Yes, it is true! You are now riding a full-on, two-wheeled, no training wheels bike. It took you an hour to learn and a day to master and there were no falls and barely any bruises. Although, there was still whining. And tears. Let’s work on that this year, shall we?

In just over a year, you’ve gained a brother. Your world was shaken, turned topsy-turvy, but you’ve handled it with the grace and wisdom of someone ten times your age. You love your brother. You play with him, you teach him, you laugh with him. It’s beautiful to watch you two develop a relationship. This isn’t to say that when your brother wants the toy you are playing with or copies every little thing you do it doesn’t drive you mad, but for the most part you’re cool with it. The other day I left you two alone while I went to change the wash to the dryer. Upon my return, your brother had velcro Nerf Darts stuck all over the back of his diaper. I’m assuming this is how you enact revenge for playing with your space rocket: by shooting him in the butt with your Nerf Darts. Let’s just always keep it to spongey, velcro-tipped, soft projectiles, please. I don’t need the kind of hazing your Dad and his brother used to perform on each other with their beebee guns.

Which leads us to this picture. While we were visiting your Paw-Paw out on the Ranch, you learned how to shoot a beebee gun. Your mama had grand designs never to introduce guns into your life. I’m much more of an anti-gun, peace person, but I’ve come to believe that shooting things are in Little Boy DNA. Anything can be made into a weapon and while I don’t condone pretending to shoot real people, you’re all about blowing up your Lego created towns. Oy. I think I’m getting heartburn.

You’ve tried many different sports and activities this past year.
Roller-Blade Hockey:

Not so much a fan, but you were pretty amazing. You have the balance of a gymnast (you get it from me) and are a quick learner (also: ME). Alas, you did not possess the patience to stick with it (your father). Maybe someday.
Tennis:

You’re good. You’re damn good. And! You like it, which, BONUS. As much as I’d like to, I can’t take credit for this. Your father is the tennis player in this family. I don’t do well when balls are hurtling towards me at a rapid speed.
Soccer:

You weren’t exactly a fan at first. Probably because you come from a fairly lazy stock. Your mama would much rather the object come to her than to run after it. But after a few false starts and some picking the flowers in the goal box, you’ve caught on to the whole Ball In THEIR Goal aspect of the game and your killer instinct (Again, ME) is kicking in. (See also: Your mama is a woman of many contradictions. Get used to this and expect it to show up somewhere in your life.)

Yoga, golf, karate, and the violin are some of the other things you have tried. You and I go to yoga once a week and you’re still trying to figure it out. Like me, you are cripplingly shy and haven’t yet learned the Art of Doing It Anyway. I know you enjoy yoga because I watch your face. It lights up as the other children are talking, laughing, and posing. My hope for you is that you conquer your apprehension (self-consciousness? I’m not really sure where it comes from) and can learn to force yourself to participate anyway. I know how much joy you would find in that.

Your favorite things are all wheel and horse-power related. As in, you love cars. You have no less than 496,265 Hot Wheels cars and a whole bunch of remote control vehicles. Lucky boy that you are, your grandparents also gave you this for Christmas two years ago:

Cue mama’s heart attack. You’ve sat through all of our required lessons on safety and have learned to drive like a pro. You and your father zip around the neighborhood (because, of course, he has one too) and I can barely watch for the panic this induces in me. My baby! Driving! Something about this seems totally wrong, but I know it’s creating memories that will last you a lifetime.

