Still here

I'm still here, though I've had nothing to say lately. Or, more to the point, lots to say but unable to find the words. Sometimes letting it all out helps, sometimes it hurts, and this seems to be one of the hurting times.

Much to my joy, the mail service I was using to save all the comments that have been made to this blog has deleted my account during my absence. I've switched to a gMail account to avoid this in the future but- oh, the humanity! All my communications with the friends I've made through this blog over the last year are gone forever, along with their e-mail addresses. I feel sick just thinking about it.

Anyway, maybe I'll have something to say here soon. Maybe not.

Broken

I'm not doing well at all. My marriage is over for all intents and purposes. And last night it was made abundantly clear that the man I love most- not my husband, but someone else who has been in and out of my life as a lover for almost five years now- only wants me as a fuck-buddy, and nothing more.

I tried to tell him how I felt about him, and tried to get him to admit that he still loves me too- because he used to say he loved me, years ago, when we first met- but when I pressed him last night, he ended the conversation abruptly by pushing me back onto the bed and fucking me.

As we were settling to sleep afterwards, I said "Hey Mark?"

He said "Yeah?"

"I love you."

Silence. Then, after a moment, he said "You've got me all tongue tied now," in that beautiful, sweet, lyrical voice of his. And that was all he said for the rest of the night.

My heart shattered, even though I'd told him earlier that evening that he couldn't break my heart again, because I was older and wiser and didn't want anything more from him than an occasional evening of "fun". But I couldn't help it. I can't not love him- not after what we've shared.

He shattered my heart- not for the first time- ripped it out of my chest and stomped on it. I don't think he really meant to do it, but I put him between a rock and a hard place- asking him straight out if he still loved me. He is too kind to look him in the face and say no- but his answer was clear, nonetheless. And I am afraid that I totally blew it, that I made him so uncomfortable by telling him that I love him, that he'll fade out of the picture completely, and I'll never see him again.

I didn't let him see how hurt I was...we went to sleep, he woke me with breakfast in bed, fucked me one more time- without even kissing me- and then took me home, ranting about politics the whole way. And then when he left me, he didn't kiss me goodbye.

I wonder if I'll ever hear from him again? Why do I always have to learn the hard way? Why couldn't I listen to what everyone else was trying to tell me about him?

I will always love him. I will love him until the day I die.

I don't know what to do. I'm suicidal for the first time in years. There seems to be no future at all.

who left you so?

striking a match for the keyhole
dark as the evening laid
when he left you all alone

turning to fade through the sawgrass
tall as the only love
that you'll ever really know

who left you so?

grace is a gift for the fallen, dear
you're an angry blade & you're brave
but you're all alone

turning a shade of an angel born
in a bramble ditch when the doors
of heaven closed

who left you so?
-Iron and Wine

Still Here

Yes, I am still out here...Anonymous, thanks for checking in, and if you are the same Anomymous of "Long Loney Road", I wish you would drop me an e-mail, as I've been worried about you, too- you have often been in my thoughts.

It's been a long summer. Lots of ups and downs. Lacking inspiration. I got called into the local mental health clinic, accused of being depressed, because the local Public Health Nurse dropped in on me on a bad day, then made a report saying I "wasn't coping well".

They tried to get me to go on Prozac, and I bascially told them to fuck off. I'm not depressed, just incredibly apathetic. It's far better than the all-consuming anxiety that was killing me last spring.

I've been feeling very anti-social, but lonely at the same time. I have that feeling again, that something is about to happen. Something needs to happen- I can't go on like this.

No one really cared for it at all
Not the gravity plan.
Early, early in the morning
it pulls all on down my sore feet
I wanna go back to sleep.
In the motions and the things that you say.
It all will fall, fall right into place
As fruit drops, flesh it sags
Everything will fall
Fall right into place- Modest Mouse, "Gravity Rides Everything"

Dark Center of the Universe

Is anyone still reading this blog?

Well I might
Disintegrate into thin air, if you like
And I'm not
The dark center of the universe, like you thought

Well it took a lot of work to be the ass that I am
And I'm really damn sure that anyone can easily, equally fuck ya over

Well God said something but he didn’t mean it
Everyone’s life ends but no one ever completes it
Dry and wet ice, they both melt and you’re equally cheated

An endless ocean landing on an endless desert
It’s funny as hell, but no one laughs when they get there
If you can’t see the thin air
Why the hell should you care?

Well sure you’ll tell me you’ve got nothing to say
And I went and shook hands the other day
If you can’t see the thin air then
What the hell is in your way? -Modest Mouse

A letter to myself

Self,
Please stop and think about what you're doing. Please try to remember when you feel this passionate about anyone or anything, it always ends in disaster.

Remember the pain it will bring you. Remember the rainy winter days huddled next to the radiator, trying to console yourself by listening to his music while your soul shredded with every measure. Can't you remember how much that hurt?

Try to remember how much you lost, last time you let your heart lead your head. It's not worth the price you will pay. If we've learned nothing else, surely we've learned that!

You were so close to the edge last time. You were only saved from death by a miracle. You cannot count on a miracle if you go down this road again. You can only count on the fact that people will always disappoint you, no matter how hard you love them.

Is it worth it? It cannot be.

Why won't you listen to me? I can already see that you're not listening. It's too late, isn't it?

Sincerely,

Me

Turn On the Light

I had a friend who kept a candle in his pocket
He used to touch it when the wind was blowing high
I guess it made him feel like he could buck the system
And when it flickered out we laid him down to die

Turn on the light
Turn on a million blinding brilliant white incendiary lights
A beacon in the night
I'll burn relentlessly until my juice runs dry

I'll construct a rock of tempered beams and trusses
And equip it with a million tiny suns,
I'll install upon the roof on my compartment
and place tinfoil on my floor and on my walls

Then I'll turn on the light...
And I'll burn like a roman fucking candle
Like a chasm in the night
For a miniscule duration
Ecstatic immolation,
Incorrigible delight

Apathy

I know quite well that I will get no more out of this blog than I put into it. I'm completely lacking in inspiration lately, though, and not wanting to deal with any of the issues that I planned to deal with here. I just don't want to. I want to be at peace for a while. I'm not at peace, of course... not really... but will dredging the shit up from the bottom of my life really do me any good? Will it help me?

Where the hell is the population?
All quiet for regeneration
What ever happened to the human race?
Can't you see the enemy here is you?
It's you
It's you
Well, it's you

Quick update

My sister-in-law wrote me a couple of days ago, and she DID leave my brother. Thank heavens. She went back to her other boyfriend- the father of the baby she's carrying- and they were married a couple of days later. So, a big sigh of relief on that one. From now on, as far as I am concerned, she is my sister- ironic that I could not welcome her back into my heart's family until she stopped having dealings with my genetic family.

Also- I've changed my e-mail address. The service I was using before has become too aggressive about forcing me to click through ads before allowing me to see my messages, and Gmail has finally decided to support the browser I prefer (Opera), so from now on my primary address will be wildmagic at gmail.com. If anyone has me in your address book, please update.

I'm still doing okay with the Xanax. I'm taking fewer than my doctor recommended, actually, even though I accidentally found the place where my husband was hiding them, so I'm feeling rather proud of myself. I'm only taking two a day, but even so, they are giving me the most bizarre dreams. The dreams are somewhat disturbing, but not bad enough to call them nightmares. More on that later, maybe.

is there anybody out there?

