Recently, my 11 year old son explained to me how he remembers things: he keeps "file cabinets" in his head, labeled under various events or things, and visits those file cabinets whenever he needs to. Besides constantly amazing me, he had a point. Our memories, special events, education, life events and whatever else is important is neatly filed away in the file cabinets of our complicated brains to reference anytime we need to. Some of us forget where we kept shit and it takes years to find it, but it never goes away, it's always there. Waiting.
I am repetitive by nature, and much to my dismay and others around me, my memory has only gotten worse over the years, mostly due to chemical influence. So if I ever tell you a story for the billionth time, please have patience. I promise you'll still love me. Maybe. But the whole file cabinet theory reminded me of the years I suppressed my genetically-given "gifts" (my Mom would probably say God-given, and that's cool, but I prefer to think of it as the trickle-down DNA, talent-by-injection method) and had to dig pretty deep to find out what they were and rediscover the true me. Though my self-consciousness does not usually allow me to say "gifts" or "talents"; deeply woven negativity can take a lifetime to break. I prefer to see them as my unique way of expressing the goop that takes up my big brain. Big brain as in All The Crap Up There, not big brain as in highly intelligent. I'm not a dumbass, but I'm no genius either. I just need outlets to manage the goop, that's all.
So, I've probably said this before, but creative inspiration for me usually happens when I'm about to go to sleep. It's annoying as hell but I figure it's payback for suppressing it chemically for so long. Karma is a bitch my friends, and the cosmic irony is just too hilarious to stay annoyed. At least I get the inspiration; if not, I wouldn't be sitting here or doing everything else that I do as an "artist". Anyhoo, this brings me to my next sub-topic, poetry. Most who know me have heard me say, probably a dozen or more times (repetitive, remember?), how I pretty much loathe poetry. Save for the poetry of songs and Edgar Allan Poe (duh, of course), it just isn't my cup of tea. However, about 2 years ago, I starting getting what I call creative "flashes" of poetry in my mind that just ate at me until I have to get it down on paper, or here, as it may be. Why? I have no clue. But when something picks at my brain and I can't sleep, I have to release it, whether it's poetry, just a regular blog, or my art. I don't know if it's good, or even somewhat decent, I just get it out. The chips just fall where they may. I release it to the world, and then you can be the judge. But more importantly, I release it from one of my dusty file cabinets, usually labeled either "suffering" or "randomness". So without further ado, here is the latest goop that oozed from my brain last night at midnight. It is untitled. Enjoy...or not.
A river of pain runs through these holes
In my heart and my soul -
Running crimson down blackened stones,
Staining trails of tortured time; a well-worn path
To the prison in my mind.
I am only a number here;
Scarlet-lettered skin scorched by peers.
The ashes of my dreams scattered -
Smeared as if they didn't matter.
What they didn't ask or want to know
Is my beauty as a whole.
But a blind eye will crucify;
Left alone in Hell to remain
Until all my redemption drains
Through these holes of pain.
AJW 11/6/11
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Until You've Walked A Mile
Under a bridge huddled close
Ice cold from fingers to toes
Watching strangers pass him by
Fighting off the urge to cry.
She sits on the bus next to you
Wondering if that some day soon
She'll have the strength to make a stand
Against her boyfriend's brutal hand.
The child who sits all alone
Left to play on his own
All he wants is just one friend
And all the constant bullying to end.
The old woman with her silent stare
Time and wisdom streaked through her hair
Her children who long ago forgot their mother
She's too old and frail, why even bother?
Every day there are souls who suffer
A friend, a stranger, a sister, a brother
They hide behind a well-worn mask
Perhaps not knowing whose help to ask.
A kind word, a helping hand
Goes a long way in the end
If we all looked for a moment at each other
We see our blood is all the same color.
Do not look on the actions of others
Judging books by their covers
You'd want others to do the same
Even when you hide your pain.
Would it hurt for once to say
To a stranger, "Have a good day"?
A nod, a hug, a smile
Judge not, until you've walked a mile.
Ice cold from fingers to toes
Watching strangers pass him by
Fighting off the urge to cry.
She sits on the bus next to you
Wondering if that some day soon
She'll have the strength to make a stand
Against her boyfriend's brutal hand.
The child who sits all alone
Left to play on his own
All he wants is just one friend
And all the constant bullying to end.
The old woman with her silent stare
Time and wisdom streaked through her hair
Her children who long ago forgot their mother
She's too old and frail, why even bother?
Every day there are souls who suffer
A friend, a stranger, a sister, a brother
They hide behind a well-worn mask
Perhaps not knowing whose help to ask.
A kind word, a helping hand
Goes a long way in the end
If we all looked for a moment at each other
We see our blood is all the same color.
Do not look on the actions of others
Judging books by their covers
You'd want others to do the same
Even when you hide your pain.
Would it hurt for once to say
To a stranger, "Have a good day"?
A nod, a hug, a smile
Judge not, until you've walked a mile.
Sister
With half my life now over
The second half lay ahead
The time is now to open my heart
And confess those things unsaid.
The one that I resented
Whose words I wouldn't hear
Taught me the most important lesson:
Honesty is not something you fear.
When someone truly cares
They'll tell you the truth, indeed
Not glossed over or sugar-coated
It's not what you want; it's what you need.
For years I did not understand
The thought behind the words
So anger bred resentment
And the darkness within emerged.
Either time stands still or flies on by
And the warmest heart turns black
You blind yourself to reality
Never realizing there's no turning back.
Then one day you do discover
Your life's been standing still
And in that moment of crystal clarity
It's a humble, yet bitter pill.
Hard I fought against you
I thought the truth was lies
But in the end I saw myself reflected
Back at me from your eyes.
For every one finger I pointed
And passed the blame to thee
There were three more fingers in that fist
Pointing directly back at me.
The truth may hurt so deeply
The scars may mark your soul
But the tricky part is learning
When to let them go.
So now I look back in life
And know that it was you
That tried to show me all the while
To thine own self be true.
My sister is a soul mate
Not just family but a friend
Who will even save you from yourself
From now until time ends.
The second half lay ahead
The time is now to open my heart
And confess those things unsaid.
The one that I resented
Whose words I wouldn't hear
Taught me the most important lesson:
Honesty is not something you fear.
When someone truly cares
They'll tell you the truth, indeed
Not glossed over or sugar-coated
It's not what you want; it's what you need.
For years I did not understand
The thought behind the words
So anger bred resentment
And the darkness within emerged.
Either time stands still or flies on by
And the warmest heart turns black
You blind yourself to reality
Never realizing there's no turning back.
Then one day you do discover
Your life's been standing still
And in that moment of crystal clarity
It's a humble, yet bitter pill.
Hard I fought against you
I thought the truth was lies
But in the end I saw myself reflected
Back at me from your eyes.
For every one finger I pointed
And passed the blame to thee
There were three more fingers in that fist
Pointing directly back at me.
The truth may hurt so deeply
The scars may mark your soul
But the tricky part is learning
When to let them go.
So now I look back in life
And know that it was you
That tried to show me all the while
To thine own self be true.
My sister is a soul mate
Not just family but a friend
Who will even save you from yourself
From now until time ends.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Untitled
Tiny pinpoints of light
Bespeckle the twilight
Each in brilliance set apart
A lasting impression on my heart.
Beneath the dazzle of the moon
I imagine I will see you soon
Hand in hand, we fly around the sun
Lost souls together, becoming one.
Tears turn to diamonds on my cheeks
As we dance on mountain peaks
Together we soar on tethered wings
No more sorrow this life brings.
We move away
You cannot stay
But these words to me, you say:
"You are my flower
And every day, every hour
I send the butterflies
To be my eyes
In a beautiful disguise
To let you know you're not alone -
I'm always with you, I never left home."
~AJW 8/22/11~
Bespeckle the twilight
Each in brilliance set apart
A lasting impression on my heart.
Beneath the dazzle of the moon
I imagine I will see you soon
Hand in hand, we fly around the sun
Lost souls together, becoming one.
Tears turn to diamonds on my cheeks
As we dance on mountain peaks
Together we soar on tethered wings
No more sorrow this life brings.
We move away
You cannot stay
But these words to me, you say:
"You are my flower
And every day, every hour
I send the butterflies
To be my eyes
In a beautiful disguise
To let you know you're not alone -
I'm always with you, I never left home."
~AJW 8/22/11~
Monday, August 8, 2011
August 18, 1991 - 20th Anniversary Observance - When Blind Dates Go Horribly Wrong
I'm going to try and not make this too long. There's so much to be said about this day. Not to mention, I've told this story a million times, and I would rather focus more on the way this event changed me, rather than focus on the negative aspects of it. Here we go....
I was 19 years old and living with my sister at my grandfather's house at the time. Sis was seeing someone and they were both trying to talk me into going on a blind date with his cousin, Mike. "He's got long hair and he's into metal." Sold!! Never had I been on a blind date before, perish the thought, but the promise of long hair and a fellow metalhead made it seem promising. It wasn't, he looked like something out of the Addam's Family. He was a scarily looking fucker.
He took me to a keg party at a friend's house, where it so happened, I was the only female in attendance. I can't say that I minded that much. I get along better with guys and always have. I actually ended up having my eye on another guy there, Bill, and chatted with him and a couple of others most of the night. At 4am, after a few beers and too many shots of Night Train, the owner of the house wanted us to go. Four of us, Bill and Cousin It included and another guy named Eric, decided to find another spot to finish the keg.
Something in my very core was telling me to go home - it was late, I was in Naugatuck and still had to drive a half hour home. But I was having too much fun and diggin' this other cat, Bill, so I ignored it. That was a really bad idea, and a good lesson for me that came later. So, they knew a spot that the cops wouldn't bother us and we could hang for a while longer. They took me to a spot behind the Naugatuck Glass Company/Polish-American club. No lights, and you were lucky if you could see a foot in front of you. Bill walked off to find a spot to relieve himself when we heard a splash. Bill had fallen off a 20 foot-plus train trestle that none of us could barely see, and he wasn't responding to our calls. I immediately got in my car and drove off to find the nearest door to knock on (no cell phone then) for someone to call an ambulance. That task done, I came back to let Bill know that help was on the way. I parked, but instead of keeping my headlights on to see, I turned them off. I don't know why; it was probably one of the dumbest things I ever did. But, I was panicking and worried about Bill. So I started jogging over to the trestle to yell down to him, and Mike and Eric who were down there with him.
You ever see the old Road Runner cartoons, where Wile E. Coyote is so wrapped up in chasing Road Runner that he runs right off a cliff, stays in the air for a few seconds, then plummets to his mock death? Yeah that was me. The only thought I can remember going through my head after realizing the ground was no longer underneath my feet, was "Oh shit."
After we were fished out of the trestle, we were brought to St. Mary's Hospital in Waterbury. Some things are blurry because of the narcotics they had me on, but I'll describe my injuries. When I fell, not only did I crush a vertebrae in my spine (L3 to be exact), but it paralyzed my right leg. To add insult to injury, I landed perfectly on top of a large railroad spike, which pierced my body, just below my tailbone and right above my rectum. When I first landed, I thought I had sprained my back and broke my leg (my leg hurt worse if you can fathom that). So when an EMT mentioned over the radio in the ambulance that my leg was not broken, I knew I was in trouble.
Over the next two weeks, I lay flat on my back, and in moments in between doses of painkillers, other grim realizations came to light. I had completely lost my bathroom functions as well, both of them, and you can well imagine what I had to endure for relief of that. In the interim, and as my mother told me later, every day was a grim report from the doctors: not sure if I'd ever walk again, not sure if my bathroom functions would ever return, not sure I'd ever be able to have children....and so on and so on. After an incubation period to make sure I would get no infection from the puncture wound from the railroad spike, off I went to the operating room. One surgeon had the painstaking task of picking bone fragments out of my spinal column (they were pinching my sciatic nerve to my leg, thus the paralysis), and the second half was with another surgeon, who took bone from my hip, fused my spine (L2, L3, L4) and inserted two, 7 inch steel rods on either side of my spine. Seven hours later, they were done.
Later, after two weeks, I was transferred to a rehabilitation hospital in New Britain where I underwent physical therapy to learn to walk again. I was there for six weeks. In the meantime, I still could not go to the bathroom on my own, but as if my body was mocking me, my period came right on the dot, every month. Anyhow, I was being told that I may never regain the ability to go on my own. Truth be told, it was that knowledge more than learning to walk again that haunted me. We take those little things for granted, give no thought to it, but when it's taken away, it becomes a living nightmare. Finally I was released and went home to my parents' house.
Over the next 6 months, I learned to catheterize myself, endured laxatives that made me cramp so bad that I often cried, couldn't take a shower because I had to keep a back brace on at all times, and the neuroma that developed from the spike puncture wound causing me bursts of raging pain that felt like I had a knife up my ass, literally. My bathroom functions finally returned after those 6 months, but never again to normal. To this day, I have to push just to relieve my bladder. I suffer occasional bouts of infection because I cannot empty my bladder all the way. As for the other end, well, lots and lots of fiber, lest I fall prey to chronic constipation. At some point during that year, I saw a pain management specialist for the neuroma. The pain was to the point where I literally could not be intimate with anyone because I would double over in pain from it. So, I had a series of shots, painful on their own, especially in THAT area, which took care of it for the most part. I only get pain in that area on occasion now. My rods were removed one year later.
Though I am reminded, literally every time I go to the bathroom, of that night 20 years ago, I have long ago left behind the misery of it all, and always remember the lessons that were taught me in a single evening. The first and most important, to me, was to always trust my instincts. Had I listened to myself that night, it never would have happened. Every day since that night, I don't hesitate to remove myself from situations that don't feel right. I always say now, "If it doesn't feel right, it probably isn't." Another important lesson I learned was my own inner strength. You never know how strong you are until tragedy smacks you upside the head with it. My inner fighter came out and battled to regain some semblance of my former self. Again, you never know your own strength until it's been tested. And finally, to regard life, my own included, with a higher regard. I was told later that most falls over 16 feet are fatal, resulting in death or much more serious injuries than my own. I was very, very lucky that night to come away with my life, and the use of my legs, and not a day goes by that I don't remember that fact. I was also very lucky to see that whole situation as a lesson, rather than brood about it for the rest of my life. Yes, I will always feel the physical effects from it, and I'm at risk for disc degeneration as I get older. I don't let that stop me though from enjoying my life - a life that could easily have been snuffed out. Oh, and I NEVER went on a blind date again.
Bad things happen to everyone, and I feel that you have a choice when these things rear their ugly little heads: either you can bear those crosses with dignity and strength, or drown in the misery of it all. I am truly grateful and if I had to change that whole experience, I wouldn't. I'm not going to lie and say it was easy, and it certainly took a while for my physical health and my mental health to recuperate. But I really wouldn't change a thing, because it made me who I am today. And at this point of my life, 20 years later and pushing 40, it seems like such small stuff compared to the beauty of life. And despite what those doctors told my parents, I can walk, I can function physically, I had a beautiful son who was my best gift in this life, and I am proud of who I am today.
I was 19 years old and living with my sister at my grandfather's house at the time. Sis was seeing someone and they were both trying to talk me into going on a blind date with his cousin, Mike. "He's got long hair and he's into metal." Sold!! Never had I been on a blind date before, perish the thought, but the promise of long hair and a fellow metalhead made it seem promising. It wasn't, he looked like something out of the Addam's Family. He was a scarily looking fucker.
He took me to a keg party at a friend's house, where it so happened, I was the only female in attendance. I can't say that I minded that much. I get along better with guys and always have. I actually ended up having my eye on another guy there, Bill, and chatted with him and a couple of others most of the night. At 4am, after a few beers and too many shots of Night Train, the owner of the house wanted us to go. Four of us, Bill and Cousin It included and another guy named Eric, decided to find another spot to finish the keg.
