What if it's true?

The nasty things about myself that I'm afraid might be true are confirmed when someone doesn't return a call, text or doesn't invite me to something.  Laughing at me, criticizing in any way- cut right through my heart and leave me in pieces.  The only thing that's kept me from only attempting suicide twice over all these years is the frail hope that the demon in my brain is wrong about me.  When someone doesn't love me back (perceived by the tiniest shift in energy from that person, usually having nothing to do with me I later find out, they're sick or lost their dog, etc) all those beliefs become my reality and I can't shake the knowledge belief dark stormy cloud of self-disgust that permeates every aspect of my life.

Yesterday Was a Bad Day

Nightmares have been terrorizing my sleep for the past couple months.  I think it's just another outlet for the constant barrage of negative thoughts about myself.  Yesterday in particular was a bad day.  Once again I was wishing for death, begging my friend to put me out of my misery.  He's an amateur chemist and a genius so I'm pretty sure he could cook up something that wouldn't get him in trouble.

During those moments of intense suicidal thoughts, it is a constant flood of intense pain.  It starts in my heart and radiates through my chest, down my abdomen and fades down my legs.  The pain is an eight on an emotional scale from one to ten.

I'd tell you about how my day started, but I can't remember.  I have no idea when I woke up, or if I made my usual coffee.  What I do remember is driving to my therapy appointment and imagining driving my car into each telephone pole.  I thought about what it would feel like to die, imagining in bloody detail my death.  I wanted to open my car door and fall out into oncoming traffic going 55 mph. I wasn't sure they were going as fast as I wanted if they were going to hit me.  I wanted it as awful as possible.

Next, I remember sitting in my therapist's office.  I felt rotten and hating everything she said.  All I could talk about was suicide and how bad I wanted it.  I asked her to help me die.  After about 10 minutes I left.  She called after me, asking me to stay but I just told her to leave me alone.

I remember driving away from the appointment, seriously considering driving to Alabama or anywhere else a long way away.

Hours later, sitting in my dark fifth wheel with all the curtains drawn, I heard a car door down my driveway.  Terrified that it was a bad guy, I called my friend to see if he had maybe decided to surprise me.  He hadn't and the more we spoke the more hysterical I became.

Once again the intense suicidal thoughts flooded my brain.  The pain radiated through mybody and it was all I could think about, the only thought that made me feel better.  Thinking there is a way to stop the pain is the only relief in those moments.  That's when I begged for his help in ending my misery. He listened and showed concern in his voice.  Just as quickly as they came, the suicidal feelings subsided.  My ill brain still knew that he was only speaking to me to be nice, though.  I would not allow myself to feel like he, or anyone, cared about me.

My first two attempts at suicide happened during one of those intense, painful suicidal flood of thoughts and emotions.  Both times, after I swallowed the pills, I felt so relieved to know that the pain would end soon, and I and everyone around me who I thought I tormented, would be free of my terribleness.  

Today I'm great.  Go figure that one out... please?  Because I have no idea why I'm better.  My meds are the same.  I took the same fish oil, multivitamin and biotin I take every morning.  I had the same coffee.  I took a shower.  Now that I think about it, I think it's been a week and a half since I last showered.  When I'm in a depression, I am in a complete fog of thoughts and I lose all sense of time.  I had no idea it had been that long.  I knew I was gross but didn't feel I deserved to be clean.  It's weird.

One more thing, I figured out another way to describe how depression feels to me:  First a constant flood of bad thoughts about myself.  Remember bad things I have done, bad things done to me, feeling bad about thinking about myself feeling bad, etc.  Then I search for evidence that these horrible thoughts may be true.  I take situations and twist everything so that I'm somehow bad and then feel a flood of pain that the bad thoughts are true, and that I'm horrible.  All while feeling bad for thinking about myself so much.  It sucks.

I'm sitting by a fire again.  My very own fire, built by yours truely.  I'm not quite as happy as last time.

My sister graduated with a top-notch degree today.  I'm so proud of her.  She's overcome dyslexia and her childhood.  She's gone from needing help to giving the help.

My issue is seeing her family.  They used to be my family, a long time ago.  I was 10 when her dad, who I knew as my dad, left me.  Our mom left him because he was terrorizing me.  One of the nicer things he said was telling my mom she can't even stand "the Bitch"... me.