I've had a rough few days- major stress and drama going on in my life, another serious battle with the anxiety monster, and- with impeccable timing, as usual, my computer's master hard drive decided to give up the ghost at the worst possible moment. It's the third hard drive I've killed in the past five years, so by this time I've learned to be obsessive about backing everything up on a regular basis, and the only thing I lost in the process was my temper.

I'm so glad you thought of me, my anonymous friend- you're never far from my thoughts, either.

I'm on my way back up out of the hole I was in, though, I think. I'm getting extremely bored with these mood swings. I go from being on top of the world, straight down to the depths of hell, and back up again at least once a week.

No more word from my sister in law, who was supposed to have left my brother on Monday. I'll bet any money that she stayed with him, and that's why she hasn't written me. I don't like to think too much about the alternative- she always used to say that the only way my brother would let her go is if she were dead.

Hey you, out there in the cold
Getting lonely, getting old
Can you feel me?
Hey you, standing in the aisles
With itchy feet and fading smiles
Can you feel me?
Hey you, don’t help them to bury the light...
Don’t give in
without a fight.

Hey you, out there on your own
Sitting naked by the phone
Would you touch me?
Hey you, with you ear against the wall
Waiting for someone to call out
Would you touch me?
Hey you, would you help me to carry the stone?
Open your heart, I’m coming home...

But it was only fantasy.
The wall was too high,
As you can see.
No matter how she tried,
She could not break free.
And the worms ate into her brain.

Hey you, standing in the road
Always doing what you’re told,
Can you help me?
Hey you, out there beyond the wall,
Breaking bottles in the hall,
Can you help me?
Hey you, don’t tell me there’s no hope at all
Together we stand, divided we fall.

Mother

I know I said I was going to go dredging in the depths of my contaminated soul, but I can't right now. It's all I can do just to hang onto my sanity, without going down that road as well. I'm feeling really touchy and pissed off at the world today. It's probably just PMS.

Not having a family- not having parents who I know will love me and stand by me no matter what- is a pain that I'm never going to get over. It hurts to despise the people who created you. If they are such monsters, and they made me, then what am I? How can I ever be better than they are, if all my genetic material came from them?

I hate them both, my mom and my dad. The main reason I don't have a relationship with them is because they turned their backs on me when I needed them desperately. And it wasn't just once- it happened over and over again, beginning when I was a helpless baby, and ending on the day that I told my mother to go to hell about six months ago, when I asked her for emotional support and she told me flat out that she is too busy with her career to have time to care about my problems.

She can't hurt me anymore, but not having a mother in my life hurts so much, so in that way, she's still hurting me even today.

Enough of that. I'll go into details later, because I know I have to face it if I want to heal. But that's enough for today.

Hush, my baby. Baby, don't you cry.
Momma's gonna make all of your nightmares come true.
Momma's gonna put all of her fears into you.
Momma's gonna keep you right here under her wing.
She won't let you fly, but she might let you sing.
Momma's gonna keep Baby cozy and warm.
Of course Momma's gonna help build a wall...

Addict

I'm doing okay with the Xanax my doctor prescribed. I knew damn well that I could not trust myself to take them as prescribed. I'm too compulsive, and they make me feel so good. And in my addict's mind, I'd start thinking, "If one makes me feel good, two would make me feel better." And so on, until I'd be taking five or six at a pop, or even more.

So I gave them to my husband and told him to hide them, and not to give them to me unless he could see that I was having a panic attack. And, thank heavens, he knows me well enough to know that this is the only safe way for me to have addictive drugs in the house, so he's cooperating.

It's easier for me this way. Since getting the prescription, I've taken exactly three of them. And oddly enough, my anxiety level has gone way down, all on its own. I feel safer than I did before. I know I have an "out" if things get too bad, but at the same time I don't have the bottle there, calling to me all the time.

I've been wanting to talk more about my mother, and about why I hate her so much. But that can wait. It's a beautiful Saturday morning, not a good time to start dredging up the nastiest muck from the bottom of my soul.

Memories

I'll probably regret writing this entry so late at night, because bringing the memories to the surface will keep me awake, but I can't seem to stop myself.

I've already spoken in detail about the sexual abuse I endured at the hands of my older brother. But if I am honest, I know that my brother's abuses had less impact on me than what I suffered at the hands of my parents. My father, mostly- my mother was only abusive because she she never once stepped in to rescue me. As the years pass, I find that I have a harder time forgiving her than I do my father.

My father was an angry man, and when he lost his temper- which was often- he took it out on us physically. He was an impatient man, and he was determined to nip any tiny bud of self-esteem he saw emerging from any of us, his children. He was often sadistic, and throughout my childhood, I was terrified of him. When I was at school, I used to dread weekends, because from Friday evening to Monday morning, I was at his mercy, and he was a man with no mercy at all.

I remember getting a whipping with his leather belt once- I don't remember what I had supposedly done to deserve it, but I do remember that I wet myself from the terror and pain, and then I was beaten again- with the buckle of the belt this time- for pissing on the floor.

One thing that I remember best is how, when I knew he was in a bad mood, I would always go into my bedroom and begin frantically cleaning, because I knew that he would come in there, screaming about my "filthy pigsty". And no matter how clean my room was, he always found fault. Sometimes I would clean for hours, and feel quite proud of my efforts...and he would always come in and say the exact same thing. He'd say, "Well, this is a good start, but this room is still a pigsty." And then he would make a snorting noise, imitating a pig, because he wanted to be perfectly clear that, in his mind, I was a disgusting pig. There was absolutely no way to please him, none at all. And even today, when someone says to me "That's a good start", I want to break down in tears.

That's enough for now. Of course I have more demons, and I fully intend to bring them into the light, because hopefully the light will destroy them. But not tonight...I'm so tired.

will she or won't she?

My sister in law finally wrote to me, and said that she's leaving my brother because of what I said to her. I don't know what to think. I won't believe her until it really happens. And even then...I live 5000 miles from them, with no plans of going back, and I have no contact at all with anyone else in the family, so how will I ever know for sure if she's lying or not?

I wish I was the moon

I'm just tired. Tired and lonely. Wishing that someone- anyone -would just love me. I need that. I need to be loved and not taken for granted.

My husband says that I should be pleased that he takes me for granted. He says that it's proof that our relationship is healthy. He thinks our relationship is healthy, and I am dying inside, my heart and soul are withering away.

No word from my sister in law.

Chimney falls and lover's blaze
Thought that I was young
Now I've freezing hands and bloodless veins
as numb as I've become
I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight

Last night I dreamt I'd forgotten my name
'cause I sold my soul but I woke just the same
I'm so lonely
I wish I was the moon tonight

God bless me I'm a free man
with no place free to go
Paralyzed and collared tight
No pills for what I fear
This is crazy
I wish I was the moon tonight

How will you know if you've found me at last
'cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
with my heart in my lap

I'm so tired, I'm so tired
and I wish I was the moon tonight

girl

My sister-in-law wrote to me again, wanting me to tell her if I thought she should stay with my brother or go back to her other boyfriend.