Something in my very core was telling me to go home - it was late, I was in Naugatuck and still had to drive a half hour home. But I was having too much fun and diggin' this other cat, Bill, so I ignored it. That was a really bad idea, and a good lesson for me that came later. So, they knew a spot that the cops wouldn't bother us and we could hang for a while longer. They took me to a spot behind the Naugatuck Glass Company/Polish-American club. No lights, and you were lucky if you could see a foot in front of you. Bill walked off to find a spot to relieve himself when we heard a splash. Bill had fallen off a 20 foot-plus train trestle that none of us could barely see, and he wasn't responding to our calls. I immediately got in my car and drove off to find the nearest door to knock on (no cell phone then) for someone to call an ambulance. That task done, I came back to let Bill know that help was on the way. I parked, but instead of keeping my headlights on to see, I turned them off. I don't know why; it was probably one of the dumbest things I ever did. But, I was panicking and worried about Bill. So I started jogging over to the trestle to yell down to him, and Mike and Eric who were down there with him.
You ever see the old Road Runner cartoons, where Wile E. Coyote is so wrapped up in chasing Road Runner that he runs right off a cliff, stays in the air for a few seconds, then plummets to his mock death? Yeah that was me. The only thought I can remember going through my head after realizing the ground was no longer underneath my feet, was "Oh shit."
After we were fished out of the trestle, we were brought to St. Mary's Hospital in Waterbury. Some things are blurry because of the narcotics they had me on, but I'll describe my injuries. When I fell, not only did I crush a vertebrae in my spine (L3 to be exact), but it paralyzed my right leg. To add insult to injury, I landed perfectly on top of a large railroad spike, which pierced my body, just below my tailbone and right above my rectum. When I first landed, I thought I had sprained my back and broke my leg (my leg hurt worse if you can fathom that). So when an EMT mentioned over the radio in the ambulance that my leg was not broken, I knew I was in trouble.
Over the next two weeks, I lay flat on my back, and in moments in between doses of painkillers, other grim realizations came to light. I had completely lost my bathroom functions as well, both of them, and you can well imagine what I had to endure for relief of that. In the interim, and as my mother told me later, every day was a grim report from the doctors: not sure if I'd ever walk again, not sure if my bathroom functions would ever return, not sure I'd ever be able to have children....and so on and so on. After an incubation period to make sure I would get no infection from the puncture wound from the railroad spike, off I went to the operating room. One surgeon had the painstaking task of picking bone fragments out of my spinal column (they were pinching my sciatic nerve to my leg, thus the paralysis), and the second half was with another surgeon, who took bone from my hip, fused my spine (L2, L3, L4) and inserted two, 7 inch steel rods on either side of my spine. Seven hours later, they were done.
Later, after two weeks, I was transferred to a rehabilitation hospital in New Britain where I underwent physical therapy to learn to walk again. I was there for six weeks. In the meantime, I still could not go to the bathroom on my own, but as if my body was mocking me, my period came right on the dot, every month. Anyhow, I was being told that I may never regain the ability to go on my own. Truth be told, it was that knowledge more than learning to walk again that haunted me. We take those little things for granted, give no thought to it, but when it's taken away, it becomes a living nightmare. Finally I was released and went home to my parents' house.
Over the next 6 months, I learned to catheterize myself, endured laxatives that made me cramp so bad that I often cried, couldn't take a shower because I had to keep a back brace on at all times, and the neuroma that developed from the spike puncture wound causing me bursts of raging pain that felt like I had a knife up my ass, literally. My bathroom functions finally returned after those 6 months, but never again to normal. To this day, I have to push just to relieve my bladder. I suffer occasional bouts of infection because I cannot empty my bladder all the way. As for the other end, well, lots and lots of fiber, lest I fall prey to chronic constipation. At some point during that year, I saw a pain management specialist for the neuroma. The pain was to the point where I literally could not be intimate with anyone because I would double over in pain from it. So, I had a series of shots, painful on their own, especially in THAT area, which took care of it for the most part. I only get pain in that area on occasion now. My rods were removed one year later.
Though I am reminded, literally every time I go to the bathroom, of that night 20 years ago, I have long ago left behind the misery of it all, and always remember the lessons that were taught me in a single evening. The first and most important, to me, was to always trust my instincts. Had I listened to myself that night, it never would have happened. Every day since that night, I don't hesitate to remove myself from situations that don't feel right. I always say now, "If it doesn't feel right, it probably isn't." Another important lesson I learned was my own inner strength. You never know how strong you are until tragedy smacks you upside the head with it. My inner fighter came out and battled to regain some semblance of my former self. Again, you never know your own strength until it's been tested. And finally, to regard life, my own included, with a higher regard. I was told later that most falls over 16 feet are fatal, resulting in death or much more serious injuries than my own. I was very, very lucky that night to come away with my life, and the use of my legs, and not a day goes by that I don't remember that fact. I was also very lucky to see that whole situation as a lesson, rather than brood about it for the rest of my life. Yes, I will always feel the physical effects from it, and I'm at risk for disc degeneration as I get older. I don't let that stop me though from enjoying my life - a life that could easily have been snuffed out. Oh, and I NEVER went on a blind date again.
Bad things happen to everyone, and I feel that you have a choice when these things rear their ugly little heads: either you can bear those crosses with dignity and strength, or drown in the misery of it all. I am truly grateful and if I had to change that whole experience, I wouldn't. I'm not going to lie and say it was easy, and it certainly took a while for my physical health and my mental health to recuperate. But I really wouldn't change a thing, because it made me who I am today. And at this point of my life, 20 years later and pushing 40, it seems like such small stuff compared to the beauty of life. And despite what those doctors told my parents, I can walk, I can function physically, I had a beautiful son who was my best gift in this life, and I am proud of who I am today.
Monday, July 11, 2011
A Mother's Inspiration
Who inspires me the most? My mother, for many reasons. Between everything I have put that woman through, and the things she went through with my father in the past, and everything in between, she should be canonized as a saint. But that's not even the half of it.
A mother's love is unconditional, for most people. I am one of those lucky people to have a Mom who is not only supportive in every way, but can see past my Dark Half, push it aside, and remember who I really am. She loves me for ME. The real ME. You never know the true meaning of what it is like to be a parent, until you become one yourself. Now I know....now I know.
One of the most amazing things about my mother is her capacity to be completely selfless. A little over a month ago, my Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. That morning, I had a feeling something was wrong, and the confirmation came when she sat on my porch and told me the grim news. It was devastating. I felt helpless as she sat there and cried, and I quietly wondered how in the world someone as good as her deserved this. I'd been so awful; I'd gladly have taken on the battle for her if I could have. We went into the house to make coffee, and to my complete amazement, she spoke these words to me: "No matter what happens, Ali, I do NOT want this to stray you from your path." In a moment where this was, and should be, all about her, she was thinking of me. Selfless. Later that day, after she broke the news to my sister, she called me to tell me how bad she felt. "Why Mom?", I said. "I felt bad because your sister sounded so upset", she said. Again, selfless.
So, the other day, I was looking through some old Get Well cards from when I broke my back 20 years ago. Before I had my accident, I had been living with my grandfather and sister, but upon leaving the hospitals (I had been in two, yes), I went to stay with my parents as I needed someone to take care of me. Of course, that person was my mother. When I was well enough, I went back to live with Gramps and Sis. Anyway, amongst all the get well wishes, I found a note card from my mother, dated after I left her to go back to my other roommates. The first line of the card read, "Thank you for allowing me to take care of you." Wait, what? Shouldn't I have been thanking her? Selfless.
I could give many more examples, like how brave she is after the difficult year our family has had, now only to be faced with breast cancer. Or how she tells me all the time that she loves me no matter what, how talented she thinks I am (and I always joke that she tells me that because she's my mother and is obligated), and how she has never stopped having faith in me. I've learned so much from my Mom that I can't even put it all into words. She is the pillar of strength from which I draw upon for my own strength. She is the glue that holds our family together. The one we can all count on to be loving, supportive, and never utter an unkind word.
Now it is our turn to hold her up, support her, and become the glue that she has been for my sister and myself. We will always be here for you, Mom....it is time for you to be selfish, and for US to be selfless.
~AJW 7/11/11~
A mother's love is unconditional, for most people. I am one of those lucky people to have a Mom who is not only supportive in every way, but can see past my Dark Half, push it aside, and remember who I really am. She loves me for ME. The real ME. You never know the true meaning of what it is like to be a parent, until you become one yourself. Now I know....now I know.
One of the most amazing things about my mother is her capacity to be completely selfless. A little over a month ago, my Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. That morning, I had a feeling something was wrong, and the confirmation came when she sat on my porch and told me the grim news. It was devastating. I felt helpless as she sat there and cried, and I quietly wondered how in the world someone as good as her deserved this. I'd been so awful; I'd gladly have taken on the battle for her if I could have. We went into the house to make coffee, and to my complete amazement, she spoke these words to me: "No matter what happens, Ali, I do NOT want this to stray you from your path." In a moment where this was, and should be, all about her, she was thinking of me. Selfless. Later that day, after she broke the news to my sister, she called me to tell me how bad she felt. "Why Mom?", I said. "I felt bad because your sister sounded so upset", she said. Again, selfless.
So, the other day, I was looking through some old Get Well cards from when I broke my back 20 years ago. Before I had my accident, I had been living with my grandfather and sister, but upon leaving the hospitals (I had been in two, yes), I went to stay with my parents as I needed someone to take care of me. Of course, that person was my mother. When I was well enough, I went back to live with Gramps and Sis. Anyway, amongst all the get well wishes, I found a note card from my mother, dated after I left her to go back to my other roommates. The first line of the card read, "Thank you for allowing me to take care of you." Wait, what? Shouldn't I have been thanking her? Selfless.
I could give many more examples, like how brave she is after the difficult year our family has had, now only to be faced with breast cancer. Or how she tells me all the time that she loves me no matter what, how talented she thinks I am (and I always joke that she tells me that because she's my mother and is obligated), and how she has never stopped having faith in me. I've learned so much from my Mom that I can't even put it all into words. She is the pillar of strength from which I draw upon for my own strength. She is the glue that holds our family together. The one we can all count on to be loving, supportive, and never utter an unkind word.
Now it is our turn to hold her up, support her, and become the glue that she has been for my sister and myself. We will always be here for you, Mom....it is time for you to be selfish, and for US to be selfless.
~AJW 7/11/11~
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Dusting Off My Halo
This isn't going to be a big story or anything. I just need to get some feelings out so I can feel a little better, or at least try. My heart has been heavy the past few days due to some harassment issues, which I would rather not go into detail here. I've never gone through this before and I'm having a difficult time dealing with it. I do talk about it when I need to, but I'm just tired of HAVING to deal with it. And the worst part of it is, I feel like I only have myself to blame.
I do know I do not deserve to be stalked, by anyone, but had this individual not been introduced into my life during active addiction, I wonder if this would even be happening. I HAVE to take responsibility, at least for that. It fills me with quite a bit of guilt; not only am I affected by it, but so is my husband. I feel like when I'm only just trying to put the past behind me, it just comes creeping back, literally.
A couple of people I spoke to today, though, put it into perspective for me. The past is the past, and I've consistently been working hard to move forward and rebuild my life in a positive way. That being said, no matter what I've done, I don't deserve to be stalked or harassed, especially when I've made it quite clear that I want no contact. I know they are right, and I keep telling myself that and it's helping.
The consequences of our actions can be a real bitch. However, there are laws and boundaries that no one should cross, regardless. I've taken steps in doing the right thing, even though the devil on my shoulder tells me otherwise. I made a commitment to myself after this last devastating relapse to always do the right thing, and move forward, and ask for help when I need it. So, as much as I'd like to choke the crap out of this person, I'm not going to stoop down to their level.
This is where my Dialectal Behavioral Therapy comes into play...big time.
~AJW 7/7/11~
I do know I do not deserve to be stalked, by anyone, but had this individual not been introduced into my life during active addiction, I wonder if this would even be happening. I HAVE to take responsibility, at least for that. It fills me with quite a bit of guilt; not only am I affected by it, but so is my husband. I feel like when I'm only just trying to put the past behind me, it just comes creeping back, literally.
A couple of people I spoke to today, though, put it into perspective for me. The past is the past, and I've consistently been working hard to move forward and rebuild my life in a positive way. That being said, no matter what I've done, I don't deserve to be stalked or harassed, especially when I've made it quite clear that I want no contact. I know they are right, and I keep telling myself that and it's helping.
The consequences of our actions can be a real bitch. However, there are laws and boundaries that no one should cross, regardless. I've taken steps in doing the right thing, even though the devil on my shoulder tells me otherwise. I made a commitment to myself after this last devastating relapse to always do the right thing, and move forward, and ask for help when I need it. So, as much as I'd like to choke the crap out of this person, I'm not going to stoop down to their level.
This is where my Dialectal Behavioral Therapy comes into play...big time.
~AJW 7/7/11~
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Evolution of Essence: Bridging Our Connections With Familiars
Good grief, I feel like my brain is oozing out of my ears today. I would have continued this discussion on my last blog post, but writing tends to exhaust me and I need to rest afterward. So after writing the last piece, I went and laid my head down. But, I knew I hadn't written all I wanted to write, and as what usually happens when something is left unwritten or unfinished with me, I cannot rest. This, in itself, can be maddening. It's like Chinese water torture for my brain; it's just not going to stop until I release everything I know, or feel.
So, where was I? I was explaining my thoughts on the Evolution of Our Essence. In a roundabout way I related this to past lives and our essence being reborn into each new shell until it completes its Evolution. So, why then, do we have families, or tribes, or clans/groups of people if the point is to evolve individually? Well, because in my opinion, we not only learn from our own evolution, but the evolution of others. Further, I believe as beings of energy, certain types of energy attract to one another, much like if you were to stand outside in a storm and hold a metal rod...the lightning would veer toward that rod because it is familiar and can conduct it's life force, its essence or energy, through that particular material, or matter. So, we as energy are attracted toward the physical; matter that is familiar to us. In these terms, it is through blood, kinship, family, or other connections we make through "like-minded" energy. It is these connections that anchor us in the physical world, in our very own bodies and in the bodies of others.
I have the tendency to believe that being attracted to like matter and energy has something very much to do with why you connect with certain people and why you do not. Why some people attract you, and others repel you. I believe that these "like-minded" energies can travel through multiple life cycles together. Because not only do we continue to evolve personally, we evolve together. We learn from our own mistakes, but we also learn from each other's. Think on this for a moment: perhaps the reason I am a mother is to teach my son lessons that I have learned from the past, including beyond my current shell. Perhaps in another "shell", my son was MY teacher, in some form, perhaps even my brother or my father, because there were things he had to teach ME. But what he did not know, or could not learn for himself, cycled back to me, and my knowledge, and what I had to give to him, and so on and so on. Interesting.
It is this concept which also makes me curious about the other connections in our lives - friendships. Also, people we really don't know at all but can connect or identify with on some level. I think that quite possibly, these connections, these friends, even if at some point they drop out of your (current) life, will remain connected to you, energetically, in the next because you each have something to give each other, and of course, you're still learning. In regards to people we really don't know, but can identify with through means of shared experiences, I think it is because at some point in each of our cycles, we've passed these people, or other energies, before and can, in a very real way, feel that connection again at a later life cycle. Though, sometimes, we just cannot recognize or pinpoint it for what it is.
Which brings me now to deja vu. Have you ever been somewhere or met someone you were so sure you had been before or met before? That the possibility that you dreamt it HAD to be an impossibility? I forget the exact way that Science has explained this in medical terms, but it's something along the lines of your brain, for an instant, misfiring. As if there is a "skip" in the CD that is your brain, so when it skips, it goes backward in time for an instant, and replays from that instant. Thus, this results in the feeling of "deja vu". Honestly, I don't think, or rather, I no longer feel that this is a completely satisfactory explanation. I get the basic components of it, but what makes your brain "misfire" in the first place?
Our brains are so complex and as much a mystery as to the question why we are even here. Physically, the body cannot survive without the brain. It controls everything in our chemical makeup. It emits electrical impulses (energy!) to our organs and our limbs so that our bodies know what to do, how to react. Is it so impossible, then, to imagine that our energy, when it takes on another life cycle, or physical form, that the very essence of who we are goes into the brain? Is it impossible to imagine that these moments of deja vu are our brains telling us, "I remember this" or "This person seems familiar to me, or I've met them before" but they are actually memories that could span over hundreds, maybe even thousands of years....perhaps over many millenia? But why do we NOT remember everything, with the utmost clarity?
