Thinly Veiled

There is nothing thinly veiled about the story I wish to tell. There is no secret formula for cracking the code. What I have written is a memoir. A true telling of the most painful period in my life to date. Twenty four years, two of which are documented and saved on a hard drive for anyone who would like to read them. Yet, I hide behind a veil of busyness and mediocrity rather than throw into the world this "child" I have created. Tonight I decided to try and get representation by representing my story for what it truly is, rather than a lie. I have written a memoir and while it may be difficult to face the truth on every gory page, I'm going to have to eventually...

Goodnight.

Isolation

It's been awhile since I've done this. So much has happened... so many things to discuss. I wish I knew where to begin. Work is so stressful. Our biggest client was there today, overseeing our every move. It was stressful to say the least. My stomach turns at the thought of going back tomorrow. I wish I could just take a month off and write... I know, it sounds crazy. I wouldn't get anything done if I stayed home. I come home at night and can get nothing done. I wish I could spend a month on an island alone... isolation is my only respite.

Words flitter onto my tongue like tiny drops of acid on a piece of paper... spreading against all of the granules, wishing to be spoken or written or somehow expressed. I sit alone wondering if anyone will ever read what I am devoting my every thought to; If anyone will ever care enough to have faith in my abilities; if anyone will ever support them.

To hell with this

I have a question to ask you...

This is what I was greeted with moments before bed tonight... My father stated this to me minutes ago. "Okay," I replied quietly, hesitant to hear his words. "My friend from Colombia would like to read your book." He said and then continued slowly, "her son is a publisher in Colombia." As though this were supposed to entice me into allowing this woman who is a stranger to me, but knows my father better than I ever will into my inner most thoughts. 

"I'll have to let you know," I replied. "It was more of a statement than a question..." I trailed off in the smart-assed tone that I've perfected. 

  I want to let her read it because ultimately the goal of any novel is publication, but I'm also terrified that I may not measure up. In my own mind, I just want her to read it and tell my father that it's worth reading... Silly, I know. I want it to be good. I want to be published. So I guess we'll finish up editing and send it via the beautiful world wide web. Goodnight.

"Mock" Blog

So tonight I am writing a mock blog that I would imagine my sister would write if she had the patience or mental capacity to write one. I'm experimenting with putting myself in someone else's shoes, if you will. Here it goes. 

"Title: Many Names"

There are many names one might call me. We could start with my birth name, that which was plastered on paper in a Baltimore hospital for all to see. Next would be "Mommy" as my children once called me. Now, would be "Mom" or "Mother" as I am now less affectionately referred to. Followed of course by Crackity Anne. This is the name my siblings and father have taken to calling me. Whore. This is the name whispered by my youngest sister at the mere mention of my name. Entrepreneur. My response to her sordid name. 

You can call me whatever your heart desires; whatever your loins long for. 

Lady Bug Graveyard

You may wonder why a lady bug is the chosen icon on my page... no? Never thought about it? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. In nearly every culture the ladybug is said to be a creature of great luck. Killing one (which I would never do) is said to bring great misfortune and sadness. Why do I care about ladybug folklore? 

Well... let's just say you'll have to read the book to learn more. Sorry, I realize it's vicious of me to do this... but it's my favorite part. I could never possibly reword/paraphrase/replicate it. You'll just have to read it. Let me know if you'd care to... I'm almost finished editing. Goodnight.

Prodigal Daughter

No word from her yet. Am I still raising her two children? You know it. The real fear of it all is that I don't want her to come back. It just makes life harder for her children. Her older son, we'll call him James, wants absolutely nothing to do with her. Which is sad, in some respects. I understand where he's coming from though. There have been times in my life that I didn't want anything to do my mother either. My mother has made her mistakes.

Her younger son, we'll call him Sean, he misses the crap out of her. Sometimes it makes me angry. I know there is a bond between mother and child that can not be broken by crack pipes, prostitution or abandonment. I suppose I had just hoped he would see past it all. Yet, on some level I hope that he never does. On the day he sees past her for who she really is that beautiful twinkle in his deeply set brown eyes will be lost forever. At what point is our innocence so crudely stripped away from us? I wish I could find it. If you should happen upon my innocence please tell it that I am waiting for it here. I'll stay put. I won't move for fear that it may return. 

Dreams Tell Terrifying Truths

I've been struggling lately with escaping my dreams. I'm told all "artists" ( I hesitate to use the word, since I hate to refer to myself as an artist) struggle with dreams versus reality. To clarify, I have no qualms with the dreams that I hope to make reality. It's the dreams that occur when my head rests upon my pillows that distress me. I close my eyes at night and my sister haunts me. No matter where I am or how I've fallen asleep she is standing there. 

