I know. It’s been awhile. Not because I don’t make frightening fashion choices every day of my life, believe me I do, but because my cameras is broken and I have no way of documenting the ugly that is my wardrobe except for the camera in my computer and, hello, the zoom and pixelation (it’s a technical word– I LOOKED IT UP, M’KAY?) aren’t good enough to document that shit. Onward. Case in point (of my daily fashion tragedies):

#1- I (for reasons still unclear to even me) decided to buy 1980’s Electric Pink With a Side Order of Day-Glo nail polish at the store today. I think what drew me to it was the fact that the bottle was labeled Insti-Dri! and not having even five minutes to shower these days, Insti-Dri! appealed to me. Look! Nail polish! Something I can do for myself and be quick about it! What’s not to love, right? Wrong. Not only does Insti-Dri! mean gloppy, sloppy, and gross, it also means my retina(s) are burning from the sheer brightness of the polish color.
#2- I am wearing a robe. Contrary to what this picture is telling you, I am not 97 years old. Although sometimes I am in bed by 7pm.

This should be evidence enough that I make piss poor fashion choices all the time. RIGHT NOW, in fact. It should also be evidence enough to prove that the computer camera wouldn’t be sufficient to document my crappy wardrobe.

But wait! That wasn’t the Wardrobe Malfunction I wanted to show you. What I wanted to show you is how I have made piss poor fashion choices my whole life.

Seeee?

Let’s break it down, shall we? (And because I like lists, let’s do it list style.)

• Those glasses. I have a problem with those. People who may (have the luxury) of knowing me in real life, will know that I indeed am a wearer of the corrective eye wear. However, at the time of this photo I was not. I stole those puppies from my mom. Exactly what for, I am unsure. (Clearly, I do a lot of things and am unsure WHY I do them! Or MAYBE that is just the excuse I use to avoid looking like a piss poor fashion choice maker! Ohhh, psychology! I’m really peeling away the layers now.) Back to the glasses. I remember wearing them and feeling a little bit, erm, off. I don’t know, like, MAYBE I WAS WEARING THE WRONG PRESCRIPTION IN MY EYES??? Regardless, these effers are ugly. Beaten with the ugly stick. Born of an ugly mama, to an ugly papa, birthed by an ugly doctor, and swaddled in an ugly blanket. And they aren’t doing me any favors here. Blech. Also? Does anybody remember Sally Jesse Raphael? Yeeaaah. Now you do. You’re welcome.
• The necklace? Srsly? Is that a jingle bell? Oh for crying out loud! I was (supposedly) a hip 13 year old girl. Not a 57 year old divorcee living in Boca Raton, wearing a Gem Sweater, petting one of my 12 cats. And, yes, fashion does indeed extend to accessories and nail polish. Do we even need to debate this point? I DIDN’T THINK SO.
• My sweater has Christmas trees on it. Frankly, speaking of Gem Sweaters, it would probably be more attractive if I was wearing one of those because OH FOR THE LOVE A CHRISTMAS TREE SWEATER??? I can’t believe my mother let me leave the house looking like this. I look like a virgin (not by choice) 42 year old librarian. Barf.
• Let’s talk about what we can’t see here, but what I know is going on. Attending a private middle school, one that has no uniform but a strict dress code instead, wreaks havoc on personal style. I (but it wasn’t just me okay) would continually find ways to tweak the code so some originality could leak through (and in my case plenty made it). One of those ways was to take the mid-calf length skirt my mom sent me to school in and roll up the waist band; thus, making a mini skirt. The only problem with this was the fact that one’s waist became all lumpy and bumpy and one would end up looking as if she were wearing a potato sack. Attractive, no? Hence, the shapeless sweater.

Oy. Middle School. What a breeding ground for questionable fashion choices! I look like a monster (a fashionless monster) about to jump out the screen and rawr you to death. And I still can’t get over my (mom’s) glasses. Didn’t she even think to ask why I wanted to wear them to school? And WHY DIDN’T SHE STOP ME?