I never stopped loving him.  Not when he took my sister to Disneyland a couple months after the divorce, ignoring me when he picked her up for the trip.  Not when he ignored the stranger whom had just touched my boobs.  Not when he slammed my face into the bottom of the tub because I didn't clean it well enough. And I didn't stop loving him years later, when he hung himself.

When he left me, so did his family.  They went on the trip to Disneyland, too.  Did anyone even ask about me?  Were my cousins looking for me or did they forget about me, too?

Seeing them today, I'd say I was completely forgotten.  That means both of my dad's, real and the one that felt real, are gone, leaving behind family that abandoned me, too.

So while I'm sitting by a lovely fire on a nice night, I'm not feeling very warm.

Sittin by the Side of the Fire, Watching the Moon Pass Right By

I'm in a really good spot right now, both literally and figuratively speaking.   I'm sitting by a campfire on a clear, tepid night with my sweet dog laying faithfully at my feet.

I'm really having the time of my life right now.  I can't believe it was a month ago I was sitting in a psych ward tying a sheet around my neck because all I could think about was how horribly rotten of a person I am, but I'm not a horrible person at all.  I'm just a person.  I wish my mental illness knew that.  She's obsessed with the badness of me to the point I'd call it a form of narcissism.  With as much as she thinks about me (us), you'd think I was the president of the U.S., although that title has lost its value with the last election.  Now I'm not so sure I want to be compared to that baffoon. 

I'm camping with my dog and myself, and I have to tell you, I'm *loving* it.  I have everything set up perfectly. I have nice camping gear that's organized.  My dog is an absolute sweet heart.  My fire is amazing.  The weather couldn't be any better.   It's just cool enough that it feels good on my back with the fire up front.  The bugs weren't even bad for no more than a few minutes.  Note to self: buy skin so soft.

It's quiet with nothing but the crackle of the fire, grasshoppers chirping and the buzz of an airplane, with an occasional rustle from the one neighbor I sort of have, who cooked the yummiest smelling dinner ever.  It smelled almost as good as my birthday dinner, which was the best food I've every had. Ever. Even the caviar was good, who knew, besides the 1%?

Co-Parenting My Daughter with a Child

My daughter has been at her dad's for three weeks now.  Our custody arrangement states that I have her every weekend and school break, and since he has moved to Washington, this will happen soon.  For the moment I am stuck in Alaska waiting for the settlement check from suing my creepy therapist.

When my daughter visited last Christmas, she showed me a cavity on her molar.  The cavity was big enough that I could easily see it with my naked eye and I am supposed to wear glasses. Horrified, I told her dad who said she had been to the dentist and there were no problems.  She could not remember the last time she had seen the dentist, but OK, not worth a fight as long as he gets her there now.

I reminded him twice in the next six months.  Always there was an excuse: not enough time, he had to work, the dentist couldn't get her in, insurance problems.  Since I was in Washington and they were in Arizona, I couldn't take her myself and felt helpless.  I offered to make calls if he'd tell me what days he could take her but he never knew his schedule.  How he managed to get anywhere on time must have been a miracle.

In April, he decided to move to Washington with his fiance.  I was overjoyed that all the begging I had done paid off.  It killed me when he moved to Arizona to be near his mom.  I had always feared that would happen. Sure enough, when his second wife was tired of being the sole bread winner he up and left.  He bragged to me he was leaving her with the holes he had punched in the walls.  She later told me the apartment charged her $3000 in drywall repairs.

His fiance began her new job May 1st in Olympia.  My daughter stayed with his fiance's mom in Arizona so she could finish the school year.  I was still asking for someone to take her to the dentist but was always told it wasn't in the schedule.  During that month I was only able to speak to my daughter three times.  I called and called, but no one ever answered the phone.  It was gut wrenching, especially since he said this woman was a "bitch".

My daughter finished her school year and met me in Alaska for the summer. When she opened her mouth to show me her cavity my heart broke.  Her cavity had gotten worse because her father couldn't make time to take her to the dentist. Turns out she had five cavities. The one I could see was so deep they needed an extra appointment to finish the filling.  I was livid!!!  I told him that she is his first priority and questioned how he could let her teeth rot for six months, knowing there was a problem.  He responded by accusing me of just trying to piss him off.  He generally thinks everything is about him.

When he was talking about moving to Washington I offered to babysit for him and his fiance.  I was worried that they would move somewhere else closer to family since there are four kids between them.  Plus any extra time I get with my daughter is worth it.  His response was I was "just trying to get close to" him, which came out of nowhere. There's never flirting or talking about anything besides our daughter but that's how he thinks.

