Passed My Limit.

Will the floor give way

beneath all this decay

You caught me

and tossed me away

Rivers flow unnaturally

Against the grain of sanity

Pushing and poking things

Triggering the bad in me

We’re bound, but too tightly?

In such a hurry to hurt me

Blunted perceptions

Worn down too thinly

Stunted reflections

Smoke and mirrors rupturing Empty words chattering

Turned your back on me

Open ended stabbery Unpretended mockery

Way too cold and squirelly

Vision gone vague and blurry

Plague-infused worry

I’m dispensable

Expendable

Fragile at your feet

But you walk right over me

Re-Recovery.

cut throat as it comes

As a survivor, I can say that the word “recovery” gets thrown around an awful lot in the medical community, be it in regard to surgery, mental instability and/or impairment, a plethora of varying ailments and illnesses, and of course – alcohol and illegal drug addiction; we hear the word used to describe our economic status from time to time; we hear “recovery” used as a term to describe what occurs during police raids and hostage situations – in the context of anything from tangible assets, to living, breathing human beings. We hear the word used mostly in a productive element, as opposed to a dark or terrifyingly surreal one; the sound of the word “recovery” evokes a sense of upward motion or a confirmation of something’s very existence.
For me, hearing the word so often created a void of meaning, in the human context, at least. I’ve met too many “recovered” individuals that give me nightmares to believe in the idea of “recovery” being a universal one; I’m very keen to the fact that my recovery might not look a god damned thing like the next guy’s form of it – I know from personal and painful experience also, that the next guy’s version of being “fully recovered” might only slightly resemble one of my own first stages of the notion of fully recovering.

DOES THE TYPE OF RECOVERY MAKE A DIFFERENCE?
Well, duh….
Granted, the basic concept of “recovery” can be stitched loosely and tie together many types of circumstances and people who would otherwise have NOTHING as a common thread; however, the struggles and challenges of recovery that define a person who is recovering from a tonsillectomy for example, as opposed to a person in the grips of a recovery surrounding something along the lines of say: a traumatic injury, a behavioral or mood disorder, or a recent round of Chemo-therapy, forge a line in the dirt between two separate parts of reality. There are vast differences in the goals and time-frames that represent the recovery process of a post-op maintenance knee surgery patient, in stark contrast to the goals and time-frames in question for someone that’s also in medical/psychological recovery, and continues to suffer from the additional challenges presented by ongoing manifestations of anxiety or post-traumatic stress disorder – resultant of violently traumatic physical injury.
For example, let’s compare:
someone who is lying comfortably within the drug-induced haze of a post-op ward after a routinely performed surgical knee or back or shoulder repair procedure – one that had been scheduled by a specialist months ahead of time, having had plenty of associated information exchanged between healthcare providers and patient as a means of mentally preparing the patient as much as possible prior to surgery and, in turn, “recovery”. This patient will be detailed a strict rehabilitation schedule upon leaving the hospital, typically complete with a slew of exercise class and various physical rehabilitators that will ensure the complete and accurate recovery process.
TO…
someone who is in the drug-induced haze of a trauma ward or I.C.U. – post-op for an unknown length of time, enveloped by physical shock and acutely aware of the ease at which another individual is capable of harming her at will; unable to process the trauma that she has just endured and survived through somehow – unable to trust the safety that continues to be promised to her by the strange people she must depend upon to keep her alive from one long, pain filled day to the next. This patient does not know her surgeons, she does not know what they are performing the up close and very personal surgeries on her for, and this patient is confused, afraid and forlorn. There is no outline set forth for “recovery” upon the release of this patient from the hospital; she will be on her own to forge through the turbulence that awaits any victim of violent trauma.

