Zoloft, coffee, graduation, and PTSD.

Not necessarily in that order, of course. I’ve been seeing my shrink for about a month now, and I’ve gotta say it’s made a HUGE impact on my life. One, my self esteem is quite a bit higher every time I see other nut jobs in the waiting room. Some talk to themselves, others stare off into some self made oblivion… While, it is probably not so bad since the facial expressions aren’t of horror, but a smile of sorts. Kind of like, a creepy Dahmer smile. Well… Hmm. Ok, actually I’m not sure how frightened they are, but I am now that I’ve had a second to recap on what it looked like… Yikes.

We all have our quirks. Our.problems. Some physical, some mental. These problems derive from my childhood, when others could be from war or something traumatic happening that we don’t really know about. Some even fake sickness to gain some ‘good’ anti-psychotics meds so they can be fucked up all the time without actually having a screw loose in the head. Which is totally unfair once you think about it.

Cheaters.

My father was like that, actually. One night he was all doped up on Oxycontin 80s, and while slumped in the corner of his room on the floor, confesses he’d lied to the same doctors I now go to. He would shake hands with the wall, and completely ignore everyone for days saying he didn’t know he was there – just to get some bipolar and schizophrenia meds.. His goal? Drooling on himself. Eating napkins for dinner, thinking it was rice. And he nailed that goal, ladies and gents.

“Dawn, this rice is amazingggggg… gargle, nom….” He’d slur.

“BOB, youre eating a fucking napkin!” Diva yelled, being completely exasperated in every aspect of being with this man.

Who could blame her? Not me. Not at all. Even though I basically raised this man (yes, he was my father), I still couldn’t wait to get away from him. His sickness was effecting me more than I knew, and I am the living proof of that today.

I was recently diagnosed with complex PTSD, which makes a ton of sense with my prolonged child abuse. It’s just crazy for me to write that, and have it be true. It is truly insane how much a parent can affect their child, and then, their adulthood. Who’da thunk it?

Never will I ever be able to get a pistol permit – so I won’t be able to be a badass WHEN the zombie apocalpyse hits. Not like there will be a police officer hunting people down to ask if they have a permit mid-shoot out, but weirder things have happened. Being on Zoloft also hinders my badass gun-wielding abilities as well, since anyone on it cannot get a permit either.. You know what, I really could care less about HAVING a gun, I just hate the fact that now I’m unable to get one if a certain type of air were to slip up my ass, just because I have a problem with authority. I.e. fuck you laws, how dare you tell me what I can or cannot have.

Prick.

Being on this anti-depressant, I am tired more than often, with a mix of super peppy. Like, one of those dogs with the droopy face that always looks exhausted, but can’t stop humping your leg or licking your face. I’m on that level. So, writing has been a bit difficult for me because I wake up, take my meds, and while being so stoked to sit down and write something for myself and you awesome people, I’m nearly drooling on myself a few minutes after my fingers have grazed the keyboard.

It’s rude as shit, really.

My remedy, like any rational human, is to suck down coffee like it’s my life force – which it kinda is now. That’s the only reason behind me actually getting this done today.. No complaints here, I guess.

On some more good news (ha), I graduated from The Anti-Drug Warehouse! Yes, I fucking did! With no problems, whatsoever. Not one dirty screen. No homicides, and surprisingly no suicidal tendencies.
image

Although, during my 4 months absence from here, I had a warrant for my arrest again, but managed to square up with my amazing judge and was let go on the promise of graduating – which is now promise fulfilled. No, no – nothing huge happened, I just missed a court date like a douchebag and had a bench warrant. Still scared the dickens right out of me though, I’ll tell ya. Heart hammering and hands shaking while I stood up at that podium, praying he’d take pity on my mildly ridiculous woman-child self. Thank God he did, is all I’m saying. I do not look good in orange, yall. Not. One. Bit. In my case, Orange is NOT the new black. Nope.

