Tag Archives: PTSD

What Fine Feels Like: When I’m Afraid of Myself

Personal Encounters, Uncategorized, , , ,

I wrote this for the people who want to help. Please dont. People wanting to help me, scare me.

I wrote this for the people that worry about me. Please don’t. I worry enough for all of us.

I wrote this to try to describe the dark place that some go when we are hurt, or remember, or are triggered. It’s not a ticket i buy. It’s not an outfit I choose. It’s not a trip I want to take. But I go because I’m already on the train and the only place to go is the next stop. Sometimes I can get off. Sometimes I have to go a few more stops. I always come back. There isn’t an alternative. Perhaps some temptation not to, but I always come back because ther is more to make.

A little sad today. In a bad place. Anxiety attack. A flashback. Feeling crazy. Panic attacks. Coming undone. Whatever I call it-I’m fine-but I’m afraid of myself when it happens.

Perhaps of what I am, or what I think, or what I feel, or who might see, or what I’m capable of…but I’m afraid of myself. And I’m afraid for them…whoever they are.

I’m not out of control. I’m completely aware that I’m struggling. I don’t need help. I don’t want help. I want to dissapear. I know it will be terrifying, briefly, but I know it will pass.

I’m overcome by my own shadow and an overwhelming feeling of alone. My own brand of darkness and I wear it like humidity in August. A gown of grief and rage and sadness. Loose hems have been stitched up with shame over time. Memories heavily adorn the collar and add weight. It sticks uncomfortably to my naked skin. Buttons of anger poke into my bones when I move. 
It’s not an unfamiliar piece. It’s a staple in my wardrobe that I never choose. I wake up wearing it at times like this, and there’s no escape…until I’ve suffered it off.I try to be still, until I can practice the rhythm that brings back some form of peace. It’s a process. Suffering to feel easy. Dehydrated to recognize quenched. Starved to know what full feels like.

There’s a rush of heat in my chest that feels like hot clouds, and they feel nice for a moment, before they get stormy. My heart beat turns from time keeping to heavy, heavy stop-watch. A numb flutter happens under my tongue, and my breathing feels panicky before I take a breath. My first few inhales are fake-just a chest compression. No air comes in. There’s a pain, but it’s deep, and putting my hand on my heart would be a tell.

I’m afraid of something. Seemingly of my own feelings. Of how this dress feels on. I try to be still, because struggling is always worse when you’re stuck…in a web, in quicksand, in life.

My breath gets away from me only momentarily and I wince or quietly groan mostly to bring myself to attention. I breathe. Deep. Slowly. It’s shaky and the hot clouds have turned to water. My slow deep breathing contradicts the quick thumping in my chest and it takes a few minutes for them to come together. I’m holding back tears, and I feel like I’m underwater. As my chest rises and falls more steadily, the corners of my eyes leak. With every extended and forced exhale, salty tears streak down my face and under my earlobes. I taste blood, or metal.

I’m afraid I’m going to break somewhere irrepairably. I’m afraid I already have and don’t know. I’m afraid I might be mad. The only strength I have I use to breathe and sometimes to stay concious as my fingers and toes tingle. I know that oxygen and my blood want to dance, but this dress traps me and my capacity for air and movement is restricted. I’m overcome with a déjà u feeling. I know this exact spot, this exact feeling. There’s a memory I feel but can’t see. It’s something terrible, but I can’t tell myself what it is. It is scary and it is sad.

I’m absent from almost everything, except my immediate and present surroundings and need to stay sane. My sane stays on nearby like a child’s nightlight in the corner of the room. I  try hard to keep myself still. Together. Invisible. Unnoticed. The mute screamer begging not to be noticed.

I’ve met an edge in my sticky and pokey dress, where sanity meets an abyss of something else. Stepping in could be terrible and tangled. But I wonder if it could also stop something terrible. Heartache and worry? Sadness and memories? Shame and  regret?

I’m not sure what’s in there. I don’t know for sure how it could make me feel. It could be freeing, but my instincts keep bringing my face to the light in the corner of the room. Stay here, it reminds me. That in itself makes me wonder if I do the wrong thing by coming back to the light in the corner. Do other people reach this place and step in without contemplation? Do they let go of their mind and breathing and tears and shut off the light? Might that be why other people worry or hurt less? Are they more brave? Are they less crazy? Do they care more?