I wrote back this time. I let it all pour out of me. I told her how my brother molested me and raped me when I was only a little girl. I told her how he tried to deny it when I confronted him. I told her that if she stays with him, she is putting her own children in danger, and that if she stays, it will be the end of any friendship between us, because I must keep my daughter safe from my brother, no matter what else happens.

Once, I loved her. She is the closest thing to the sister I never had. I pray she listens to me. Please God, let her listen. For the sake of her unborn baby, for the sake of my nieces, let her truly hear what I've said, let her walk away.

But I don't think she will.

From in the shadow she calls
And in the shadow she finds a way finds a way
And in the shadow she crawls
Clutching her faded photograph my image under her thumb
Yes with a message for my heart
Yes with a message for my heart
She's been everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own
Everybody else's girl maybe one day she'll be her own

The Act We Act

I am supposed to be a happy housewife. I do love my life, for the most part- don't get me wrong- but something is missing. Something big. I don't really believe in soul-mates, because I've been in too many relationships where my partner claimed that I was his soul mate, but that never stopped anyone from leaving me in the end.

But I am lonely. And something is missing from my life. I miss having someone who adores me as much as I adore them. I miss being thought of as sexy. I miss being wooed.

Why can't I rid myself of the idea that I deserve to have true passion in my life? My husband did remember Valentine's day. He bought me a fifty-cent Galaxy bar as a gift, and a single carnation that they gave him for free at the supermarket. What am I complaining about? I don't care that he didn't spend a lot of money. I complain because, like most days, he didn't kiss me even once yesterday. He certainly did not hug me or hold me or touch me or say "I love you".

I'm still young enough to want these things. I'm still young enough to be unable to bear the idea that I must give them up forever.

"If affection holds you back
Then what is left to hold
If I could find the answer to that question
then I'd know
The thoughts that clutter up your mind
And leave me feeling drained
And walking pacing up the walls
Across the floor again

All the things I haven't seen
Once the final curtain has been raised
The act we act is wearing thin
The act we act is under my skin"

another boring post

I have elected to remove Haloscan and bring back Blogger comments now that Blogger allows comments in a pop-up window. Also I like the fact that Blogger will e-mail my comments to me- I could donate to Haloscan but that would alert my husband to the presence of this blog, and for obvious reasons I would rather he not know.

That's three posts in one day, maybe a record for me, and a record I am not likely to break anytime soon.

Valentine's

Just a short addendum to the previous entry.

Today is Valentine's Day. I had forgotten until just now. It might be best that way, because I am completely certain that, like every other holiday, it will be utterly ignored by the one who should be buying me flowers.

Last night he was angry becuase I wanted him to come to bed before he had much time to look at porn on his computer. I reminded him that many women would not tolerate his looking at porn at all, and that he should feel lucky that most nights he surfs the porn sites for hours without a word of complaint from me.

Often, I think that I would leave him if I had anywhere to go. He used to take the most beautiful pictures of me in erotic poses. Now that I am the mother of his child he does not have any interest in that. He would rather look at a million other anonymous women than pay attention to me.

"Do you think I know something you don't know
What do you want from me?
If I don't promise you the answers would you go
What do you want from me?
Should I stand out in the rain
Do you want me to make a daisy chain for you
I'm not the one you need...
What do you want from me?"

Promise what you will

I guess I am talking to myself again, or maybe my few readers have nothing to say. It's a strange sensation, as my other, very public blog gets a minimum of five comments per entry, and often more. But never mind- I started this particular blog for me, and not out of the same narcissism that led me to start my other blog.

I got another e-mail from my sister in law, expressing concern because my brother told her that I would not communicate with her now that I know they are back together. I read it and then filed it away without responding. In a day or two she will write again to attack me viciously. I know it's coming, but that doesn't mean it will hurt me any less.

I went to the doctor this morning, and let him prescribe Xanax even though I know how addictive it is. I just cannot bear the level of anxiety I have lived with for this past month. I need something to ease it. I will try so carefully to take them as prescribed instead of constantly raising the dose so that I run out before the chemist will give me a refill.

I said, "Love is waiting
and better days"
He smiled and placed a kiss
on my waiting face
Promise what you will
something good for me
Time will take it all
and it will, you'll see

Misguided Angel

I spent today keeping busy, but tonight I'm just trying to find that still silent place down deep inside, the place where I stop caring about what goes on outside and can be at peace with myself.

This is the place, deep within, where I cease to be the product of my abusive childhood, the place that is whole, not beaten down by my father's anger or my mother's shame or my brother's urges.

I wonder, when I grow old, what will I be to my own children? Will they hate me like I hate my mother? I think I am trying harder than my mother did to break the cycle. I want to believe that. I want to think I'm not as blind as she is.

I said "Mama, he’s crazy and he scares me
But I want him by my side
Though he’s wild and he’s bad
And sometimes just plain mad
I need him to keep me satisfied"

I said "Papa, don’t cry cause it’s alright
And I see you in some of his ways
Though he might not give me the life that you wanted,
I’ll love him the rest of my days"

Misguided angel hanging over me
Heart like a Gabriel, pure and white as ivory
Soul like a Lucifer, black and cold like a piece of lead
Misguided angel, love you ’til I’m dead

I said "Brother, you speak to me of passion
You said never to settle for nothing less
Well, it’s in the way he walks,
It’s in the way he talks
His smile, his anger and his kisses"

Misguided angel hangin’ over me
Heart like a Gabriel, pure and white as ivory
Soul like a Lucifer
Black and cold like a piece of lead
Misguided angel, love you ’til I’m dead

scream

Ever since I got the e-mail that I mentioned in the previous entry I've been feeling like I want to vomit. I know there's no way I will sleep tonight.

Of course, I got another e-mail from my sister-in-law this evening asking a bunch of questions about my daughter, which makes me even more nauseated. And I know this won't be the end of it. When she realizes that I am purposely ignoring her, she will lash out at me. I know her well enough to be completely certain of that.

What in God's name was I thinking when I responded to her in the first place? Why don't I ever learn?

I just want someone to comfort me. I can't talk to my husband... he will validate my feelings, of course, but he'll do it in such a way that my feelings will escalate instead of subsiding. I'm already spiralling out of control. I wish there was someone in this world who would just hold me and say "It'll be okay". That's all I want. Such a simple thing. Why does it always evade me?

Where were you when I was burned and broken
While the days slipped by from my window watching
Where were you when I was hurt and I was helpless
Because the things you say and the things you do surround me
While you were hanging yourself on someone else's words
Dying to believe in what you heard
I was staring straight into the shining sun

Lost in thought and lost in time
While the seeds of life and the seeds of change were planted
Outside the rain fell dark and slow
While I pondered on this dangerous but irresistable pastime
I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life

I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the waiting had begun
And headed straight into the shining sun

No!

I've been feeling on edge all day today, expecting bad news, but I was still surprised when bad news finally came.

A couple of weeks back, the ex-wife of my brother/rapist made contact with me via e-mail to let me know how she's doing these days. She seemed to have turned her life around, was off the speed, and was pregnant by her new boyfriend. I figured there was no harm in writing her back, since she was no longer connected with my family.

But today she wrote me back again. Apparently she's left her new boyfriend and moved back in with my brother. They are still off drugs as of today, but I know that won't last long. Better yet, she told me that my brother is once again being allowed unsupervised contact with his daughters, one of whom he also molested.