Fast forward to today, mid-September.  My daughter has been home with him for three weeks.  A week ago, after me asking her daily about brushing her teeth, she finally said "Sorry mom, I don't have a toothbrush here."  I was shocked but didn't want to upset her, so I nonchalantly repeated what she said.  And I had heard her correctly.  I asked her if anyone had helped her unpack her suitcase because there was a toothbrush in the small pouch.  She said no one had helped her and she couldn't find it.  I told her to try using a washcloth to wipe her teeth.  She said the washcloths were for the little boy's baths and that her bath towel was too dirty.  She said she had been using her finger and toothpaste.

Even more livid than I had been about her cavities, I mailed her a toothbrush the next day, with a tracking number.  I have asked her every day this week if she got her package and every day she says no, they didn't check the mail.  Tonight, I heard her dad snap at her that he wasn't getting the mail tonight.  I looked at the street view of their home on Google Maps, and the mailbox is right across the damn street.  I hadn't mentioned the toothbrush issue to him because I didn't want him to get angry with her for telling me.  After seeing where the mailbox was, I texted him and asked him to check the mail.  His response?  That she had lied and really did have a toothbrush there.  She had only used her finger one night when she was stalling to go to bed.  His story does not make any sense.  She had nothing to gain by lying about the toothbrush and in fact, felt bad about it.

It's a delicate balance between fighting him and keeping a working relationship.  Kids do lie sometimes.  I know there is a toothbrush in the mailbox that she will get soon.  I would love to call Child Protective Services just so she could brush her teeth but they don't have funding for small issues.  Unfortunately, with my mental illness always lurking in the shadows, I have to appreciate what her father does do correctly and fight him when it is really necessary.

For Me, Suicide is Always on the Table

A note to my future self and anyone else that feels the world would be better without them:

Please give yourself at least 24 hours to think about it, because you are wrong, and there's a small part of you that knows your wrong.  Feelings alone will not kill you but they will definitely cloud your judgement.

This post may be triggering.  The suicide hotline is 1.800.273.8255, please call if you want to talk.

I'm sharing my story in case it might help someone feel less alone. 

 

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I remember my first suicide ideation like it happened yesterday.  It was May 1991.  I was about to turn 10 years old and I was more than ready to end it all.  I had had enough of living with my alcoholic parents who hated me.  I loved them more than anything but just couldn't stomach one more insult, one more painful reminder that I wasn't wanted.

There were four bars in our little town and I knew each of their phone numbers by heart.  My parents hated me so much that they were never home.  Instead they'd go out to the bars most nights.  I would wait until I couldn't stand it and then start calling, usually around midnight.  The bartenders would usually put my mom on the phone but sometimes they'd lie for her.  That was the worst.  My heart would be pounding.  Not only was it dark outside but I was home alone with my little sister.

    "Hey JoDee!!" I'd hear the bartender shout over the music, "phone's for ya". "Huh? Ugh, tell her I'm not here" my mom would slur back. "Haven't seen her" they'd casually tell a terrified kid looking for their mom.

When they made it home they'd be completely trashed.  For as poor as we were I have no idea how they afforded their booze.  Not only did they drink at bars but the fridge was perpetually stocked with beer and boxed wine, the cupboard with vodka.  If they didn't pass out they'd end up in a huge, violent fight.  I would try to get them to stop, then I'd call 911.

So when my birthday was nearing I couldn't fathom why I should stick around.  My life was absolute Hell.  I would do chores until the drama started.  Patiently waiting for the alcohol to kick in and hate to emanate from my step-dad, Mike.  He hated my guts and could never control that intense feeling from coming out in every moment I was in his presence.  My mom was a little better, she'd at least make sure I was fed dinner. But she couldn't contain her disdain for me. I ruined her childhood and I was a pain in the ass. I had been colichy, bit her toe once really hard and was too smart for my own good. I constantly had her on her toes which she really didn't appreciate.

My plan had been to shoot myself in the head on my 10th birthday. The pistol I was going to use was kept in the hall closet with ammunition. I wrote my suicide note that morning before school. I said goodbye to my little sister. I loved her to death but knew she, like the rest of the world, would be better off without a bad person like me.

