Dog-Day Ennui

"Lassitude" also came to mind when I started to write this post, very late last night. I love the sound of that word - lassitude, can you feel it roll off your tongue? - and it's perfect for this feeling. One of the reasons I love language - there's almost always a word for what I'm feeling, and almost always a perfect word.

I'm not sure what it is. Call it ennui.  Call it lassitude. Call it laziness. Call it writer's block. Call it a case of The Summertime Blues. Whatever it is, it has engulfed me, and I feel like I can't really find the enthusiasm or focus to do anything other than the occasional workout at the gym; otherwise, I'm sitting in front of the computer and playing Elvenar (which is a really fun game, by the way, if you're into being an elf, a la Tolkien), or sitting in the backyard with my iced tea, staring at the hazy sun as it beats a slow path from east to west during these dog days of the end of summer.  I feel like the girl in Edward Hooper's painting, "11 A.M.," sitting staring out the window in nothing but my shoes, waiting for something to happen.

EDWARD HOPPER’S “11 A.M.,” 1926

Just sitting there, waiting for it to be noon. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for someone.... And while I love Hopper, I don't want to be one of his paintings. They're....bleak.

When I started all of this, first Persephone's Pen, Ltd., then Sally-Cat Content, Inc., and finally, the umbrella of GoddessVox, Inc., my dreams were huge. I wanted to not only write for people, I wanted to make my companies successful enough for us to be able to hire and train other women in recovery, so that we could help them acquire marketable skills and move on to a real job with a real paycheck. To help them break the cycle, to help them get to the point where they can take care of themselves and their families as the independent, capable, self-reliant human beings that they are. And my writing; I wanted to share ideas, I wanted to make a difference. 

As it stands at 11 A.M. on August 17, 2016, I have accomplished none of that. My writing, when I get any done, is either pointless advertising copy or corporate blog posts. I have a client with Persephone's Pen that regularly orders erotica, but it's been like pulling teeth for me to sit down and write anything of quality, anything that I'd be willing to actually charge for. I don't charge much - this guy's paying me a penny a word, which is 1/4 of what I earn writing ad copy and blogs (but he's been with me from the very beginning) - but I do take pride in my work, and if it sucks, I'm not letting anybody else even read it, let alone pay for it. He depends on me for quality, for character development. My erotica is the furthest thing from porn that you will ever read. It's hot, yup, but it's also meaningful.

Except lately. Lately, all I want to do is sit in the yard with a glass of peach iced tea and watch the sun move from east to west, wait for the fall. I feel like I'll be better when this oppressive heat and humidity is finally gone and the clear, crisp days of autumn are upon us. I'm not exactly depressed, not in the clinical sense. I just don't have any motivation.

Granted, there have been a lot of giant upheavals in my personal life lately, some of them overwhelming. But, as that well-known sage "They" is oft-quoted, "It's always something." "They" also say, "This too shall pass," not to mention, "One day at a time," and "Keep it simple, stupid." (Keep It Simple, Stupid, that's KISS, get it? Huh? Get it?) "They" have quite the pithy way with words. "They" can also be a pain in my ass.

Since I can't seem to "shake it off" like I usually do, I'm going to, for once, lean on Herr Nietzsche for encouragement. Perhaps this period of ennui is meant to give me time to dig deeper, deeper than I've ever gone, and come up with what's next to move the whole thing forward. "They" are fond of saying, "God (or the Goddess) will do for you what you cannot do for yourself." And I tend to believe that's true. But I also tend to believe in the other side of that - "God/the Goddess helps those that help themselves." In other words, God/the Goddess isn't going to do it for you if He or She deems you fit to take care of your own business.

So, I'll sit in the yard some and watch summer turn to autumn. I'll sip my peach tea, write some blogs, take on the occasional project, and do some serious drinking from my innermost fountain. It's never failed me in the past. 

Here's to the full moon tomorrow night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To find out how you can help people suffering from mental illness, and to help get rid of the stigma, please visit The National Alliance on Mental Illness to take the pledge, get involved, and make a donation.

For more information on mental health, please visit The National Institute of Mental Health.

Thank you for reading. If you liked this post, or any other posts, please don't forget to like and share. And please leave a comment if you're so inclined. As you can see, I have no followers - you could be the FIRST! (Who knows, you might get a t-shirt)

My Mom's a Witch!

There's a story I love to tell people about when my kid was really little. There was a social worker involved in our lives at that time (because of me, separate blog post ENTIRELY but you know I'll write it eventually), and my kids were living with my sister. The social worker, a very unfunny woman with NO sense of humor, asked Spawn I about me.

"Mom's a witch," Spawn I said, totally deadpan.

"What do you mean, she's a witch?" asked Sorry Sally the Social Worker.

"She can make people disappear," said Spawn I.

"Who did she make disappear?" This from Sorry Sally.

Pause. Deadpan still.

"Daddy."

My daughter claims not to remember this exchange, but I sure as hell do. I was in the next room, and I nearly dropped my coffee cup all over the kitchen floor, and I damn near choked on the coffee that was pouring forth from my nose and sticking in my throat. I had to step out the sliding doors into the freezing cold backyard to keep Sorry Sally from hearing the gales of laughter that were issuing forth in a gurgly fashion, combined as they were with the regurgitating coffee. It was the way she said, "Daddy," in that matter-of-fact five-year-old's voice. 

Despite my shitty parenting, my kids have grown up to be wonderful young women.But the fact of their success as young adults has little or nothing to do with my parenting, because, due to my addiction and mental health issues, my sister had to step in and raise them for me. I won't go into personal details about the hows and whys, because I don't want to embarrass anyone, but I didn't see them again for 10 years. And a lot happens in 10 years. But they were never once, not for 10 seconds, off my mind or out of my heart. And they were never very far away, no matter where they were, and that was because of my faith.

My elder daughter was under my roof until she was five; and it was a Pagan roof. The little one was only with me for a year. I'm quite sure that neither of them remember living in a Pagan household, and my sister converted to Lutheranism from Catholicism when she married her second ex-husband, so the girls were raised in what passed for a "Christian" household. I won't chime in here with my opinion of people who rally Christ to their sides while doing all manner of clearly un-Christlike things. That's also for another post. But Spawn I seems to now be leaning toward a more naturalistic approach to spirituality. I don't abide with telling kids what they should or should not believe; I think the best thing is to let them sort through it all (and there's a lot), answer their questions as they come up, and hope that they make the best choice FOR THEM.