Because, I feel, as with most matters of the physical, it is a built in defense mechanism to keep from driving you mad. The brain offers many defense mechanisms, as we all know. I really don't know how else to explain it, and I'm not going to try. It is only how I feel, and that's all I can say. What I do know is that I feel better. And in doing this simple act of writing, I've learned one of my lessons of this life - creating a healthy outlet to express myself. Mission accomplished.
AJW 6/28/11
So, where was I? I was explaining my thoughts on the Evolution of Our Essence. In a roundabout way I related this to past lives and our essence being reborn into each new shell until it completes its Evolution. So, why then, do we have families, or tribes, or clans/groups of people if the point is to evolve individually? Well, because in my opinion, we not only learn from our own evolution, but the evolution of others. Further, I believe as beings of energy, certain types of energy attract to one another, much like if you were to stand outside in a storm and hold a metal rod...the lightning would veer toward that rod because it is familiar and can conduct it's life force, its essence or energy, through that particular material, or matter. So, we as energy are attracted toward the physical; matter that is familiar to us. In these terms, it is through blood, kinship, family, or other connections we make through "like-minded" energy. It is these connections that anchor us in the physical world, in our very own bodies and in the bodies of others.
I have the tendency to believe that being attracted to like matter and energy has something very much to do with why you connect with certain people and why you do not. Why some people attract you, and others repel you. I believe that these "like-minded" energies can travel through multiple life cycles together. Because not only do we continue to evolve personally, we evolve together. We learn from our own mistakes, but we also learn from each other's. Think on this for a moment: perhaps the reason I am a mother is to teach my son lessons that I have learned from the past, including beyond my current shell. Perhaps in another "shell", my son was MY teacher, in some form, perhaps even my brother or my father, because there were things he had to teach ME. But what he did not know, or could not learn for himself, cycled back to me, and my knowledge, and what I had to give to him, and so on and so on. Interesting.
It is this concept which also makes me curious about the other connections in our lives - friendships. Also, people we really don't know at all but can connect or identify with on some level. I think that quite possibly, these connections, these friends, even if at some point they drop out of your (current) life, will remain connected to you, energetically, in the next because you each have something to give each other, and of course, you're still learning. In regards to people we really don't know, but can identify with through means of shared experiences, I think it is because at some point in each of our cycles, we've passed these people, or other energies, before and can, in a very real way, feel that connection again at a later life cycle. Though, sometimes, we just cannot recognize or pinpoint it for what it is.
Which brings me now to deja vu. Have you ever been somewhere or met someone you were so sure you had been before or met before? That the possibility that you dreamt it HAD to be an impossibility? I forget the exact way that Science has explained this in medical terms, but it's something along the lines of your brain, for an instant, misfiring. As if there is a "skip" in the CD that is your brain, so when it skips, it goes backward in time for an instant, and replays from that instant. Thus, this results in the feeling of "deja vu". Honestly, I don't think, or rather, I no longer feel that this is a completely satisfactory explanation. I get the basic components of it, but what makes your brain "misfire" in the first place?
Our brains are so complex and as much a mystery as to the question why we are even here. Physically, the body cannot survive without the brain. It controls everything in our chemical makeup. It emits electrical impulses (energy!) to our organs and our limbs so that our bodies know what to do, how to react. Is it so impossible, then, to imagine that our energy, when it takes on another life cycle, or physical form, that the very essence of who we are goes into the brain? Is it impossible to imagine that these moments of deja vu are our brains telling us, "I remember this" or "This person seems familiar to me, or I've met them before" but they are actually memories that could span over hundreds, maybe even thousands of years....perhaps over many millenia? But why do we NOT remember everything, with the utmost clarity?
Because, I feel, as with most matters of the physical, it is a built in defense mechanism to keep from driving you mad. The brain offers many defense mechanisms, as we all know. I really don't know how else to explain it, and I'm not going to try. It is only how I feel, and that's all I can say. What I do know is that I feel better. And in doing this simple act of writing, I've learned one of my lessons of this life - creating a healthy outlet to express myself. Mission accomplished.
AJW 6/28/11
Sinner to Saint: The Evolution of Our Essence
I think it is imperative, at least to me, to note before I begin that all opinions expressed by me are just that, opinions...or thoughts, beliefs, whatever. I would never intentionally impose them on anyone. That being said, I think it is also important to point out that it is pretty sad that I even have to say it. But whatever, I will do the politically correct thing and just state it, for the record.
I also have to say that this is a really emotional day for me. Although to be quite honest, I have no clue why. It irritates me to no end when I feel like this; not knowing what it is that bothers me really grates on my last nerve. So if I babble a bit or throughout, that is why. There is a lot in my head at the moment. You know how people do that little dance when they have to pee? Well, instead of my bladder, I need to drain my brain. It's the only way I know how to let it go or feel any relief from it. Except for the alternative of course, and that is SO not happening.
I was in church on Sunday morning, and as you can tell, I didn't go up in a puff of smoke when I entered. All kidding aside, I was there for a memorial mass for my Dad, on the very day of the first anniversary of his death. It continually amazes me that whenever I have been in church over the last 25 or so years, how all the old rituals and prayers come back as if they never even left me, or more so, as if I never left them behind. But I know now that eight years of repetitiveness is the real reason. It's like anything else; once it's been pounded into your head over a period of time, it comes back as naturally as the habit of brushing your teeth.
So, as the mass wore on, and it came time for Holy Communion, my Mom and my sister got up to go and receive the body of Christ. (Which incidentally, I always secretly wondered how someone came to the conclusion that Christ's flesh is a flavorless, styrofoam consistency.) Unbelievably, the first thought that came to my mind as I sat and watched my mother and sister rise from the pew was, "I can't go up there, I'm a sinner." I don't know why that thought came to mind, only that most probably, it was the old Christian rules surfacing. It surprised me though, as I have absolutely no use for religious or spiritual rituals of any kind. I think I've mentioned before that no matter what religion or dogma I have ever studied, the rituals involved ALWAYS made me feel completely ridiculous. But the word "sinner" grated at my brain.
And maybe this is part of a huge web of spiritual struggle within the core of my being. Honestly, I don't like the way it feels. There have been many times in my life that I have struggled with what I have been taught as opposed to what I actually believe. It seemed easier to just push it all out and believe absolutely nothing. It worked for me, for many many years. But, the new life I have been given through recovery, and my vision of the world, my world, around me has given me great pause. The inner struggle is returning and it's not leaving me alone. Not even for a moment. So, to deal with this inner turmoil, I feel it necessary for my own sanity to evaluate what it is I believe, at this point in my life. Good grief, here we go.
I've always believed, whether it was when I was Catholic or when I was an Atheist, very strongly in humanism. I believe in what is tangible to me. I hold no faith in what I cannot see. No, let me correct that, the one thing I do hold faith in is the basic goodness of people and that in some way, shape or form, we are all connected. I just simply cannot force myself into believing in things I absolutely know nothing about, and may never know. Humanism, to me, is about the here and now. It puzzles me that so many spend so much time on the what ifs that they become blinded by all the mysteries, and don't appreciate what is right in front of them. We are here, we are real - no one knows why we ARE here, but that, in and of itself, is the beauty of it. While others obsess on what awaits us when the cycle of life is over, I'm busy enjoying what it is that I have RIGHT NOW. This includes not only those immediately connected to me, those people who I love, but everyone around me. After all, we are connected; we all sprung to life from a single-celled organism. We have evolved as a species, and it is our responsibility to evolve as individuals.
The one thing I do think about when I think about death, is that at our core, we are made of matter and energy. Matter withers and dies eventually, but energy does not. So where does our energy go when we move on from our earthly shells? I really couldn't tell you. I don't have the answer. Again, no ones does. And I don't spend too much time dwelling on it because I'd drive myself crazy. There are times though, like today for example, when I allow myself to ponder my very existence. I never wonder, though, about the meaning and purpose of my life. It's as much a mystery to me as anyone else. And again, I may never know the answer. But, I'm okay with that. This is my basic understanding of life and death, as I see it:
In our earthly shells, our physical bodies, our essence, or energy (or soul, if you prefer) is contained within. It is our "job" to nurture this energy and preserve its distinct characteristics, in other words, what makes you YOU. There is positive and negative energy, and whatever you choose to feed into your essence will shape and define the person that you are. However, what you feed into this energy WILL be projected outwardly to the world. Thus, there are negative, or "evil" essences, and there are positive, or "good", essences. But that is not even that simple; for there are still others who struggle with both, and can't really be classified into "good" or "evil". They are just, who they are, and learning as they go along through life. Those unclassifieds, the majority of us, fall into what I call the "purgatory" category - learning lessons from mistakes made, circumstances, or other key points in their personal cycle of life.
In death, our essence leaves our earthly shells. However, the personality or distinctiveness that makes that particular ball of energy our own remains imprinted. It is my belief, at this moment in my life, that until our essence "evolves" in a complete cycle, that is, we've learned all we can learn and have become a "higher being", our essence continues to be reborn, over and over, until that cycle is complete. We shed our dying and dead shells, and move on to another, but our essence remains, intact. Though I always struggled with the idea of past lives, it makes the most sense to me in scientific terms. Not to mention my own personal experiences in this area, but that of which I do not want to mention at this point. The only mystery to me right now is where our essence DOES go once our essence's evolution is complete.
My beliefs on the subject of our physical and "spiritual" evolution brings comfort to me. It helps me to have "faith" in people as a whole that we can learn, we can grow, we can evolve - even the person we believe to have the blackest of hearts. And if we cannot do it in the span of one physical lifetime, there are other lifetimes to give us that opportunity. For me, at least, it fills me with hope. It makes me believe that not one person on this Earth, not one "soul" in the history of time, is beyond redeemable. Labels like "sinner" and "saint" do not matter; it is that we become more fully WHO WE ARE.
AJW 6/28/11
I also have to say that this is a really emotional day for me. Although to be quite honest, I have no clue why. It irritates me to no end when I feel like this; not knowing what it is that bothers me really grates on my last nerve. So if I babble a bit or throughout, that is why. There is a lot in my head at the moment. You know how people do that little dance when they have to pee? Well, instead of my bladder, I need to drain my brain. It's the only way I know how to let it go or feel any relief from it. Except for the alternative of course, and that is SO not happening.
I was in church on Sunday morning, and as you can tell, I didn't go up in a puff of smoke when I entered. All kidding aside, I was there for a memorial mass for my Dad, on the very day of the first anniversary of his death. It continually amazes me that whenever I have been in church over the last 25 or so years, how all the old rituals and prayers come back as if they never even left me, or more so, as if I never left them behind. But I know now that eight years of repetitiveness is the real reason. It's like anything else; once it's been pounded into your head over a period of time, it comes back as naturally as the habit of brushing your teeth.
So, as the mass wore on, and it came time for Holy Communion, my Mom and my sister got up to go and receive the body of Christ. (Which incidentally, I always secretly wondered how someone came to the conclusion that Christ's flesh is a flavorless, styrofoam consistency.) Unbelievably, the first thought that came to my mind as I sat and watched my mother and sister rise from the pew was, "I can't go up there, I'm a sinner." I don't know why that thought came to mind, only that most probably, it was the old Christian rules surfacing. It surprised me though, as I have absolutely no use for religious or spiritual rituals of any kind. I think I've mentioned before that no matter what religion or dogma I have ever studied, the rituals involved ALWAYS made me feel completely ridiculous. But the word "sinner" grated at my brain.
And maybe this is part of a huge web of spiritual struggle within the core of my being. Honestly, I don't like the way it feels. There have been many times in my life that I have struggled with what I have been taught as opposed to what I actually believe. It seemed easier to just push it all out and believe absolutely nothing. It worked for me, for many many years. But, the new life I have been given through recovery, and my vision of the world, my world, around me has given me great pause. The inner struggle is returning and it's not leaving me alone. Not even for a moment. So, to deal with this inner turmoil, I feel it necessary for my own sanity to evaluate what it is I believe, at this point in my life. Good grief, here we go.
I've always believed, whether it was when I was Catholic or when I was an Atheist, very strongly in humanism. I believe in what is tangible to me. I hold no faith in what I cannot see. No, let me correct that, the one thing I do hold faith in is the basic goodness of people and that in some way, shape or form, we are all connected. I just simply cannot force myself into believing in things I absolutely know nothing about, and may never know. Humanism, to me, is about the here and now. It puzzles me that so many spend so much time on the what ifs that they become blinded by all the mysteries, and don't appreciate what is right in front of them. We are here, we are real - no one knows why we ARE here, but that, in and of itself, is the beauty of it. While others obsess on what awaits us when the cycle of life is over, I'm busy enjoying what it is that I have RIGHT NOW. This includes not only those immediately connected to me, those people who I love, but everyone around me. After all, we are connected; we all sprung to life from a single-celled organism. We have evolved as a species, and it is our responsibility to evolve as individuals.
The one thing I do think about when I think about death, is that at our core, we are made of matter and energy. Matter withers and dies eventually, but energy does not. So where does our energy go when we move on from our earthly shells? I really couldn't tell you. I don't have the answer. Again, no ones does. And I don't spend too much time dwelling on it because I'd drive myself crazy. There are times though, like today for example, when I allow myself to ponder my very existence. I never wonder, though, about the meaning and purpose of my life. It's as much a mystery to me as anyone else. And again, I may never know the answer. But, I'm okay with that. This is my basic understanding of life and death, as I see it:
In our earthly shells, our physical bodies, our essence, or energy (or soul, if you prefer) is contained within. It is our "job" to nurture this energy and preserve its distinct characteristics, in other words, what makes you YOU. There is positive and negative energy, and whatever you choose to feed into your essence will shape and define the person that you are. However, what you feed into this energy WILL be projected outwardly to the world. Thus, there are negative, or "evil" essences, and there are positive, or "good", essences. But that is not even that simple; for there are still others who struggle with both, and can't really be classified into "good" or "evil". They are just, who they are, and learning as they go along through life. Those unclassifieds, the majority of us, fall into what I call the "purgatory" category - learning lessons from mistakes made, circumstances, or other key points in their personal cycle of life.
In death, our essence leaves our earthly shells. However, the personality or distinctiveness that makes that particular ball of energy our own remains imprinted. It is my belief, at this moment in my life, that until our essence "evolves" in a complete cycle, that is, we've learned all we can learn and have become a "higher being", our essence continues to be reborn, over and over, until that cycle is complete. We shed our dying and dead shells, and move on to another, but our essence remains, intact. Though I always struggled with the idea of past lives, it makes the most sense to me in scientific terms. Not to mention my own personal experiences in this area, but that of which I do not want to mention at this point. The only mystery to me right now is where our essence DOES go once our essence's evolution is complete.
My beliefs on the subject of our physical and "spiritual" evolution brings comfort to me. It helps me to have "faith" in people as a whole that we can learn, we can grow, we can evolve - even the person we believe to have the blackest of hearts. And if we cannot do it in the span of one physical lifetime, there are other lifetimes to give us that opportunity. For me, at least, it fills me with hope. It makes me believe that not one person on this Earth, not one "soul" in the history of time, is beyond redeemable. Labels like "sinner" and "saint" do not matter; it is that we become more fully WHO WE ARE.
AJW 6/28/11
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
The Courage of Conviction
Over the weekend, I watched a program on the History Channel about the rise and fall of Hitler and The Third Reich. It really got me thinking about injustice and courage. At the end of the programming, they detailed the accounts of Germans returning to their country in ruins. They became impoverished and for the most part, homeless. Germany, especially Berlin, was reduced to ashes and rubble. For three years, they lived on near-starvation conditions. In fact, Germany's restoration wasn't even completed until the 1980's. But what struck me was my reaction to it. Part of me did feel bad for the Germans, but a bigger part of me did not.