Pains are coming and going and I feel like a child feels like when she’s awoken, scared, in her bed alone, in the dark, and she’s screaming out for help. The kind of cry that makes a mom jump up and run in to hold her. The kind of scared inflicted by something she can’t remember in a dream, but knows it scared her. It felt real. Even if it wasn’t.

Whatever she feels like is what I feel like. I don’t scream. My cries sound like breaths in and out.  I never cry out. No one ever runs in. No one ever did. I rock myself. And the rhythm helps an adrenaline overdose start to subside.

I’m physically sick. And sore. And tired. I can hide behind that. But, mostly, my heart hurts. It’s not broken. It’s not shattered. It’s something worse. It’s exposed. Leaking. A torrent of something thick and infected is leaking out and can’t be clamped. I shamefully try to push it back in, and it’s like swallowing vomit. My stomach starts to hurt.

Whatever it is…love, regret, happiness, time, memories, fear, madness…I’ll make more, I assure myself. I’ll make more. I rock myself with a foot, with my waist. My breath comes back to me, and my heart relaxes. My stomach and my head hurt.

  
I could get up and move if I had to, but I want to come into myself physically as much as I do emotionally. I could talk if I had to, but I will avoid any and all chances. They deserve better than this, yet this is the absolute best I can be in this moment. Awake (sometimes) and alive (seemingly). The indignity of regret.

I will make more. And I say “I’m fine” to anyone who notices or suspects. I don’t feel well-but I’m fine. And I don’t, and I am. I will be fine. Unless it happens again in a bit, but right now I’m fine. Everything else is fine. Nothing around me has changed. I didn’t worry anything away. I didn’t fearfully move anything into better. My tears didn’t rust something out of motion. The adrenaline didn’t make the memory more clear. Nothing has changed. So, I’m fine.

Tomorrow I will make more. More love, regret, happiness, time, memories, fear, madness…I’ll make more, I assure myself, and, I assure you. I am scared. Every day. But there is no alternative except to come back.

You Can’t Pull The Plug on Trauma

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On Monday, I saw my mother for the first time since last year. I’ve spent the last week recovering both physically and mentally from seeing her. It took me exactly six days to realize that both my mind and my body are swimming upstream in a current of PTSD…saturated and cold and slow.

I’m anxious for no reason. My blood pressure is high. While lying in bed, I had chest pains so badly that I wondered if I could reach for the phone if it didn’t stop. Everything aches and I’m mad at my body for hooking up with my mind and turning on me.

The last time I saw my mother she was wearing her too-long white and grey hair in a pony-tail, like a child. She was handcuffed and her feet were shackled. Her translucent hazel eyes were surrounded by black and blue circles, evidently punched in the face. She was standing between two court officers who brought her into a court room to speak to a judge. In Massachusetts, under Chapter 123; Section 35 the court can involuntarily commit a person for up to 90-days if their alcohol or drug use puts them or others at risk. I don’t know why we put ourselves, or the judge through this. Everyone knows that this process is broken, that there is no real help to be had, and that she doesn’t even want help if it was available. She’s so far gone she doesn’t understand what the fuss is. It’s entirely fruitless, except that someone’s conscience is alarmed. Someone wants to help.

The concerns were shared. I listened, not surprised. No stable living situation, no electricity or heat. She was surrounded by drug dealers and prostitutes. She was stealing from people who trusted her (old people with money or prescriptions). A picture is painted for the judge. It was a shit-show, really, but I imagined he hears all matter of shit. I wondered for a minute whether he has to physically was the gross off at the end of the day? I remember supressing a “blah, blah, blah” as the facts are read off. I’m so pissed that she evokes so much anger from me, and energy from the world. I was annoyed that I was missing work and that I could hear my own blood moving somewhere between my ears. I was using a breathing technique to slow my heart and she looked like she had no idea where she was. She was blinking a lot. Pleasantly confused. Maybe she was high. I was embarrassed that she’s such a waste of resources. Appalled that she’s not already in jail for a million other reasons.   Isn’t this system sophisticated enough to be able to type her fucking name in and see everything she has ever been arrested for?   I sat. I listened. I tried to control my facial expressions. I reminded myself that I would be out of there soon. I tried to leave my body and then I saw that she was asked who I was. Someone was pointing at me. She answers with “That’s my daughter.” And inside I come undone. I give my best “I have no idea what she is talking about” face, and I begin to mentally will away the looks of pity and apology. These poor people are listening to this story of her reality like it’s terrible. And, now they’re feeling bad for me. Her addiction is not worse, people. Her judgment, morals and other guiding principles have not deteriorated. She is using drugs and alcohol to self-medicate the same way she always has, she’s just doing it in a different place now.