Spawn I believes in God, that much I know, but so do I, just not the Judeo-Christian God that looks like an aging wrestler with a gigantic beard. She moves through this world coming from a place of pure love for all living things. She respects other people, nature, and all those who come across her path, whether she actually likes them or not. And that's really all I could hope for as a parent. She and her sister make me proud, even though I have no right to claim pride in how they've turned out.

Pagans are different from other religious types because we don't proselytize. I can guarantee that no witch has ever knocked on your door trying to sell you on "signing up." We don't have buildings with stained glass to advertise our place in the community, and we don't have parochial schools (although I know of a few who insisted on home-schooling their children because they lived in the Bible-Belt, south of the Manson-Nixon line, and they didn't want their kids around that - and I can't say I blame them, but we live in NY). We also believe that everyone is on the path that they should be on at that particular moment. So while I would love for both my girls to eventually embrace their birthright (which is what the Craft really is), it is by no means my top priority. The only things that matter to me are that they love and are loved in return, that they get hurt as little as possible (I'd like them to never get hurt, but life being what it is, that's never going to be possible), to learn from it when they do get hurt, and to find and keep happiness. That's it. No riches, no fame, no glory. Just that they be happy and at peace.

When and if they approach me wanting to know more about the Craft, I will be more than happy to answer their questions and, perhaps, down the road, welcome them into the fold. In the meantime, I told you at the beginning that they were never far away, no matter where they were. That's because, on my altar at home, the contents of which come with me wherever I call "home", are two shells. I picked each one of them up during my pregnancies, and I anointed them and set them on the altar. During the day, they are enclosed in a little red cloth bag that hangs nestled in my cleavage, over my heart. At night, they are on the altar, and when the moon is full it shines in on them through the windows, recharging them. Those shells are my girls, and they will always be with me, no matter where the tide blows any of us.

This is Spawn I in a recent photo. It's shocking that she looks so grown up, since I'm only 30.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To find out how you can help people suffering from mental illness, and to help get rid of the stigma, please visit The National Alliance on Mental Illness to take the pledge, get involved, and make a donation.

For more information on mental health, please visit The National Institute of Mental Health.

Thank you for reading. If you liked this post, or any other posts, please don't forget to like and share. And please leave a comment if you're so inclined. As you can see, I have no followers - you could be the FIRST! (Who knows, you might get a t-shirt)

It's Nothing Personal

Before I get started, let me just say that I have no idea what happened to the formatting on my last post. It's all different fonts, and different font colors, and I can't fix it. Maybe it's black magic from another, less famous blogger. Or else I'm a techtard and I don't know what I'm doing. 

It"s probably the latter.

Moving along. For some reason that continues to escape me, still, people seem to think that when I write something, it's a personal attack against SOMEONE, usually them. 

It's not.

My last post, about Alice (she's in the hospital now, by the way, and has been for a week - I'm hoping she gets better soon because I miss the fuck out of her), seems to have ruffled a couple of feathers in the "professional" community. There are people who think that I was attacking them, their profession, their skills as practitioners of that profession...and it's simply not true. I don't know why these people didn't leave comments, since my comments are unrestricted, but whatever, that's their choice and I respect it.

I don't for one minute believe that anyone on Alice's treatment team has anything but the best intentions for her and I don't believe they want anything other than for her to get better. I just don't agree with the way it was gone about, and I have every right in the world to voice that opinion, here or anywhere else that I feel so inclined. Besides, the post wasn't strictly about Alice - none of my posts are about one thing or one person - it was about MENTAL ILLNESS and the fact that everyone is affected by it. Everyone. I was attempting to make people aware of that, to open the eyes of some who may not be aware that they could be in a position to help someone who's suffering. So if you read it, and you got upset, I'm here to tell you: It wasn't about YOU.

None of my blogs are personal, except for the ones that are about me. And I'm not as passive-aggressive as I used to be: If I really have a problem with you, believe me, I'll let you know about it, and I won't make little side comments in a blog that probably nobody reads. I'll call your ass. 

I wrote about Alice because, as her friend, roommate and fellow traveler on the road to mental wellness, I am not part of her "treatment team" and I have no say in her treatment because of that. I have told the people who ARE on her treatment team when I see things and hear things that "aren't right," but I do that when I think ANYONE in this house is decompensating (a fancy-shmancy term for getting sick). I know that they would do the same for me. But, because I'm on the other side of the mental health line, it's a rare occurrence that anyone listens to me, let alone does anything about it. Yes, it's frustrating. And that's why I write about it. Because there's a whole world of people outside of this house, outside of the "treatment teams" and the professional caregivers, and perhaps if I reach even one or two of those people, and some help is afforded to someone who needs it, that might make a difference.

So. That post wasn't about you, or your character, or your skills, or your abilities. If you were offended, I don't know what to tell you, other than that everyone who reads this blog is free to contact me via email, or to leave a comment on the post in question. Feel free to have at me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To find out how you can help people suffering from mental illness, and to help get rid of the stigma, please visit The National Alliance on Mental Illness to take the pledge, get involved, and make a donation.

For more information on mental health, please visit The National Institute of Mental Health.

Thank you for reading. If you liked this post, or any other posts, please don't forget to like and share. And please leave a comment if you're so inclined. As you can see, I have no followers - you could be the FIRST! (Who knows, you might get a t-shirt)

Go Ask Alice

As many of you already know, I currently reside in a community residence for people with mental illnesses. I have a co-occurring disorder: addiction along with major depressive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), anxiety disorder with panic disorder, and trichotillomania (trik-o-til-o-MAY-nee-uh) (a disorder that involves recurrent, irresistible urges to pull out hair from your scalp, eyebrows or other areas of your body, despite trying to stop). That last one took a long time to admit, but it's not the end of the world. Fortunately, I don't have any diagnoses that involve psychotic features. But one of my best friends does.