I found myself wondering how a nation could let a man as twisted as Adolf Hitler come to power. Yes, I know these were different times, and I also understand that beliefs were also very different. I also realize that Hitler lied and fooled an entire country. What I don't understand is why, when he began his incessant ramblings about "the Jewish problem" and creating the "Master Race", did bells not go off in these people's minds? I know it did for some, for a lot actually, according to many written accounts. There was even a plot to assassinate Hitler, though it failed. But it came far too late, even if it had been successful. I also know that Hitler was greatly feared because he ruled by fear. I get it; he was a tyrant, a dictator, a very sick individual. And when you have the proverbial gun (or a real one) pointed at your head, it's not very difficult to buckle under the pressure. I get that too.
What has been gnawing at me is the lack of courage to stand up for the, what became pretty obvious to me, gross injustice that inevitably played out. Had his closest officers (although many were as sick and idealistic as Hitler) stood up and spoke out, along with those who could see what was happening, would he have even been allowed to come to power? I wonder why when those closest to Hitler knew what his plans were, and what was going on, they lacked the courage to stand against it. But I think I know why. It comes back to fear. How true is it that the vast majority would let others perish to save their own asses? I probably will get a lot of shit for that statement, but just think about it for a moment. Would you submit to such evils out of fear, knowing that someone else would die in your place? And how the Jews suffered; we all know the stories of experimentation, starvation, torture, and unmerciless death. Only to have their lifeless bodies be herded into trenches like garbage. I don't think anyone has suffered more in history than they did. I can't even imagine what it must have been like. I don't want to. So how can I be sympathetic toward a people who turned a blind eye out of fear and reprisal? Are humans as a whole not just as responsible for injustice and cruelty as the person or persons exacting it if we stand by and do nothing?
So it got me to thinking about my own courage and my own fears. I know at the very core of my being, I would die for those I loved. I would jump in front of a bullet aimed toward my son. I would fight til the death to protect my family, anyone in my family...of that, I'm sure. But how many of us, MYSELF INCLUDED, would do it for a stranger? If you were walking down the street and a thug was mugging and stabbing someone on the sidewalk, would you just stand there terrified and immobile? Or would you try to help the victim, regardless of the obvious danger? I honestly couldn't tell you if I could or would, and I really hope I am never in that situation. But I wonder how many of us would act, for that or any other act of cruelty or injustice. How many times have you seen a video on the Internet of beatings, stabbings, or shootings and people just walk on by? And the person behind the lens - shouldn't they at least be dialing 9-1-1, if nothing else?? And I guess what bothers me most of all, is that people are constantly yammering about what is wrong with this world - the inequalities, the injustices, and the whatever-elses, but how many of those loud booming voices actually have the courage of their convictions? I'm not saying that there is no one. There are those that are completely selfless, and I applaud them.
The bottom line is that we are all family, we are all connected. As a species, as humans, as a people. Fear breeds the world's cruelties and injustices. I also believe that fear in our own personal lives breeds selfishness. I'm guilty of it as much as the next person. There are fears that I have that have caused chaos in my own life that, had I just spoken out about them, or against them, I would not have ended up in the predicaments that I did. And I would not have hurt others in the process just to "save my own ass". I feel like, for me, living and roaming about the world with the attitude that others are just as significant as I am can bring about a profound change. Not just in myself, but those around me, and those that I come in contact with every day. That fighting for my own life and my own rights means fighting for yours too. No matter that I do not know who you are; you are me, and I am you.
AJW 6/22/11
I found myself wondering how a nation could let a man as twisted as Adolf Hitler come to power. Yes, I know these were different times, and I also understand that beliefs were also very different. I also realize that Hitler lied and fooled an entire country. What I don't understand is why, when he began his incessant ramblings about "the Jewish problem" and creating the "Master Race", did bells not go off in these people's minds? I know it did for some, for a lot actually, according to many written accounts. There was even a plot to assassinate Hitler, though it failed. But it came far too late, even if it had been successful. I also know that Hitler was greatly feared because he ruled by fear. I get it; he was a tyrant, a dictator, a very sick individual. And when you have the proverbial gun (or a real one) pointed at your head, it's not very difficult to buckle under the pressure. I get that too.
What has been gnawing at me is the lack of courage to stand up for the, what became pretty obvious to me, gross injustice that inevitably played out. Had his closest officers (although many were as sick and idealistic as Hitler) stood up and spoke out, along with those who could see what was happening, would he have even been allowed to come to power? I wonder why when those closest to Hitler knew what his plans were, and what was going on, they lacked the courage to stand against it. But I think I know why. It comes back to fear. How true is it that the vast majority would let others perish to save their own asses? I probably will get a lot of shit for that statement, but just think about it for a moment. Would you submit to such evils out of fear, knowing that someone else would die in your place? And how the Jews suffered; we all know the stories of experimentation, starvation, torture, and unmerciless death. Only to have their lifeless bodies be herded into trenches like garbage. I don't think anyone has suffered more in history than they did. I can't even imagine what it must have been like. I don't want to. So how can I be sympathetic toward a people who turned a blind eye out of fear and reprisal? Are humans as a whole not just as responsible for injustice and cruelty as the person or persons exacting it if we stand by and do nothing?
So it got me to thinking about my own courage and my own fears. I know at the very core of my being, I would die for those I loved. I would jump in front of a bullet aimed toward my son. I would fight til the death to protect my family, anyone in my family...of that, I'm sure. But how many of us, MYSELF INCLUDED, would do it for a stranger? If you were walking down the street and a thug was mugging and stabbing someone on the sidewalk, would you just stand there terrified and immobile? Or would you try to help the victim, regardless of the obvious danger? I honestly couldn't tell you if I could or would, and I really hope I am never in that situation. But I wonder how many of us would act, for that or any other act of cruelty or injustice. How many times have you seen a video on the Internet of beatings, stabbings, or shootings and people just walk on by? And the person behind the lens - shouldn't they at least be dialing 9-1-1, if nothing else?? And I guess what bothers me most of all, is that people are constantly yammering about what is wrong with this world - the inequalities, the injustices, and the whatever-elses, but how many of those loud booming voices actually have the courage of their convictions? I'm not saying that there is no one. There are those that are completely selfless, and I applaud them.
The bottom line is that we are all family, we are all connected. As a species, as humans, as a people. Fear breeds the world's cruelties and injustices. I also believe that fear in our own personal lives breeds selfishness. I'm guilty of it as much as the next person. There are fears that I have that have caused chaos in my own life that, had I just spoken out about them, or against them, I would not have ended up in the predicaments that I did. And I would not have hurt others in the process just to "save my own ass". I feel like, for me, living and roaming about the world with the attitude that others are just as significant as I am can bring about a profound change. Not just in myself, but those around me, and those that I come in contact with every day. That fighting for my own life and my own rights means fighting for yours too. No matter that I do not know who you are; you are me, and I am you.
AJW 6/22/11
Tearing Down the Sanctuary Walls
It occurred to me the other day that I am all too comfortable being alone. Obviously, I'm not really alone; I have my family, my friends. But when I go through issues, as we all so often do, I draw back from the world and everything in it. I know that's not good. But I'm working to change that. For me, being and/or feeling alone has both it's drawbacks and it's advantages.
The advantage of being alone, in the physical sense, is that, like it or not, you're forced to learn to depend on yourself and move through the world on your own two feet. Before my husband, I learned through being by myself most of the time that I needn't depend on other people to define who I am. Having someone by my side was just a bonus, and if and when it did happen, it would be a genuine companionship - not one based out of need, in any form. Being independent definitely gave me a strong sense of self and a strength I didn't always realize that I had. Discovering who I really am has been a long, slow process though, marked by periods of self-medication. In those times I lose a part of myself and even after regaining clarity, I always need to rediscover it again. Despite the obvious drawbacks of addiction, one thing is true about coming out of the other side of it: I keep learning something new about myself.
Being alone has given me time to think, to realize, to discover, and above all, to learn who I am and what makes me tick. And more importantly, to look at everything in life, in my life, as a lesson, and to change those things which would block my path to real, personal growth. Not one person on this Earth can do that for me; I have to learn and change that for myself.
As for its disadvantages, well, the dark part of me has in some way always felt all alone in this world. I know now that's not true, but growing up I felt isolated despite those that were around me. I explained this before in a previous blog. So, when something felt uncomfortable, negative, or there were things I just had a hard time dealing with, I withdrew from the world and into my own. I know it's not a good thing, and my own little universe can be a very dark and scary place. The labyrinth in my head has way too many dark corners to hide in. I've gotten so used to hiding there over the years that it is a natural and automatic reaction to recede within, curl up in the fetal position, and ride the storm out where it's safe.
So for the last three weeks, between bad news, Father's Day, and the one year anniversary of my Dad's passing approaching, I've obviously been a bit down. I felt myself withdrawing - hanging back from everyone to deal with things in my own way, in my own mind. The key thing is though, I realized it. I never have before. I noticed that my phone, which my face is usually buried in to text all day, was placed wherever in my house and I didn't really care if it rang and I didn't hear it. I noticed that going anywhere was a task. I didn't feel like it. I'd have to force myself to be around people, and then when I was, I was already thinking about when I could return home, and retreat to the dark sanctuary in my head. And don't ask me what's wrong, because I am never going to tell you. Maybe a snippet or two, but not the whole thing. I can't.
But, I CAN. And I have, at least with my husband. Even if I only spill my guts to one person, it keeps it from festering in the Sanctuary. It is difficult as hell but I do it because I HAVE to. I'm not used to pouring out my feelings. At least not the negative ones. It helped, and I'm slowly coming around. To the rest of the world, I'm still hiding behind my mask of Humor, but at least at home, I know it's okay to be myself. I know it's okay to be sad. I know I don't have to put my happy face on all the time. And I know that in my home, I am loved for who I am regardless of how I am feeling. It is this last epiphany that drives me to keep going and to stand strong no matter what gets thrown my way, or in the way of the people I love the most. Growth, it seems, is not beyond me. And I'm so enjoying it.
~AJW 6/22/11~
The advantage of being alone, in the physical sense, is that, like it or not, you're forced to learn to depend on yourself and move through the world on your own two feet. Before my husband, I learned through being by myself most of the time that I needn't depend on other people to define who I am. Having someone by my side was just a bonus, and if and when it did happen, it would be a genuine companionship - not one based out of need, in any form. Being independent definitely gave me a strong sense of self and a strength I didn't always realize that I had. Discovering who I really am has been a long, slow process though, marked by periods of self-medication. In those times I lose a part of myself and even after regaining clarity, I always need to rediscover it again. Despite the obvious drawbacks of addiction, one thing is true about coming out of the other side of it: I keep learning something new about myself.
Being alone has given me time to think, to realize, to discover, and above all, to learn who I am and what makes me tick. And more importantly, to look at everything in life, in my life, as a lesson, and to change those things which would block my path to real, personal growth. Not one person on this Earth can do that for me; I have to learn and change that for myself.
As for its disadvantages, well, the dark part of me has in some way always felt all alone in this world. I know now that's not true, but growing up I felt isolated despite those that were around me. I explained this before in a previous blog. So, when something felt uncomfortable, negative, or there were things I just had a hard time dealing with, I withdrew from the world and into my own. I know it's not a good thing, and my own little universe can be a very dark and scary place. The labyrinth in my head has way too many dark corners to hide in. I've gotten so used to hiding there over the years that it is a natural and automatic reaction to recede within, curl up in the fetal position, and ride the storm out where it's safe.
So for the last three weeks, between bad news, Father's Day, and the one year anniversary of my Dad's passing approaching, I've obviously been a bit down. I felt myself withdrawing - hanging back from everyone to deal with things in my own way, in my own mind. The key thing is though, I realized it. I never have before. I noticed that my phone, which my face is usually buried in to text all day, was placed wherever in my house and I didn't really care if it rang and I didn't hear it. I noticed that going anywhere was a task. I didn't feel like it. I'd have to force myself to be around people, and then when I was, I was already thinking about when I could return home, and retreat to the dark sanctuary in my head. And don't ask me what's wrong, because I am never going to tell you. Maybe a snippet or two, but not the whole thing. I can't.
But, I CAN. And I have, at least with my husband. Even if I only spill my guts to one person, it keeps it from festering in the Sanctuary. It is difficult as hell but I do it because I HAVE to. I'm not used to pouring out my feelings. At least not the negative ones. It helped, and I'm slowly coming around. To the rest of the world, I'm still hiding behind my mask of Humor, but at least at home, I know it's okay to be myself. I know it's okay to be sad. I know I don't have to put my happy face on all the time. And I know that in my home, I am loved for who I am regardless of how I am feeling. It is this last epiphany that drives me to keep going and to stand strong no matter what gets thrown my way, or in the way of the people I love the most. Growth, it seems, is not beyond me. And I'm so enjoying it.
~AJW 6/22/11~
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
An Open Letter To My Dad
As Father's Day approaches, my first without my Dad, I've been thinking a lot about all the things left unsaid between us. I meant to write him a letter, and put it in his casket, but because I was relapsed at the time, I didn't do it. I feel ashamed that it happened, especially during that time, but in retrospect, I would rather write that letter to him now, while my head and thoughts are clear.
Before I do though, I think it is important to note that what I am about to say should have been said to my Dad long ago. I never had the courage to tell him how I felt. I struggle with that in all of my relationships. I wish I had just sat down and had a long heart to heart with him about our relationship. We have had mini conversations about it, and particularly about my struggles with addiction, but what I always really wanted to truly tell him, I couldn't. I learned a huge lesson from this. As painful as it might have been to say what was in my heart, it would have been the right thing to do. Now he is gone and all I can do is write this letter. Never wait to tell someone how you feel, they may be gone tomorrow.
Dear Dad,
It is coming up on one year since you left us, and our first Father's Day without you. I wish I had had the courage to tell you all that I'm about to say while you were here. I'm sorry that I couldn't. I hope that when I was holding your hand and you drew your last breath, you felt and heard what I was saying to you in my heart. It silently spoke, "I love you, Dad, and I always have."
For many, many years, our relationship was rocky at best. I thought you hated me, honestly. I resented you for your brutal honesty, your distance from me, your lack of emotional attachment, and never hugging me or telling me you loved me. It ate at me for so long. But as I look back, I think I know why you were so hard on me. It really WAS because you loved me. You wanted better for me and whether I believed it at the time or not, I am more like you than I ever used to care to admit. You saw yourself in me, and tried to shield and protect me from a very scary world. You were trying to teach me the hard lessons you learned along the way, but I wasn't listening.
I think about what your home life must have been like; growing up with Grandma. May she rest in peace, and we loved her, but she was so miserable in life. I know when I used to visit her, I'd always leave feeling drained and moody. Grandma had that way of affecting the best of moods. She was as emotionally detached as anyone can get, which helps explain how that attribute was passed to you. I understand that now.
I don't want to concentrate on the negative though. I've gotten past all that long ago. What I want to do now is tell you what you meant to me and what you taught me, as your daughter, as a woman. You taught me that family always comes first, no matter what - loyalty to your spouse and your children. Blood runs far thicker than water, and no matter what trials and tribulations our family went through, we stuck together.
You taught me patriotism and love of country. What more can I say about that? The statement is obvious. You served your homeland, and had I been able to, I would have too. From this you also passed on to me your passion for aviation. I can't look at a jet without thinking of you.
You taught me that love not need be expressed through words. Although it is nice to hear "I love you", actions far exceed the spoken word. I saw it in your eyes at my wedding, and felt it when we had our father/daughter dance. In case you didn't know it, you really were, and still are, The Wind Beneath My Wings. I saw it in your eyes again when Brendan was born. The pride and love in your eyes filled my heart and soul. And always the way you would look at him, or Jake, or Megan with a quiet smile on your lips, and tears in your eyes. I don't know if anyone else noticed it, but I did.
Lastly, you taught me forgiveness. For all of my own mistakes, trials and tribulations, in the end, you forgave me. I will forever be grateful that in the last 10 years of your life, we became closer than we ever had before. You were angry with me at first, and rightfully so, but the few hearts to hearts we did have will forever be burned in my memory. I will never forget Dad. I will never forget that for all the years of pain, yours and mine, that through it all, you loved me no matter what. And whether you knew it or not, and I think you did, I never once stopped loving you. You were and still are my biggest hero. You passed on to me your humor, your love of life, and your strength. I cherish those attributes and thank you for giving them to me.