I made the fortunate discovery of coming across a few dozen albums of photographs this evening. With all of the moving I have done in my life, I have been oh-so lucky to amass huge amounts of crap stuff. I rarely ever sort through it, but just box it up and cart it from place to place. I inevitably end up sticking it in a closet far out of sight (and mind) with all the good intentions of going through it later. I know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell and all that nonsense, but don’t go believing that garbage because I have no intention (there it is again– that word!) of ending up back there again! Every so often I get a vague fluttering feeling in my heart, which I think might be my heart murmur, but I attribute it to a severe onset of an OCD Cleaning Moment. It is during these such moments that I get an urge to organize and throw out half of this crap, but I always get caught up in the memories and stories these odds and ends tell. Part of the problem here is that I’m clearly crazazay that I’m one of those disorganized organized people. (I know! Constant contradictions!) I so very much desire to be neat and orderly, but I’m frankly just too lazy to do anything about it.

Wait. What was I talking about?

Oh yeah– Pictures! And, boy, do I have some goodies. Most of these are sitting in wee catalogued piles waiting to be scanned into the computer and written about. Tonight? I bring you photographic evidence that I just so happened to be kind of a big deal at one point in my life. Basically, there was (and still is, in some cases) more to me than the drugs/alcohol/recovery/relapse/recovery crap I’ve done. I know! Surprising, isn’t it? (If you didn’t notice, that last sentence was dripping with the sarcasm.*)

My life, as a young girl and teenager, was spent riding horses. I traveled the country (and indeed to other countries at times) riding and showing. I rode jumpers (judged by how high and how fast they go over fences), hunters (judged by how prettily they jump over a course of fences), and equitation (I was judged by how smoothly I would ride the horse over a course of fences). It was a lot of fun and I had a ton of success. I could expound for hours on the Life Lessons that riding taught me, how perseverance and hard work are required to meet and surpass goals and blah blah blah, but who really wants to hear that boring stuff? Am I right? (Of course, I am.)

Onward to the show. . .

Photographers walked the grounds of the show taking pictures of the riders. This was me, sitting on my horse, getting ready to enter the ring. I like the look on concentration on my face and my blond hair. Just because, you know, I don’t have blond hair.

Me and my horse Virginia City. Two things: 1. I didn’t name her. If I had, she would have been Princess Sparklepants of Sunshine and Rainbow Land and 2. That fence is pretty big, like 4′6″ big.

This would be Just Another Import. He’s like a big teddy bear. In fact, his barn name is Ted. He loves Werther’s Original caramels. Seriously. He would follow me anywhere for a caramel.

Lots of times I had to be all, “No autographs please” because the fans. The fans were positively rabid. I kid! I think I was just waving to my mom. That there horse is Peterbilt Special and he was my mom’s favorite buddy. He died a few years ago.

Horse shows were a tiring business. That was taken during my junior year of high school when I would go to school all week in New Jersey, hop a plane Thursday night to Florida, show all weekend, and hop another plane back to NJ on Sunday night. See? Exhausting. Also? I wonder what book I was reading.

This was one of the ponies I rode when I first began showing. Her name was Bon Soir, which is Good Evening is French. She once pooped on my friends head when we were wrapping her legs (something one does to her horse after having a lesson). She (the pony, not my friend) also had a really amazing, thick, curly, white tail.

Showing horses is the epitome of “hurry up and wait.” There was always lots of time to goof around on the golf carts, go get food, and just generally be an obnoxious teenager. Inevitably, I would then find myself running to the ring with my trainer screaming at me for not being on time. Whoopsie!

I don’t like to pick favorites because each horse I owned held a special place in my heart. I considered them all my best friends at a time when I didn’t have any friends. Sad, but true. Fun Fact: I was pretty much the biggest dork in my high school. I had no friends and spent what little free time I had socializing with books and horses. This usually causes other teenagers to laugh. Anyway. This was, like, my BFF. His name is So No Wonder, but I called him Sony (like the radio). I showed him at Madison Square Garden and won. Good Times, man, good times.

Here I am at the Winter Equestrian Festival. I was Small Junior Hunter Circuit Champion that year which is just a fancy way of saying that I kicked ass.

That’s Ted on the right and Peterbilt on the left. See? I told you that horse would follow me anywhere for a Werther’s Original. I’ve always thought horse showing is sort of cruel and unusual punishment. In the 100 degree Florida weather, we were forced to wear long sleeve shirts, wool jackets, boots, and britches (pants). Whoo- HOT. Conversely, in the ass cold of winter, we would wear the same outfit and freeze out patooties off.