To protect her anonymity as much as I possibly can, I'm going to call her "Alice." She was diagnosed with schizophrenia in her second year of college. She's now 38 years old. We've known each other for three years, and lived together for two. Of all the people I'm friends with (and I have a lot of acquaintances, but not many who I count as friends), she's the most generous, thoughtful, funny, enthusiastic and supportive. I can always count on Alice to chill with me when I'm feeling blue, binge watch entire seasons of our favorite television shows (currently "Salem," we're on Season 2), co-sign my bullshit when I say that cake I bake myself has only 100 calories per (very large) slice, and tell me when my ass looks fat in a particular pair of jeans. She's a gem of a person. I've watched her struggle, and she was getting there. She was working and preparing to move to the next level of housing in this agency (the apartment program, where 3 women share a house, each with their own room, and no staff on site except for a few times a week). We've supported each other along the way, and she's just as happy about me moving to my new place (SPA housing, which is a little bit less intensive than the apartment program but not entirely on my own) as I am. 

But here's the thing with schizophrenia, and many other mental illnesses: you just never know when the shit is going to hit the fan. 

A few weeks back, Alice's medication regimen was changed. She'd been super, super sick and in the hospital for a few months (this was last year). While she was there, they put her on a completely new lineup of meds. When she got home, she was still a mess, but then, one day, out of the blue, the "Old Alice" emerged, and it was a joy to behold. She was absolutely fine. So why the doctor decided to ditch one of the meds that had gotten her back, I do not understand. That happens a lot when people with these illnesses manage their own meds - we think we're better, so we think we don't need the meds, when meanwhile, the meds are the reason we're better - but for a doctor to do it just baffles me. 

In the weeks following the change, I told staff repeatedly that I thought Alice was acting "off." She was just not herself, and it was clear that something was not right. I know that I'm not a psychiatrist or any kind of mental health professional, but I've been her roommate long enough to know when something is going on. Alice, of course, said she was fine. She always says she's fine. But she wasn't.

For the past 3 days, the girl has been gradually declining to the point where she now has almost no grasp on reality. She's talking to herself, in gibberish, she's singing to the paint, she's not sleeping. She had to quit her job. All of the staff here NOW agrees that something is wrong. Everybody thinks she needs to be hospitalized, except for the doctor, who says no. The same doctor that took away the medication that had made her stable in the first place.

Here's my thing. If we live in a house where there is staff in place to keep us safe, then shouldn't it ultimately be the decision of the staff whether or not Alice goes to the hospital? Or, at the very least, to the psychiatric emergency room, where she can be evaluated in person by a physician? Because her current psychiatrist has made this call based entirely on one telephone conversation, and not even a conversation with Alice, but a conversation with a staff member.  I mean, the girl hasn't slept in three whole days. I feel like, at the very least, they should bring her to the ER, sedate her, and force some rest on her poor, tired body.

The auditory hallucinations are probably the scariest thing, and they're the most common symptom in schizophrenia. The goal is to not only reduce the occurrence of "the voices," but to also teach coping mechanisms and reinforce that the person doesn't have to obey, or even acknowledge, the hallucinations. But I can't talk to Alice right now, because Alice isn't there.

It saddens me that her own doctor is so very adamant that she remain outside the hospital. I know why he's doing it - this particular doctor doesn't like to have any of his patients hospitalized, because it will reflect poorly on his choice to change the medication regimen that was working in the first place. Also, Alice is one of his "stars," because she was doing so well. But at what cost?

Whether you realize it or not, you know someone with a mental illness. We all do. Every last person in this country is affected in some way by mental illness, and we need to educate ourselves. Alice needs a voice right now, since her doctor doesn't seem to want to use his on her behalf. I am grateful that the staff at this house sees the need, and will probably just take her to the hospital by the end of the day. But how many are out there right now, alone, singing to the paint and not being heard? We all need to stand up and use our voices so that they can be heard.

For more information, please visit The National Institute of Mental Health's page on schizophrenia.  And for ways you can help to end the stigma and help give all mentally ill people a voice, please visit the National Alliance on Mental Illness and see how you can get involved. If you won't do it for me, do it for Alice. Or for the Alice that you may not even know you know - and love.

Update Time!

I know, I know, I promised to update this blog every couple of days, but what can I say? When given the choice between writing a blog post or sitting in the air-conditioned living room with my roommate, a bowl of buttered popcorn and Season 2 of "Salem" on DVD, I'm going for Option B. Every time. Because I'm lazy.

So, in between daily workouts at the gym (go Planet Fitness), trying to write erotica to order, living in a house with nine other adults (all with some form of mental illness), going to AA meetings, going to therapy, and other fun stuff, I have actually gotten the GoddessVox, Inc., website online. You can find it by clicking here. We're currently published by GoDaddy on a free trial, and I'm desperately trying to raise funds to pay for the first year (it's only $189, but I'm totally tapped right now, because I'm doing this by myself). I did the site myself, and I'm pretty proud of the way it looks. Please go check it out when you get a minute; any feedback or suggestions would be appreciated.

I'm also doing a fundraiser (and if anyone has any better ideas than GoFundMe, I'd love to hear them). My goal is $2,500, just enough to pay for the website publishing and the costs of filing the government paperwork. I want to make GoddessVox a 501(c)(3) non-profit, so we can hire women in recovery and put them to work, while training them and giving them marketable skills to move forward from GoddessVox. This will allow them to secure a job in the outside, brick and mortar world, that will pay enough for them to be able to support themselves without relying on anyone else. I believe that everyone has the ability to take the reins and get it done for themselves; many women in recovery simply don't have the marketable skills to get themselves out of the situations that they're in, which keeps them bound to unhealthy relationships and puts them at a greater risk of relapse. GoddessVox is here to help change that. I know it's a big dream. But dreams are supposed to be big, right? Go big or go home.

GoddessVox also now has its own Facebook page, under the name Persephone deHades. You can find it here: GoddessVox Facebook Page

Finally, I am also looking for some full time work in the private sector, as an executive assistant or something along those lines. I just can't finance all of this other stuff without a steady income, and, since I'm looking to move out of this house and into SPA (Single Point of Access) housing in October, which charges 1/3 of your income for rent (and I don't get any assistance from Social Security Disability or Supplemental Security Income), I'm going to be needing a lot more than the penny a word I've been getting off and on from the freelancing. I'm kind of hoping that if I get something soon, I can just get rid of the fundraiser, but my free trial with GoDaddy is only a week, so it's going to be a bit of a crunch to come up with $189 between now and next Friday. But I'll make it happen. 