Why am I the only person on the planet who can see that this man is a monster? Why has everyone else forgiven him for what he's done? Do they really think that it was only the drugs that made him evil? He raped me before he ever started doing drugs. He's a pedophile and he will never change. Anyone who trusts him around children is blinding themselves.

I don't know how to come to terms with this. Obviously I will be having no more contact with my sister-in-law. I wish to God that I had not gotten that e-mail tonight telling me that my rapist is enjoying the good life and the love of family and friends while I continute to live in exile. I can't bear this. I just can't bear it.

Lion's Mane

I have issues with boundaries.

(I know, you're thinking: "No, really?")

I say "I love you" far too soon. All my life, all my adult life, anyway, I get entangled with people much too quickly. It's born of a desperate need in me, a need to latch on straight away and refuse to let go until that dead horse is beaten to a pulp.

My first husband- I married him four months after we met. Big mistake. My second husband- we waited two years to marry, but we got engaged less than three days after meeting- and at that point having known each other through the Internet only. Somehow that relationship is still maintaining. But he is much older than me, and I live in terror of the day he dies and leaves me alone.

Yes, I'm a freak. I am broken. I am completely messed up. I don't know how to fix this about me without ripping my life to shreds in the process.

Love is the scene I render
when you catch me wide awake
And love is the dream you enter
though I shake and shake and shake you
And love's the best endeavor
waiting in the lion's mane...

Joy and madness

I feel so much better today. The past week has been hellish, as my psychological wheels were spinning so fast that I couldn't keep up with them. But I knew I'd come around if I just waited it out.

I've been thinking about what sex really means to me. From childhood, I remember my mother giving lip service to the idea that sex was an expression of love, but that's not the way I see it after all that has happened to me. Sex is a means of control. Men use it to feel powerful, and women- at least women like me- often use it to "pay our way". In the beginning, I had sex because I wasn't given a choice in the matter, and because my abuser got high from stealing all my power.

But as I grew up, I had sex in exchange for money, sex in exchange for drugs, and nowadays it's usually sex in exchange for security. It's not that I don't enjoy it- I definitely do, even when I'm fully aware that I am whoring myself- but the physical pleasure could just as easily happen when I am alone, and the psychological pleasure comes from getting exactly what I wanted out of the deal.

But where is the love? Has love ever truly come into play for me when choosing a sexual partner? I'm a bit cynical- I think love is a choice, and even when you "fall" uncontrollably for someone, it's because that's what you have consciously or unconsciously decided to do. And relationships end because one partner has decided to stop choosing to love.

I ramble. I don't know. I feel like I am on the edge of some huge breakthrough that will change my life forever.

Poles Apart

When I am hurt or upset, I shut down. I run away. I turn my back and refuse to listen.

This is something that has worked for me in the past, but maybe it's time to change, to open up. I want people to hear me, and to be heard you must first listen.

Break your silence. Open your heart. Share your dreams. Learn to love again.

Hey you...did you ever realise what you’d become
And did you see
that it wasn’t only me you were running from
Did you know all the time but it never bothered you anyway
Leading the blind while I stared out the steel in your eyes

The rain fell slow, down on all the roofs of uncertainty
I thought of you
and the years and all the sadness fell away from me
And did you know...
I never thought that you’d lose that light in your eyes

Delerium of Disorder

Still struggling today, but maybe getting used to it, maybe I can somehow create order out of my own chaos.

It makes me smile when I read my comments, and I thank you, both the commenters and the silent readers, for coming here and listening to me. I am honoured by your presence. Since finding this little community of survivor blogs, I am so much less alone, I feel less like a complete lunatic, and I am encouraged by the fact that you all seem to be such beautiful, gentle, giving people.

Especially anonymous of This Long Lonely Walk. My friend, who I am too shy to say much to...I have discovered some truly eerie parallels between our lives whilst reading your blog, and your very existence comforts me, but at the same time it sends chills down my spine. I am glad you're here. I am glad to know you.

I am afraid to say too much about myself, as I want to speak freely here, which makes me feel as though I must hide my face. I am a person between. I was born in America, lived most of my life there. Now, though, I am somewhere else in the world, with no plans to go home again, not ever. I try to speak as though I belong in the country where I live now, but it's a mask, you see. It's something I wish I was, rather than who I truly am.

I have no contact with the adult members of my family. I have turned away from them completely. Yet I am a mother of two children, one very young and living with me, the other growing up too fast and living with his father. This is something that used to cause me great pain, but now I see that it was meant to be like this, it's better for us all this way. I hope he understands that, too.

More later, maybe.

In my rectory of doubt,
I kneel and pray like one devout,
As time- this great grey dreamless sleep of a useless modern God- erodes away
each storied day
As wretched Adams with hell to pay
Content upon a rail of pain for just a little rain.
And everything is dearly missed,
Blood relations and bricks,
My expression, my confession,
Add it up, extract a lesson more than this
Once again, like a bullet, as a friend,
Tell me
Can that be all there is?

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog. All the cool kids are doing it, so I had to as well.

Insane Ramblings

I haven't been well. I can't say what is wrong exactly... my paranoid brain says something is poisoning me, but it's probably just my thoughts. I've been feeling like I want to sit in a corner with my arms crossed over my chest, rocking and muttering to myself. Yet my brain is making connections at a rapid-fire rate, creating the most bizarre associations, and bringing me back full circle to the place where I began. I think that by the time I have come through this illness-inside-my-mind, I will be a little better than where I started.

I don't want to think about my family tonight, or what they did to me. I started this blog to talk about my unhealed inner child, I suppose, but right now she is sleeping an exhausted sleep, and I don't want to wake her until she has had enough rest to cope with what comes next.

stuck at three for days and days

When I can't come up with the words, I steal words from someone else.

She says it’s cold outside and she hands me my raincoat
She’s always worried about things like that
She says it’s all gonna end and it might as well be my fault
And she only sleeps when it’s raining
And she screams and her voice is straining

She says baby
It’s 3am I must be lonely
When she says baby
Well I can’t help but be scared of it all sometimes
Says the rain’s gonna wash away I believe it

She’s got a little bit of something, God it’s better than nothing
And in her color portrait world she believes that she’s got it all
She swears the moon don’t hang quite as high as it used to
And she only sleeps when it’s raining
And she screams
and her voice is straining

She says baby
It’s 3am I must be lonely
When she says baby
Well I can’t help but be scared of it all sometimes
Says the rain’s gonna wash away I believe it

She believes that life is made up of all that you’re used to
And the clock on the wall has been stuck at three for days, and days
She thinks that happiness is a mat that sits on her doorway
But outside it’s stopped raining

She says baby
It’s 3am I must be lonely
When she says baby
Well I can’t help but be scared of it all sometimes
Says the rain’s gonna wash away I believe it

Bitter Suite

She was a wallflower at sixteen
She'll be a wallflower at thirty four
Her mother called her beautiful
Her daddy said, "A whore".

