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.

 

 

 

 

 

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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.

August is basically the Sunday of Summer.

Procrastination at it’s finest. August marks the time of year I suddenly remember everything I wanted to do over the summer. Weeks and weeks of plans going awry, and no one to blame but myself. Damn, I was supposed to be tan and gorgeous right now; instead, here I am all pasty and chubby with a huge zit on my chin for good measure.

I can’t be the only one with this issue? Next weekend we’re going to Camp where we can let the kids run a muck with plenty of sugary treats to fuel their obnoxiousness. But, instead of planning for solutions to the horrors that lie ahead, I sit back and breathe deep.

Because. They. Are. Just. Kids.

I will never, ever get them again at this age, and I refuse to ruin their fun so I can have it ‘easier’. Soon starts the dreaded “Back to School Shopping“, and when we ALL have to listen to our children try to beg and plead their way out of an education – bargaining with their lives, and expecting us to comply..

/evil cackle.

Muahahaha! Oh, you will go to school, my pretties… And you will make excellent grades or I will hide your precious remotes, and batteries… I will change the WiFi password (GASPS) and take that secret with me to my grave…

It’s time to set the shit‘lins up with school sports, time for activities to begin, and time for your forearm to get a good ol’ workout from swiping that credit card a million fricken’ times.

“Do the kids really need mouth guards? Really, wait – see, these are their baby teeth, they’re supposed to come out.”

….. FINE. $18 mouth-guards it is. Each fucking one. /rolls eyes


worriedI’ve been trying to figure out different ways to start being more ‘on my game’ when it comes to remembering everything I have to do for EVERYONE, since there’s no ‘honey-do’ list here. There’s just a shit, i have to do it all’ list. So, instead of sucking at life like I’ve done before – I’ve actually started PLANNING.

I kept forgetting small things – like, meeting with my counselor at 5 because I had to run to the grocery store 32 times due to not being able to grab everything I need in one trip. Well, you know, that would just make too much sense.

The Number 1 Lie We All Tell Ourselves:

– “Ill remember that, I don’t need to write it down.”

BULLSHIT, brain! You liar! LIES! I have not thought that once, without completely forgetting what the Hell I was falsely telling myself I’d remember. Seriously. Not once. So now, I am writing in this cute little journal the things I need to remember. Even things I like, or just little doodles because I get bored out of nowhere and need to entertain my toddler-like mind.

So far, so good. Things are going smoother, and I don’t feel like such a shit mother for not remembering things like my son prefers strawberry oatmeal over peach.

You know, because that’s important.

Wait, I need to write that down. But I could’ve sworn I did..

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.

#adultingishard lesson no.043 – The Sock Pile Of Death.

FEDUPThe never ending pile of socks. The ones that mock you from across the room, the ones that have no pair in sight, but deep down you know it’s match is in there… Waiting. Hiding. Lurking amongst the array of sizes, colors, and brands… Evil foot cover. I loathe you.

But, being someone who is attempting to Adult, shit has gotta be done. No matter how bad I want to pawn it off on little booger man with promises of ice cream. I mean… That wouldn’t be too bad, right? Socks matched, put away, and the kid’s happy eating ice cream. Win-win situation, people. But, alas, I’ll do it myself and wake up feeling like a better Mommy/Housewife for it. Right? No? I didn’t fricking thing so.

sockpile

These..

drawers

…belong in here.

Notice how the top picture has a sock in it that says Rebel? Yes, that one is taunting me. Mmhmm, you’re a rebel, I see that. No fucking sock to match you with unless it’s hidden between a sheet, or stuck between a couch cushion, or even perhaps turned into lint from the Washing Machine Monster – which is a story for another time.

I remember when I was younger, Diva would hand me a basket and tell me it was my chore for the day, and me being the little asshole I was, I’d just grab whatever sock was somewhat the same size and call it a day. I was 12, who the hell cares about looking good at 12? You were lucky if my hair was brushed, and didn’t have sap in it from the trees, or sand falling out of my clothes from the sand dunes behind my house. Socks were not on my top priority list. Hide-and-seek was, and this was cutting into my play-time, and I was JUST NOT HAVING THAT SHIT. Get outta here, socks. I’ve got awesome child-hood things to do. Memories to make, and crap.

So, of course I grew up throwing socks into a pile, and therefore having to do this stupid, stupid chore myself. Because JHubbs is for, (and I quote) “I do manly stuff, like take the garbage out, kill spiders, and scratch my nuts inappropriately. I don’t “match socks” or “do dishes”. That would be too helpful.”

Okay, so maybe he didn’t exactly say that, but it could happen.

Anyways – the moral of the story is, do not wait until the last minute to match your socks because then you’ll bitch at your husband for taking out the garbage and scratching his balls.

Or, something along those lines.

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. ✌