So, as Father's Day approaches and your one year anniversary, please know that you are missed terribly. My comfort, our comfort, though, is knowing you are still with us, watching and taking care of us. You may be gone physically but just like in life, you never left us. Loyalty and Love.
Love and miss you always,
Ali
Before I do though, I think it is important to note that what I am about to say should have been said to my Dad long ago. I never had the courage to tell him how I felt. I struggle with that in all of my relationships. I wish I had just sat down and had a long heart to heart with him about our relationship. We have had mini conversations about it, and particularly about my struggles with addiction, but what I always really wanted to truly tell him, I couldn't. I learned a huge lesson from this. As painful as it might have been to say what was in my heart, it would have been the right thing to do. Now he is gone and all I can do is write this letter. Never wait to tell someone how you feel, they may be gone tomorrow.
Dear Dad,
It is coming up on one year since you left us, and our first Father's Day without you. I wish I had had the courage to tell you all that I'm about to say while you were here. I'm sorry that I couldn't. I hope that when I was holding your hand and you drew your last breath, you felt and heard what I was saying to you in my heart. It silently spoke, "I love you, Dad, and I always have."
For many, many years, our relationship was rocky at best. I thought you hated me, honestly. I resented you for your brutal honesty, your distance from me, your lack of emotional attachment, and never hugging me or telling me you loved me. It ate at me for so long. But as I look back, I think I know why you were so hard on me. It really WAS because you loved me. You wanted better for me and whether I believed it at the time or not, I am more like you than I ever used to care to admit. You saw yourself in me, and tried to shield and protect me from a very scary world. You were trying to teach me the hard lessons you learned along the way, but I wasn't listening.
I think about what your home life must have been like; growing up with Grandma. May she rest in peace, and we loved her, but she was so miserable in life. I know when I used to visit her, I'd always leave feeling drained and moody. Grandma had that way of affecting the best of moods. She was as emotionally detached as anyone can get, which helps explain how that attribute was passed to you. I understand that now.
I don't want to concentrate on the negative though. I've gotten past all that long ago. What I want to do now is tell you what you meant to me and what you taught me, as your daughter, as a woman. You taught me that family always comes first, no matter what - loyalty to your spouse and your children. Blood runs far thicker than water, and no matter what trials and tribulations our family went through, we stuck together.
You taught me patriotism and love of country. What more can I say about that? The statement is obvious. You served your homeland, and had I been able to, I would have too. From this you also passed on to me your passion for aviation. I can't look at a jet without thinking of you.
You taught me that love not need be expressed through words. Although it is nice to hear "I love you", actions far exceed the spoken word. I saw it in your eyes at my wedding, and felt it when we had our father/daughter dance. In case you didn't know it, you really were, and still are, The Wind Beneath My Wings. I saw it in your eyes again when Brendan was born. The pride and love in your eyes filled my heart and soul. And always the way you would look at him, or Jake, or Megan with a quiet smile on your lips, and tears in your eyes. I don't know if anyone else noticed it, but I did.
Lastly, you taught me forgiveness. For all of my own mistakes, trials and tribulations, in the end, you forgave me. I will forever be grateful that in the last 10 years of your life, we became closer than we ever had before. You were angry with me at first, and rightfully so, but the few hearts to hearts we did have will forever be burned in my memory. I will never forget Dad. I will never forget that for all the years of pain, yours and mine, that through it all, you loved me no matter what. And whether you knew it or not, and I think you did, I never once stopped loving you. You were and still are my biggest hero. You passed on to me your humor, your love of life, and your strength. I cherish those attributes and thank you for giving them to me.
So, as Father's Day approaches and your one year anniversary, please know that you are missed terribly. My comfort, our comfort, though, is knowing you are still with us, watching and taking care of us. You may be gone physically but just like in life, you never left us. Loyalty and Love.
Love and miss you always,
Ali
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Random Incursions Part III
I despise it when people wear pajamas in public. Like the girl I saw in court last month wearing jammie pants. Way to impress the judge.
Addiction is not a choice, but recovery is. I believe that. And recovery isn't just about quitting whatever it is you're addicted to, it's about change...in everything. This includes behaviors. I finally realized that it is other things that I do that can not only cause me to use, but do not make me a good person. The first steps to change, for me, are about making the right choices. The kind where I can lay my head down at night knowing that I did the right things, for the right reasons.
I've been asked why I go so far out of town for meetings. Well, for one, I'd rather go farther away a couple of times a week to go to a meeting that I KNOW I will get something out of and feel good. I find it much more beneficial than going to a shitty meeting every single night. The ones I go to aren't fashion shows, or about who is screwing who, or long, drawn out bitch fests. I don't go to meetings to hear about other people's problems, I go to hear about how they got THROUGH them.
I'm a geek, and not ashamed to say it.
There are many moments when my affection for animals is much deeper than my affection for human beings.
A few months back, I was told that I have anger issues. I guess that would explain the whole wanting to beat the living shit out of someone/something at times.
The only time I ever feel true peace and relaxation is at the ocean.
I have never been in a physical fight in my entire life. I'm a lover not a fighter. However, I'd make an exception if anyone ever laid a finger on my son or harmed one hair on his head.
My biggest character flaw is procrastination. I have to work to change that. I'll start tomorrow.
I had a 4.0 grade average while attending school for Computer Tech. I screwed that up by relapsing and never finished. Epic fail.
I absolutely adore Christian Bale. Yes, hubby knows. Yes, he rolls his eyes. And yes, he even puts up with it.
I was voted "Miss Jewelry" in second grade. And it's probably the only thing girly about me.
When having to give random urine tests, I secretly wish I was a guy, just for that moment.
Hubby and I amuse ourselves by having conversations consisting of movie quotes.
I try to see the lesson in everything.
I almost went into the Air Force. It was a dream of mine to become a fighter pilot. A bad set of eyes nipped that in the bud. I'd still give my right arm to fly in a jet just once.
My father and I both broke our backs. And both around the same age. Chip off the ol block I guess.
My grandfather taught me how to ride waves at the beach. My beloved neat-freak step-grandmother taught me how to do hospital corners on bed sheets. I make a bed so neat and tight that a dollar bill would bounce off of it.
I have mild OCD. I'm what you call a "checker". When I lock my car, I have to hit the lock button at least three times. When I set my alarm, I have to check the wake up time a few times before I crawl into bed.
My biggest pet peeve is bad spelling and bad grammar. And if you see a mistake in anything of mine, it's a typo!! And it's common knowledge that if you misspell something or mispronounce it, I WILL correct you. You can't learn if you don't know!
And, in conclusion, I guess, because I could go on and on (I'm long-winded like that), my biggest fear at the moment is loss, in any form. I don't think I could take much more. My biggest hope for the future is being able to be the best possible person that I can. There are no limitations. The trick is in knowing that there never were.
Addiction is not a choice, but recovery is. I believe that. And recovery isn't just about quitting whatever it is you're addicted to, it's about change...in everything. This includes behaviors. I finally realized that it is other things that I do that can not only cause me to use, but do not make me a good person. The first steps to change, for me, are about making the right choices. The kind where I can lay my head down at night knowing that I did the right things, for the right reasons.
I've been asked why I go so far out of town for meetings. Well, for one, I'd rather go farther away a couple of times a week to go to a meeting that I KNOW I will get something out of and feel good. I find it much more beneficial than going to a shitty meeting every single night. The ones I go to aren't fashion shows, or about who is screwing who, or long, drawn out bitch fests. I don't go to meetings to hear about other people's problems, I go to hear about how they got THROUGH them.
I'm a geek, and not ashamed to say it.
There are many moments when my affection for animals is much deeper than my affection for human beings.
A few months back, I was told that I have anger issues. I guess that would explain the whole wanting to beat the living shit out of someone/something at times.
The only time I ever feel true peace and relaxation is at the ocean.
I have never been in a physical fight in my entire life. I'm a lover not a fighter. However, I'd make an exception if anyone ever laid a finger on my son or harmed one hair on his head.
My biggest character flaw is procrastination. I have to work to change that. I'll start tomorrow.
I had a 4.0 grade average while attending school for Computer Tech. I screwed that up by relapsing and never finished. Epic fail.
I absolutely adore Christian Bale. Yes, hubby knows. Yes, he rolls his eyes. And yes, he even puts up with it.
I was voted "Miss Jewelry" in second grade. And it's probably the only thing girly about me.
When having to give random urine tests, I secretly wish I was a guy, just for that moment.
Hubby and I amuse ourselves by having conversations consisting of movie quotes.
I try to see the lesson in everything.
I almost went into the Air Force. It was a dream of mine to become a fighter pilot. A bad set of eyes nipped that in the bud. I'd still give my right arm to fly in a jet just once.
My father and I both broke our backs. And both around the same age. Chip off the ol block I guess.
My grandfather taught me how to ride waves at the beach. My beloved neat-freak step-grandmother taught me how to do hospital corners on bed sheets. I make a bed so neat and tight that a dollar bill would bounce off of it.
I have mild OCD. I'm what you call a "checker". When I lock my car, I have to hit the lock button at least three times. When I set my alarm, I have to check the wake up time a few times before I crawl into bed.
My biggest pet peeve is bad spelling and bad grammar. And if you see a mistake in anything of mine, it's a typo!! And it's common knowledge that if you misspell something or mispronounce it, I WILL correct you. You can't learn if you don't know!
And, in conclusion, I guess, because I could go on and on (I'm long-winded like that), my biggest fear at the moment is loss, in any form. I don't think I could take much more. My biggest hope for the future is being able to be the best possible person that I can. There are no limitations. The trick is in knowing that there never were.
Random Incursions Part II
Humans only use 10% of their brain (some, much less). I believe that if we were able to tap into that other 90%, things would get ugly, fast.
I don't believe in the biblical Armageddon, Rapture, Judgement Day, or whatever other phrase you want to slap on it. However, I DO believe that humans are destroying this planet. And either one day, we will destroy ourselves, or the Earth will fire back with all her fury and vengeance. I kind of think she's doing that already. I believe the strange weather, the increase in tornadoes, hurricanes and other such events are the Earth's way of saying, "If you don't change the way you live, you are SO fucked." And yes I did call her "she" - only a true bitch could unleash wrath like that.
I will never in my life be able to own or operate a firearm or vote. I'm more disappointed about the firearm deal. Even if I could vote, I wouldn't. I have never believed that mine or anyone else's vote has ever counted. I believe that positions of power are bought and paid for, period. Unfortunately, in this world, money talks, and ethics don't count for shit.
I wonder why the people I love have to suffer, despite their goodness and dedication to others. Why, when I was a total piece of shit, hurting myself and others, do I not suffer for my "sins"? I do, with guilt, but how am I in near perfect health, and others are not when they DON'T deserve it?
Everyone is addicted to SOMETHING. Some are just lesser of all the evils.
What I loved about my father the most and what I love about my sister: their honesty. Brutal at times, yes, but you would never hear a dishonest word out of my father's mouth, nor my sister's. I've always secretly wished I could be as bold and honest. I'm working on that.
What I love most about my mother: her undeniable compassion and unconditional love.
What I love most about my small circle of friends: they accept me as I am and I accept them as they are. There's no judgement, no backstabbing, no catty bullshit...only love, understanding, trust, forgiveness and compassion for each other. True friendship is one of the things I cherish the most in this life, where trusting others is usually and often difficult.
I have witnessed two deaths in my life. It is devastating and, put simply, it sucks.
I have witnessed two deaths of pets. It sucks just as bad.
I love people watching. Humans fascinate me. Often my husband has asked me why I stare at people, but it's not because I am doing it in contempt, but rather a quiet awe.
I've been asked why I am so into vampires, my own son accuses me of being obsessed. The main reason is I grew up watching the Christopher Lee "Dracula" flicks, and numerous other low budget vampire films. What can I say, it just happens to be my favorite horror genre. Over time, I also think it's because, even though they are fictional, I can identify with them, in the sense of addiction. They need to feed on blood to live, to survive, and as much as they may hate to hurt people to do it, it's the obsession and the "addiction" that drives them. They are stuck in a vicious cycle much like addicts. There are so many parallels if you just think about it.
I trust only 4 women: my mother, my sister, and two very close friends.
I trust only 2 men: my husband and my best friend.
Music is a huge part of my life. There is probably a song for every moment in my life, good times and bad. I don't know what I would do without it. I've always secretly wished I could play an instrument.
As I approach 40, it's hard not to think of my life as being "half over". But when the thought comes, I tell myself that the chance to make the second half of my life into something really great is too promising to ignore.
I don't believe in the biblical Armageddon, Rapture, Judgement Day, or whatever other phrase you want to slap on it. However, I DO believe that humans are destroying this planet. And either one day, we will destroy ourselves, or the Earth will fire back with all her fury and vengeance. I kind of think she's doing that already. I believe the strange weather, the increase in tornadoes, hurricanes and other such events are the Earth's way of saying, "If you don't change the way you live, you are SO fucked." And yes I did call her "she" - only a true bitch could unleash wrath like that.
I will never in my life be able to own or operate a firearm or vote. I'm more disappointed about the firearm deal. Even if I could vote, I wouldn't. I have never believed that mine or anyone else's vote has ever counted. I believe that positions of power are bought and paid for, period. Unfortunately, in this world, money talks, and ethics don't count for shit.
I wonder why the people I love have to suffer, despite their goodness and dedication to others. Why, when I was a total piece of shit, hurting myself and others, do I not suffer for my "sins"? I do, with guilt, but how am I in near perfect health, and others are not when they DON'T deserve it?
Everyone is addicted to SOMETHING. Some are just lesser of all the evils.
What I loved about my father the most and what I love about my sister: their honesty. Brutal at times, yes, but you would never hear a dishonest word out of my father's mouth, nor my sister's. I've always secretly wished I could be as bold and honest. I'm working on that.
What I love most about my mother: her undeniable compassion and unconditional love.
What I love most about my small circle of friends: they accept me as I am and I accept them as they are. There's no judgement, no backstabbing, no catty bullshit...only love, understanding, trust, forgiveness and compassion for each other. True friendship is one of the things I cherish the most in this life, where trusting others is usually and often difficult.
I have witnessed two deaths in my life. It is devastating and, put simply, it sucks.
I have witnessed two deaths of pets. It sucks just as bad.
I love people watching. Humans fascinate me. Often my husband has asked me why I stare at people, but it's not because I am doing it in contempt, but rather a quiet awe.
I've been asked why I am so into vampires, my own son accuses me of being obsessed. The main reason is I grew up watching the Christopher Lee "Dracula" flicks, and numerous other low budget vampire films. What can I say, it just happens to be my favorite horror genre. Over time, I also think it's because, even though they are fictional, I can identify with them, in the sense of addiction. They need to feed on blood to live, to survive, and as much as they may hate to hurt people to do it, it's the obsession and the "addiction" that drives them. They are stuck in a vicious cycle much like addicts. There are so many parallels if you just think about it.
I trust only 4 women: my mother, my sister, and two very close friends.
I trust only 2 men: my husband and my best friend.
Music is a huge part of my life. There is probably a song for every moment in my life, good times and bad. I don't know what I would do without it. I've always secretly wished I could play an instrument.
As I approach 40, it's hard not to think of my life as being "half over". But when the thought comes, I tell myself that the chance to make the second half of my life into something really great is too promising to ignore.
Random Incursions
Life is a blank sheet of paper, and I am the script that lay upon it.
Sometimes I literally feel like beating the living shit out of something or someone. Thinking of taking up boxing.
I am not afraid to die. I am only afraid of HOW I'm going to die. Hopefully not some flesh-eating disease, or zombies.
When I was very young, around the ages of 8-10, I had horrifying nightmares of demons, Satan, and Hell. A huge shout out to the Catholic School I attended for keeping me awake at night, for a very long time.
I am starting to believe that for every closed door, another one opens.
I was so traumatized by a childhood dentist, I still have nightmares till this day. I'm hoping that when the bastard dies, there's a special Hell where little kids get to torture him by drilling and yanking his teeth without novacaine.
Although I believe in psychic ability, I am apprehensive to believe most who claim it. However, a psychic I went to back in 1993, predicted exactly who I would marry. She told me a great number of other things, as well as describing my past, and thoughts I never spoke out loud...but she KNEW.