The sky was Bible black in Lyon
When I met the Magdalene
She was paralysed in a streetlight
She refused to give her name

And a ring of violet bruises
They were pinned upon her arm.
Two hundred francs for sanctuary and she led me by the hand
To a room of dancing shadows where all the heartache disappears
And from glowing tongues of candles I heard her whisper in my ear
"'J'entend ton coeur"
I can hear your heart

It's getting late, for scribbling and scratching on the paper
Something's gonna give under this pressure
And the cracks are already beginning to show
It's too late
The weekend career girl never boarded the plane
They said this could never happen again
So wrong, so wrong

This time it seems to be another misplaced rendezvous
This time, it's looking like another misplaced rendezvous
With you
The parallel of you, you

On the outskirts of nowhere
On the ringroad to somewhere
On the verge of indecision
I'll always take the roundabout way
Waiting on the rain
For I was born with a habit, from a sign
The habit of a windswept thumb
And the sign of the rain
It's started raining

spew

it's all pouring out of me like vomit. all coming out.

i had a dream last night, a dream about my brother, the one who used me and fucked me and took my innocence away when i was only a little girl.

i dreamed that i was with him and we were both shooting speed again, and tweaking out, gone days and days with no sleep, and he had gone into the psychotic paranoid place that is the only possible end of addiction to meth and i was trying to hold it all together, just like i always do.

he was crazy. we were in the car and he had something he wanted to hide, something that was his precious, like gollum in lord of the rings. he was driving and he was tweaking and the cops stopped us and took the thing away from him and he was insane. just insane.

and next thing, we were in the garage, and he was sitting on the floor, with a shotgun in his mouth and his brains were sprayed all over the wall.

and it was left for me to clean up that mess.

i can't do this. i am losing my mind. i am suffering so. is there anyone out there who understands this hell?

i want to keep on writing, the words i'm typing are the only thin barrier between me and complete insanity, but i want to publish this post too so someone will read it and i will not be alone.

there's more. i'm not even close to finished. hit that publish button, girly, it's just like that goddamn needle sliding into your vein, and ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....

i am going crazy.

drowning

oh my god. my heart is broken. i cannot stop crying. i am such a miserable mess. i am so lonely. so alone. someone please help me. please. help. me.

Moment of Clarity

I have had a moment of clarity that is absolutely stunning.

I have realized that I can do nothing which is even mildly addictive without becoming desperately hooked.

My doctor prescribed me some lovely little tranquilizers a couple of weeks ago. I ran out of them three days ago, and now I am absolutely a mess. A complete and total fucked up, drug withdrawing mess. I don't understand how it could possibly have happened so quickly, but it happened. Again.

All I know is that this has got to stop. I am an addict. A junkie. Not just because of the two weeks on tranqs, but because of all my years of abusing drugs, of dropping one addiction and diving straight into the next one, from smoking joints behind the gym in high school, to shooting up speed in a cheap hotel room a few years back, to taking those sweet little Ativan that the doctor thought might help me to pull myself together not even a month ago.

If I continue down this road I will wind up either dead or insane. It has to stop right here and now.

Shattered Faith

Right now, the thing I am struggling hardest with is a loss of faith.

I've been through so much in my life. I was abused in my younger years, bullied mercilessly throughout my teens, abandoned by my family as an adult. I have lost a child and survived a divorce. I have battled with addiction to many different substances, I have been homeless and without friends, attempted suicide, spent time in a mental hospital more than once. I have been been beaten and broken in nearly every way that a human can be. But through it all, I had a spark inside, I had a belief that there was Someone out there who was looking out for me, and that it all had to happen like this for a reason, and that it would all turn out okay in the end.

And then, it started this past autumn- the creeping, terrifying realization that maybe the world is so fucked up because there is no god at all. Recently this darkness has taken my soul over completely. With world events in the past three months, the destruction inside me has become complete. I cannot feel god anymore. I cannot feel any rhyme or reason anymore. And this is the most painful, frightening, ugly reality I have ever had to live through. This is the worst thing- everything else pales by comparison. This is so big, so deep, that I am being completely consumed and drowned and shattered.

I don't know how I can ever be at peace again. I know that's a crazy thing to say, when I have never really been at peace before. But right now my life is finally stable, and I have every reason in the world to be happy, and for a year or so I was happy, for the first time in my life.

But now I am in Hell. I try to pray, and I feel like nobody is listening. And even worse, I am starting to believe that, when we die, we just stop. There is nothing to look forward to. Literally nothing. And the pain and fear this brings me is worst than my darkest nightmare.

I feel frantic inside. I want to go around shaking people by the shoulders, asking them how they can believe in god, how they can believe in an afterlife, hoping that someone will say something that I have not heard before, that someone will hand me a bit of wisdom or magic that will allow me to believe again. But it's not happening. Nobody can tell me anything new. And I fear that this, finally, is the thing that will break me and leave me completely incoherent and insane.

When you lose your faith, how can you have anything left at all?

Lonely

I have been quiet for a few days, but I have no intention of abandoning this blog. It's just that bringing these memories back to the surface of my mind has hit me much harder than I expected. I am depressed, and I am incredibly lonely.

"Lonely" is not anything new where I am concerned- through most of my life, I've only had one friend at a time, or, rarely, two. At this point in my life, I have none- or at least, none who are not digital. :-) I go out only when I have to, and I move through the world of people exactly like a ghost- people just don't notice me, and when they do, they don't want to see, so they turn away.

I know there are ways to cure this- I often hear people say "Put yourself out there! Go and get involved! Stop expecting people to show up on your doorstep- you have to reach out!". But I don't, and I think I can't. It's too hard and it hurts too much.

I'm getting older. When I looked in the mirror this morning, I could see age lines emerging from my skin- they are "frown lines" more than "smile lines", and that is yet another reason to grieve. Why has happiness passed me by? Why is it that the only time my life is bearable is when I use drugs? I've stopped using drugs entirely now, and I realize that, overall, things are better for me- the highs are gone, but the lows are far more gentle. Still, I wish I could learn to be happy. I wish I could be an inspiration to everyone. But no, not in this lifetime.

Telling the truth

From now on I'll be calling the brother that molested me Nathan. That is not his name, but I need to call him something, in order to make various conversations more clear. I'll call my other brother- the one who did not molest me- Eddie. I change their names, not to protect them, but to protect myself.

A year passed. During that time my mother, Eddie, and I went up North again to spend the summer with my grandparents. We left Nathan behind, since he was 18. My mom wanted him to watch the house.

I didn't tell anyone what Nathan had done to me. It was my little secret...when I'd read something or see something on the news about incest or child molestation, my heart would jump into my throat when I'd think "That happened to me". I wondered often how many of my friends carried around the same secret. I read the statistic "One in four", but I didn't believe it- I thought I was probably the only girl I knew who had ever been through it.

When we got back from the North, we found that Nathan had trashed the house during our absence. Everything that was valuable had disappeared, the place was completely roach-infested, there were holes in the walls. As soon as we got back Nathan stopped staying there- he moved somewhere with his now 13-year-old girlfriend (who I will call Ella). We all knew he was on drugs. At that time I don't think we realized which drug- I don't remember it being spoken of aloud- but nowadays I know that it was methamphetamine.

A school year passed, then it was summer again. I went to church camp for a week with all the other kids my age from my church. It was there, in our little cabin, that I first admitted to one of my peers that I'd been molested. Later, the pastor of my church took me out for a walk, just to have a "one-on-one" as he called it- a counseling session of sorts- this was something he did with each of the youth during camp. During that walk he was trying to convince me that my life was not so bad despite the fact that my parents were divorced. He described his own childhood to me, in an attempt to convince me that his life had been much worse that mine was, and that I shouldn't feel so bad about what I'd been through. He told me about his parent's drinking, their abject poverty, and then said "At one point my brother and sister were even having intercourse with each other".