Anyways, I’m super stoked, yet nervous. Now what? I’m thinking plenty of meetings, so I can continue on with my “The Anti-Drug Warehouse Woes”, because that was a huge part to this whole sobriety thing.. I definitely enjoy making fun of everything and everyone around me, so I wont be letting that go anytime soon. Not that meetings wouldn’t help me stay sober or anything, but the point being is I like writing about it, to let all you ‘normals’ get a glimpse into the horror/hell like world us addicts live in. Don’t get me wrong, it’s warm here and we have cookies, so it isn’t all that bad.

So, being on this anti-depressant seems to be working, and as an added bonus, I will never mistake a napkin for rice. Ever.

Expect more posts more frequently, because I’m back, and semi-awake.

 

 

 

 

 

Little Blacksheep is far from “on fleek”.

blacksheep2on fleek: [fleek] – the quality of being perfect, or on point i.e. Zayn Malik

To be the black-sheep of the family is an honor in my eyes – I am different, the ‘outcast’, the minority. I shall wave my black-sheep flag proudly, and smile at all the cookie-cutter buttholes that look my way. Since I can remember, I was looked at differently in my family. My father and his friends would call me black-sheep, and it just became the norm. No issues, no “WHY GOD, WHY AM I THE WEIRDO?!”, definitely just accepted that I was unique and rocked that shit. When Sister would listen to her pop music, I’d be painting my nails black and jamming out to Incubus or Metallica. ROCKED. THAT. SHIT. Who wants to be a carbon copy of someone elses version of perfection? Or how the kids say nowadays, who wants to be “on fleek”? I don’t. (btw, for the record, I do not say that. To be 100% honest, I am not friends with people who say that. So don’t. Like, ever.) I am flawed. I am a beautiful mess, y’all. I have a small gap between my two front teeth and used to HATE it, wanting braces so no one would pick on me (Not like Madonna or Amy Winehouse, and definitely not like that girl from the commercial who says, “Get  the London look.) But looking back now, and seeing all of my other positive qualities, I say screw it. Its cute.

My flaws make me who I am, and I’m pretty fucken rad. I always rebelled against any authority figure, though. You tell me to blow my nose, I’d probably pick it and fling it at you like a little turd. As I got older, I got into more trouble – sometimes involving ‘the fuzz’, which was super fun in a really terrifying way.

And when I say that it was “fun”, what I really mean is, “I will never do that again”. Ever. There’s definitely nothing like standing up at the podium waiting for the judge to figure out if he wants to ruin your day by sending you to the clink. There is no escape. For example, this will not happen:

God “I find you guilty, and I sentence you to 60 days in [whatever towns] justice center. No bail.”

You “Wait, what? Actually, sir, that’s not going to work for me. I’m not really feeling that – I think I’ll just say, “no thanks” and get outta here. Thank you so much for the offer, though.”

So instead of getting myself into that kind of situation, I’ll refrain from doing anything illegal – I’ve got children and nobody really likes raising their kids through letters and weekly visitation.

There’s a fine line between good and bad black-sheeping. Yes, I said ‘black-sheeping’. It is a word.

Well, now it’s a word. Cause I said it was.

Anyways, like I said, there’s a fine line – some are good. You may just be introverted while the rest of your family are social Gods, and instead of joining them you sit and play WoW in your basement and lick Cheetos cheese dust off your fingers. Shrug. No, I’m not speaking from personal experience. I swear. *crosses fingers behind back*

Then there’s the bad – like, if you were to be a Satan worshiping sadist while your mother and good ol’ father (who’s a reverend) goes to church every Sunday and you make lists of who to massacre at Sunday school. Yet again, not personal experience. Real talk though.

I’m the black-sheep of my family because I never listened. Always had to learn the hard way, no matter what the consequences… Lately I’ve learned to take a little bit of advice, even if it kills me swallowing it down. I’m a stubborn asshat who needs a good reality check every now and then – thank God for families, because I keep them on their toes, and they keep me on mine.