When I arrived home from school Mike was already there. He got off work early that day.  I couldn't believe it, he was never home early. I took it as a sign that I shouldn't kill myself. So I didn't until October 2005.

It's not that I didn't think about suicide after my first botched attempt. I would find myself entertaining the idea often. I felt it every time I was banished to my room for the day. Doesn't sound so bad, and it wouldn't have been, but I could overhear from my room all the nasty comments my parents made about me. It's tough to be criticized. It's excruciating when it comes from those that are supposed to love you. The thought that constantly crossed my mind was "If my mom doesn't love me, who will?". I didn't have an answer but I knew it certainly wasn't me.

Four years later I attended homecoming with my new boyfriend, Jacob. He was a junior that drove his own car and offered me a ride to school.  One morning he brought a dozen roses with him and asked me to the dance. I ecstatically said yes, trying to conceal how lucky I felt to carry roses with me to school that day.

I brought my homecoming pictures with me to visit my family three hours South.  Dad loved them but when I asked if I could take them to my cousin's place my dad said no. He was adamant that I not see him. My cousin had been in a lot of trouble lately and I felt that he needed his family to support him but dad disagreed.

After dad left my grandma gave me a ride to my cousin's house anyway.  I showed my cousin my Homecoming pictures, excited to show him my new boyfriend. I brought my new Alannis Morrisette CD with me as well, not realizing it would be the soundtrack of my rape, my first sexual experience.

I was horribly ashamed.  I didn't speak more than a few words to anyone until I saw Jacob two days later.  Being the upstanding and responsible person he is, Jacob dragged me to the counselor's office.  I was then sent to the police station for a report and the hospital to have my genitals probed with a magnifying glass by a group of nurses.  The shame seemed to never end.

My grandparents were notified and made the decision to never tell my dad what happened. To say I felt horrible would be a huge understatement. Not only did I disobey my dad, but my cousin, who he already had issues with, raped me while I disobeyed him. It was a double whammy.

The only time I ventured South during the next year was for the deposition. My grandparents told everyone they were going to the beach so no one would know I was in town. I felt like a shameful secret.

By the time a year had rolled by, I was feeling pretty suicidal. I missed everyone, especially my Dad. I had a hard time talking to him, the shame was overwhelming. I couldn't tell him he had been right, that I made a huge mistake and that I was sorry. We knew he'd murder my cousin.

Then the unthinkable happened.  On October 26th, 1996, at 10:41pm, my dad was in a drunk driving accident. He had been out with a coworker that had given him a bad deal. This night was supposed to make it up to my Dad. My step mom, 8.5 months pregnant, answered the door to the frantic neighbor. He was looking for my dad to help with the accident that just happened across the street. No one realized it was dad until they saw him lying on the ground. He was ejected from the car and died instantly.  

His viewing is when I realized I couldn't commit suicide.  I not only felt the raw, gut-wrenching pain of losing a parent, but I saw the pain everyone else was experiencing as well. I knew then that I had to stick it out. Even if it still meant living with parents that hate me.

Until October of 2005, suicide had increasingly felt like the only way to end my emotional turmoil and the wreckage that was my life. Unbeknownst to me I had Borderline Personality Disorder. I was overly emotional, impulsive and could switch between love and hate in a heart beat. As relationships fell out around me I felt more and more isolated, alone and ashamed. My behavior was always the cause of my problems. I had usually lost my temper at someone, raising my voice and saying mean things that I didn't mean. Nothing fizzles out friendship more than mean, hurtful comments yelled across a room.

Then an Oprah episode came on. I was huddled in the corner of my closet under blankets, positioned so I could still see the TV. My dog, Abby, was by my side with her face gently pressed into my leg to comfort me. Faith Hill was the topic. She spoke about her life which of course sounded amazing. What happened inside me though was not jealousy or even envy. It was the realization that I could never and would never feel true happiness. Looking at the facts, my history with others and the chaos that surrounded me, I knew that I couldn't be happy and I just gave up.  

I decided I needed to save the world from my horribleness so I looked up the dosage on my fiance's sleep medication. I made sure I took enough and went to bed, thinking how incredibly easy it was to swallow a handful of pills. As I drifted off I felt relieved to escape my feelings.  I had been drowning in sorrow and heart ache knowing that I was not good enough for anything. I hadn't been able to maintain success, everything always ended in shambles. I thought I took care of the problem.