This family has the kind of sense of humor that others may find, well, offensive. We are constantly razing each other and making jokes at each other’s expense. Needless to say, one needs guts to survive here. This year your sense of humor has developed and it would be no lie to say that you fit right in. You still enjoy all of the young boy’s jokes about farts and poop and butts, but you’ve developed a keen comedic timing and perfect sense of irony and dry wit. It is with pride (and some serious embarrassment) that I tell you about the joke you played on me the other morning at the school drop-off. I do not get along, nor even like very much, the principal of your lower school. She is a fake, phony bitch and, sadly, you know about the way I feel about her. (This was accidental. The last thing I want is for you to have opinions on things based on my experiences. I’d rather you learn for yourself and work out your own belief. Regardless, I forgot: Little pitchers have big ears.) This woman happened to be helping you out of the car on this particular morning and, as we were exchanging pleasantries and goodbyes, you looked at me and said, “Now remember, Mama, don’t cancel my birthday party!” This was an empty threat I had given the night before when you wouldn’t go to bed. The old bag principal looked at me, shocked that I would even suggest such a thing and said, “I’m sure your mom would never do that.” To which you replied, “Of course she would! We are talking about the same woman, right?” For about a split second, I was speechless. Does he really think I’m that mean of a mama? That is, until you looked me dead in the eye, winked, and then bust up laughing. Thanks, dude. You really know how to make me feel special.

You’re old enough now that holidays are massively fun. This year was the first year that we really went trick-or-treating and you were all about the candy. By the way, your homemade Darth Vader costume? It totally rocked and you were the Most Awesome Darth Vader Ever. We took a hayride through the back part of town and stopped at all the houses along the way. You quickly made friends with all the other young kids in our trailer and raced to each house to grab as much sugar-laden crap as would fit in your small hands. Christmas was also a blast. We left cookies for Santa and you crafted a glorious letter to him, thanking him for his journey and your presents. Such a big heart you have, my smiley, Bug Boy. I always say, “You can’t teach a child to have a kind heart.” You have the kindest heart of any five six year old I have met this far.

Last week I decided that you need to start falling asleep in your own room, without your dad sitting at the foot of your bed. This has been an extremely difficult transition– for both of us. When you were just a baby, I left you to cry in your crib. I thought I was teaching you how to self-soothe and how to learn to fall asleep. I now realize this taught you nothing because I’m starting back at Square One. Only now, instead of crying you yell out to me to tell me how sad you are. I’m sad too, buddy. One night after an hour of you calling out for more water, a trip to the bathroom, a snack, you asked me if you could look at pictures of your family if you couldn’t fall asleep. This made me all teary because I realized that you just wanted to look at the faces of the people who give you comfort. We also modified the transition. I now sit in the hallway, just where you can see me, and wait for you to drift into the Land of Nod. It works better because you know I am there and, sweetheart, I will always be there. I want you to learn your own way in the world, to learn to navigate fear and loneliness, but I will always provide you safe harbor if a storm passes your way.

You started out FIVE needing flotation devices to help you swim and throughout the year, have learned to dive, to swim laps, and to do the breast stroke. What will this year bring? I look forward to finding out with you. So, Giggle Boy, it is with a bittersweet sigh that I bid farewell to Five. I welcome Six and all your new accomplishments with joy, but I will always remember that this was the year you became All Grown Up. You don’t quite need me in the same way that you used to, but in strange and news ways. Forgive me if I stumble, as we already know I’m not perfect. I’m learning, just like you, and I’m trying to be a better mother every day. It is beautiful to watch you grow, learn, become.

I love you,
Mama

This past year you’ve gone from a sweet bundle of lump, very easy to entertain and care for, to a mobile, walking, talking (it’s mostly gibberish BUT STILL) baby with opinions! And lots of personality. I’ve been composing this post in my head for weeks, as I’ve watched you grow and change, but I can’t seem to come up with something perfect enough for you. I would love to capture a piece of your almost gone babyness and bottle it up on this web page forever, but despite all of our modern technological advancements, I can’t quite perform that miracle yet. I just can’t believe you’ve been in our lives for a year. It seems as though you’ve been here forever and life didn’t really begin until you arrived. So when words fail me, I’ll just say thank you. Thank you for choosing us, Baby Boy. You’re perfect.

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. . .

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.