On that note, off I go to write a post that has something to do with witchcraft. Stay tuned. And thank you for reading.

If you liked this post, please like and share it. And please consider donating to the fundraiser. You can find the widget on the right sidebar. All donations are tax deductible.

"Are you a Good Witch, or a Bad Witch?" "I'm a Sand Witch. Eat Me."

I've been watching season 1 of Salem, and I gotta tell you, I love it. I'm kind of over zombies. But I'm a little pissed off about some of the inaccuracies about the Craft, and my biggest bitch is the whole Satan thing.

Here's a quote that sums it up:

The major misconception about Witchcraft today is that Witches worship Satan, which is just not so. We do not believe in Satan. That is a Christian creation. We don’t worship evil. Indeed, to give evil a name is not a real intelligent thing to do, because then you give it power.
~ Silver Ravenwolf ~

The term "Satanic Witch" is a pernicious epithet used by those who wish to demonize practitioner of the Craft. Satanic worshippers are not witches; Traditional Witches do not worship Satan as this is a Christian concept not recognized in traditional pagan beliefs. Accordingly, the labels "white witch" and "black witch" (popularly meaning a "good witch" as one who practices "white magic" and a "wicked witch" as one who practices "black magic"), are also misnomers, as Traditonal Witches practice a "natural magic," drawing on the forces of Nature, and they refrain from attempting to manifest any form of black magic and the drawing down of negative or demonic energies.

So the whole going off into the woods and deeding your very soul to the Dark Lord is hilarious to me on one level, but on another level it pisses me off. The Salem witch hysteria was just that - hysteria. Many of the men and women hanged or burned (yeah, we burned witches here, it was a shameful time in a country founded on the desire to be free from the religious oppression of the Old Country, about as shameful a time as the one we find ourselves in today) weren't even witches at all; the large majority of the women were merely midwives or women with some kind of voice, a rarity in those days and thus viewed as some kind of an allegiance with the devil. There were also little girls playing games with forces they did not understand, and that invariably leads to trouble (Ouija board, anyone?), but that doesn't mean they were in league with the Christian devil, or Satan, or whatever you want to call that Christian invention. Mercy Lewis was probably half crazy due to her father's treatment and abuse of her mind, soul and body, and her little friends were undoubtedly just hysterical.

I will post more in other articles about various types of witches and their traditions (including a piece about Wicca, which is a new age amalgam of a religion and has nothing to do with the Craft), but for now, please know that I don't worship Satan, and neither do any of the true witches that I know (I don't know about Wiccans - they're not witches). Because we don't believe in Satan.

If you liked this blog, please plus 1 it for Google and share it using the nifty little buttons provided. Thanks!

Bye, Felicia

Or, as I should say, "Bye, Suboxone." 

I've been down to 1/2 mg of that nasty shit for a week now. I still have a few weeks' supply left, but I've decided that this morning's dose will be my last.

I've made some drastic changes in my life and my health since June 1. I started eating healthy foods, low in fat and added sugars, and I've been going to the gym every day. I do yoga daily. And I drink water like it's going out of style. I've been meditating and praying to my Higher Powers every day as well. And I feel wonderful.

Except for this lousy buprenorphine flowing through my system. It's done its job. I'm off opiates, and my plan is to stay off of them forever. And the bupe does not fit in with my new life choices. It's not healthy. It can't be good for my teeth or my mouth in general to be melting a strip of bupe and naloxone under my tongue every morning. And the bottom line is, due to my daily cardio workouts, I don't feel like I need it anymore.

When I dropped from 8 mg to 4 mg, I felt like I wanted to drop dead. It was a drastic decrease, and I felt terrible. But then I started changing my health habits. Eating better. Getting even just a little bit of exercise every day. Utilizing my other meds to ease the withdrawal symptoms.

And it worked.

Now that I'm down to 1/2 mg, I'm at the point where I feel like, really, what's the point in dragging it out? Yeah, my bowels are very enthusiastic right now. Yes, my legs are a little twitchy, and yes, I have screaming anxiety almost all the time. But I hurt my pectoral muscle a few days ago, and the doc at the emergency room gave me a five day script for 5 mg. Valium. So, since the pec feels better, I'm going to be using the remaining Valium to get me off the subs. I have 4 left. That's enough for 4 days, because I only take them when I feel like I'm gonna go out and punch a kitten.

I know, I know. I'm not supposed to be taking benzos, either. But every reliable study I've read has said that short-term use of a light benzo like Valium is key in getting you through the hideous anxiety that comes from bupe withdrawal. I can't use the kava because it gave me that disgusting shedding rash. But bupe has a crazy-long half life (37 hours). So it will take like two days to get the last of it out of my system, and then I will be totally, absolutely drug-free. No opiates or opioids, no benzos, nothing.

I'm making LIFE CHANGES. I don't want to be one of those people that has given up on life. I have gone through a lot of loss in the past couple of years. My daughter, my mother, my father, and my soulmate. And I thought I needed some kind of buffer to cope. But all the buffers did was keep me stuck in a state of non-feeling, and I haven't dealt with any of those losses. Hell, I haven't even dealt with my miscarriage from 10 years ago. That's a lot of shit. But I think maybe going to a bereavement group is a little healthier than sitting on the couch shooting dope and snorting bars, don't you?

So, here we are at the end. Thanks to everyone who has supported me on this journey. This blog will not be all about drugs anymore. I'd like to add a little more humor, since that's how I write, and maybe some sex, if I can get me some. We'll see.

In the meantime, I'll see you at the gym. Or a meeting.

Namaste, bitches.

Don't Effing Do This

When someone is feeling sick, for whatever the reason, it's our natural instinct to want to comfort them. Of course it is, because, aside from anything else, it makes US uncomfortable when other people are uncomfortable. Sorry, bleeding hearts, but that's the state of the human condition. We want to be comfortable all the time, and when someone else is NOT comfortable, we feel totally agonized because it's fucking with OUR day. I know, I know, some people are just nice by nature, but I don't know any of those people. I'm OKAY by nature, but I'm not a Disney Princess, so yeah, when you feel bad, I wanna cheer you up so I don't feel bad along with you.