Last night I was out with friends (kickball) and had a little bit to drink before my eyelids fell closed. The initial flickers of dreams were pleasant and I drifted off to sleep. Around 2 AM I awoke, much like people do in movies or in television shows. I had a quite clear recollection of her standing beside my bed yelling idle threats that she would kill me if I didn't let her son leave with her. In my dream I removed a gun from under my pillow, shot her, then rolled over and went back to sleep. It was horrible. When I awoke, I lay in bed convincing myself it wasn't true. My hands shook. Sometimes I wish I could cry. 

Cigarettes and Sordid Affairs

I sat with Phoenix on the front porch two days after she had come back from her N.A. meeting. She had left around 6:30 to go to the meeting and she had come home two days later. We sat smoking cigarettes and each drag released heat on my face, as the fiery smoke scratched down my throat.

            The first 24 hours that she was missing, I always feared the worst. She's been mugged. She's been raped and thrown into a ditch somewhere. She's gone back to drugs, used too much and overdosed.

            These vivid images always ran through my mind until about a day into her disappearing act. It was almost as though 25 hours gave me enough time to realize that it was just Phoenix being Phoenix.

            Somewhere at that point I would start to imagine what it would be like if she didn't come back. How was I supposed to explain to work, her children, coworkers and friends? Most importantly her children.

            Sean would ask where she was and why she was lost. I'd constantly change the subject or downright ignore his inquiries altogether. It wasn't fair really; the position she put us in. Then the anger would set in. Not just for doing it to her children but for doing it to us as well. My whole life seemed to revolve around hers and my mother's escapades.

            That night on the porch, though, she had finished cowering in her room like a scorned puppy who had messed on the rug. We sat on the porch smoking cigarettes and talking. She would often share with me information that I had no desire to obtain.

            She had told me about the first time she ever indulged in her drug of choice; her mistress in her sordid relationship with reality. She told me about the images it conjured in her mind and how hard it was to escape it. She spoke like a young child describing a wrapped present on Christmas Eve that they so desperately desire to reveal yet know they can't, yet.

            She told me that she did it because she was stressed and knew it would bring her solace. She told me that it made her not think about the kids or work or Mom or anything for that matter. She said when she was high she would think of her babies and want to come home but knew she couldn't. She'd say she had already fucked up and she knew it. She'd tell me that she didn't know what to do and that it always set her free, yet restrained her at the same time. She spoke of such yearning and need and dependency.

            I told her I knew that she had driven past the drug house everyday. I told her I knew she yearned for it and craved the way it made her feel. I told her that I knew it could pry her away from even the greatest love affair.

            We sat on the porch for hours discussing her twisted vision of the truth. She had created a separate life in her mind. A life that wasn't lived… or may have been. I had never known the truth about her childhood and I probably never will.

            She had lied to me about so much in the past; I felt I couldn't believe a word she said. She told me that she had been miserable when Sean had been taken away. She told me how happy she was to have him back. I listened to the words she said but I didn't hear them. I was staring at the stars. I thought about her children and the potential they yielded if only they could get out from under her thumb.

            I thought about Sean and how much I had missed him when he was away. I thought about how selfish I had been to have wanted her to get him back. I thought about how unethical it was to not have called Department of Children and Families when she had fallen off the wagon a few months ago. I thought about how scared I had been when we were tracking her down through her debit card transactions in the ghettos of Baltimore City. I thought about how scarred her children were by her existence.

            I wondered how a woman who had smoked drugs while carrying child could be walking the streets free. I wondered how a woman who had done those same things with her two year old in a crib in the same room could ever get her child back. I wondered how a woman with three children could just walk off and leave them with her family, yet they didn't feel compelled to do anything about it.

            "You know what I mean?" I finally heard her say in the distance.

            I had no idea what she meant. I hadn't even known what we were discussing. Yet I found myself saying, "Yea, Phoenix, unfortunately I do," while I leaned in to hug her. The only thing I was certain of was that our society was fucked. If you screw a multi-billion dollar company out of a million dollars detectives will follow you across the country for justice. However, if you screw your children out of any chance of a happy and stable life, there is no justice. 

Rachel Getting Married

So I had initially avoided seeing "Rachel Getting Married" for fear that it would make me cry or remind me of my own sordid family. It did. Both. I loved it though. I loved not knowing at the end what was going to happen. I loved that it portrayed the recovering addict as living her life, literally, one day at a time. If only it were as easy to accept this type of person back into our lives the way Rachel did. Granted, she hated her sister. She resented the attention always bestowed upon her. But when Kym really needed her, she was there. I wish I could be that strong... or that beautiful. Beautiful film. I recommend it to any and everyone. 

Goodnight. 