Here I am with Sony and some Prize Lady. I’d just won a class and was receiving the trophy. I don’t think I ever got tired of the Victory Lap. It made me feel like I’d just done something Really Cool and Special.

This is me and Ted at the Devon Horse Show. A rider has to qualify in her/his division before she/he is able to ride there. I spent most of the year collecting enough points to qualify for the three major horse shows in the fall: The Pennsylvania National Horse Show (Harrisburg, PA), The National Horse Show (Madison Square Garden, NYC ((although it’s moved since then)), and the Washington International Horse Show (Washington, DC). Also Devin, but that was in the spring and not quite as hard to get into. I have a ton of photos with PROOF stamped on top. It just means I never bought a copy from the photographer and, well, when you show 50 weeks out of the year it’s just too damn expensive.

This was Sony and me at the Garden. It’s amazing and exciting to be able to show in such a prestigious arena. Although it was so cramped that I would end up walking Sony around the city block just to get some fresh air. I kind of wish I’d bought a picture from that time because it was the last time Sony would ever show and it was special. He’s alive, but lives in NJ and is old, old, old. I miss him. He was always a good guy to talk to and he never judged me. He also saved my ass quite a few times.

Sony and I at Devon. This was a very special class that I ended up winning and I think it’s my most favorite trophy ever. It just means so much. See the cool jacket I got to wear? It’s called a shadbelly and I just think that’s a funny name. Say it with me: SHADBELLY.

This was the first horse I ever really trusted. Before him, I’d been thrown in the dirt, broken my wrist, and ridden some real pieces of crap. I had been training with an asshole trainer and he didn’t really care who he put me on and I ended up getting really hurt. Eventually we left that guy and found someone with a conscience. Anyway. The horse’s name is Jimmy and he was a saint.

That ends our journey through Horse Land. Showing horses was one of the things that made me who I am today. Most of the really healthy patterns and behaviors I have began when I rode horses. Today, my horses are all too old for me to show them and I don’t have the time needed to dedicate to the many lessons and shows. Maybe someday, but now now.

*And if you didn’t notice, just who do you think I am anyway?

Read more about this here and here.

All along that way I knew there wasn’t something quite right with the Good Doctor. He was sleeping with patients, he had an unlicensed “nurse,” he lied to my parents for me, he called me his best friend, he gave me his cell phone and pager to answer midnight calls from desperate addicts, he preached sobriety while drinking alcohol. The list could go on ad infinitum. I could tell story after story indicting him on many counts of not just malpractice, but cruelty as well. But at some point, I packed my bag, took my ball, and went home. I just wasn’t going to take it anymore. I wanted him out of my life and I excised him like a bad mole.

The story with the Good Doctor picks up several years after this point. I hadn’t seen him in a long time. Frankly, if there was a better addiction doctor in the entire state of Florida I would have rather found him/her, but there wasn’t. I rarely found myself with a need to go to him, but there were a few times when there was no other option. When I had kidney stones and the ensuing surgery, for one. Either way, it had been a good five years before I had my next real encounter with this man.

While I was pregnant with my oldest child, I had an epiphany about alcohol/drugs and relapse. I was naive enough to believe that I would never use again. That anyone who dared pick up after having a child, didn’t deserve that child and was clearly scum. Thirteen treatment centers and this is the best I had come up with. Forget about the Disease Concept, or about 12-step recovery. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but this false belief only led to more research on my part. When my older son was three, that research turned into a full blown relapse.

I think I had been missing for about two days before my family decided they needed some outside help. Of course, not knowing who else to turn to, they called the Good Doctor in their mistaken belief that only a licensed professional would be of any real service. That call began a two week cat and mouse chase with the Doctor calling the shots. He lured me in with a big piece of cheese and the promise of some serious detox drugs.

He visited me every day in detox. He brought me thong bathing suits and size 24 jeans and told me to try them on. One day he pulled out three mini cereal boxes from his bag: Cocoa Puffs, Honey Smacks, and Fruit Loops. “This is the only coke you’re getting, this is the only smack you’re getting because you’re fruit loops. Now I hope you always remember who gave it to you.” He told me that my family had held a mock funeral for me and my son thought I was dead. He told me that no one cared anymore. He wouldn’t let my parents come see me. He wouldn’t let my child come for a visit. He let me waste away.