That being said, I was recently thinking about the book The Secret (which has become a movie and a cultural phenomenon). In case you have been hiding in a bomb shelter haven’t read it/seen it/heard of it, the “Secret” basically says that you attract what you think about; therefore, thinking positively will attract happy, wonderful, sunshine and rainbows, but thinking negatively will bring about a plague. While I tend to agree with this approach, I’m not entirely sold on it. I am a worrier by nature. My family, particularly The Him, finds this trait not charming, no, but annoying. On a near daily basis, he is subjected to every possible disastrous outcome which *might* result from any decision in our plans. I like to think that I stave of death, famine, and tragedy by merely worrying about them. Now, really, I know that’s not true, but in the planning stages of every choice I try to avert crisis by knowing what can go wrong. Seriously, what’s wrong with that?

The argument could be made, however, for that fact that thinking about all of these negative outcomes, causes them to come to fruition. Maybe. I don’t know. I do know that just the other day I decided to take the Baby One and the Dog out for a walk. One of my biggest fears is that I’ll be out walking with the Dog (which is a small dog by the way ((and small dog=small poop)) ) and he’ll poop, I won’t have a doggy-poop bag, another neighbor will come along right at that time, see me not picking up my dog poop, and think What an asshole! She didn’t even pick up her dog’s poop! Anyway, we’re out walking and, of course, the Dog poops. I did not foresee this little problem, thus, I left my doggy-poop bags at home, but no one was around and I walked away. But! I felt really guilty about it the whole time. On our return trip, I was obsessing about it and I knew we’d walk past it. I was totally thinking that we’d run into a neighbor right as we came up on the poop and that neighbor would be all That’s your dog’s poop! Why didn’t you pick it up??

So I did what any crazy sane, rational person would do: I decided to kick the turd off the sidewalk and into a nearby bush. As I came upon the offending poop, this was my plan. (By the way, it’s important to take note of the fact that I was wearing open-toed shoes– Flip Flops!) I kicked it up and over into the bush and instead of flying neatly through the air to land in a quiet, unassuming, out-of-the-way place, it smeared all over my foot. E-GADS! The horror!! I carefully (very carefully) slid my Flip Flop off and furiously rubbed the top of my foot all over the grass. And do you know what happened next? The neighbor walked by. And I just knew exactly what she was thinking: She forgot the doggy-poop bags! What an irresponsible pet owner! And to try and fix it by kicking the poop elsewhere? Well, she sure got what she deserved!

So I don’t know. Did I attract that negative outcome by my incessant worry over the negative or did I get poop all over my foot because I didn’t worry enough? Or Always Remember Doggy-Poop Bags! Lesson learned, the hard way me thinks.

On Thursday night, my chest ended up being strapped to the Baby One for most of the night. He’s cutting four fracking teeth right now and is just a touch cranky. Earlier in the day a painful tooth extraction preceded a horrifying bone graft. The whole procedure was nightmarish and I’d rather just forget it. Needless to say, I needed a breather Thursday night and I didn’t get it. When Friday night began in much the same way Thursday did, I. lost. it. I yelled at the Older One for not getting in bed fast enough. I was impatient with Baby One’s constant nursing. I acted every bit the mother I don’t want to be: quick-tempered, unbalanced, and inconsistent.

Honestly, the boys didn’t behave much differently than one might expect from a five year old and an eight month old. If anything, they were reacting to a mother bogged down with stress and pain. It really should have been my responsibility to get myself right before I tackled the Bedtime Routine. I’ve meditated on what I can do to bring me back to being the mother I want to be and it always comes back to the same thing: Mother Myself First.

Last night I gave myself a little Time Out and let the boys watch TV before we all piled into the bed. As I lay there, Baby One tucked into my boob and Older One pressed against my back, I felt immense peace. I felt the rise and fall of the baby’s tummy as it met mine with each breath. His small, sweaty palm rubbing up and down my arm. The Older One’s legs practicing crazy, karate kicks in his sleep. The crunch, crunch, crunch of his teeth (*shudder*). When I gave myself the time, even if it was just an extra minute, I relaxed into the mother I want to be. When I gave up my hold on having bedtime run like a smoothly oiled clock and let it be whatever madness it is, I was the mother I want to be. I was patient, kind, balanced, and consistent. And those are the things my boys can count on me to deliver. Maybe not every time, but (hopefully) most of the time.