I woke up two hours later because I had to pee. I will never forget the terrible, horrendous feeling. My body was dying and I could feel it happening. Every inch of my skin and my organs were screaming in agony. I fell out of bed and my fiance noticed something was wrong. I told him about the pills and he lost his shit.  All he could keep asking is "Did you really take those pills?!?". Since I couldn't speak it was really annoying that he kept asking the question, over and over.  

When we got to the hospital, I fell out of the car and stumbled into the Emergency Room.  The lady behind the counter looked horrified as she called for a wheel chair as I fell to the ground again.

My next memory is of me on the exam table, with the doctor inserting a catheter and me screaming. I was convulsing and dying.

The next morning I woke up in ICU. I had two plastic chest paddles stuck to my chest, ready to go off in case my heart stopped. Apparently my research had paid off and I took a huge dose of those pills. The college I went to sent a Psychology student to come talk to me and evaluate my mental health. I must have passed with flying colors because the hospital released me that day, with no follow up appointments made.  

There was another attempt in October of 2011 after a year-long addiction to Spice.  Turns out though that antidepressants don't do much when used to OD.

So it's been a few years with no real attempts but a lot of ideation. I just can't seem to pull it off the table, which frightens the Hell out of the part of me that is sane. It might be a small part, but it is definitely alive. When I read the statistic that 10% of Borderlines successfully commit suicide I scream inside. I don't want to die. The problem is that I sometimes know that my loved ones would be better off with out the burden of putting up with me. Of course, I am wrong when that goes through my head but it is right to me at the time.

A note to my future self:  

If you are thinking about suicide, please give yourself at least 24 hours to mull it over.

Even though you might think you're right about this doesn't mean you can't talk it out with someone in the meantime. You're worth that, every single person is worth a conversation.  1.800.273.8255 to talk it out.

  

Q: What do BiPolar, Cocaine and Sex have in Common? A: Me

My parents were the hot drop-outs of high school.  Only 17 when she married my dad, my mom had no idea what she was in for.  On one memorable day, while pregnant with me, she had to hitchhike home from work because dad had her car out with another woman.  Yeah, he was a dick.  One of those super hot, sexy men that think they can treat women however they want.  Not cool.

I was born a year later, breech, emergency c-section and with displaced hips.  I was in a hip brace for the first few months of my life.  I was colicky, constantly testing mom's patience.  Mom loves to tell the story about when I bit the tip of her big toe and would not let go.  Mom was dancing all over the place trying to get me off.  Apparently I thought it was hilarious and hung on tighter.  Poor thing, she still loved me after that.

Dad would yell and lose his temper over the smallest little thing.  It would scare my mom, especially after I was in the picture.

Not surprisingly, mom left my dad for his best friend, Dave.  They ran away to Alaska together, with me in tow.  Dad made an effort to get her back, but mom had had enough.  Plus, she'd gotten rid of Dave and had met My Mikey, as I called him.  He was what I thought was a really cool dude.  Granted, I was 2 at the time and his bipolar hadn't yet surfaced.  Mom fell in love with My Mikey.

Somewhere along the line I started calling him dad.  It didn't help the cause that we lived in Barrow, AK.  A really long way from my real dad, who I didn't see for a few years.  When I eventually did, it was really awkward.  I remember the pictures they took that day.  He had his arm around my waist and I was so uncomfortable.  You can see the look on my face in this pic:

While in Barrow, mom and dad were busy hosting the town's hottest coke parties.  They even ventured into smuggling, but that was pretty much a one-time thing.  I was at these parties with my own play-coke.  After using the eraser for my chalkboard I'd push the white chalk dust into the corner.  No surprise I later discovered how much I enjoyed the real stuff, wishing my parents still had their discounts so I could get a cheap hook-up.

Apparently at one point the neighbor girl decided that I would be her lesbian lover.  She taught me the art of oral sex and I was a pro by the time I was 3.  We'd hide in my closet or her room, both of our parents completely oblivious to the molestation occurring right under their noses.  I loved sex even then and would beg her to go down on me if she wasn't in the mood.  Another glimpse into my future as I am still begging my boyfriends for sex when they're not in the mood.

My parents would fight.  A lot.  After everyone went home or passed out, my parents would be ripping each others' hair out or strangling each other.  To say I was terrified when they fought would be a major understatement.  Helplessly I'd watch Mike pin my mom on the ground, hitting and choking her until she could get him off or the cops came.  I learned how to call 911 by the time I was 4 because I often had to call them to break up my parents' fights.  The police were my heroes.