That said, I'm the type of person who, when I feel shitty, wants to be left the fuck alone. I don't want you hovering over me. I don't want your chicken soup. I don't need another fucking Kleenex. Just go away. You'll feel better that you don't have to witness my shitty feeling, and I'll feel better because you're GONE. Win-win. Every long-term relationship I've been in (yes, I've been in more than one - shut up) has succeeded in large part because my partner recognized that he or she needed to vamoos when I was feeling shitty and come back later when I was feeling less shitty.

However, I realize that some of you are going to resist the urge to turn and flee, and to try to make me feel better anyway. I'm warning you, I'm not good with people (that's why I'm a writer - NO PEOPLE). And I'm worse with them when I'm feeling either physically or emotionally shitty. So, here's a list of what not to do.

1. DO NOT OFFER ME A HOT BEVERAGE. I'm aware that it's the socially accepted custom (I learned that from Dr. Sheldon Cooper - I love Big Bang Theory), but I don't want any fucking tea. Or soup. Or anything else. I probably want a drink, but since I can't have that, it's best to just not offer me anything. They don't make a tea that lets you sleep for a week anyway. No, Sleepy Time does not do that. It doesn't even let me sleep for the night so yeah, no hot beverage.

2. DO NOT ASK IF THERE IS ANYTHING YOU CAN DO. If there was something you could do, I would have asked you for it right off the bat. I hate being uncomfortable, either emotionally or physically, and I have NO PROBLEM asking someone to make it fucking better. So assume from Jump Street that there's absolutely nothing you can do. That should be enough to make you go away. If it's not, let's proceed.

3. DO NOT - UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES - TRY TO TOUCH ME. I will probably rip your head off and shit down your neck. Just don't touch me. Please.

4. DO NOT REGALE ME WITH TALES OF HOW SHITTY YOU FELT IN SIMILAR CIRCUMSTANCES. We may be friends but really? Don't care.

5. DO NOT SUGGEST THAT I TAKE A SHOWER/GO FOR A WALK/DISTRACT MYSELF. I wanna lie here and feel shitty, and that is my prerogative. It'll pass, okay? In the meantime, allow me my misery.

I know everything passes, believe me I know that. Whether I'm feeling awesome or feeling like I want to jump in front of a bus, the feeling will pass. So just allow me my misery. I'm not a miserable person by nature, although I'm not exactly the Happiest Girl in the World, either. I'll get tired of being miserable soon enough, take a shower, and move forward. But in the meantime, please don't do any of the above. Or our friendship will suffer a severe and likely permanent blow. I will recover. Our friendship may not.

Drink that tea yourself, go watch a movie, and wait for me to climb out from under the covers. I will, eventually. I promise.

So, It Does Get Better. Eventually.

It's been two weeks since the Suboxone cut, and I'm starting to feel a little bit better. Which is not to say that I feel great, but I wasn't expecting to feel great, just well enough to do my job and take care of the things I need to take care of. To stay out of bed for more than an hour or two every day. To do my laundry. To shower.

Actually, the laundry is just going now, because, while I felt well enough the other day to get it started, the thought of folding all that shit and putting it away exhausted me. The reason I started it today? I have therapy tomorrow and I can't walk in there in dirty clothes. I don't want them locking me up in the psych ward because I haven't done my laundry in two weeks. Also, I'm out of underwear. I mean OUT of underwear. I don't even have a pair of period panties in my drawer. And while you can Febreze a pair of jeans, you really can't do that with panties. So, the wash is going. I have three loads of clothes, plus linens, which may or may not get done. 

I also did the NAMI walk on Saturday. Granted, it was only 4K, but I honestly didn't think I was going to be able to do it at all. I brought two bottles of kava with me. However, I locked one of them in the van, because I'm a fucking genius, so I did the whole walk with NO kava. And 2 mg. of Suboxone. As opposed to 8 mg. I went with a bunch of people, and I figured, hey, it's at Jones Beach, there are bathrooms everywhere. Well, there are. But they were all locked. Towards the end there, I have to say I nearly shit my pants, but I managed to finish the walk and get to the only open bathroom, the one at the beginning of the walk, and I pity whoever was in there with me, but I got it done. I slept all day Sunday, and most of Monday, but I'm up now.

Kava helps. Kava, for those who don't know, is a root in the member of the pepper family, and it has anxiolytic properties. Sometimes, people have "reverse tolerance" and it takes a while for it to start working, but once it does, it's awesome. You're clear-headed but calm and able to cope with a myriad of things, like people. People are a problem for me, and the anxiety from this withdrawal has been the number one problem (aside from having to poop every 15 minutes but hey, according to Dr. Douchie, that's all in my head).  With the kava, I'm relaxed enough to get through things like group therapy and the car ride there and back without wanting to kill myself.

The problem is, if I drink enough of it to feel REALLY relaxed, I get SO relaxed that I just want to go to bed. So, I've stopped making it in gallon jugs, and I make two shots (we call them shells) at a time. Just enough to take the edge off, without sending me back to bed.

The stomach issue, I don't know what to say about that. I was starting to think that maybe it was a virus, but it's lasted for a couple weeks, so it's not that. I tried Imodium, but unfortunately, since it's an opioid (it just doesn't get you high) it doesn't seem to work with the Suboxone. So, I'm riding it out.

I want to tell everyone reading this that I feel amazingly better, that the 4 mg. is holding me just fine, that I can do everything I did on 8 mg. But, unfortunately, that's just not true. If I force myself, I can do SOME of the things I'm used to doing. I can work, that's most important (at least it is for me). But I work from home, so that's not a huge deal. And I try to take a walk every day, because cardio supposedly helps. The NAMI walk certainly helped, at least a little. But then, like I said, I spent the next two days in bed. So maybe not 4K, but at least a few blocks, and fast enough to make me sweat.