I have this overwhelming sense that I have something important to do in this life. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm patiently waiting to find out.
The only time I've actually prayed in the last 25 years is during my addiction. Either praying for death because I couldn't take the sickness, or praying for a fix and then an empty promise to quit the next day.
There's only 4 people in this entire world that I will ever actually care about what they think of me: my mother, my sister, my husband, and my son.
If I pay attention and focus, I can literally hear and feel energy changes.
My gut instincts have never failed me. Often, they have kept me from dangerous situations. I was invited to a party once, but didn't go, I had that *feeling*. I went to another party going on that same day. The next day I found out there was a shooting at the other party; one dead, one disfigured for life.
When I broke my back, I lost all bathroom functions for about 6 months. They came back but not the same. However, my menstrual cycle didn't miss a fucking beat. Epic FUCK MY LIFE.
Humor is how I deal with life. I sometimes laugh about things that I probably shouldn't, but it is how I cope. I also laugh about people, cruel as that sounds. But I am not prejudiced, I make fun of everyone equally.
I admire people who aren't afraid to say, "This is who I am!", even if it is seen as "different" or "strange". Those are the people who are REAL, who aren't afraid to be who they are, and they are usually honest people.
....more to come....
Sometimes I literally feel like beating the living shit out of something or someone. Thinking of taking up boxing.
I am not afraid to die. I am only afraid of HOW I'm going to die. Hopefully not some flesh-eating disease, or zombies.
When I was very young, around the ages of 8-10, I had horrifying nightmares of demons, Satan, and Hell. A huge shout out to the Catholic School I attended for keeping me awake at night, for a very long time.
I am starting to believe that for every closed door, another one opens.
I was so traumatized by a childhood dentist, I still have nightmares till this day. I'm hoping that when the bastard dies, there's a special Hell where little kids get to torture him by drilling and yanking his teeth without novacaine.
Although I believe in psychic ability, I am apprehensive to believe most who claim it. However, a psychic I went to back in 1993, predicted exactly who I would marry. She told me a great number of other things, as well as describing my past, and thoughts I never spoke out loud...but she KNEW.
I have this overwhelming sense that I have something important to do in this life. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm patiently waiting to find out.
The only time I've actually prayed in the last 25 years is during my addiction. Either praying for death because I couldn't take the sickness, or praying for a fix and then an empty promise to quit the next day.
There's only 4 people in this entire world that I will ever actually care about what they think of me: my mother, my sister, my husband, and my son.
If I pay attention and focus, I can literally hear and feel energy changes.
My gut instincts have never failed me. Often, they have kept me from dangerous situations. I was invited to a party once, but didn't go, I had that *feeling*. I went to another party going on that same day. The next day I found out there was a shooting at the other party; one dead, one disfigured for life.
When I broke my back, I lost all bathroom functions for about 6 months. They came back but not the same. However, my menstrual cycle didn't miss a fucking beat. Epic FUCK MY LIFE.
Humor is how I deal with life. I sometimes laugh about things that I probably shouldn't, but it is how I cope. I also laugh about people, cruel as that sounds. But I am not prejudiced, I make fun of everyone equally.
I admire people who aren't afraid to say, "This is who I am!", even if it is seen as "different" or "strange". Those are the people who are REAL, who aren't afraid to be who they are, and they are usually honest people.
....more to come....
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Emotions In Motion
6:30 am. As much as I abhor getting up early (I was actually up at 5 am), it is within these quiet moments, when everyone else is tucked away in bed silently dreaming, that I find myself. Unfortunately, I have this ability to shut off my feelings like a light switch. I used to think of it as a gift. Don't want to feel this? BAM! SHUT IT OFF. It really is a curse though; we are supposed to feel. After all, isn't that what being human is all about? Our emotions define not only us as individuals, but as a species. We are a unique army of ants in the sand hill that is our universe. However reversing my automatic shutdown switch is difficult at times, but I'm learning.
I've always had an extremely hard time with negative emotions; anger, frustration, sadness, disappointment. As a child, I'd escape within myself, to the farthest reaches of my imagination, being that "someone else" I wanted to be, instead of being me. In later years it was people-pleasing and chemicals. Anything I could do to take the focus off of who I was, was a relieving welcome. So, when my addictions surfaced at their very worst, that bomb of self-hatred exploded; the shrapnel piercing my skin like millions of tiny daggers, and I couldn't take it anymore.
I should probably explain what chemical addiction is like. In my case, it was heroin. It's like a long chain of dominoes - once you flick that first one, there's no stopping it until it reaches the end. And by end, that usually means one of three things: rehab, prison, or death. In the case of heroin, you are literally a rat on a wheel. The moment you wake up, the first thought is "How am I going to get my shit today?" Once that money is procured, the next thought is "Is my dealer awake yet?" Honestly, that's it. That's all you think about morning, noon and night. It is a vicious cycle of desperation and despair with only one goal: don't get dope sick - anything to avoid that.
Dope sickness: Your body's sick and twisted way of letting you know you are a hopeless slave. It is like having the flu but a hundred times worse. Sweating, chills, puking, shitting yourself, body aches that feel is if you're in rigor mortis, yawning, sneezing, chronic insomnia...and on and on. Countless times I would fantasize about sawing my own legs off to release myself from the pain, or pray (funny, the only time in eons I would ever pray) for death to come swiftly. It's not life threatening, but it is sheer agony. Ask any recovering heroin addict about detoxing and watch the corners of their mouths turn down in a grimace. Bottom line: it is Hell.
Desperation and Despair: When you know that this is not the person you really are, but still, you can't stop. You can't look at yourself in the mirror because deep down, all the pain and the things you've done, the lies you've told, and the people you've hurt will come staring back at you, through dark, soulless eyes. So to keep from driving yourself mad (and dope sickness being the other motivator), you press on and promise yourself you will quit tomorrow. But tomorrow always turns into next week, and next week turns into next month....
It is often these factors that finally bring you to your knees, broken and alone. Whoever hasn't left you has ceased to speak or associate with you. It is within these lonely hours that you can make even more bad choices. I've never attempted suicide in my life; which actually surprises me being that I loathed my own reflection all these years. But in the midst of my last relapse, hating myself and feeling like a complete nothing, I tried to take my own life. It was last year, I can't remember when, that one day I made the decision that everyone would be better off without me, and I could finally be free of this addiction. I mixed 30 bags of heroin into one shot and injected it, looking forward to finally ending the pain of living. It didn't work, obviously. My only thought? "Wow, I can't even do this right."
Of course, now with clarity, I am eternally thankful that I didn't succeed. How selfish of me to not even think of my family, my husband, and the most important of all, my son. I thought at the time that I would be doing my son a favor. Again, the addiction is extremely savage and is selfish in its own right. It doesn't care about you, or your loved ones, only about what IT wants. It would be happy to have victory over your meaningless existence. But IT didn't win - once again, I regained the upper hand.
So now, I allow myself to feel what I need to feel. That automatic switch is still there, but I try to be more aware of it's presence, and put mental duct tape on it so it can't be turned off. Again, it's not a simple task to reverse defense mechanisms. But I am trying...it's all I can do. I can't turn back the clock of my life, but I can reset its hands. Reversing low self-esteem, or lack thereof, is another heavy task, but I'm working on that too. Instead of avoiding the mirror, I can look into it now and say, "Hey, I kind of like you." And the reflection smiles back and winks.
~AJW 6/4/11~
I've always had an extremely hard time with negative emotions; anger, frustration, sadness, disappointment. As a child, I'd escape within myself, to the farthest reaches of my imagination, being that "someone else" I wanted to be, instead of being me. In later years it was people-pleasing and chemicals. Anything I could do to take the focus off of who I was, was a relieving welcome. So, when my addictions surfaced at their very worst, that bomb of self-hatred exploded; the shrapnel piercing my skin like millions of tiny daggers, and I couldn't take it anymore.
I should probably explain what chemical addiction is like. In my case, it was heroin. It's like a long chain of dominoes - once you flick that first one, there's no stopping it until it reaches the end. And by end, that usually means one of three things: rehab, prison, or death. In the case of heroin, you are literally a rat on a wheel. The moment you wake up, the first thought is "How am I going to get my shit today?" Once that money is procured, the next thought is "Is my dealer awake yet?" Honestly, that's it. That's all you think about morning, noon and night. It is a vicious cycle of desperation and despair with only one goal: don't get dope sick - anything to avoid that.
Dope sickness: Your body's sick and twisted way of letting you know you are a hopeless slave. It is like having the flu but a hundred times worse. Sweating, chills, puking, shitting yourself, body aches that feel is if you're in rigor mortis, yawning, sneezing, chronic insomnia...and on and on. Countless times I would fantasize about sawing my own legs off to release myself from the pain, or pray (funny, the only time in eons I would ever pray) for death to come swiftly. It's not life threatening, but it is sheer agony. Ask any recovering heroin addict about detoxing and watch the corners of their mouths turn down in a grimace. Bottom line: it is Hell.
Desperation and Despair: When you know that this is not the person you really are, but still, you can't stop. You can't look at yourself in the mirror because deep down, all the pain and the things you've done, the lies you've told, and the people you've hurt will come staring back at you, through dark, soulless eyes. So to keep from driving yourself mad (and dope sickness being the other motivator), you press on and promise yourself you will quit tomorrow. But tomorrow always turns into next week, and next week turns into next month....
It is often these factors that finally bring you to your knees, broken and alone. Whoever hasn't left you has ceased to speak or associate with you. It is within these lonely hours that you can make even more bad choices. I've never attempted suicide in my life; which actually surprises me being that I loathed my own reflection all these years. But in the midst of my last relapse, hating myself and feeling like a complete nothing, I tried to take my own life. It was last year, I can't remember when, that one day I made the decision that everyone would be better off without me, and I could finally be free of this addiction. I mixed 30 bags of heroin into one shot and injected it, looking forward to finally ending the pain of living. It didn't work, obviously. My only thought? "Wow, I can't even do this right."
Of course, now with clarity, I am eternally thankful that I didn't succeed. How selfish of me to not even think of my family, my husband, and the most important of all, my son. I thought at the time that I would be doing my son a favor. Again, the addiction is extremely savage and is selfish in its own right. It doesn't care about you, or your loved ones, only about what IT wants. It would be happy to have victory over your meaningless existence. But IT didn't win - once again, I regained the upper hand.
So now, I allow myself to feel what I need to feel. That automatic switch is still there, but I try to be more aware of it's presence, and put mental duct tape on it so it can't be turned off. Again, it's not a simple task to reverse defense mechanisms. But I am trying...it's all I can do. I can't turn back the clock of my life, but I can reset its hands. Reversing low self-esteem, or lack thereof, is another heavy task, but I'm working on that too. Instead of avoiding the mirror, I can look into it now and say, "Hey, I kind of like you." And the reflection smiles back and winks.
~AJW 6/4/11~
Sunday, May 29, 2011
The Struggle Within: Miss Hyde
Before I get into the topic of my alter ego, I should note that this Chronicle will, at times, go back and forth through time. My objective is not to unfold a chronological timeline of my life, but rather to release the emotions as they come, in whatever order they feel like. I believe that some tales aren't ready to be told just yet. When they are ready, they will spill forth. I should also point out that if you are reading this, you should know that this is not all going to be sunshine and roses; it is also going to be a release of the negativity. Some of it is tame, some of it is vile. But it is an open and honest representation of the person behind the keyboard. That being said, I feel there is a lesson to learn in everything, whether it is positive or negative. The trick is turning negative into positive. The goal: To be more than who I am. Sounds simple enough but the path is never a smooth, relaxing ride. It has its bumps and obstacles and finding a way to clear the path can prove to be an exhausting challenge. Over the years, I've discovered that writing helps me clear that path, to make way for the journey that lies ahead. I've struggled with it at times and given it up for long periods. But I am continually called back to it, and at this point in my life, I no longer care if anyone thinks it is good enough to read. It is for me, and for me to sort out the the intricate web of thoughts and emotions inside my head.
So on to Miss Hyde. I probably could have thought of a better name for my alter ego, instead of ripping it off from a classic work of literary fiction. But I have my reasons for naming her Miss Hyde. I'll get to that. As I stated before, I came to realize early on that I had two very different and very distinct parts of me. The "good" side, and the "evil" side. However it took quite a while for H to show her true face completely and fully to me, but I will get to that too.
The "good" side of me, Ms. Jekyll, is many things. The things I am most proud of and that make me smile. My sense of humor, my fun-loving nature, my capacity to see good in all things, even when others perceive those things to be "evil" or "damaged", the love and connection I feel for those around me, my will to survive and fight through all that would harm me....and so on. Unfortunately, because my self-esteem is still a work in progress, I really don't have much more to say about J. That will come in time, with patience and positive reinforcement. One thing I DO know is that J has the capacity to be more than who she is; to grow into the kind of woman she can, with utmost certainty and conviction, be at peace with, and to someday draw her final breath knowing that.
The "evil" side, Miss Hyde, is everything I despise. She comes clawing to the surface through addiction. But not just drug addiction, there are many forms of it. She crept out slowly at first; through the attention-seeking I mentioned as a child. She got a taste of her first "high", the inevitable flow of focus from others, no matter if it was to be praised or punished. That was satisfactory for a while, until H needed something more. Escaping into the vast fantasy world of her imagination was next. She spent long hours forcing the shell in which she inhabited, Alison, to escape from reality and the pain of living. It was around this time that my father was actively drinking still, so sinking back into another world, where I could be anyone I wished to be, was comforting. And it quelled H, but not for long. At the age of 11, I started smoking cigarettes. The dizzying effect I felt was a welcome change from ordinary (but dysfunctional) everyday life. Slowly, but inevitably though, I became addicted and no longer felt the high I felt when I had first started. Ironically, this would happen again much later in my life.
The next phase of H's process of emergence was through a combination of self-pity, alcohol and pot. Chemicals speak for themselves; I need not explain that. But by self-pity I mean my perpetual feeling that I was unique and removed from everyone else. When I was in Catholic school, it was my confusion over what I was learning, from a religious standpoint. Everyone else appeared to believe, without questioning or doubt, what they were hearing and absorbing was the complete and absolute truth. Everyone, except me. My fellow classmates dressed differently, talked differently, listened to different music, had different interests, and yet, here I was, the weed in a rose garden. In retrospect, I know now that I felt it my whole life, even in my own family-the outcast, the black sheep, the troublemaker. But as I've come to realize, no one made me feel that way, it was her, H, that whispered a constant tape of self-loathing in my ear.
At the age of 19, I suffered a traumatic and lifechanging event. That story is for another time though. The short and to the point story of it is that I broke my back; crushing a vertabrae and leaving one of my legs paralyzed. Through surgery, therapy and a strong will (no doubt on the part of J) to fight, I got through it. But during the course of this physically and emotionally painful lesson in my life, I was naturally introduced to opiates. I found out all too quickly its numbing effects: it doesn't kill the physical pain, but it makes you not give a shit. Lost at sea, floating on your back with the water high enough to cover your ears to dull out the sounds of the harsh, cruel world; a state of perpetual and calming oblivion. It was a refreshing welcome when, at the time, I was forced to deal with the pain of healing my body and the unexpected horrors that radiated from that one moment in time where following my gut instinct would have spared me all of it. But somehow, I soldiered on, devoid of any dependence on the pills given to me. But H had different plans. She discovered that she could, at any time, pop an extra pill or two and enter that weightless, soundless and protective womb of denial.
Between the ages of 19 and 28, chemicals fell lowest on H's food chain. This period of my life was focused on another addiction, shopping and spending money. By 25 I had racked up over $12,000 in credit card debt. "Just declare bankruptcy", H whispered in my ear. And so it was done. In between all this, I had battled Panic Disorder, Depression, and PTSD. J and H battled it out like the gladiators of Ancient Rome; until one had to die. I thought I had buried her, said my goodbyes, and before turning away, spit on her grave, but apparently, that only antagonized H. And so, she waited, biding her time, her grand finale of vengeance still to come.