That is until they murdered my mentally ill cousin.  Right in front of his grandma, who had called the police because he was upset.  And mentally ill.  Who else should she have called??  Who would have thought they would shoot him, just because he is standing in front of his car, with a closed pocket knife in his hand?   They are forever haunted by the fact that his grandma unknowingly called his murderer to the house.

Anyway, back to the early years.  We moved from Barrow, the land of whaling, walruses and polar bears, to Issaquah, a small suburb of Seattle.  The coke stopped, but drinking and chain smoking continued.  Fighting increased until a divorce finally happened, which was a welcome relief from the craziness that had become Mike.  He would swing from manic and financing $60,000 trucks to so depressed that he took three bullets out for the gun: one for him, my mom and myself.  I was happy about the divorce, despite the fact that mom had reconnected with Dave.  He moved right in and was such a pain.  Luckily their renewed romance didn't last long and he moved right back out.

Unfortunately, mom decided to end it all while home alone with me.  She OD'd on a bunch of pills.  Her best friend, Karen, happened to call and heard in mom's voice that something wasn't right.  By the time Karen stopped by the house my mom was passed out in the living room.  I was playing alone in my room, as usual.  Karen immediately called 911.  I was terrified when I heard the EMTs from my room.  When I came out to see what was happening they were hunched over her listless body.   After they took her away on a stretcher, Karen took me to Mike's house that night.

A couple night's later, over the weekend, Mike took my sister and I to Karen's house to hang out.  My sister and I had been watching movies in the back bedroom.  When we needed to change the movie I went into the living room and I suddenly froze in disbelief.  My step dad was laying on his back and Karen was hunched over him, her head bobbing up and down.  I knew what I  saw was very bad so I turned and went back to the bedroom.  My mind was reeling- my mom had just attempted suicide and her husband and best friend were having sex, which I just walked in on.

My Story

My parents were the hot drop-outs of high school.  Only 17 when she married my dad, my mom had no idea what she was in for.  She had to hitchhike home from work while pregnant with me because dad had her car out with another woman.  Yeah, he was kind of a dick.  One of those super hot, sexy men that think they can pretty much treat women how they want.  Not cool.

I was born a year later, breech, emergency c-section and with displaced hips.  I was in a hip brace for the first few months of my life.  I was colichy, testing mom's patience.  She loves to tell the story about when I bit the tip of her big toe and would not let go.  She says she was dancing all over the place trying to get me off.  Apparently I thought it was hilarious and hung on tighter.  Poor thing, she still loved me after that.

Dad would yell and lose his temper over the smallest little thing.  It would scare my mom, especially after I was in the picture.

Not surprisingly, mom left my dad for his best friend, Dave.  They ran away to Alaska together, with me in tow.  Dad made an effort to get her back, but mom had had enough.  Plus, she'd gotten rid of Dave and had met My Mikey, as I called him.  He was what I thought was a really cool dude.  Granted, I was 2 at the time and his bipolar hadn't yet surfaced.  Mom fell in love with him.

Somewhere along the line I started calling him dad.  It didn't help the cause that we lived in Barrow, AK.  A really long way from my real dad, who I didn't see for a few years.  When I eventually did, it was really awkward.  I remember the pictures they took that day.  He had his arm around my waist and I was so uncomfortable.

While in Barrow, mom and dad were busy hosting the town's hottest coke parties.  They even ventured into smuggling, but that was pretty much a one-time thing.  I was at these parties with my own play-coke.  I was sitting on a family friend's lap with my chalkboard.  As I gently erased the chalk into the corner, he asked me what I was doing, to which I replied "I'm saving my coke for later", referring to the chalkboard dust.  This was my foundation.

Then neighbor girl decided that I would be her lesbian lover.  She taught me the art of oral sex and I was a pro by the time I was 3.  We'd hide in my closet or her room, both of our parents completely oblivious to the molestation occurring right under their noses.

My parents would fight.  A lot.  After everyone went home or passed out, my parents would be ripping each others' hair out or strangling each other.  I learned how to call 9-1-1 by the time I was 4 because I often had to call them to break up my parents' fights.  The police were my heros.