I'm sure that by next week, I'll be feeling relatively normal. And then I'll have a week of feeling relatively normal before Dr. Douchie drops me another 2 mg., and I feel like shit all over again. I promise not to bore you with all the details, but I do want this blog to offer SOME hope to others going through this. I want to be a little bit positive about the jump off Suboxone. So, expect some bitching along with some hope. Because, more than anything else, I want this blog to be REAL. And I promise, it won't be all about Suboxone, or even recovery. It's just that that's what I'm going through right now, and it's kind of all-consuming.

Except for the erotica I'm writing. That's consuming some of me too.

Anyway, that's the latest. If you're interested in why I went to the NAMI walk, you can check them out here.  They do awesome work for the mentally ill, and it's a cause that's dear to my heart. Feel free to donate to them. I won't mind.

Things are getting better, as they always do. Nothing is permanent. Good or bad, it always changes. So just remember that, when you're feeling like shit. Or even when you're not. It will pass. Hopefully, my next post will be more positive. Or at least funnier.

Seven Days In and I Want to Drop Dead

This sucks, ladies and gentlemen, and not in a minor way. It sucks like all the sucking ever sucked in the history of sucking. I had no idea when I started this Suboxone taper that dropping from 8 mg. a day to 4 mg. a day was gonna kick my ass so bad or I would have held out for the 2 mg. drop we'd been doing all along. But my doctor, for some reason, thinks that he knows better than me how I feel and how my body responds. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: I've been reading some studies that suggest that a slow taper with a low jumping-off point is preferable. I'd like to drop by 2 mg. per  month until I'm down to 1 mg., then cut the 1 mg. dose in half for two weeks and jump off at 0.5 mg. That's what I feel most comfortable with, since I've been on 16 mg. for a year now.

Dr. Douchie:  Any withdrawal symptoms you feel after 4 mg. is all in your head.

Me: Not really, I've been to this rodeo before. And the studies....

Dr. Douchie: Anybody can write anything on the internet (side note: I guess that's true because I'm writing this, but still) and I am going by the FDA's protocol.

(Another side note: as of this writing, there  IS NO FDA PROTOCOL TO GET SOMEONE OFF SUBOXONE. Only to get them ON it. So whatever, Douchie.)

We've had this conversation every month now since I started my taper, with me feeling more and more frustrated because, let's face it, even if it were "all in my head," he's my fucking psychiatrist and my head is his JOB. Plus, it really sucks when you feel like your psychiatrist isn't hearing you and keeps offering your vistaril for your anxiety (I don't have hives, asshole, I don't need an antihistamine). Finally, last month, he told me he was going to cut my 8 mg. to 4 and then stop my script. Of course I freaked out. So on my last appointment, I brought backup with me, another counselor to help me advocate, because I couldn't believe that this guy still didn't get it.

Again, he blew me off, and the research I'd brought with me. Then my advocate chimed in, and we came to the plan where I'd go down to 4 mg. this time, then 2, then cut them in half and jump at 1. Which was not what I wanted, and I figured I'd feel kind of crappy with cutting the dose in HALF, but it was better than jumping at 4.

I thought.

Let me start out by saying that I don't think I've digested any of the food I've eaten since Sunday night. I started the lower dose last Wednesday, and I felt pretty okay for the first couple of days, apparently because my brain was still basking in the warm fuzziness of buprenorphine. Plus, I was drinking a lot of kava. Which is a huge help, but I'll talk about that later. But I ran out, and I decided to give it a rest because my skin is getting dried out from it. Right now, let me just tell you, my bowels feel like I've been on an extended colon cleanse for the world's longest colonoscopy. I walked to the grocery store yesterday, the one time I've been brave enough to move out of shouting distance of one of our two toilets, and I almost didn't make it to their nasty ladies room (having that kind of diarrhea in a nasty bathroom, by the way, makes you feel even shittier, like you now reek of shit). I'd thought maybe the kava root was causing it. Nope.

Also? My anxiety is off the fucking charts. I can't sleep for more than an hour at a time. If I wake up at 2 am, I'm done for. That's it for the night. I won't feel anything close to normal enough to rest until I take my first 2 mg. dose at 6 am; I can't take it any earlier than that or I'll be shot for the afternoon and I'm trying to maintain SOME kind of a normal life here. Without having at least a cup of kava in my system, I'm quite literally sweating bullets at the thought of doing anything other than reading funny mom blogs and eating chocolate (which is what I got at the supermarket).

My legs feel weird. My stomach has that hideous shitty knotted feeling that anyone who has gone through opiate withdrawal will recognize as the realization that shit is about to get real. And it only alleviates for a couple hours after I take my dose, then it comes back.

I knew I was going to be uncomfortable with this big drop. I said that. But it feels like nobody is listening to me telling them how my body feels. I haven't been to group twice this week because Monday I was shitting like a champ and last night I woke up at midnight and was kicking the blankets around in between running to the bathroom for the next six hours.

I called my therapist and told her what was going on. She said she would email my doctor and have him call me. That's a vain hope. I doubt he will, and if he does, I probably won't understand wtf he's saying anyway because of his accent (also he needs a hearing aid, which makes me suspect he doesn't really catch most of what I'm saying to him).

The way I feel right now, if this is going to keep up, I'm going to just jump ship and deal with the withdrawals. Because I don't want to be in a low-level panic for the next three months. I can't live my life like this. I don't have the luxury of lying around on the couch while I kick the drug that was supposed to help me live like a "normal person." I'd rather go through the withdrawal all at once, treat my symptoms as they arise, and deal with it like that.

We'll see what he says. Stay tuned. If you need me, I'll be in the bathroom.

Getting Off Suboxone

Anyone that knows anything about me knows that I'm a recovering addict and alcoholic. I've spent years struggling with the disease of addiction, and I've put some time together, only to relapse a few years down the line, for whatever reason. Mostly because I didn't do what I was supposed to do. For me, the formula is simple - stay away from the mood- and mind-altering substances and go to 12 Step meetings. Also, of course, I've required therapy. But the key to all of that, the thing that makes those things effective, is rigorous honesty. Getting honest is getting to the crux of the problem, and without that honesty, I, at least, am doomed to repeat the process.

There's a saying about "jails, institutions and death." I've been in enough institutions for five people. As far as jail goes, I've spent a night or two in the company of the County's finest, and it's not an experience I'd like to repeat. And then, of course, there's death, something I'd like to avoid for as long as possible, despite my bouts of depression that was so severe I felt like killing myself.