Upon hearing that I could hold my secret no longer. I said "But Pastor J., that happened to me too!" He stopped and faced me and gently asked for details. I told him that Nathan had molested me for several years, starting when I was eight, but it had been more than a year and a half since he'd touched me.

His next words made my heart sink to my toes: "You know, of course, that I am required by law to report this to the authorities".

I hadn't known- there was no way I would have told him if I had known. I knew what "reporting this to the authorities" meant, and I wanted no part of it. I begged him, pleaded with him, to no avail. He was determined to get "the authorities" involved. Finally, the only thing I could think of to say was "If you report it, I'll say you are lying. I'll deny it ever happened." Still, he told me he'd have to speak to my mother and probably report it anyway.

The day after I returned home from church camp, my mom packed us up and we headed North for our annual visit. As the year before, Eddie came with us and Nathan stayed behind. My mother had not had time to talk to the Pastor, and I knew that, sometime before we returned home, I would have to tell her what Nathan had done.

The idea terrified me completely, but after a few days I worked up the nerve. I called her down to the same basement bedroom where the whole nightmare had begun. I said "I have to tell you something". She said "Well, tell me, then, I'm getting ready to go out, so hurry up!"

I said "You remember, before Nathan started going out with Ella?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, he molested me before that."

"WHAT?!?!?!" My mother looked at me wide- eyed, in total shock.

For some reason I felt that I needed to minimize things as much as possible, so I lied quickly - "We never went all the way, he just used to touch me, and he hasn't done it for a long time, but the thing is that I told Pastor J. and he says he's going to report it."

"WHAT?" my mother said again. "I don't believe this!"

Those words were all I needed to hear. "I don't believe this". Not "I'm so sorry I didn't protect you from him". Not "I love you and everything is going to be okay". Just "I don't believe this."

Then she said "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

I started to cry. I said "I'm afraid Pastor J. will tell and I will have to go live in a foster home. But I told him that if he reported it, I'd say he was lying. But I thought I had better tell you before you found out about from someone else."

"Well, thanks for letting me know," she said sarcastically. "I need to go out now, We'll talk about this more later."

But we didn't. We never spoke of it again.

Too Tired

I had planned to write another long, gut-wreching entry today, but I just don't have it in me, not today. I know I need to- this is my therapy. This is how I plan to heal, because for so many years I've been completely silent about this. I mean, I have told people that my brother molested me, and I have told people that I used to do drugs, but I've never told any details before now. I've never tried to write it down before now, either, because I was too scared that someone might read it, but now I want everyone to read it. I want to get right up in your face and say "Look what happened to me, and how dare you expect me to be polite and quiet about it when the same thing is happening to girls everywhere, right now!"

On the other hand, this blog is completely anonymous, and I plan for it to stay that way, so maybe I'm not as brave as I like to imagine.

More tomorrow, if I have the nerve.

Next

I see that yesterday I got my first comment- from Heroine Girl. That thrilled me to no end, since it was Heroine Girl who inspired me to tell my story in the first place. Thank you, Heroine Girl- you mean so much to me. We are sisters, in a way, even though we have never met.

I didn't intend to arrange this blog chronologically, but other than my entry about my flirtation with crack, it seems to be happening that way. It might not continue like this forever, but let's just get the rest of the molestation story out of the way, then we can go on to other things like drugs and promiscuity and prostitution and all that stuff.

The spring before I turned twelve was a rocky, difficult one for me. As I said before, my parents had split up the previous autumn. During that entire spring, my mom practically forgot we existed. My father had been very strict, so once he was gone we were pretty much allowed to run wild. My mom had far more pressing worries- the divorce, our dire financial situation, her new job. Us kids were the lowest priority on her list, for sure. My mom mourned herself right into a physical breakdown in the end- she collapsed at work one day, and spent two weeks in hospital. Even when she was released she couldn't be bothered to care about anything we did.

I remember several incidents between my brother and I that year, and they were becoming more intense. He would come after me every time my mother left us alone, which was frequently. One afternoon in early summer he had me kneeling on the floor in his bedroom, sucking his cock. He yelled at me when I grazed him with my teeth and I complained that my jaw hurt. He lifted me up by putting his hands under my armpits- in the same way one would lift a toddler. He always lifted me up that way, and it was very painful for a child of my size.

As soon as I was standing he pulled my pants down. He laid down on the bed on his back and tried to get me into a "69" position but I complained that my jaw still hurt, so he had me straddle his crotch, and, for the first time, he penetrated me vaginally. Such terrible pain- I guess I should consider myself lucky that he waited until I was past puberty to try it, but still, for me, it was more painful than being anally raped. He had his dick about halfway in when I gasped and said "I think I hear mom coming home" and pulled away from him, grabbed my shorts and ran to the bathroom.

There was blood everywhere, much more than I usually got with my period. My mom, of course, was not really home, so after a minute or two my brother stuck his head around the bathroom door. "You made me bleed!" I said accusingly. He gave me a funny look and said "No, I didn't". Denial, of course, always denial.

The next words that came out of my mouth changed everything- "You could have gotten me pregnant!" Apparently that sentence hit home for him- he never touched me again after that day.

But that was not the end. Not at all. First, I lived through three weeks of fear, thinking I might be pregnant, and what the hell was I going to do if I was? Since I was a voracious reader, I was familiar with the biology of sex by then- I didn't think he'd cum in me, but I also knew that he could have leaked some sperm into me without actually coming. I spent those weeks in agony, imagining having to tell my mom, thinking that if I was pregnant by my brother, the baby would surely be a deformed monster. Finally my period came- such relief, I could not stop thanking God for saving me from such a fate.

My mother was close with the teenage girl my brother was dating at the time, and a couple of weeks after I lost my virginity to to my brother, his girlfriend told us that he was cheating on her with a 12-year-old girl from the poor side of town. At first we didn't believe it, since it seemed so far-fetched. But then my brother moved out of our house to move in with the 12-year-old and her mother. This was the American South, so it was not at all unheard-of for a mother to try to have her daughter married off at 13 or 14, though the idea was completely shocking to my mother, who had grown up in the North.

I have to stop for now. Later I'll talk about why I was finally forced to tell my mother about what had happened, a year later, and what happened after that.

Just like me

It's funny how most of the blogs that interest me at the moment are using the same template I am. Black. Lots of black.

When I was a teenager I was into black. My mother wanted me to wear pastels- she refused to buy me any black clothes and refused to let me dye my hair. This was just another symptom of the way she wanted to hide the truth about me. She wanted to bury the real me and make me into the sweet, popular baby girl she'd always dreamed of.

I was never what she wanted me to be. I know the first real disappointment she felt in me- after my brother started molesting me, which of course I kept secret until later, I started to get chubby. The idea of me becoming fat was more than my mother could bear, so she made me go on a diet. She took me to a dietician every week for a weigh-in, starting when I was nine and ending when I was eleven. Every bit of food that went on my plate was weighed and measured carefully; I was allowed three-quarters of a cup of breakfast cereal with half-a-cup of skim milk; lunch was a slice of lunchmeat between two thin slices of dry, brown diet bread; for dinner a hamburger with all the grease squeezed out between two paper towels, and two lettuce leaves, but no bun would be allowed.