The people along the way during the process will make an important difference in the overall outcome for each recovering patient, as well. Those with heart and humanity are the silent saints that have been scattered throughout the healthcare industry to somehow balance out the presence of those that represent the polar opposite of such kindness and compassion – and there are more than enough of that type.
For me, my experiences with “recovery” from the Ripper and my traumatic injury would have undoubtedly been defined much differently, had I not been pitied by the specific people who pitied me and in turn, offered me the gift of their attention. When I look back on the long and harrowing process of “recovery” from a near-fatal marriage that ended violently in a gore-fest that could have easily been ripped out of a low-budget horror film, and I recognize the alternate routes that it could have taken – based solely on the influences of outside stimuli that I was constantly exposed to during such a crucial time in my own physical, spiritual and psychological battle of “recovery”.

I am still far from fully “recovered” from my own experience fifteen years ago; it’s been a perpetually domino affected chain of events that have followed the day that I was finally released from the Hot House (the local ICU burn unit) – the day that I was technically deemed as being “recovered” and well enough to go “home”. Little did the prescribing doctors and specialists realize, I had no home anymore – and so the road to TRUE recovery likely began sometime around then, when I was faced with an overwhelmingly unwelcome reality that left me more or less speechless for months on end. Those days are the days that I consider to have been the bulkiest loads carried through my own recovery process so far – the days when I wasn’t sure what I was doing or why, just waking up and shuffling my feet for ten hours before falling back to sleep fitfully.
I had the blessing of motherhood back then; and somehow, I also had the ability, desire and presence of mind to appreciate such a gift – my only thing in the world that made sense and gave me purpose. Being a mom motivated me to carry on for something, it enabled me to escape my own world of confusion and the unknown; it healed me better than any of the days in the ICU ever could have healed me. I feel 110% certain that had I not had Boo and her existence to dive completely into like I did at the time of my “recovery”,

I wouldn’t have made it through the darkness and pain – I wouldn’t have even tried, I wouldn’t have wanted to.
Recovery has come and gone in varying fashion and multifaceted manifestations since the earliest days of my Cut-Throat Survivor’s birth; there are times when I feel so far from “recovered” that I laugh out loud at the prospect of considering myself a “survivor”; other days, I feel like I could mow down an entire task force with my saliva if I spit in that direction; it’s a relative to the current state of my own being, I suppose. I spent a lot of years in trying to fit into some type of “recovery” category or phase, to fall in line with some pre-defined step in a book of instructions on how to recover; I traveled into high and quiet places in attempt to clear my own mind and focus myself better; I’ve gone to prayer groups and spoken at huge seminars on domestic violence and chaired board meetings to outline legislative plans of action against child sexual assault. These things have each played a small part in my overall picture of “recovery”; but not one thing anywhere can ever be the solution in itself – for anyone.

The Recoverors.

The Recoverers.

RECOVERY is a path, a road to something better, whatever that might be for a given individual. RECOVERY is a haven for the souls lost to the torment of emotional shock; RECOVERY is a step in any direction when you haven’t been able to walk for a while; RECOVERY is the solution to the things that keep us lying awake at night, unable to rest our minds.
RECOVERY is yours, and it is mine – and it will NOT look the same on my plate as it does on yours.
And…that is okay…we can still digest the contents of it together.

A Letter From Boo

 

Image

Received Today, Saturday 3/29/2014


<<<<<<<<<

03.18.14

Dear Mom,

Song: Dear Mama
Artist: Tupac
Lyrics: “I know I can always depend on my Mama…”

Hey, first off Happy Birthday you turned 35. I hope its okay. I’ll be 17 in 41 days!
I know you’re super angry with me so I’m not even gonna talk to you about my experience out there last time…but I want to let you know. You know me, I’m not gonna say sorry because I’ve said sorry so many times and I never got better. If anything, I got worse. I want you to know though Mom it’s not your fault and it is all on me. I want you to know I’m sorry for acting a fool and not doing anything I’m supposed to. I’m addicted to that life-style…
I want you to know I miss you a lot, I miss talking to you. I miss you a lot. I’ve never gone this long without talking to you. I’m sorry I am such a mess. If you wanna call me, you know where I am.
Oh obviously you know my Dad died. Sad. Sad. Sad.
Well
Love Always,
Boo
>>>>>>>>>>


Resolutions

Funny:

My very first New Year’s Resolution was in 2014 – to quit smoking cigarettes finally, after having been a smoker since the New Year’s Eve “party” that I attended back in 1994.