I've been on Suboxone for a little over a year, and my doctor has decided that it's time for me to come off of it and start living my life without replacement therapy. For those of you who don't know, Suboxone is a combination of buprenorphine, probably the strongest opioid in the world, and naloxone, also known as Narcan, which reverses the effects of opiates in your system. Suboxone is replacement therapy, similar to methadone, but with the key difference being you can just fill your prescription, take your medication, and go about your life, without having to go to the methadone clinic every day. It's been a lifesaver for me; I honestly believe that I would have been six feet under by now if I hadn't been prescribed this drug.

I won't get into the politics of Suboxone, and there is a lot of that. While there is a set protocol for getting people on the drug, there is no set protocol for getting people off of it. And many people are perfectly happy to stay on it for as long as their doctors, and their insurance companies, will allow. My doctor, however, has a set period of time during which he will treat his patients with Suboxone, after which you can either titrate off the drug or find another doctor.

Initially, I wanted to find another doctor, because I was terrified of not having the drug. Part of it was the blocking action of the naloxone; it kept me from doing any other opiates, gave me time to think in between that initial thought of, "I think I'll go get high," and being able to feel the drugs. It takes at least three days for the naloxone to leave your system, which is ample time to think about the consequences involved in the get-high. Part of it, however, was also the buprenorphine. I didn't want to face life with absolutely no buffer between my raw nerve endings and the rest of the world, and the bupe was that buffer.

On further contemplation, however, I decided that it was time to live life on life's terms, so I agreed to the titration. I started out on 16 mg. per day, and have gradually lowered my dose by 2 mg. per month.

Until this month. This month, he dropped me from 8 mg. to 4 mg.

The first day, I was okay. I won't get into the whole science thing, because aside from anything else, I don't really understand it. I'm a writer, not a biologist. But your brain is awash in the buprenorphine at higher doses, so dropping by 2 mg. when you're taking 8 doesn't really affect you all that much. Once you get to the lower doses, however, it starts to be noticeable.

Today is the third day at 4 mg., and I am definitely feeling it. I have nowhere near the energy I usually have. My bowels are....enthusiastic, let's put it that way. I've got leg cramps, and my sleep is shitty. But I'm determined to do this. Why? Because at some point, we have to face life the way it's meant to be lived, and that means no buffers.

I've prepared myself, though. I have a box that I call my "care kit." It's filled with such things as loperamide (Imodium) for the stomach issues, kava root for the anxiety, and B-vitamins for my nerves. I'm going to a meeting a day. I'm reaching out to people. I'm asking for help.

I'm not here to tell anyone what they should do in terms of their personal medical decisions. I've come off Suboxone before, and it was hell. I "jumped" at too high of a dose, and I was so miserable that I wound up relapsing. What I am here to tell you is that, if you choose to do it, it can be done. The last time I jumped, it was at 2 mg.. It was too high of a dose. I was thrown into withdrawals about two days in, and after two weeks or so, I wound up using, from the sheer misery I felt. This time, I brought two advocates into my last appointment with the doctor (the same one who had me jump at 2 mg. the last time) and we came to the decision to have me cut my 2 mg. strips in half for the last two weeks of the titration. Granted, I would rather jump at 0.5 mg., but 1 mg. is still far better than 2. I feel like shit right now, and I probably will feel like shit for weeks to come, but I know it will pass.

The key, I believe, is surrounding yourself with as many positive people as possible. If you don't care for AA or NA meetings, make sure you have people in your life who are supportive of your efforts to live life drug free. Do your research, and stockpile your supply of healthy foods. If ice cream is your thing, then fuck your weight and get some ice cream. Take care of yourself. Be kind to yourself.

You've come this far; there's no reason you can't go even further. If it is your choice to come off the Suboxone, look for positive stories of people who have done that successfully. There is a plethora of negative stories on the internet about people who have tried and failed, but if you dig deeper, you will find success stories. Read them. Because those are the people who have a message you need to read and absorb.

I can't predict the future, and I don't know how I'll do. I'm hoping that, with the supports I have in place and the positive people that I have in my life, I will eventually get off this drug, and live my life without the intermediary of pharmaceuticals. I'm still on my antidepressants, and I have no plans to stop taking them - they keep me from that suicidal feeling that landed me in the hospital for six weeks the last time. But they're not mood- or mind-altering, and they pretty much allow me to live my life without blinders. I'll report back on how I'm feeling, if only to give hope to others that you can do this.

Happy Birthday, My Love

With love, there is always loss. As human beings, we are finite creatures. We die, that's just the reality of the human condition. And the people we love also die. No matter how much we love them, not matter how hard we wish that they would stay with us forever, or at least until WE die, people leave us. How we cope with that, how we honor their memories, can define us.

I found the love of my life late in my life, when I was 42. Before that, I'd thought I knew what love was, but it wasn't love. It was obsession, or infatuation. I loved the father of my children, but it wasn't the deep, abiding love that I found with Chris. When I met Chris, it was as if everything had finally fallen into place. As if everything I'd been through up until that point finally showed its purpose. I believe that we go through everything in life for a reason, and eventually that reason will be revealed. Chris revealed those reasons to me.

We were both in recovery. We loved the same music. We both loved books (not e-books, REAL books, the kind that you could hold in your hand and smell and feel). We loved food. It was like we loved all of the same things. We moved in together three weeks after we started dating, and for eight years, we pretty much spent all of our time together. Through good times and bad (and yes, there were bad times, because human beings have bad times), we stuck it out together. Sometimes we worked together. We always played together. I fell asleep every night with my nose in his neck, smelling his good smell - I liken it to butterscotch and vanilla, no cologne, just the essence of him - and awoke every morning on my right side, with his arms wrapped around me. He was everything to me. We fought once in those eight years. It was a doozy of a fight, but we got through it, and we never stopped loving each other.

And then I relapsed. I mentioned we were in recovery; well, I hurt my back, and I was prescribed opiates to deal with the pain. I, being an addict, took more than I was prescribed, for longer than I was prescribed, and that started a cycle that I'd hoped never to become entangled in again. I started doctor shopping, going to the emergency room when I didn't really need to go, except because I was in withdrawal. When the doctors caught on to me, I started drinking again. And that was pretty much the end.