I am usually a sweaty, stuttering mess when I enter the dentist’s office. So nervous am I that the doctor is desperate to ply me with drugs, quickly perform the procedure, and shuffle me out of the office as quickly as possible. Being that this dentist was no different, his office kept calling the house last week to prescribe some Ativan to help me get through the extraction. He clearly isn’t aware that my brain can’t tell the difference between that and alcoholheroinetcadnauseum. Therefore, I won’t take it. I’m afraid of The End Result. (And I’d rather suffer. Acting like a martyr isn’t in vogue enough and I’m bringing it back in a Big Way.) Not to mention: NURSING BABY and all that. He also wants me to have that Laughing Gas crap that I won’t take either. Because I make so much sense, I’m afraid of the loss of control that stuff will make me feel. I’ve never had it. Although, I can just remember an old boyfriend taking some at a Grateful Dead concert 15 years ago and he turned blue (he was a real winner).

I’m nervous, in case you weren’t at all able to tell. I’ll keep you updated because I’m just that kind of person. Plus, Get Well cards are always welcome.

His office was lined with floor to ceiling windows, allowing the bright, Miami sunshine to flood the room with warmth. It made me wince, as my last shot had been to scratch the residual powder out of the plasticine baggy and I was easily beginning to get sick. His words weren’t particularly kind or generous. He didn’t exactly bring the happy, but he was right. I wasn’t bi-polar, ADD, depressed, or borderline. I was an addict. There was no pill I could take that would fix me, Ibogaine included. What I needed was a jump-start into the recovery process– a few months, without cravings, to work a 12-step program and have a spiritual awakening. Ibogaine could help me with this. Ibogaine could work. But it’s not a magic bullet. I must do the hard work. I was ready. I was willing. I would give this a try with my whole heart.

I probably first knew something wasn’t exactly right with this doctor when I stepped into his office. Situated on the second floor of an already thriving practice he was not a part of, he had the staff of one: a thin, pixie-like girl who chattered incessantly, acted the part of the office coordinator and nurse. Only she held no degrees for either. I was pretty sure drawing blood, taking blood pressure, and hooking me up to heart monitors was a job best left to the professionals, but when I questioned her I was told not to ask. Hey, my ethics were pretty questionable at the time. Who was I to judge anyone?

It was also in the way he spoke to me, only marking that in my file which seemed to be of the utmost importance. His careless, almost relaxed manner wasn’t loosening me up– it was freaking me out and making me nervous. He seemed to disregard most of what I was saying. Listen, I understand this. To a point. I know the old joke: When a junkie’s lips are moving, he’s lying. But I was here at the doctor’s! Revealing my deepest secrets. Baring my soul. Of course, I didn’t need his acceptance, but it was immediately set-up so that I would feel like I needed it. I craved the acceptance of anyone who would throw it my way. I was hardly discriminatory. I wish I’d known that his was the last I would need.

He quickly figured out that I needed to be in detox. Like five minutes ago. He offered the luxury of a very nice facility nearby where he would personally oversee my medical detox. He quickly described the place as being like a hotel with a four star restaurant and it was. It was like no place I’d ever been to. I was treated as a real human being, one with feelings and thoughts and opinions. I was respected.

He visited me every day after he closed his office. He often brought with him snacks or toys or clothes. In retrospect, I realize that this was slightly bizarre. He would enter the facility in his cheerful, breezy way and head right for my file. With barely a glance at the previous night’s notes, he and I would head into my room to sit on my bed and talk. For an hour, sometimes longer, he would regale me with stories of Ibogaine and the people who administered it, prior patients and their “horrible” stories, and bits and pieces of his own life. He was a fantastic storyteller, infusing his words with bright, colorful adjectives, keeping me on the edge of my seat in anticipation. He often told me that I would be somebody. That I had enormous amounts of potential. I wasn’t quite ready to believe him, but I believed that he believed.