That is until they murdered my mentally ill cousin.  Right in front of his grandma, who had called the police because he was upset.  And mentally ill.  Who else should she have called??  Who would have thought they would shoot him, just because he is standing in front of his car, with a closed pocket knife in his hand?  Seriously, that pocket knife, which was closed, cost my 21 year old cousin his life.  And ruined the rest of his mom and grandma's life.  They are forever haunted by the fact that his grandma unknowingly called his murderer to the house.

Anyway, back to the early years.  We moved from Barrow, the land of whaling, walruses and polar bears; to the small suburb of Seattle: Issaquah.  The coke stopped, but drinking and chain smoking continued.  Fighting increased until a divorce finally happened, which was a welcome relief from the craziness that had become Mike.  He would swing from manic and financing $60,000 trucks to so depressed that he took three bullets out for the gun: one for him, my mom and myself.  Yeah, I was happy about the divorce, despite the fact that mom had reconnected with Dave.  He moved right in and was such a pain.  Luckily he lasted about as long as he did the first time.

Unfortunately, mom decided to end it all while home alone with me.  She OD'd on a bunch of pills.  Her friend happened to call and heard something wasn't right.  When she stopped by the house my mom was passed out in the living room.  I was playing alone in my room, as usual.  Karen immediately called 911.  I was terrified as they took my unconscious mom out on a stretcher.  Karen took me to Mike's house that night.

A couple night's later, over the weekend, Mike took my sister and I to Karen's house to hang out.  My sister and I had been watching movies in the back bedroom.  When we needed to change the movie I went into the living room.  I suddenly froze in disbelief.  My step dad was laying on his back and Karen was hunched over him, her head bobbing up and down.  I knew what I  saw was very bad so I turned and went back to the bedroom.  My mind was reeling- my mom had just attempted suicide and her husband and best friend were having sex, which I just walked in on.

Cocaine, Oral Sex and How It All Began

My story begins on May 22, 1981.  That's the day my mom delivered me in dramatic fashion via emergency C-section.  She ran off with his best friend after a brief stint with my troubled father.  They left California, with me in tow, and headed back to Vancouver, Washington.  The love between them ran out quickly.  Mom headed to Barrow Alaska, leaving me with my grandparents.  She got a job and met My Mikey, as I used to call him.

My Mikey and mom fell in love over raging coke parties.  This was the 80's and they were living it up, enjoying huge wages from the pipeline deal.  I remember sitting on a lap with my chalkboard, telling my mom's friend about 'my coke', the dust from the chalkboard.  I watched everyone else snort line after line and figured I'd play along.

Inevitably the party would end, guests would leave and huge fights between my parents always seemed to happen.  Dishes thrown against walls and yelling were a part of our daily routine.  The fights would turn violent with hitting and kicking, shoving and strangling.  No one else would be there to stop them and I was only potty training.  Sometimes I was so terrified that my screaming would stop the fight, but usually they'd just wear each other out.

When I was three we moved into an apartment complex.  That's the first time I had sex.  Well, oral sex and with an older girl, not an adult.  But I was hooked.  I couldn't believe how good it felt, and I was so desperate for anyone to love me.  My parents were very neglectful, always either wasted or hungover.  I doubted, even as a toddler, if they even liked me. My love affair went on for the year she lived down the hall.

After two years, we left Barrow for Seattle. I'm not sure when, but My Mikey became Dad in Barrow.  I only saw my real dad once during the 4 years I lived up there and boy, are those some awkward family photos.  I didn't know my father until some years later. Turns out, Dad had a mental illness that would gravely effect our lives: Bipolar Type I.  His symptoms began shortly after the wedding and only progressed.

When he was depressed, he would suck all of the energy out of the room.  One day he grabbed a gun and three bullets. He told mom there was a bullet for each of us, that he couldn't take it anymore.  Obviously she talked him down but scary!  When he was manic, he was even more crazy.  He'd talk really fast and excitedly, his eyes would get larger with a slight bulge and dart around.  One day he drove home with a brand new truck that mom had no idea about.  We were living paycheck to paycheck and he financed $56k.  When mom made him return it to the dealership they refused to cancel the contract, costing my parents $8k.

My parents met new friends in Washington, leaving their coke days in Alaska.  The partying never stopped, and neither did the fighting.  At least once a month I would have to call the police to come break up a fight.  My parents were belligerent and mean, exacerbated when they drank.