Black-sheep’s unite, tell me your story.

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?

Swimming with sharks in South Africa.

This shit is absolutely terrifying.

I’m sure by now you’ve all seen the video where Mick Fanning is in the final heat and gets sucker-finned by a great white out of no where… Yes, sucker-finned is a word, and used quite frequently. The amazingly talented, gorgeously accented pro surfer claims to have ‘punched him in the back’. Which, I would like to point out, is quite sexist. What if it was a gal great white? Whom had her shark period, hence the whole “I’m gonna eat your soul” bit? It could happen. Actually, I’m extremely optimistic to the idea that that IS what happened. He should’ve just turned around, said “I think it’s just water weight, you look lovely, and no this ocean doesn’t make you look fat.” and went about his merry way winning the competition.

"You think this Ocean makes me look fat?? NO THATS NOT  ZIT UNDER MY LEFT NOSTRIL,  A SEA URCHANT BIT ME! I HATE YOU!"

Give me chocolate, and tell me I’m pretty.

The video was shocking to say the least – he was just hanging out, waiting for the perfect Point Blank wave, when there she was. Sharon the Shark. CNN called him heroic for reacting as quickly as he did, along with the safety personnel.. I agree. I would’ve shat in those waters, I tell ya what.

I lived in New Smyrna Beach, Fl for a little over a summer, and had my fair share of ocean ‘shit-my-pant-episodes’. JHubbs kept beckoning me into neck deep waters (in the shark bite capitol of the world, mind you) and I obviously wasn’t suicidal and stayed around ankle deep – even though I HAVE heard that waist deep is equally as dangerous. I’m watching him and our two roomies at the time and just LIVING in the moment. Wouldn’t you?

The view I had when I walked out my back door... Fucking. Miss. YOU.

The view I had when I walked out my back door… Fucking. Miss. YOU. I’m a bit of a peekture freak.

When all of the sudden, I notice JHubbs happy face quickly turn into a look that was similar to his “I just sharted” face…

Panic ensues. Splashing. Screaming. All three of them were by my side in like 30 seconds flat. What happened? They all stepped on a mother fucking shark. A SHARK. STEPPED. With what they use to walk with! Shit is attached to the ankles, and such! I giggled in my own, cute maniacal way, knowing I was right and the ocean is a death trap waiting to happen. WHICH, just so happens to be beautiful and inviting, and completely serence at most times.

This reminds me of when I was younger, and thought sharks could just somehow materialize out of nowhere and eat me while swimming in my mothers 4 foot deep pool.

Stop looking at me, swan! You’ve thought it at some time in your life. I’m not the only one.

One things for sure... You dont ever see a Pool Shark coming. Dun-na.. Dun-na..

One things for sure… You don’t ever see a Pool Shark coming.
Dun-na.. Dun-na..

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. ✌

I often question my sanity. Occasionally, it replies.

Since I can remember, I’ve always had this fascination with things that scare people to the point of almost piddling their britches. Don’t ask me why, it’s just that I like ‘the unknown‘. Do I fear it? Fuck yes. I sometimes crave a ridiculous horror movie, then while watching said cinematic adventure, I curse myself out knowing I will need to watch something like Full House after – just to get my mind off of my impending death.

Almost 30, and I still have some pretty unreasonable fears.

#1. The Basement Steps. It doesn’t matter what house I’m in, if I need to go to the basement/dungeon and risk my life for something, I can’t help but get that creeping feeling of something sitting in the shadows watching me… So, while holding my laundry basket or whatever the HELL I was dumb enough to go down there for, I SPRINT up those “stairs o’ death” and burst through the door before slamming it – knowing I was just a few seconds faster than the hideous creature…. This time. I don’t know if you grew up in my day, but Goosebumps made it pretty damn clear that there’s horrible shit in basements. Not to mention, Home Alone where the furnace was about to devour Macaulay Culkin WHOLE… And for the love of Ted, don’t EVEN get my started with “Are you afraid of the dark?”…. Hmph, now that I look back, my generation had some kickass shows – unlike today’s craptastic boob-tube. Take that, iCarly.