The experiences I had on Ibogaine are too vast and detailed to recount here. It would definitely have to be a story unto itself for another time. For now, I had planned on focusing on my relationship with the Doctor. It’s long and complicated, often boring at times, but one that due to recent events, is begging for me to tell it. Suffice it to say, I had a 180 degree transformation on Ibogaine– a total spiritual experience, only completed by the appearance of God. To say it was amazing, would somehow not be enough.

Shortly after returning from St. Kitts, I had amassed enough consecutive days of “clean time” and I began working for the Good Doctor. This fit perfectly with my Plan for Life, as I had recently taken a break from my medical school studies. I wanted to be a doctor and he basically let me run the office and intake patients. At night, I kept the cell phone and pager and answered middle of the night phone calls from desperate addicts. I checked patients in, took their blood pressure, administered B-12 shots, and drew vials of blood. I fancied myself quite the professional woman. The doctor and I became closer. I thought of him as a sort of pseudo father-figure and he often told me I was his best friend. Meanwhile, he struck up a sexual relationship with MY best friend and his ex-patient.

I think everyone has a voice in the back of their head. I believe it’s the conscience, but it’s also been referred to as the gut instinct or hunch. Rarely does it lie, often it is the only voice of reason. During this time, my conscience spoke to me on a regular basis. It told me that this situation was inordinately fucked. A good doctor doesn’t screw his patients, ex or not. A good doctor doesn’t befriend his patients. A good doctor doesn’t hire his patients as employees. But I didn’t like what my conscience was telling me, so I ignored it.

A good time later, he had convinced my parents that I must go retake Ibogaine or I would surely relapse again. This did not fit with my belief system that Ibogaine is not a magic bullet. That in order to stay sober, I needed to attend 12-step meetings, work the steps, and get a sponsor. Ibogaine was great, but it wasn’t it. It didn’t matter. I had to go back. This time, while lying in my bed, essentially tripping my very face off, the good doctor kissed me. On the lips. I can’t begin to describe how violating this felt. I was incapacitated in a hospital bed. He had no right. Once I returned home to the States, I began to pull away from him. I knew that something was not quite right and I couldn’t justify hanging around someone with morals as low as his. The relationship he was in with my best friend had soured and he treated her like crap. He had disregarded her as a person, had imposed his will on her, and forced her into situations she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. But it wasn’t just that that made me begin to cut ties with him. I had met and had started dating my now-husband while I was working for this man. This doctor, this supposed healer, would tell me lies about my then-boyfriend, now-husband. He was gay. He didn’t like me. He was not good enough for me. On and on went the lies. I never once believed him and now he was just making me angry.

Shortly after the good doctor started dating a porn star, I decided I’d had enough of this circus and decided to quit, cut all ties with him, and get out while I still could. I had no idea that he would continue to pop up in my life, trying to ruin what I had now built. The last time I had seen this man, he nearly killed me. I highly doubt he was trying to. Imagine the lawsuit! But his incompetence, his flagrant disrespect for the Hippocratic Oath, and his drug use all combined to result in some of the worst things that have ever happened to me. Ever. And I’ve been through hell.

To be continued. . .

While at the conference, which was dealing with plants that might be beneficial in healing various diseases and illnesses like Cancer and Hepatitis C, my sweet, strong mother asked a question that would forever alter the path of my life. She raised her hand, not expecting anyone to have an answer, “Do you think there are any plants that might help cure addiction?” Much to her surprise, there came an answer. Clouded in mystery, a man simply told her that he knew someone who knew someone who knew a professor at the University of Miami who was studying just that. He told my mother he would call her when he returned home. In two weeks. An interminable amount of time when your daughter is 2000 miles away in a motel room dying.

