Lately, with all the added stress of being (pretty much) a single parent, I’ve been losing my patience a lot more than I would ever like to admit. When I finally make it to 6:30 PM, I am so tired I pass out and barely wake up during Baby One’s night feedings. It is rare to have a moment to myself. I never have peaceful showers, constantly jumping in and out to retrieve a newly mobile child. Reading a book is a luxury that I can’t afford to take. Even tackling my Google Reader is nigh impossible. Honestly, I need a little time for myself, to disengage my brain, or I go crazy.

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.

As you may or may not recall, I hate dentists. In keeping with the theme for my life (What Can Turn Into Crap For Me, Will Turn Into Crap So Get The Pooper-Scooper Ready), today’s visit is just another example of why this is the case. Every single root canal I’ve ever had the misfortune of having (seven), has always cracked and I’ve ended up having to have the tooth pulled anyway. Round and round this nightmare goes, each time I tell myself Surely this one won’t crack, so I might as well get it taken care of now. And each time the damn thing never stops hurting and an x-ray reveals a fracture. Luckily these teeth are all in the back of my mouth, so you’d never know. Ultimately, they’ll need implants, but while I’m nursing the baby I won’t get the surgery. For now, it’s soft, texture-less food for me! Awesome.

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.

“What’s up, you nasty junkie?” I rarely allowed anyone to speak to me with such candor about what I really was, let alone a man with a white, lab coat framing his physique. His long, black curls were tied back into a ponytail. He wasn’t an attractive man to look at, but he carried with him a kind of charisma that was electric. I knew immediately he had something I wanted and, no, it wasn’t just a prescription pad. He was a recovering addict himself. He was a doctor. He had risen up out of this self-inflicted depravity to become what I had always wanted to be– a doctor. And with this sense of responsibility and maturity, he was still cool. He wasn’t using drugs. That alone had to amount to something. I didn’t know it at the time, but his moral compass was highly fucked.

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. . .

Many, many years ago, during the depths of my addiction, I met a doctor who would change the face of medicine for me (many times over, in fact). It was the first time I really wanted to get clean. I wanted something different, a better life, and I knew it had to be without drugs. I had just been discharged from another treatment center, overdosed and ended up in the hospital, ran away to Chicago and was living in a Crack Motel selling my soul for just one more hit. Lovely way to start a story, hmm? My mother, headed to a conference on Plants that Heal, called me up to beg me not to die until she returned home. A fairly simple request for anyone other than me at that time. So many mornings I would wake up, crack open my eyes, and think, “Crap. Another day in hell.”

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. . .

Remember that hideous poncho Ugly Betty wore for her first day of work? C’mon, you remember the one: it was blinding bright and colorful with ‘Guadalajara’ splattered all over the front? Here. It was kind of like this:

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.