Not about to be

This isn't going to be the world's greatest novella. 

This is a story about me, how I've become an alcoholic and how, by the time I'm done writing, maybe I can be something else.

I never let go of horrid shit I've seen or imagined.  I highly recommend not loving addicts or reading their autopsies when they die. It's hard enough to lose someone close to you without knowing how many ounces of vitreous fluid they contained in each eye or how much each kidney weighed. (Or that you suspected thyroid dysfunction by their eyes but didn't know till patho came in.)

I used to want to do autopsies and even had the chance... Reading the reports, I can see the whole fucking thing. (Nightmares!) 

When someone you love is torn apart like a stuffed animal by a sadistic toddler (or, more likely, dog), it's hard to swallow. Literally. Water will make you choke. 

69 months ago, I lost one of my best friends and someone who has seen and known things no one else ever will. My older, protective, first, best (and worst) friend.

He was depressed, drank a lot and moved to harder shit. It killed him. DEAD. My grandmother had to tell me...

I remember him crying when Mom and Dad were "going to die of cancer" from smoking cigarettes. It was pot. Then, a few years later, he got kicked out for growing in the basement. We both smoked cigarettes by then. 

We had great times singing Sublime and drinking cheap vodka and rum, him playing the guitar and me singing, but it never stopped his pain. 

Then he did coke. And heroin. I saw strange pictures and "should've known". (Denial is a huge river.) 

I TRIED. IT HURTS. Now I'm fucked up and drink too much too... Mom blamed herself and went the same way, just scripts in hand. I don't blame her. He was her son. She "missed the boat".

Sometimes you just have to stop. 

He'll always be such a huge part of my soul. Maybe one day we'll "SAIL".

 

Miss you, Brother. 

#ohyouwantedcheerful

#wrongday

No more words. Feeling a bit cutty. Have a great day; Thanks for all the fish!!!!

On Why I'm Cool

I spoke with my therapist (the good one) a couple days ago. Seeing how I haven't seen her in nearly a year, most of the time was spent filling her in on what's changed and what's wrong.

I got married. Wonder boy is kicking ass in school and turning into a REALLY great guy though he's far too mature for his age. My mother died. We've not been able to achieve pregnancy and my uterus sucks. There have been some issues in our marriage. (Not surprising, really. They say the first year is the hardest.) My husband and I rolled his car, leaving him without a vehicle and me with a mild traumatic brain injury.

I should have sent her a link here. I've already told you guys this.

When we talked, she seemed very supportive and encouraging and not in an "I'm getting paid to care" sort of way. She does care. She's amazing. She reminded me all the things I've been through and how, though they weigh heavily on me at times, I can get through just about anything. She reminded me that the spark is still here and as long as there is just a little light...

I've spent so much energy assessing the damage and fearing the future, I've forgotten the good things. I've forgotten my good side.

So, my homework is to look for ways that I'm still "me", things I love, things that define who I am. In other words, why I'm cool as hell. (Yeah, sounds cocky. It's fine. I spend enough time bullying myself around.)

Got a bad feeling

Slept in the back yard on a few blankets last night so I could see the meteor shower and, without thinking, wished I would die on the longest, clearest one. Then I wished my son would have a much happier life than mine and that he'd be okay if anything happened to me. I cried this morning because I woke up and none of it was a dream. I can't believe it's come to this. I'm losing the war.

How do you like them apples?

Criminal Sexual Conduct

I sat spinning scissors around my finger on the kitchen table. I couldn't look up. I saw only the brown uniform and badges across from me. No face. This faceless man had asked me questions I couldn't answer. My face got hot and throat froze. In my left corner a pair of holed jeans stood, waiting.

Less than an hour before, when I came home from school, these holy jeans had the face of my father who had told me the police called while I was gone. They left a phone number. They'd like me to call back as soon as possible. I couldn't tell you now what either of us thought it was about. I'm sure we both assumed I was in some sort of trouble but I hadn't broken any laws, aside from smoking an occasional joint with friends, since a couple years prior when I had been questioned about breaking and entering but never charged.

My heart raced as I dialed the number. My dad was on the couch, not hoovering but in definite reach of my voice. The officer told me that my best friend's step-dad (further referred to as "The Victim" and "The Suspect", respectively) was in police custody for rape and asked if knew anything about this. No. "No idea," I lied.
"She told us she believes you had been assaulted as well. We'd like to speak with you in person," he said. I didn't hear a word after that.