It's amazing I didn't become anorexic. As it was, my chubbiness went away and I became a pretty, slender 11-year-old, all the more tempting to my horny brother, I suppose. The molestations continued unabated throught those years- he taught me to give him head even though it choked me, he tried to fit his dick in my ass while I knelt on my bed, bleeding, crying and begging him to stop, stop, it hurt too much. Mostly he liked to perform oral on me- I can picture it happening all over the place, in his room, in my room, in the bathroom. But at least he thought I was pretty.

My mother never noticed what was going on. She walked in on us more than once, but we always told her "We're wrestling" and of course she believed us. My brother was her special golden boy and I was a little innocent clone of herself, so there was no need for suspicion.

I was eleven when I got my first period, a few weeks after we moved into the new house, the house that I now think of as a cursed place (thank the gods, it was sold to some other poor loser just two years ago). At Halloween, a few weeks after we moved into that house, my father left my mother for some bimbo he'd met in a bar while on a business trip. My mom receded into a walking, comatose version of her old self- she refused to eat, refused to talk, did very little but cry.

That winter we went to stay with my grandparents- the same ones in whose basement my brother had first begun his attentions. We drove to their place, a thousand miles to the North, in the toppered Datsun pickup that was our only vehicle. That was an incredibly cold and snowy winter, and since the traveling party consisted of my mother, my other brother, my molester brother, and me, us three kids had to rotate spaces in the truck with every stop- two of us in the back at a time, wrapped in sleeping bags and packed like sardines for warmth. I remember my brother shoving his fingers deep into my vagina as the road rolled away below us. I remember him taking my hand to wrap my icy fingers around his huge erection. He must have loved knowing that my mother was only a couple of feet away as he fingered me hard enough to make me whimper. When we stopped I begged my mom to let me sit in front with her but it wasn't time for my turn yet.

For Christmas that year I got a poodle skirt, like had been popular in the 1950's, made of felt. One of my brothers gave me a stuffed animal of the type that came with a kids' meal at a fast food restaurant. My grandparents gave me a full set of The Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis, and escaping into those wonderful books was my salvation that winter.

More later. Oh, so much more. I can't believe how much I still have to tell, and how many details I have skipped over already. But for now, it's time to put my baby to bed, and whisper promises that she will never be hurt as I was.

Chickenshit

Really, I'm just chickenshit. I have too much to tell and I'm afraid. I don't really want to think about this shit. I want to bury it.

Let's start here. My brother was five years older than me. I was eight years old and in the basement bedroom at my grandmother's house, reading a book. I think it was a Reader's Digest Condensed Book with a story about a Vietnamese orphan called Kim. I liked stories about orphans. I often wished that I was one.

My brother came downstairs and he started teasing me about something. I don't remember this part really...I don't remember how we got over to the furthest corner of the basement instead of in the basement bedroom. He said we should play dares, and then he dared me to take off my shorts, and I did. They were my white shorts with the silver rings on the pockets. I remember how it felt to have my shorts off in front of him, I remember how totally naked I felt. I remember the musty smell of the clothes my grandma had stored there. My brother said "I dare you to run all the way around the house without your pants on" and I said no and he said I was a chicken and a baby whale and he wouldn't play with me anymore. I pictured what my grandparents might do if I ran around the house with no pants on, and continued to refuse.

Maybe I should have done it. Maybe if I'd run around the house with no pants on, in front of everyone who was upstairs, maybe that would have nipped my brother's little idea right in the bud, and maybe he would not have continued to molest me regularly for five years after that.

But I didn't do it.

I don't remember everything; it kind of fades in and out. At one point I still had my pants off and his pants were still on and I was sitting on his lap. He was rubbing me around on his lap and it felt kind of good but kind of weird. I didn't know why he was doing it. He didn't really touch me with his hands on that occasion. My mother called us to dinner and I put my shorts back on and went upstairs.

Of course it didn't end there. It never does, does it? I know that the next time my brother came into the basement bedroom he locked the door and I ended up with my pants off again. He wanted to lick me down there. I didn't understand it, not at all, there was nothing in my eight-year-old brain that could account for my brother wanting to put his tongue where I peed from. It felt kind of tickly and sort of scratchy and good. He would look up at me while he was doing it, wanting to see my expression, I guess. .

(As an adult, when I breast-fed my first baby, he looked up from my breast with that exact same expression and I had to look away, I had to fight against seeing my brother's face instead of my son's.)

We almost go caught that time. My dad came down into the basement looking for my brother and I had to hide under the bed until my dad and my brother went away.

I think something similar was happening to my cousin. She was really obsessed with sex for some reason. She was a year older than me- nine- she always wanted to talk about sex, but even though I asked lots of questions about sex she was always giving me her know-it-all grin and saying "YOU know". She told me that her mom's boyfriend liked to make her mother do it in front of her. I thought she was lying but nowadays I know she probably wasn't.

Such innocence. Such broken innocence. That was only the beginning.

Too much too soon

I keep coming back to this blog, I have more to say, words that want to spill out like blood. There is so much that I have kept inside myself, so much I need to share. But I hesitate to tell these stories, I am afraid they'll bring my demons too close to the surface. My most powerful memories are the most painful, they are still white-hot inside me and I'm afraid if I let those words flow they will burn me.

But that's what we're here for, right? Tell the dirty ones, Miss, tell the ones that will shock us the most.

No...Tonight I think I'll keep it somewhat tame. I'll tell you a few tidbits... The stupid shit, like huffing liquid paper in my college dorm room, or sniffing from a bottle of poppers in the back row of my high school English class, or the time another female friend and I walked down our town's most well-known "meat street" while weaning leather miniskirts and high heels. Someone offered us a ride, and we hopped right into his car- he said "How much" and we just laughed like a couple of loons. "No, dude, we're just going down to that biker bar and we needed a lift, my daddy works over there and if we don't show up in ten minutes he'll be out looking for our asses, so pleeease will you take us out there?" Poor guy, he must have been really disappointed to learn that these two young, ripe, pretty hookers were only a couple of 16-year-old schoolkids out looking for a laugh. We were lucky he didn't do anything but take us to where we'd asked to go.

Lucky me, yes, lucky lucky me. I should have been dead or worse. Well, it actually did get worse, a whole lot worse, but not that particular night. That was early days, and we still have far to go.

But for now, I must sleep, dear reader, and if I probe any deeper at this inflamed, pus- dripping part of my memory tonight, sleep will evade me. So maybe tomorrow. Maybe.

Another addiction

Oh, my god, this is like an addiction. It has never occurred to me to do this before- to tell the stories of my past in this way. There isn't a person on this planet who really knows all that I've done. And I want to tell. I want to get it all out, once and for all.

I never was "an addict" in the way most people think of it. I was what they call "a poly-drug abuser". I took anything and everything I could get my hands on. I always used to say that I would never try heroin, but that was a lie...if someone had offered it to me I would have done it without hesitation. I was just like that. I was really goddamned lucky that nobody ever offered it to me.