#2. Dangly Foot Bait. Picture this – you’re laying on your bed, reading an amazing novel that you’ve read now for the 5th time – when panic strikes. What if.. What if the monster under your bed just didn’t like child flesh? And it’s waited until you were just this right age to drag you under the bed to Hell – waited just for the right moment when you were comfortable with letting your freshly pedicured toes dangle dangerously over the edge…. Honestly, ladies (and men?) we’ve spent way too much damn money to let our cute little toesies go to waste in some horrible smelling monster mouth. Fo’ reals. As for me, I’ll keep my feet and all appendages up on my Walmart sheets where they belong. Not today, demon spawn from Hades. Not today.


#3. Darkness a.k.a. WTF IS THAT?! I don’t care how old you are, if it’s dark, you’re wondering whats going on around you. Is that my cat Mr Meowz, or is that Ted Bundy back from the dead to chop me into pieces and then do weird and oh-so-wrong things to my corpse?! Ah. Yes. The irrational fear of the dark.. They say that nothing is there at night that isn’t there during the day. Which I find to be complete shite, since cockroaches don’t come out during the day time, now do they, Genius? No. No, they don’t. I’m not sure if it’s just my extreme paranoid and neurotic brain kicking into overdrive, or if there’s some truth to this feeling… I’m sure many of you have the same intuition as my crazy ass does – but when the lights go out, I try to fall asleep as quickly as possible so my ADHD mind doesn’t freak out and make a killer clown out of a pair of J. Hubbs boxers hanging on the computer chair.

Either way, childhood fears have a way of rearing their ugly head at you in the most inconvenient moments. Even without the dark, I sometimes get nervous about walking down a huge flight of stairs with no basement attached to the end of it. What if I accidentally step wrong, and down I go and end up looking like Meryl Streep in ‘Death Becomes Her‘?

PS. It could happen. Right?

I’m sorry for what I said before I had my coffee.

coffee1To speak, or not to speak to me in the morning? Thatcannot be a serious fucking question. For some reason, when I wake, I am in my own little world. I need time to breathe, and do my own little morning routine before people invade my personal bubble. It’s my bubble. Not yours. Buy your own damn bubble.

For some other sick and delusional reason – people of this damn earth cannot seem to grasp this concept. Maybe I’m speaking in tongues in the wee hours of the morning? Shrug. Who knows. I am not approachable before coffee. In fact, I am a Grouchy Tiger, Hidden Dragonbreath asshat as soon as my feet hit the floor. I shuffle towards the kitchen, turn on The Bunn (because why the hell wait more than 3 minutes for coffee? 4 is just absurd) and wait impatiently with my face inches from the dripping deliciousness.

Diva (my mother dearest) is the same way. She will cuss a mutha out. Quick. Maybe throw a spoon at your face, and put a hex on you at the same time, I don’t know – it’s very mysterious. I don’t get too close usually, unless I have put a cup on the table before she rises from her dark slumber, then sloooooowly inch it towards her hand with the end of her witchy broom stick. From around the corner, I might add. Because I’m one talented daughter.

I am old, therefore I need coffee. If you are old, and do not need it, you are Satan.

Who doesn’t need coffee?? Really. What sorcery is that? I don’t get the whole ‘waking up excited for the day and smiling with sunshine flying out my ass‘ attitude.

I mean, don’t get me wrong – life is a blessing and I am thankful to still be alive and on this planet, but that takes me at least…. THREE to 4, maaaaaaybe 8 cups o’ jet fuel to feel like that.

Seriously though, guys… I’m not addicted to coffee.

Its addicted to me.