In 2000, my son Brendan was born. A full year of trying and I was rewarded with the most precious, most beautiful gift I have ever received. No words can describe it. If you are a mother, than you already know. He was born by C-section and I was promptly put on painkillers to ease the pain of surgery. It was and still is the best day of my life, but H was not done yet. The magic elixir, the poison that Ms. Jekyll ingested awoke Miss Hyde from a long and patient period of dormancy. Hell, it seemed, was what she was going to make of my life. And she meant business.
Up until that point, H could be kept down, controlled. A splinter in my mind that could be ignored, even plucked out when the irritation became too much. Now, she was a 2 x 4 in my head, screaming bloody murder and with one goal: to shut out everything I was supposed to feel. She was everything I tried so hard to mask: anger, pain, frustration, confusion, hatred. And the irony is that she loathed these things, these emotions, far more than I ever did. She would stop at nothing, NOTHING, to quiet those "demons" and her focus was solely on that soothing Womb of Quiet Darkness. Despite the efforts of J, on several occasions, to quiet H and try to bury her again and again, H would rise from the grave again, a mindless and unfeeling corpse to suck the life out of anyone who stood in her way.
It has been 11 years since H was unleashed upon this Earth, and the small part of it that I inhabit. It took me this long to realize something that never dawned on me before: Miss Hyde is immortal. Like the countless fictional vampires and various undead creatures I so often read about in books, she is here to stay. It horrified me at first to realize this. I denied it, tried to bury it as I said, but she kept creeping back; clawing her way through the wooden lid of her coffin, the roots and the dirt to breathe life once more. She is the total embodiment of everything I can't stand in myself, in other people, in this world and in this universe. Her presence is agonizing and overbearing at times. She feels it is only right to inflict her suffering upon me, and either I endure it, or go to my own grave.
This last relapse was probably the worst of any of them. There are many reasons, many of which I do not wish to disclose here. Miss Hyde lashed out with a ferocity that surprised me, and especially those around me. She is a living, waking nightmare. So how do I go on living with this Dark Half, this undead immortal creature who is, for now, lying silent somewhere deep within me? I've thought about this question countless times, keeping me awake some nights and other nights causing disturbing and vivid dreams. How do I pacify Hyde without unleashing her once again to terrorize myself and everyone that I love? That answer came yesterday.
As much as I need an outlet for all that is wonderful and remarkable in my life, Hyde needs an outlet too. As previously noted, that outlet is writing. When I, also known as Ms. Jekyll, write, it is, quite obviously, about my real experiences with life. A journey through the labyrinth inside the "real" me. So how do I create that for H? How do I pacify her without releasing her fury and active addiction? That answer is fiction, my friends. All the pent up aggression, horrors and dark side of life can be filtered into endless, spine-chilling works of literary therapy. Genius! Okay, I'm not a genius, but I play one on TV. The light bulb is flashing, the Eureka moment has hit, and that Nike motto "Just Do It" rolls through my head like a marquee.
So, as was the birth of The Butterfly Chronicles for myself, good 'ol Ms. Jekyll, there will be a sibling introduced in the coming days for the wild and demented Miss Hyde.
~AJW 5/29/11~
So on to Miss Hyde. I probably could have thought of a better name for my alter ego, instead of ripping it off from a classic work of literary fiction. But I have my reasons for naming her Miss Hyde. I'll get to that. As I stated before, I came to realize early on that I had two very different and very distinct parts of me. The "good" side, and the "evil" side. However it took quite a while for H to show her true face completely and fully to me, but I will get to that too.
The "good" side of me, Ms. Jekyll, is many things. The things I am most proud of and that make me smile. My sense of humor, my fun-loving nature, my capacity to see good in all things, even when others perceive those things to be "evil" or "damaged", the love and connection I feel for those around me, my will to survive and fight through all that would harm me....and so on. Unfortunately, because my self-esteem is still a work in progress, I really don't have much more to say about J. That will come in time, with patience and positive reinforcement. One thing I DO know is that J has the capacity to be more than who she is; to grow into the kind of woman she can, with utmost certainty and conviction, be at peace with, and to someday draw her final breath knowing that.
The "evil" side, Miss Hyde, is everything I despise. She comes clawing to the surface through addiction. But not just drug addiction, there are many forms of it. She crept out slowly at first; through the attention-seeking I mentioned as a child. She got a taste of her first "high", the inevitable flow of focus from others, no matter if it was to be praised or punished. That was satisfactory for a while, until H needed something more. Escaping into the vast fantasy world of her imagination was next. She spent long hours forcing the shell in which she inhabited, Alison, to escape from reality and the pain of living. It was around this time that my father was actively drinking still, so sinking back into another world, where I could be anyone I wished to be, was comforting. And it quelled H, but not for long. At the age of 11, I started smoking cigarettes. The dizzying effect I felt was a welcome change from ordinary (but dysfunctional) everyday life. Slowly, but inevitably though, I became addicted and no longer felt the high I felt when I had first started. Ironically, this would happen again much later in my life.
The next phase of H's process of emergence was through a combination of self-pity, alcohol and pot. Chemicals speak for themselves; I need not explain that. But by self-pity I mean my perpetual feeling that I was unique and removed from everyone else. When I was in Catholic school, it was my confusion over what I was learning, from a religious standpoint. Everyone else appeared to believe, without questioning or doubt, what they were hearing and absorbing was the complete and absolute truth. Everyone, except me. My fellow classmates dressed differently, talked differently, listened to different music, had different interests, and yet, here I was, the weed in a rose garden. In retrospect, I know now that I felt it my whole life, even in my own family-the outcast, the black sheep, the troublemaker. But as I've come to realize, no one made me feel that way, it was her, H, that whispered a constant tape of self-loathing in my ear.
At the age of 19, I suffered a traumatic and lifechanging event. That story is for another time though. The short and to the point story of it is that I broke my back; crushing a vertabrae and leaving one of my legs paralyzed. Through surgery, therapy and a strong will (no doubt on the part of J) to fight, I got through it. But during the course of this physically and emotionally painful lesson in my life, I was naturally introduced to opiates. I found out all too quickly its numbing effects: it doesn't kill the physical pain, but it makes you not give a shit. Lost at sea, floating on your back with the water high enough to cover your ears to dull out the sounds of the harsh, cruel world; a state of perpetual and calming oblivion. It was a refreshing welcome when, at the time, I was forced to deal with the pain of healing my body and the unexpected horrors that radiated from that one moment in time where following my gut instinct would have spared me all of it. But somehow, I soldiered on, devoid of any dependence on the pills given to me. But H had different plans. She discovered that she could, at any time, pop an extra pill or two and enter that weightless, soundless and protective womb of denial.
Between the ages of 19 and 28, chemicals fell lowest on H's food chain. This period of my life was focused on another addiction, shopping and spending money. By 25 I had racked up over $12,000 in credit card debt. "Just declare bankruptcy", H whispered in my ear. And so it was done. In between all this, I had battled Panic Disorder, Depression, and PTSD. J and H battled it out like the gladiators of Ancient Rome; until one had to die. I thought I had buried her, said my goodbyes, and before turning away, spit on her grave, but apparently, that only antagonized H. And so, she waited, biding her time, her grand finale of vengeance still to come.
In 2000, my son Brendan was born. A full year of trying and I was rewarded with the most precious, most beautiful gift I have ever received. No words can describe it. If you are a mother, than you already know. He was born by C-section and I was promptly put on painkillers to ease the pain of surgery. It was and still is the best day of my life, but H was not done yet. The magic elixir, the poison that Ms. Jekyll ingested awoke Miss Hyde from a long and patient period of dormancy. Hell, it seemed, was what she was going to make of my life. And she meant business.
Up until that point, H could be kept down, controlled. A splinter in my mind that could be ignored, even plucked out when the irritation became too much. Now, she was a 2 x 4 in my head, screaming bloody murder and with one goal: to shut out everything I was supposed to feel. She was everything I tried so hard to mask: anger, pain, frustration, confusion, hatred. And the irony is that she loathed these things, these emotions, far more than I ever did. She would stop at nothing, NOTHING, to quiet those "demons" and her focus was solely on that soothing Womb of Quiet Darkness. Despite the efforts of J, on several occasions, to quiet H and try to bury her again and again, H would rise from the grave again, a mindless and unfeeling corpse to suck the life out of anyone who stood in her way.
It has been 11 years since H was unleashed upon this Earth, and the small part of it that I inhabit. It took me this long to realize something that never dawned on me before: Miss Hyde is immortal. Like the countless fictional vampires and various undead creatures I so often read about in books, she is here to stay. It horrified me at first to realize this. I denied it, tried to bury it as I said, but she kept creeping back; clawing her way through the wooden lid of her coffin, the roots and the dirt to breathe life once more. She is the total embodiment of everything I can't stand in myself, in other people, in this world and in this universe. Her presence is agonizing and overbearing at times. She feels it is only right to inflict her suffering upon me, and either I endure it, or go to my own grave.
This last relapse was probably the worst of any of them. There are many reasons, many of which I do not wish to disclose here. Miss Hyde lashed out with a ferocity that surprised me, and especially those around me. She is a living, waking nightmare. So how do I go on living with this Dark Half, this undead immortal creature who is, for now, lying silent somewhere deep within me? I've thought about this question countless times, keeping me awake some nights and other nights causing disturbing and vivid dreams. How do I pacify Hyde without unleashing her once again to terrorize myself and everyone that I love? That answer came yesterday.
As much as I need an outlet for all that is wonderful and remarkable in my life, Hyde needs an outlet too. As previously noted, that outlet is writing. When I, also known as Ms. Jekyll, write, it is, quite obviously, about my real experiences with life. A journey through the labyrinth inside the "real" me. So how do I create that for H? How do I pacify her without releasing her fury and active addiction? That answer is fiction, my friends. All the pent up aggression, horrors and dark side of life can be filtered into endless, spine-chilling works of literary therapy. Genius! Okay, I'm not a genius, but I play one on TV. The light bulb is flashing, the Eureka moment has hit, and that Nike motto "Just Do It" rolls through my head like a marquee.
So, as was the birth of The Butterfly Chronicles for myself, good 'ol Ms. Jekyll, there will be a sibling introduced in the coming days for the wild and demented Miss Hyde.
~AJW 5/29/11~
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Coincidence? I Think, Perhaps, Not.
"Coincidences are God's way of staying anonymous." I read that quote in a book that I am currently reading called "Stray" by Mark Matthews. It indelibly left a mark on me long after my eyes passed across the sentence on the page. The feeling that this book chose me, instead of I choosing it, was overwhelming. I ended the chapter, my eyes starting to burn from reading for hours, and decided to lay down for a little while. But that phrase kept pecking away at my brain, until I was forced to get up and write about it.
So, here I sit. And I can't stop thinking about "coincidences". But before I get to that, I need to back up a few steps, and explain my mindset prior to the events of this last year. This will be the only way I, and perhaps you, will be able to sense and understand my confusion, my wonder, my questions, and finally, my curiosity.
I grew up in a Catholic family-not wildly religious, mind you, but traditional Catholic ideals, embedded in my roots for who knows how many generations. In my early years of life, my environment consisted of my sister, nearly six years older than I, my mother, and my actively alcoholic father. Since more often than not Dad was the focus of the household attention, and usually not in a positive way, emotional needs fell by the wayside. I don't blame my mother OR my father; my Dad had a progressive and fatal disease, albeit addiction, and Mom had to do her best to keep some semblance of normalcy for us kids. I didn't understand then, but looking back on it, her role in our family was the most difficult of any of us.
But I digress, and that is another story for another time. My point being that because of the environment, lacking emotional encouragement, and the never ending physical and emotional needs of my father at that time, I became kind of a wild child. I craved attention in any way I could get it, positive or negative. So much so, that when the time came to enter the first grade, my mother promptly registered me in the local Catholic school. I really didn't know why then, all I knew was my sister never had to go there, so why did I have to? I was pissed. But over the eight years that I perceived to be myself imprisoned there, in a vast sea of contradiction (not only with the Catholic Church, but within myself) I came to realize several things. First, that the reason my mother put me there was not only that the school was in walking distance, but that she thought it would be good for me-a way to tame my behavior. Secondly, that I had two very distinct people inside of one body..my body. No, I do not have Multiple Personality Disorder. What I mean is, and for lack of a better way to put it, a good side and an evil side. Over the years, I've come to call it Ms. Jekyll and Miss Hyde, but, that's yet another story for another time. And finally, that although I tried very hard to believe what was being spoon fed to me day in and day out, I just couldn't believe blindly in the Bible, in God or Satan, all the hocus pocus and water into wine. It just never rang true for me, and quite frankly, it still doesn't.
I tried out other religions, none of them important enough to even mention, and I would read about them, try them out, and practice whatever rituals, if any, came along with them. Over and over, I would just feel completely stupid. It felt ridiculous and unnatural to me. The only thing I could ever come back to, lean on and feel at ease with was Science. I realize there is still much, even today, based in theory only, but so much has been proven through careful research by some of the world's most brilliant scientists. I guess for me, it's easier to have cold, hard, tangible evidence. I slowly realized that I was an Atheist. I didn't believe in God, or Satan for that matter, and until I saw proof, He was non-existent. And, after all, in a world as shitty as this one is, how could an all-loving, all-powerful being allow so much chaos, destruction, war and death? Nope, you couldn't convince me, unless you could bring him down to me straight from the heavens, and put Him right in front of my face. As I said earlier, I still don't believe in God, as the majority of the world sees Him. But something within me and all around me has been picking at my brain this past year. Something I could no longer ignore or turn my back to-coincidence.
It started last year, 2010, on June 26. The day my father passed away. He had been ill for many years, battling CoPD and emphysema, but it was a massive stroke that took him. My husband, my mother, my sister, and I were at his side when he passed. Although I had seen death firsthand before with my grandmother, this was my father....much more difficult for many reasons. Again, another story (I have so many!) for another time. But in the days that followed, despite my being in a stupor every day (I had relapsed prior to his passing), I noticed something strange in the days that followed.
Most people have seen a butterfly at least a few times in their life. But you don't see them often, and on the occasions that you do, it's a rare and beautiful gift. A life transformed: caterpillar to chrysalis, chrysalis to butterfly. The transformation itself is a totally mystery, how one can go from a creepy-looking insect, to a magnificent creature of color, beauty and flight. In a personal sense, it is inspiring. Like the caterpillar, we live our lives striving to be better than who we are, and with effort and time, we can emerge a whole new being. Spiritually, I had heard once that butterflies were a symbol of a passed loved one communicating with their family and friends that they were there, still watching, still with you. I'd always brushed it off as nonsense of course, that is, until the days following my father's death.
For approximately two weeks, I began to see a butterfly every single day. Some of those days, I saw them two or three times in one day. Despite the haze I was in, it was too often not to notice. But as addiction goes, I had only one objective, and it was not analyzing these sightings that were usually few and far between. And although I didn't think about it for months after, it stayed in my subconscious, like a sort of mental sticky note.
In February of 2011, this year, I entered detox for what seemed like the billionth time in the last 11 years. Five days of that, and I was ready to go to another facility for further treatment. It was the Stonington Institute, which is a PHP (partial hospitalization program). You lived off campus in a type of sober house, and a van picked you up every day to bring you to "school", which consisted of four, one hour groups. After that was over, you got in the van and brought back to your house. Each girl had two 10 minute phone times-one usually in the afternoon and one in the evening. My afternoon phone time was set to 3:10pm. However, what I didn't know when I picked that time was that the van that I was on didn't get back to the house until 3:30, thus missing my husband's calls. My first day of "school", I came back to the house, late of course. I was told that I had gotten a phone call. But the message that was relayed to me, by another girl who was unaware, was that "my father had called." I was taken back but brushed it off as a hurried and thoughtless mistake. I checked the phone call log book though, and written on the pad was, "Alison - your father called." Again, I brushed it off. The next day, as with the previous day, I arrived back at the house late again, missing my husband's phone call. The same girl relayed my message to me: "Your father called." I snapped. I yelled and cursed that my father was dead. I was furious. I sat with that anger a long time. How dare she fuck that up two days in a row. How do you mistake "husband" for "father"? I even asked my husband exactly what he said and confirmed what I already knew-both days, he specifically told her to tell me that "her husband called". Like it would be said any other way anyway. My anger told me that she was just a fucking idiot who couldn't take a simple phone message. I stormed up to my room to be alone.