I started doing drugs when I was 14. I stopped just this past September, 18 years later...well, I didn't stop completely, I guess. I still have a prescription for Xanax and an antidepressant. But I've stopped doing street drugs and I will never go back to that. And I'm not doing any stupid twelve-step bullshit program to get off anything. Some people may be into that shit, but to me the 12-steps and the meetings are just trading one addiction for another. Whatever gets you through the night, Baby. And right now what gets me through the night is my sweet baby girl's smile and the love of my husband and the friends I have made through this little electronic box.

Drugs, then. Which ones have I done? Alcohol, Acid, Methamphetamine, Cocaine, Crack, Ecstasy, all kinds of pain pills, huge amounts of OTC cold and flu remedies (cos, yeah, they'll get you high if you haven't got anything else), Valium and all its cousins, Ketamine, GHB, Shrooms, Ritalin, Nicotine (naturally), DMT, and, of course, lots and lots and LOTS of ganja.

My number one drug of choice was always weed. That might make you laugh, to hear me say that, but it's true. It was the first drug I tried, it was the one I used for the longest. I smoked pot every single damned day for 18 years. I know it's supposedly not addictive, but ask my husband if that's true or not. He'll tell you that I was an everloving bitch from hell when I didn't have weed, that I was insane when I couldn't have a toke. It was the easiest drug to start and the hardest to quit. FOR ME, that is. Most people can handle weed just fine, they don't enter into obsessive love affairs with it, not like I did.

I was always stoned. For most of that time nobody noticed, because they had never seen me not stoned. Still, I kind of wonder who I got away with it for so long...did nobody smell it on me? Did nobody notice the pinhole burns in my clothes even though I'd quit smoking tobacco? I spent a lot of years living the lifestyle of a normal suburban housewife, only I was a normal suburban housewife who smoked more than half an ounce a week, all by herself. I took my pipe with me every time I left the house and never got busted, I guess because I didn't "look the part". Somehow, through all those years of doing all those drugs, I have never been arrested. I came really damn close a couple of times, but I always got away. Knock on fucking wood.

Oh well. I have to go, and when I come back I'm sure I'll have more interesting tales to tell. Weed is boring. Maybe next time I'll talk about speed.

Crack

I remember crack.

I never really liked cocaine in the first place. I'd done it at parties and whatever, but I never understood what the big deal was. I never understood why all these folks seemed to get addicted to it. It didn't keep you high very long- not like speed or acid. Cocaine didn't really alter my consciousness all that much, either- it just made my heart pound a little faster, and I got a little rush, but...eh. I could take it or leave it. Usually I'd take it- because back then I was willing to take anything anyone offered me- but I never wanted or needed it.

But crack. Crack was a lot different. For some reason my good friend John- and yes, I will use his real name, since it is so common that it won't exactly identify him. John offered to smoke a rock with me. The first one was great- what a rush! It was like the whole world was centered around the throbbing pleasure in my head and heart. It made me want to scream "YAAAAAAH!". It made me feel strong, and above all, the pain was gone. I wanted to do some more, of course. More.

The next hit was nice, but nothing like the first one. Still, I wanted more. So I sent John up to the crack house where his dealer was while I walked around the block, anxious, shaking a little from the cold. He came back and we went to the unlocked laundry room behind an apartment complex and smoked it, using a metal tube stolen from a tire pressure gauge, a bit of steel wool stuffed in the end so we wouldn't inhale flaming rocks. We fired it up, we laughed, we were furtive like lovers in that tiny, smelly laundry room- one of us would lean against the door while the other smoked, so nobody would come in and bust us. When it was gone we wanted more. We immediately bought another bag with the last of our money. It was a quick discovery- the next few hits didn't really get us high, they just fed the craving. More more more. And more. We fought over who would scrape the steel wool up and down the inside of the steel pipe just in case there was one more tiny hit in there. There wasn't, so we had to get some more. But we'd spent all our money.

That's the thing about crack. Its main effect on the user is not to get you high. Its main effect is to make you want more. After the third or fourth hit, it doesn't really get you high at all, but the craving keeps getting bigger and bigger the more you smoke. Crack turns you into an animal in a matter of minutes. You'll do anything for it, anything to hear the crackle of it vaporizing, smell its bitter minty chemical smell, taste the numbness in your mouth. Anything at all.

So John suggested that I drop him off on a corner on the seedier part of the gay district so he could turn a trick or two. John was someone who had been my best friend since I was a teenager. I loved him, would have died for him. He was closer to me than family. But I let him off on the corner so that he could prostitute himself to get us some more money for crack.

He turned a trick, we went back to the dealer and got more crack, and went back to the laundry room and smoked it all. And started to do the same goddamn thing all over again...only I had to go home. I had a kid to take care of. So I told him, hey, let's go to my house, we'll smoke a joint, get some sleep, maybe we'll go party again tomorrow. And we did.

That was the first night. And for a while every single night was like that.

My affair with crack lasted exactly two weeks. By the end of the second week I was falling apart, jumpy, paranoid, unable to sleep or eat or do anything. I cared so little about myself that I stopped secreting myself in that laundry room when I wanted a hit. On more than one occasion I found myself smoking crack out of my little makeshift metal pipe while driving down the expressway in my car.

It had to stop, obviously. John was staying with me because he was otherwise homeless, unless he wanted to go back to his parents out in bumfuck. I'd never been introduced to the dealer personally- never gotten the go-ahead to visit him myself. And that meant that, if John was gone, the crack would be gone too. So I said to John, Hey dude, I love you, man, but you gotta go. You just gotta go, because if you don't, we'll both be dead in six months.

I drove him up to Bumfuck myself. We were both on edge, fighting over the stereo, smoking joint after joint to take the edge off. I dropped him off at his dad's and went home and I never smoked crack again. I felt like shit for at least a month. I thought about that sweet rock every day. Sometimes I even drove past the crack house where John got our shit, wondering, wishing, but too afraid that if I went in I'd end up raped or shot. And I had a kid at home, a kid who depended on me. So I stayed off the shit. That was at least eight years ago, maybe nine, I don't know.

This is so cathartic, even though it's just the beginning. I've never told anyone about this before- it was a secret shared between me and John. Most of the people I know would never believe that it was me that did this...not in a million years. But I did, and so much more...but we'll save those memories for later. This is just the first tale- not first chronologically, of course, but the first I've written, just to see if I had the courage to do it. I see now that I do have the courage. In fact, it feels fucking good. So...more later, my dear reader.

Generator

Like a rock,
like a planet,
Like a fucking atom bomb,
I'll remain unperturbed by the joy and the madness
that i encounter everywhere I turn
I've seen it all before
In book and magazines
like a twitch before dying
like a pornographic sea
there's a flower behind the window
there's an ugly laughing man
like a hummingbird in silence
like the blood on the door
it's the generator

oh yeah, oh yeah, like the blood on my door
wash me clean and I will run
until i reach the shore
I've known it all along
like the bone under my skin
like actors in a photograph
like paper in the wind
there's a hammer by the window
there's a knife on the floor
like turbines in darkness
like the blood on my door
it's the generator

I me mine

This journal is for me. I've got lots of freinds across the blogosphere, but there are so many stories from my life that I have not told because of fear, because the current incarnation of me- the shy, quiet housewife and mother- is nothing like the drug-addict, severely disturbed whore that I have been in the past, and probably still am, underneath the facáde.

But it's time for me to stop being afraid of telling these stories. I can be anonymous. No one ever had to know. It's just between you, dear reader, and me.