I was forced into a local treatment center. My parents didn’t know what else to do, as the Doctor told them this was where I needed to be. And the Doctor told me that he wanted to keep a close eye on me. I knew that he controlled my treatment, that the employees as the center did everything he told them to do. They withheld my food money, they took away my bed sheets, they didn’t allow me to sit in a real chair, etc. etc. The list of oddities they were told to perform for the sake of my getting better is endless. None of it ever really made sense. The real kicker was when the Doctor told the treatment center to kick my ass out on the street. He never told my parents. I had no money and by this point, I was so sick that I was hallucinating.

I was found by the police the next day. When my mother had learned that I was put out on the street, in a crappy part of Miami, she flipped. She filed a missing person’s report and if it wasn’t for that, I’m not sure I would be alive. I don’t remember everything that happened that night. I was, after all, hallucinating and having a full-on break down, but the things that happened that night have never left me. I was in strange hotel rooms. I had no shoes on. I was wearing someone else’s clothes. I was picked up by a group of Hispanic males. I was beaten and raped. I was shot at. I nearly died. And I know that it could be said that none of this would have happened if I hadn’t relapsed that last time, and, believe me, I know, but I can’t help but think that the Doctor wanted something bad to happen to me. He kept telling me that I hadn’t suffered enough yet. He was the one responsible for my well-being. My family had trusted him to keep me safe and help me get well.

I was picked up that morning because the manager of an apartment complex saw me wandering outside of the building. I remember being there because that’s where those men, those foul-mouthed, nasty men, had kicked me out of the car. While it was still moving. I also remember in my confused thinking that if I could just remember my mother’s house number I would be safe. Please remember, I had been off drugs and in treatment for a month and a half. The stress of my situation, that the Doctor had created, forced me into some kind of break with reality. I can only remember bits and pieces from that night. I wish I could remember even less. I was so cold. It was September in Miami. It was anything but cold. I was so thin, so weak. I was so hungry. I just wanted a pillow. Someplace safe to put my head and I was surrounded by scary faces and concrete.

My mom was racing down to Miami in her car when she got the call. The police had found me. I was covered in urine and my own blood. And like a bad dream that just won’t quit, the police took me back to the Doctor’s Office. I don’t remember wanting to go to the hospital. My mom told me she demanded that the Doctor take me there, but he wouldn’t. He just laughed and drove me back to the treatment center. He told my mom to go back home and that he would take care of me. She didn’t yet know all that I had been through. It was another two weeks of hell before I was checked into the hospital. Two weeks of nightmarish hallucinations before I was hooked up to IVs, my blood drawn and checked, sanity restored. I was never able to have a rape kit done. I’d love to put those fuckers in jail. It’s too late now.

In the hospital, as reality started to weigh in on me, I called my mom and she answered the for the first time. She claimed she just knew, knew, that something was really wrong. “Mom, you need to get me out of here. Please. Help me. I can’t stay here. It’s like torture.” I knew I needed to be in treatment. I wasn’t arguing that point. I just needed to be as far away from that Doctor as possible. My mom found COPAC and got me a plane ticket to Jackson, Mississippi. That place healed me. It was tough, caring, loving, hard, and beautiful. It was the most difficult thing I have ever done. Most of all, they believed me. They knew I wasn’t lying about the Doctor. Sometimes it seems like a story too bizarre and too extreme to believe. He kept calling my therapists there. It’s not as though he just disappeared, never to be heard from again. Of course, he didn’t.

But the next time I saw him our situations were completely reversed. . .

It’s been awhile. It’s hasn’t been uneventful, in fact, quite the opposite really. But I’ve just been stuck. Mired in an anger so deep and explosive that it’s cut off and choked my creativity to death. I’ve seen this happen to myself before, or really I should say I’ve experiences it before. I’m not some innocent bystander caught in the middle, watching events unfold before over which I have no control. That would simply be untrue and a way of twisting my words to show me as justifiably angry. A poison so dangerous to me it’s like walking around with a loaded needle. I don’t know– perhaps I should just explain.