I'm Trying

I've been taught my entire life that no matter what someone does, it is expected that if they apologize we accept their apologies with grace. Compassion is a strange word. At the heart of it is passion... any deep feeling or emotion. right? Compassion is supposed to be a deep rooted understanding and sympathy for another's person's suffering. How is it that compassion can not be an understanding of another person's elation? Why must it always be commiseration? So I ask you to briefly commiserate with me and understand that someone I know and love (whether I like her or not) has extended her electronic apologies and love to me. Granted, both may not be sincere through the cloud of drug haze she lives in, but the effort was made. For the life of me, I don't know what to write back. I can't be mean... part of me fears she will not be with me for much longer and I would hate to "wash my hands of her" and never speak to her again. I can't tell her all is forgiven... it isn't. I so desperately wish that someone would just tell me what to do.

Bad Dream

Sometimes life just gets so hard. I pray to close my eyes and awaken to find that it's all been a horrible dream. "It's all just a bad dream. It's all just a bad dream. It's all just a bad dream." I repeat quietly under my breath, as though wishing it so will suddenly make it truth. "It's all just a bad dream. It's all just a bad dream. Because if it isn't, it's a really horrible reality." I say time and time again. I close my eyes and repeat this mantra, silently to no one listening. For when I speak, television volumes are raised and I am subconsciously tuned out. My life falls apart around me while I desperately reach for the pieces. Trying to not only keep myself afloat, but somehow manage those around me. For the most part I am seemingly well pulled together and on the surface happy. On the off times when the world slips out from under me, I wouldn't want to be around me either. I lose it. In more ways than one. A simple argument about plates on walls becomes a huge issue about everyone in my house being mean to everyone else. Until I feel isolated and alone. 

It used to be that reaching for a piece of glass and praying that the pain and crimson red blood could flush away every ounce of anxiety I felt. Momentary solace washes over me as my hands shake and my heart pulses, but no long term peace is found. I'm still stuck in the same dead end job with no true happiness. I'm terrified to be in a relationship for fear that someone will really get to know me and run away screaming. Or beat me just to have an "out" or an opportunity to get away from my crazy existence. 

This is not the life I signed up for. 

Blocked

So if anyone is reading this and they know anything about me, they would know and understand that I have "written" my first novel. It's difficult because I am now trying to edit it, while also trying to summarize it. It's horrible. I love the book and if I could sit down and talk to anyone about it, I know it would just sell itself, but unfortunately that is not how the publishing world works. Goodnight. I have to go to my real job in the morning. 

Church

As promised... So I went to mass a few weeks ago (Catholic, not that it matters) and decided I don't care for church. I love religion and spirituality but I'm not the biggest fan of organized religion. I know it may sound strange coming from someone raised in a religious family, but I found the entire experience unnerving. 

We sat in mass, listening to the priest drone on about the importance of donating to the church and not feeling at all connected to God. Granted, when the collection plate is passed, I will put money in gladly. Not for the reasons that the priest preached. He told me I wasn't giving to the church for myself or for my neighbors and not even for my community but that I was doing it for God. God doesn't need my $20. God doesn't need me to show my love by placing a "not-so-anonymous" donation into a "pledge envelope".   

Maybe it's just me... or maybe it's silly. I don't know. I do know that I've never felt further from God than I did in the church. I guess I am just going to go back to praying each night before I sleep. It calms me so much more.

Pick Me Up

So I'm still pretty sporadic with the whole idea of blogging. I never think to do it when I'm at the computer, when I'm church though... or at work... or walking the dog. All of those times I really wish I could Blog about all the insanity in my life. Anywho, this blog is inspired by my incessant need to be "picked up" the last few days. 

   I'm typically a pretty well pulled together person, who helps other people when they're down. Recently, I've been this whiny, anxious, pessimistic person. I have this one friend who always tells me it's okay that I can't handle everything without having someone to talk to. It's really amazing of her, because she truly listens. We superficially appear to be from different worlds, and  I understand she and I don't seem likely friends. For whatever reason, I know that she understands who I am; who I really am. She seems to understand, as though she's been there. It's strange because I whole heartedly trust her. I don't know if it's made me happier and more tolerable or if it's made me utterly weak. Honestly, I guess I know that it's both. 

   Goodnight. Is weak bad?

Next Time: Church. Never felt further from God. 

First Time

So I am new to this whole blogging concept. I never had any desire to read blogs... let alone write my own. I find myself in a stage in my life where anger follows me around like a dark cloud, with no silver lining. I don't want to be an angry person. I don't want to hurt anymore. 

 I'm not going to pretend that writing this is a magical panacea to cure all of my pain and wash away my fears, like the tears I can not cry would wash away my waterproof mascara. I guess, I am just writing this as a means to feel heard. I am writing as a means to feel understood, even if no one ever reads it or ever glances at it. Worse, even if it is read and you view me as a monster, please try to understand. 

I am 23 years old. A college graduate, with a degree I've never used. I make less money than most high school dropouts and I get yelled at/cursed at on a daily basis. I have no children. I am not in a committed relationship. Believe it or not... I'm not hideous. I'm very introspective, however, and very rarely let anyone in. If you should decide to continue reading this, you'll grow to understand why. 

To anyone who may have actually read this: Thanks. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.