, Maria pooped on the potty today and then told me the meaning of pi!”

Bitch, please. We all know ‘little pants shitter’ is nowhere near poopin’ on the throne, let alone telling everyone that pi = 3.1415926535. (Yep, I googled that.) We know you IRL, sweetie. So, let’s keep it real.

I have been depressed – many times in my life. I know how it feels to be in bed, and have absolutely no desire to get my lazy butt out of it. It’s torture. Its a feeling that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.. You feel worthless, useless, and not to mention, you feel like life is spiraling out of control and you have ZERO control over it.

It hurts. Physically, and mentally. But the way I see it, there’s a very bright light at the end of this tunnel… Pain makes us appreciate joy. If you weren’t going through Hell, when you arrive in Heaven would you cherish it as much as you would if not?

I sincerely doubt that. So, endure the pain. Feel it. Take all of it in… But, if you find yourself slipping deeper into the darkness, remember this.

twodogsfighting

Let’s reclaim our lives. Empower ourselves. Whether it be eating disorders, self-mutilation, or being addicted to a substance – we do not have to sit back and take it. However, we do have to accept it and DO something about it. Otherwise we are just repeating the same story – the same horrible, sad ending. You have a choice. We all have a choice. Now, what you do after that is how your story ends. Personally, mines going to say ‘and she lived, happily ever after’. What’s yours gonna say?

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. ✌