Back at home, my mother sat at her desk, her head in her hands and wept. She felt she had reached the end of what she was able to handle. She could do nothing more to save me than offer her hand, which I patently refused. The phone rang and it was that man! He was finally calling with the number and explicit instructions that when she called, she must speak in code. My mother soon found a vast well of hope that would give her the strength to try helping me one more time. She was immediately put on with the doctor studying the effects of Ibogaine on addiction. Officially, Ibogaine is a sacrament taken by the Bwiti tribe in equatorial West Africa on High Holy Days. It is also a very strong hallucinogen which produces a dream-like state in which the user is able to see visions. These visions can be from times in his/her life or they can be a sort of spiritual experience. Whatever it is, it has a much higher success rate than the more traditional treatment modalities.

My mother and this kind, amazing, smart doctor devised a way to entice me to Miami to get me on a plane to St. Kitts. It is illegal here in the United States and has the potential to be quite dangerous for the wrong person. In order to be accepted into their treatment protocol, a patient must undergo a set of rigorous tests. Needless to say, I wasn’t immediately taken with the idea. I had tried everything and nothing had worked. I had given up. I had resigned myself to a life of pure hell and a fairly early death. I was not scared of death; I pretty much welcomed it. But all that quickly changed after I had talked with a few Iboganauts, as they’re called, who had taken Ibogaine and could tell me just how amazing and other-worldly it really was. I heard from them things like:

• I have a peace about me which I never had.
• It started in my solar plexus, this warmth, that just resonated in every cell of my being.
• I have seen God and my life is good. No, not just good, but spectacular.
• I now have a reason to live. A reason for being.
• I feel steady, sure of myself. I don’t want to use again.

These were things I had always wanted, always searched for, but could never get. These were things I wanted for my life. I simply had to try. I was going to make this my last shot and I was going to put everything into it. I left that Crack Motel on a sunny, warm, Chicago day and boarded a plane for home. I picked up my every last belonging and dumped it into the dumpster out back. I left a note for the person I had been living with:

Went to go find myself. Not sure if I’ll ever be back here. Good Luck with all this.

The next day I would meet the doctor, the man, whose life would become so inextricably linked to mine that no matter how hard I try to forget him, he just won’t disappear. An abuser so vicious he would be permanently filed in my brain under Worst Nightmare Ever. And all this from a man licensed as a care-giver.

To be continued. . .

Hooo-boy, that’s frightful! I wish I had a good excuse for this poncho, but is there ever really a good excuse for a poncho? Is a poncho ever really needed? It’s not like they provide a great amount of warmth while being stylish and cute. I really think they’re just unbeautiful (it’s a word– I looked it up!).

I wish I knew what I was thinking when I spied this garment in the store. Was it, “I wish I had something only my grandmother would wear, only flashier and more kaleidoscopic.” Because it certainly wasn’t, “I’m just a touch cold. I’d like something that kept my core, body temperature while leaving my arms and neck practically bare. Oh wait! I need a PONCHO!” In my defense, I must tell you that I’ve never even worn it. Ugh. At least I’ve never worn it. Although it begs the question: Why buy so many unattractive clothes which I never wear? And I wouldn’t have an answer for you.

Poncho Number Two, because Oh-Good-Lord of course there’s another poncho, is more of a shawl really. It needs no introduction; thus, here is the next beaut:

Yes, I paid for it. Never before has something look so handmade. And, wait, don’t go getting your knickers twisted because I happen to love handmade. I am a huge fan of all things crafty. Hell, I’m a knitter, embroiderer, seamstress, all-around-crafty chica myself, so I don’t think I should have to qualify just how much I really do like it. It’s just that it has to be made well. It shouldn’t have that, “I just learned how to knit” feel to it, ya dig?

Those nubbly, pink things are roses! It’s scratchy! The style is such that is goes with nothing! What is it exactly?!? A shawl? A scarf? A wrap? A PONCHO?!? It’s not even cute! Bleh! It’s safe to say that this week is a true, honest-to-goodnes, Wardrobe Malfunction. Last week’s Malfunction was questionable– it could go either way depending on one’s preferred style. This week? Is just awful.