When I started this outlet (again, because I’ve been here before), I had a clear intention in my head. I didn’t want to lie anymore. I didn’t want to hide behind a fake person. I’ve been there before and lying like that killed me just a little bit inside every day. I was like you. A mom without my problems. A mom without addiction. A mom– normal. Although I gained friends that I still keep up with to this day, real friends, honest and true friends, no one knew the Real Me. And after a while, it contributed to an overall soullessness. I can’t say for certain, but maybe it contributed to The Breakdown. Who knows, really, and perhaps who cares. So with the first goal clear in my heart, I started this blog and I wanted to be real. I didn’t want to hide anymore.

Secondly, I didn’t want to regret anything I wrote. I didn’t want to go back and revise history anymore because I was no longer angry and, hey, I didn’t really mean what I wrote right there, ya know? It got so tiresome: constantly reviewing and editing posts, banning IPs so people couldn’t read what I’d written. I didn’t want to do that anymore either. I’d decided that no matter what, it was permanent. Undoable. I’ll stand behind what I write as My Truth and I will no longer be ashamed. I will also no longer attempt to use my words as venom to bite and sting and paralyze.

It is because of these two facts that I’ve stayed away from writing on my blog. I didn’t want to write anything fake, anything that would just be filler. It wouldn’t be real and it would be even less Me. I also haven’t wanted to say anything I might regret because being as angry as I am right now, that would be a definite. That being said, I am filled with anger, resentment, and sadness. And all my anger really is is just hurt feelings and hurt pride. I’m tired of putting a muzzle on and even more sick of being scared that what I write may be used against me. It’s so unfair, but it’s a fact of my life. It just is, as much as drugs are bad and cigarettes will kill you. I’m tired of rolling my eyes so hard my eye-holes hurt. I’m tired of the deep well of sadness that is filled to overflowing with tears. Tears that come in the quiet of the night when no one’s looking and no one really cares.

It’s 2:30 AM and I have had approximately 3 hours of sleep in the last 24. This is not unusual for me as the Baby One is just not a good sleeper. He’s adjusted his schedule so much in the last two weeks and this lack of sleep has become intolerable and unbearable. But I better not admit that, lest I be accused of complaining. May I just say that it’s hard? The near constant nursing, the no breaks, the limited nap, the broken up night sleeping. It’s just hard. That doesn’t mean I want to throw in the towel and wean, it doesn’t mean I want a nanny 24/7, it doesn’t mean I would turn back the clock to a One Child Household. It doesn’t even mean that I don’t still want another child. It’s just hard sometimes, but that’s how it is. I accept that. The joy and rewards that come back to me are ten-fold. They keep me going during this dark moment.

What hurts me, though, is the lack of support and help. I’m just going to say it. I never expected the Him to come back from detox and life would fall into place and suddenly sunshine and rainbows would be popping out of our asses. I knew things would be tough. I guess I thought, however incorrectly, that we would be a team. Let’s face it, the simple fact is this: He doesn’t work. I had hoped he would return and would (enthusiastically- ha ha) help with raising the children. Even if he didn’t help with the kids, as long as he did something (anything) that contributed to society (a job, a volunteer position, help with the kids) I would feel like things were a little more equal. I wouldn’t feel so much resentment. That is precisely why hoping sucks. I already know that expecting life to be different upon his return would be setting myself up for some major disappointment. It doesn’t mean, however, that I didn’t hope. Hope– the one word to have kept me going in my deepest, darkest hell. Someone once told me that all I needed was Hope. I’d like to punch that person in his jaw. Hope– the frail bird with broken wings, stuck in his nest of twigs and fluff. Don’t hope– it’s just dangerous.

I know that I’m just tired right now. I know that I’m probably being unfair and I’m certainly not doing any sort of self-evaluation to see where I can change. After all, I’m the only thing I really have any control over right now anyway. I know that early recovery is pretty much only about staying sober. He’s not exactly in an extended treatment program or a sober living house and it’s got to be difficult. Temptation is everywhere and it lurks cloaked beneath anger and resentment. Maybe purging this feeling will loosen me up to write a little more freely. Maybe it will unclench its stranglehold on my creativity. I know this is only the beginning. I know there is much work still to do– on not just us as individuals, but us as a unit as well. I’m not hopeless– not yet. There is so much more to look forward to and so much more to come. I just hope I can get out of my own way long enough to fix my own shit.

Here’s to looking in the mirror and changing my perceptions. . . Also, I’m back. I should just clarify that bit up right now.