Eight years. We spent all of our time together for eight years. And then, just like that, I drank, and within a year of my picking up that first drink, everything fell apart, as it does when an alcoholic drinks. We lost everything - he worked his ass off, while I spent my days drinking. At the end, we had to move out of our apartment, because if we didn't, we would have been evicted. Of course, prior to that, we talked, we argued, we cried. I made promises I couldn't keep, he pleaded with me to stop. But at the end of the day, he was sober, and in order for him to stay that way, I had to move out.

I went to the psychiatric unit at the local hospital, and Chris moved into a smaller, studio apartment, with no room for me. I understand that decision; he had to worry about himself in order to survive, whether he loved me or not. I spent two weeks in that hospital, withdrawing from the alcohol, trying to come to terms with what I had done. I'd lost other people in the past due to my drinking and drug use, most notably my children, who had gone to live with my sister when they were very young. So I was used to loss, and the pain of it, although I don't think anything can compare to the loss of a child. There's nothing in the world more painful. With Chris, though, the pain came close.

When I got out of the hospital, I went to live in a "sober house," which was by no means sober. There were drugs everywhere. I was on Suboxone, so I wasn't tempted by the opiates. I went to see him every chance I could get. An hour and a half each way on the bus, to spend a couple of hours with him, just to be with him. He said he still loved me; I knew I still loved him. But things had changed dramatically. He didn't trust me. I knew that, and I couldn't blame him for it. After all, I had destroyed our life. He had been planning, he said, on asking me to marry him. Neither of us was a big fan of marriage, so that was huge. But he never did ask, and that was all to do with the drinking. Anyone who tells you that alcohol is "okay," that drinking when you're an addict is fine, is misguided at best. Because alcohol is what ruined it.

I stayed sober for a few months. We were talking about moving back in together. And then I drank again. I can't even say what brought it on, honestly. Well yes I can. I started taking Klonopin. Which is a benzo, which is addictive, which is something else I can't take. I said it was because I just couldn't cope with my anxiety, that it was the only thing that helped (I've since found a natural alternative that, while it's not covered by my insurance, is just as effective but without the horribly fallout). I disappeared from his life for a couple of months, and I really don't remember what I did or why. I was at that point living in a community residence for the mentally ill (I thank the Goddess every day for this place, where I still live - it saved my life). I'd gotten some money from my mother, who had passed away that spring, so I took a little "break" over New Year's weekend. I stocked my hotel room with booze, drank half a bottle of rum, and started texting Chris. He knew immediately that I was intoxicated, and it was the straw that broke the camel's back; he told me to never contact him again. He blocked me on Facebook, blocked my phone number, and stopped responding to me. It was over.

I spent the rest of the weekend in a drunken state of heartbreak. Of course, it had been my fault. And of course, being active in my disease, I was looking for any other reason than the truth. I couldn't find one. I couldn't find one other person to blame, other than myself. My heart was demolished. When I returned to the community residence, I suffered my way through the hangover, and went about the business of life without Chris.

I thought I was doing okay. Then, last March, I got a phone call from a mutual friend, who had stuck by me through thick and thin. She asked me if I was around people. Of course, I said, I live with nine other people, I'm always around people. She told me to sit down, and I knew something bad was coming. I didn't sit down; I told her to just tell me already.

Chris was dead. Cancer had crept into his body and taken him from the world, from his parents, from his sisters, from me. There was no chance of ever fixing the mess I'd made, no chance of his ever knowing how sorry I was, no chance to tell him one more time that I was sorry.

I will never forget that day. I dropped to my knees and howled, an injured, ancient sound that came from somewhere in my soul. I felt as though I had been stabbed. I finished the conversation with Deb, then just sat in the dining room. Of course, a staff member asked me what was wrong. I told her. But there was no way to describe it. We weren't technically "together," so there was no way to explain the love I felt, and how it had been ripped from my chest like a live thing, still beating, but gone.

I've spent the last year missing him. I dream about him almost every night. I wake up and for an instant I feel his arms around me, like always, and then I realize that he's not there. It's a waking nightmare, and it doesn't seem to get any easier as time passes. People say, "Time heals all wounds." What they don't tell you is just how much time it takes. It hasn't gotten any easier as the year  has passed. I feel like it never will.

Yesterday was his birthday. He would have been 52. That is too young, by anyone's calculations, for someone that good to be ripped from the Earth. I wanted to call his parents, but I don't want to cause them any more pain, and they weren't too happy with me at the end. I don't blame them.

My reason for writing this post is that, despite the void that I feel, I feel like I need to reassure anyone else who may be reading that you can get through grief. I haven't had a drink in the year that he's been gone, except for once, and it had nothing to do with the grief. I'm trying to live my life, the best way I know how. I'll be moving out of the community residence in a couple of months. I'm working. I'm going to therapy. It sucks, and it's so hard, but I'm doing it.

I'm trying to live my life the way that I think Chris would have wanted me to. He wouldn't have wanted me to sit in my room with a bottle, drinking myself to death. He was a good man, with a good soul; and I know he loved me, even at the end, even after all I'd done. He would have wanted me to live the best life I could.

I've lost both my parents, a child (a stillborn, whose birthday I still celebrate), and the love of my life. But I carry on. Why? Because we must carry on. We must move forward or die. And the reality is, as I said at the beginning of this post, people die, and they leave us to carry on. How we carry on is a testament to their lives, their memories.

As I said, it's not getting any easier. But I carry him with me in my heart. I know that he's forgiven me, even though he moved on without me. He had to, to live his life. And he was surrounded by friends at the end, good friends who loved him. I wasn't there to help care for him when he was sick, but I glean some comfort from the knowledge that the people that were around him loved him well. I hope they provided him some succor during the throes of his illness. I hope they helped to alleviate some of the pain. I hope they made his passing more peaceful.

I will never stop loving him. He was the best man I've ever known (except for my Dad, but nobody compares to a girl's dad), my best friend. The love of my life. But I'm here. And I have to live. If I can learn to let go, even just a little, and live my life, I'll be okay. I know that's what he would have wanted.