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.

For the past few weeks, I have felt like I’ve been sinking in quick sand. While there is nothing outwardly wrong with me, things are going rather well in fact, I’ve been feeling kind of stuck and like I’m not moving anyplace. I have exactly two hours in the middle of the morning that are scheduled Me Time. I have someone come in to watch the Baby One and this is when I usually take a shower, read the feeds in my reader, make baby food, or otherwise entertain myself with mindless drivel. This time used to be taken up with updating the old blog here, but in the last few weeks my brain has felt hijacked by stupidity and I haven’t wanted to subject anyone else to that insanity.

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.

Let’s all ignore the fact that I have nothing witty and intelligent to say and instead admire the cute baby!

Laughing Baby from Magic Mom on Vimeo.
Sorry for putting the camera down. I had no nom baby cheeks. Nom Nom Nomnom Nomnomnomnomonm. Awww, cute baby!!