I’ve never been big on empty promises or ideas, can’t stand sitting around and talking about stuff with no intention of following through; can’t stand the people who do that shit, either…

saying something, doing nothing

I am still smoking – actually more than I ever did last year…my nerves are shot as hell and I am on edge like it’s sport and I’m the fucking champion…

I just want my daughter back; then I’ll be motivated to stop smoking like I was before her disappearance; then, I’ll be able to carry on with existence again. I am very sad; I am very alone and isolated and afraid of my own future – or lack thereof.

I just don’t know wth I am supposed to do.

Relativity

Image

In the context of relating to one’s former self – the selves of childhood or teenage angst, the self that gave birth to one’s grown children, the self that used to care about one’s make-up, car or outfit, etc.

For me, it often comes back to the self of mine that spent over ten years as a strung-out, hopeless heroin addict; the one that ruined my hopes and dreams and left me perpetually feeling without. This is my most regrettable self. This is my most destructive and negatively effective self; this is the self that I have the hardest time relating to when I remember myself.

 

It’s challenging to accurately describe the profound differences between living as a practicing addict and a recovering addict, as the entirety of your existence as a practicing addict revolves around only one thing, in essence. Many of us lied to ourselves daily about what kind of addict we were, likely as a coping mechanism to deal with our self-loathing or whatever. Either way, I can literally recall with clarity (somehow), the notion that I was different from most heroin addicts because I was strong enough to stop if I chose to, or so I always used to tell people, including myself.

 

Of course, time proved a different truth, and my final kick was near-fatal and kept me confined to detox center for almost 8 entire months. Its residual, even now – 12 years later…I think I finally learned my lesson with that one; it scared the hell out of me to clean up. I never felt worse in life that during the physical detoxification of that drug, or even the first few breaths of a day in which I was going to without a fix. I remember being 110% certain that I was vomiting gnats up, and being angry as hell when the nurse’s laughed when I told them. My brain was fried so badly, I remember being sure that I could never be “normal” again without heroin, without being “well”.

 

But here I am…

One less crutch to lean on, one less escape method to use…

 

 

The Most Forgettable Piece Ever Written

I have slowly been changing along with all of the madness that has become of my life since the DFCS took control over my only child (supposedly to “rehabilitate” her uncontrollable behaviors in “treatment”). Gradual differences have arisen between the Old Me and this…the Me who stands in place of the one who was robbed of everything and then slowly, but surely – beaten to death. Things that I see are perceived differently than a much more trusting and naïve Me would have seen them; the pessimism is beyond any sense of measurement these days, and the world feels so much less like Home.

After experiencing everything as horrible as what has transpired in the life of my own little girl, I have lost hope or any notion of forward progression from here. I just cannot seem to get my head around the vast corruption and greed in this particular arena…hmmmm…

How was it, that a young girl in need of structure and self-control, lacking the attention span to nurture such things very well, with physiological conditions that create an appearance far more mature than her actual years in age – court-ordered to reside at a community facility for behaviorally challenged children – is victimized by a staff of that facility?

Why was it, that after the child victim of sexual assault, came forward with such information to the facility administration, she was then horribly ridiculed in turn?

How can it be possible, that the government agency charged with the care and well-being of the children in the community, is also quite willing and capable of protecting NOT THE CHILDREN, BUT THEIR PREDATORS?

…I become enraged on a daily basis;

the normalcy I claim – my job: my saving grace amongst all of humanity – as it forces me to pretend; I escaped reality every day since 2006 that way – but that slipped away also, and will be gone on Friday…

Timing sure the fuck IS everything, isn’t it?