As I lay on my bed, listening to music and processing what was really bothering me, it occurred to me that I had no reason to be angry with her. She had no idea my father had died, until I screamed it for everyone to hear. She made a mistake, well twice, but nevertheless, a mistake. Again, the thought came, "What's really bothering you?" Immediately, I thought of the fact that I hadn't even truly grieved my father in a normal way. After all, I had been in a haze when he passed, and for quite some time after. I missed him terribly. So many things I had wanted to say and now couldn't, and my deep regret and guilt that I had been in a drug-induced state when he died. Knowing I had relapsed would have hurt him so deeply. He would have been disappointed, angry. A part of me was glad that he didn't know-his final moments shouldn't have been spent wishing his youngest daughter would get a clue. Then, for what reasons I'm still not sure of, I remembered the butterflies. I thought long and hard about the implications of that experience, and what this latest incident with the phone calls might mean in relation to it. And it became suddenly yet unexpectedly crystal clear: my father was sending me messages.
The butterfly to me symbolizes transformation, obviously, as it does with most people. As I said before, caterpillar into chrysalis, chrysalis into butterfly. In relation to my father, it meant many things. The first one being his own battle with addiction, and emerging from it with more than 25 years of sobriety until the end. Secondly, and most importantly, I think, his transformation from life into death. And with the mysterious "mistake" phone calls, he was trying to tell me two important things: that he was still with me, and that I could succeed in my own transformation. In relation to myself, I saw that being there in Stonington was the first step in my transformation-the caterpillar building its cocoon, preparing itself for the pupa, or chrysalis stage. But I had, and have, a long way to go before becoming that beautiful butterfly that I so long to be. But I've taken the first steps to building my cocoon, and sheltering myself from the "evil" and all that would be obstacles on my journey to self-transformation. In doing so, and with realizing that perhaps life does go on after death and that my father was still "helping" me, it has opened my mind to otherworldly possibilities. I still cannot tell you that I am a staunch believer of the afterlife, but right now, I'm seeing things in a different perspective, a new light.
In the months that have followed my leaving Stonington, a couple of "miracles", or what I believe to be personal miracles, have happened. The first being that my thought to be inevitable, undeniable and impending imprisonment, and as also told to me by the hardest asses in my local court, was flipped; Hard Ass Sr. and Hard Ass Jr. had a change in demeanor, and apparently, a change of heart. They decided that as long as I stayed clean, kept up with my programs, my therapy, and gave them negative urines, they would reinstate my probation. NO PRISON. I would be able to pass GO, and go directly back to my life, albeit with restrictions. I didn't complain. I'm still stunned to be honest with you. My last court case was supposed to end in my imprisonment, and I managed to avoid that, but with a stern warning from my attorney at the time, "The next time, you WILL go to prison, Alison. Live knowing that." And of course, and unfortunately, I didn't. But here it was, a bonafide miracle, I was free and I am planning to stay that way. The second "miracle", was my sister. Though not directly affected by my addiction (but by that I mean she was removed, in another town, and I didn't rob her blind), she naturally had built up anger and disappointment by my betrayal of those she loved and cared about as much as I did: our mother, my husband, and my son. I understood her anger, and still do. I'm angry with myself, so of course my loved ones are hurt. I did horrible things for my addiction, I did horrible things to those around me, and I did horrible things to myself. So, unsurprisingly, my sister had ceased to speak to me. Of course it hurt, and I missed her terribly, but I had to give her the time and space that she needed. But still, I missed her so much. I didn't call, I didn't try to contact her...I know my sister and I know her well enough to know that trying to get her attention or say I'm sorry was only going to push her away from me. So I let her be. But when her birthday came around, I wasn't going to not send her a card. At the very least, it was my way of communicating to her, "I understand your silence, your anger, but you're still my sister and I love you, and I miss you." Whether it was that subliminal message or something else, I do not know, but what I do know is she contacted me. It was the beginning of what I hope to be, and strive for, a newly found relationship between Big Sister and Little Sister. A stronger, healthier sisterly bond. The miracle here? I thought for sure, to my very core, that she would never speak to me again. I am so glad I was wrong.
Finally, I come back to coincidences. There have have been many of them these past few months. Mostly the people that are in my life right now, whom I trust implicitly, who I have now come to believe are a part of my life for a reason. What that is, I do not know. I just know it from somewhere deep inside myself to be true and right. There have been other examples, but I feel what I have told is enough. No offense to the reader, but I don't have to justify my thoughts to anyone, nor convince you of my honesty or sincerity. As long as I know it and believe it to be true, then that is what is most important, and of greater importance to my own personal journey.
I will end with this though, something that happened to me just two days ago. I was at a friend's house for dinner and girl talk. We stepped out on the porch to smoke, and as I was standing there, a butterfly flew past us and into the trees across the street. Not really one of those "coincidental" moments, but still a tiny spark that resonated with me. A few minutes later, and this was the gas to that spark which ignited the huge flame of certainty within me, my friend's neighbor and her daughter walked out of their apartment and were preparing to get in their vehicle. I turned to look at them and smile and the daughter's back was facing me. There, on the back of her t-shirt, was the word "BUTTERFLY". I smiled and silently whispered, "Thanks Dad". The chrysalis stage had just begun.
~AJW 5/28/11~
So, here I sit. And I can't stop thinking about "coincidences". But before I get to that, I need to back up a few steps, and explain my mindset prior to the events of this last year. This will be the only way I, and perhaps you, will be able to sense and understand my confusion, my wonder, my questions, and finally, my curiosity.
I grew up in a Catholic family-not wildly religious, mind you, but traditional Catholic ideals, embedded in my roots for who knows how many generations. In my early years of life, my environment consisted of my sister, nearly six years older than I, my mother, and my actively alcoholic father. Since more often than not Dad was the focus of the household attention, and usually not in a positive way, emotional needs fell by the wayside. I don't blame my mother OR my father; my Dad had a progressive and fatal disease, albeit addiction, and Mom had to do her best to keep some semblance of normalcy for us kids. I didn't understand then, but looking back on it, her role in our family was the most difficult of any of us.
But I digress, and that is another story for another time. My point being that because of the environment, lacking emotional encouragement, and the never ending physical and emotional needs of my father at that time, I became kind of a wild child. I craved attention in any way I could get it, positive or negative. So much so, that when the time came to enter the first grade, my mother promptly registered me in the local Catholic school. I really didn't know why then, all I knew was my sister never had to go there, so why did I have to? I was pissed. But over the eight years that I perceived to be myself imprisoned there, in a vast sea of contradiction (not only with the Catholic Church, but within myself) I came to realize several things. First, that the reason my mother put me there was not only that the school was in walking distance, but that she thought it would be good for me-a way to tame my behavior. Secondly, that I had two very distinct people inside of one body..my body. No, I do not have Multiple Personality Disorder. What I mean is, and for lack of a better way to put it, a good side and an evil side. Over the years, I've come to call it Ms. Jekyll and Miss Hyde, but, that's yet another story for another time. And finally, that although I tried very hard to believe what was being spoon fed to me day in and day out, I just couldn't believe blindly in the Bible, in God or Satan, all the hocus pocus and water into wine. It just never rang true for me, and quite frankly, it still doesn't.
I tried out other religions, none of them important enough to even mention, and I would read about them, try them out, and practice whatever rituals, if any, came along with them. Over and over, I would just feel completely stupid. It felt ridiculous and unnatural to me. The only thing I could ever come back to, lean on and feel at ease with was Science. I realize there is still much, even today, based in theory only, but so much has been proven through careful research by some of the world's most brilliant scientists. I guess for me, it's easier to have cold, hard, tangible evidence. I slowly realized that I was an Atheist. I didn't believe in God, or Satan for that matter, and until I saw proof, He was non-existent. And, after all, in a world as shitty as this one is, how could an all-loving, all-powerful being allow so much chaos, destruction, war and death? Nope, you couldn't convince me, unless you could bring him down to me straight from the heavens, and put Him right in front of my face. As I said earlier, I still don't believe in God, as the majority of the world sees Him. But something within me and all around me has been picking at my brain this past year. Something I could no longer ignore or turn my back to-coincidence.
It started last year, 2010, on June 26. The day my father passed away. He had been ill for many years, battling CoPD and emphysema, but it was a massive stroke that took him. My husband, my mother, my sister, and I were at his side when he passed. Although I had seen death firsthand before with my grandmother, this was my father....much more difficult for many reasons. Again, another story (I have so many!) for another time. But in the days that followed, despite my being in a stupor every day (I had relapsed prior to his passing), I noticed something strange in the days that followed.
Most people have seen a butterfly at least a few times in their life. But you don't see them often, and on the occasions that you do, it's a rare and beautiful gift. A life transformed: caterpillar to chrysalis, chrysalis to butterfly. The transformation itself is a totally mystery, how one can go from a creepy-looking insect, to a magnificent creature of color, beauty and flight. In a personal sense, it is inspiring. Like the caterpillar, we live our lives striving to be better than who we are, and with effort and time, we can emerge a whole new being. Spiritually, I had heard once that butterflies were a symbol of a passed loved one communicating with their family and friends that they were there, still watching, still with you. I'd always brushed it off as nonsense of course, that is, until the days following my father's death.
For approximately two weeks, I began to see a butterfly every single day. Some of those days, I saw them two or three times in one day. Despite the haze I was in, it was too often not to notice. But as addiction goes, I had only one objective, and it was not analyzing these sightings that were usually few and far between. And although I didn't think about it for months after, it stayed in my subconscious, like a sort of mental sticky note.
In February of 2011, this year, I entered detox for what seemed like the billionth time in the last 11 years. Five days of that, and I was ready to go to another facility for further treatment. It was the Stonington Institute, which is a PHP (partial hospitalization program). You lived off campus in a type of sober house, and a van picked you up every day to bring you to "school", which consisted of four, one hour groups. After that was over, you got in the van and brought back to your house. Each girl had two 10 minute phone times-one usually in the afternoon and one in the evening. My afternoon phone time was set to 3:10pm. However, what I didn't know when I picked that time was that the van that I was on didn't get back to the house until 3:30, thus missing my husband's calls. My first day of "school", I came back to the house, late of course. I was told that I had gotten a phone call. But the message that was relayed to me, by another girl who was unaware, was that "my father had called." I was taken back but brushed it off as a hurried and thoughtless mistake. I checked the phone call log book though, and written on the pad was, "Alison - your father called." Again, I brushed it off. The next day, as with the previous day, I arrived back at the house late again, missing my husband's phone call. The same girl relayed my message to me: "Your father called." I snapped. I yelled and cursed that my father was dead. I was furious. I sat with that anger a long time. How dare she fuck that up two days in a row. How do you mistake "husband" for "father"? I even asked my husband exactly what he said and confirmed what I already knew-both days, he specifically told her to tell me that "her husband called". Like it would be said any other way anyway. My anger told me that she was just a fucking idiot who couldn't take a simple phone message. I stormed up to my room to be alone.
As I lay on my bed, listening to music and processing what was really bothering me, it occurred to me that I had no reason to be angry with her. She had no idea my father had died, until I screamed it for everyone to hear. She made a mistake, well twice, but nevertheless, a mistake. Again, the thought came, "What's really bothering you?" Immediately, I thought of the fact that I hadn't even truly grieved my father in a normal way. After all, I had been in a haze when he passed, and for quite some time after. I missed him terribly. So many things I had wanted to say and now couldn't, and my deep regret and guilt that I had been in a drug-induced state when he died. Knowing I had relapsed would have hurt him so deeply. He would have been disappointed, angry. A part of me was glad that he didn't know-his final moments shouldn't have been spent wishing his youngest daughter would get a clue. Then, for what reasons I'm still not sure of, I remembered the butterflies. I thought long and hard about the implications of that experience, and what this latest incident with the phone calls might mean in relation to it. And it became suddenly yet unexpectedly crystal clear: my father was sending me messages.
The butterfly to me symbolizes transformation, obviously, as it does with most people. As I said before, caterpillar into chrysalis, chrysalis into butterfly. In relation to my father, it meant many things. The first one being his own battle with addiction, and emerging from it with more than 25 years of sobriety until the end. Secondly, and most importantly, I think, his transformation from life into death. And with the mysterious "mistake" phone calls, he was trying to tell me two important things: that he was still with me, and that I could succeed in my own transformation. In relation to myself, I saw that being there in Stonington was the first step in my transformation-the caterpillar building its cocoon, preparing itself for the pupa, or chrysalis stage. But I had, and have, a long way to go before becoming that beautiful butterfly that I so long to be. But I've taken the first steps to building my cocoon, and sheltering myself from the "evil" and all that would be obstacles on my journey to self-transformation. In doing so, and with realizing that perhaps life does go on after death and that my father was still "helping" me, it has opened my mind to otherworldly possibilities. I still cannot tell you that I am a staunch believer of the afterlife, but right now, I'm seeing things in a different perspective, a new light.
In the months that have followed my leaving Stonington, a couple of "miracles", or what I believe to be personal miracles, have happened. The first being that my thought to be inevitable, undeniable and impending imprisonment, and as also told to me by the hardest asses in my local court, was flipped; Hard Ass Sr. and Hard Ass Jr. had a change in demeanor, and apparently, a change of heart. They decided that as long as I stayed clean, kept up with my programs, my therapy, and gave them negative urines, they would reinstate my probation. NO PRISON. I would be able to pass GO, and go directly back to my life, albeit with restrictions. I didn't complain. I'm still stunned to be honest with you. My last court case was supposed to end in my imprisonment, and I managed to avoid that, but with a stern warning from my attorney at the time, "The next time, you WILL go to prison, Alison. Live knowing that." And of course, and unfortunately, I didn't. But here it was, a bonafide miracle, I was free and I am planning to stay that way. The second "miracle", was my sister. Though not directly affected by my addiction (but by that I mean she was removed, in another town, and I didn't rob her blind), she naturally had built up anger and disappointment by my betrayal of those she loved and cared about as much as I did: our mother, my husband, and my son. I understood her anger, and still do. I'm angry with myself, so of course my loved ones are hurt. I did horrible things for my addiction, I did horrible things to those around me, and I did horrible things to myself. So, unsurprisingly, my sister had ceased to speak to me. Of course it hurt, and I missed her terribly, but I had to give her the time and space that she needed. But still, I missed her so much. I didn't call, I didn't try to contact her...I know my sister and I know her well enough to know that trying to get her attention or say I'm sorry was only going to push her away from me. So I let her be. But when her birthday came around, I wasn't going to not send her a card. At the very least, it was my way of communicating to her, "I understand your silence, your anger, but you're still my sister and I love you, and I miss you." Whether it was that subliminal message or something else, I do not know, but what I do know is she contacted me. It was the beginning of what I hope to be, and strive for, a newly found relationship between Big Sister and Little Sister. A stronger, healthier sisterly bond. The miracle here? I thought for sure, to my very core, that she would never speak to me again. I am so glad I was wrong.
Finally, I come back to coincidences. There have have been many of them these past few months. Mostly the people that are in my life right now, whom I trust implicitly, who I have now come to believe are a part of my life for a reason. What that is, I do not know. I just know it from somewhere deep inside myself to be true and right. There have been other examples, but I feel what I have told is enough. No offense to the reader, but I don't have to justify my thoughts to anyone, nor convince you of my honesty or sincerity. As long as I know it and believe it to be true, then that is what is most important, and of greater importance to my own personal journey.
I will end with this though, something that happened to me just two days ago. I was at a friend's house for dinner and girl talk. We stepped out on the porch to smoke, and as I was standing there, a butterfly flew past us and into the trees across the street. Not really one of those "coincidental" moments, but still a tiny spark that resonated with me. A few minutes later, and this was the gas to that spark which ignited the huge flame of certainty within me, my friend's neighbor and her daughter walked out of their apartment and were preparing to get in their vehicle. I turned to look at them and smile and the daughter's back was facing me. There, on the back of her t-shirt, was the word "BUTTERFLY". I smiled and silently whispered, "Thanks Dad". The chrysalis stage had just begun.
~AJW 5/28/11~
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