One night, while the adults drank themselves into oblivion in the kitchen, I laid on the living room floor watching TV.  Bored and lonely, I ventured into the kitchen.  Mom stumbled over to me, slurring "You're going to try a cigarette."  I was 8 years old and begged her not to put it in my mouth. It stunk so bad, ugh!! I hated their chain smoking in our little house and begged them to stop often.  She didn't hesitate, and over the meek protests of her party buddies, she pushed the lit cigarette between my lips.  I coughed and gagged, repulsed by the hot stench coming from my mouth.  Horrified and sick, I ran to the bathroom to rinse my mouth out, once again feeling the deep void of my mother's love.

When I was about 12 mom reconnected with Dave, my real father's best friend.  She promptly filed for divorce from Dad, moving in with Dave and taking us kids.  That lasted until she tried to OD on pills while home alone with me.  Her friend just happened to call and notice something wrong.  That's the night the paramedics took her to the hospital to have her stomach pumped.

While mom was in the hospital, I lived with Dad. I walked in on him and mom's friend, the same one that called the paramedics, having sex during mom's hospital stay.  They were too busy to notice me (thank you for that).

Dad was incredibly mean and hateful towards me, which was nothing new.  Mom says that's the biggest reason why she left Mike, because he was that evil towards me.  I couldn't do anything right, ever.  One day he decided I didn't clean the tub well enough.  He slammed my face into the bottom of the tub and kicked down my bedroom door.  He told me to grab my things and drove me to mom's new apartment.  I was dumped like a piece of garbage on the sidewalk and felt worth as much.

Another day, while at the lake with Dad and my sister, a strange older man groped my recently developed breasts.  I was in the water up to my chest and he wanted me to help his little girl swim.  I felt his huge hands squeeze my breasts, and not just once.  I was so shocked and confused, thinking I did something wrong.  I quickly told Dad but he didn't do a thing.  The man just yards from us, getting away with molestation.  A few years later, I saw that sick man on Unsolved Mysteries.  He was on the run after raping his daughter.

During middle school, I went to Barrow Alaska to work for the summers.  I lied about my age so I could work in a restaurant.  It was right on the water, so when the ice pack came in I could see wild polar bears hunting.  I watched my sister in an Inupiaq blanket toss in celebration of harpooning a whale.  I rode quads and put up with my crazy grandma.  She loved to yank me around the living room by my hair when she was frustrated.  I masturbated as much as possible to make my time there bearable. By the time high school came, I had a burned-up clit and the excitement of a gold-digger getting the diamond of her dreams.

 

                                                                         

Spice

At someone's suggestion, I tried spice.  At the time I had been coughing up black phlegm every time I tried to smoke weed.  This was before Obamacare, or The Affordable Care Act, made it possible for me to go to a doctor.  Spice was 'legal weed' that was cheaper and didn't make me cough at all.  That was the doorway to Hell.  The high from some spice brands was so strong, I would literally lose touch with reality and it was horrible.  But as soon as I would come down from spice I craved more.  I couldn't sleep throughout the night without waking to smoke a bowl of spice.  Even though I hated the high, I would always come back for more.  Even after I had pawned and lost an engagement ring I saved for my daughter from her father. Along with my laptop, jewelry, car repossessed, evicted from apartment.  I failed to come in to work for the last time in my boss' eyes.  When she told me to come in, I was already high and could not have gone in.  I lost my job, too.

         

 I tried to go to rehab. Since I had Kaiser insurance, I was a cash cow for this little house in St. Helens.  While they printed a nice schedule, they rarely followed it.  Meeting with counselors were 30 minutes a week.  That's it.  To make it even better, I left after getting into a screaming match with the executive director.  He told me that I had a strange way of communicating with people and that my issues have nothing to do with addiction.  I lost it on him, telling him he has no idea what it's like to be in my shoes. I stormed out of the facility with my suitcase in tow behind.  

There I was, walking down the street, without a cell phone or any money to call anyone.  I walked far enough that I found a fire station that thankfully let me call my sweet grandparents, who came and got me.  

I made it 28 days sober before my boyfriend found a full bag of spice in the closet.  We were just going to smoke the bag, but it didn't stop.  Not until I lost everything.  I was planning on moving into a tent in the woods but my mom objected.  She moved me to her property, where I lived in a tool shed.  An insulated and carpeted and very cool tool shed.  Moving away from the environment allowed me to get over my addiction.  My addiction was bad enough that we didn't eat for days, not because we weren't hungry, but because we spent every last penny on spice.