Once, her alcohol, cocaine, prescription and crack-cocaine addictions were masked by beautiful Cape Cod. We lived in a three bedroom one-story ranch on a cul-de-sac where we rode bikes and cought the bus at the end of the street. She smoked crack in the basement, had sex with random men in the living room, and accumulated clothes, burnt spoons and garbage like a transfer station. Now, she’s doing it in a three-family house of whores and junkies in Brockton. Nothing is different, it’s just a change in geography. But, on that day last year, someone’s conscience needed to be freed, and I was asked to be there to speak to the “history of behavior” if needed. I wasn’t needed. I should have waited outside. I could understand the desire to help, and the internal need to take action. I’ve been there, a fucking bazillion times. On that particular day they committed her for “up to 90-days” and sent her to Framingham for women. Not a treatment center. Not a mental health hospital. A jail. She was allegedly released after 5-days for passing a drug test. According to the FDA crack cocaine is detectable for 2-3 days.  Testing on day 5 makes sense right? By the time she had been arrested and brought to court, it had probably been 2 days since she used.  Genius plan.

I tried to feel sorry for her. I looked for any indication that she wanted more for herself. I wondered if she was sad, or embarrassed? I tried to look at her and force a feeling, because I know there is one somewhere. I tried desperately to come up with something other than rage and absolute disgust. It’s only a matter of time before she dies. I’m amazed she is still alive rather than sad at the thought of her life ending. I don’t know how she hasn’t been shot for stealing from the wrong person. I can’t understand how her body hasn’t failed her after so many years of constant abuse. How hasn’t her heart just stopped? I know that on some level I probably love and care about her…or, at the very least loved and cared about her.  She’s weak though.  I have no respect for weakness.  I despise people who don’t look to solve their own problems, and I’m the last person you’d want to invite to a pity party.  I would do anything to help anyone…provided they want to help themselves.  One’s mother should be an exception.  There should be some kind of natural soft spot, I think, but I could not find it.

I am void of kind emotion for her when I see her. I wonder if she wants to die every day?  Or if she uses because she wants to live…but can’t face herself every day?  I used to say that the punishment for all her wrongs might be that she has to live with herself.

I stopped reading about cocaine, addiction, helping people in recovery, how to be supportive, and how not to be co-dependent long ago. I employed every intervention technique I read, and then walked away. Attempting to hold us together hurt me. I reached the point where I hated her more than I wanted to help. It took years to break ties with her, and I still get pulled back sometimes.  It’s amazing how quickly the human brain remembers bad stuff.  It’s a bit like riding a bike.  You can always learn new things but you can’t unlearn.

On Monday of this week, I saw her again. I watched her cross the street with long wiry white and grey hair, even longer than mine, blowing around in the February wind. I quickly tied my hair up into a twist, fearing people would think we were related. Most 61 year old women would wear their hair up. Or trim it. Maybe she’s forgotten her age? More likely, she thinks she looks pretty. She looks like Gandalf. Smaller and crazier. I hear someone say she sleeps in a homeless shelter now, still smoking crack and drinking every day. The condemned house she was living in was recently raided and boarded up.  I think she looks like she has showered, so that’s good.  I guess.  She isn’t pushing a stolen shopping carriage.  That must be hard to do, I think, with all this snow.

There was a time when this woman didn’t leave the house unless her heels matched the belt that matched the hat that matched the lingerie. I want to grab her hair and make her look at herself.  I want her to see what I see, but she can’t.  Today, her clothes are too big for her now tiny body. I wonder at how much is left of her. She’s slowly disappearing. You can still tell that she was once beautiful, but her face is like a skeleton, and her skin looks grave. I imagined grabbing her face and her cheekbones turned to dust in my palms.

I don’t sit around wishing I had been loved more. I don’t wish for someone else’s life and I don’t feel regret for mine or entitlement to some other kind of life. I don’t want to understand PTSD and I don’t want to feel it either.  I was nurtured. I was loved. I was breastfed and held. I was potty trained and hugged and kissed and snuggled. I had my hair braided perfectly, long before she pulled it to punch me. I know I gave her joy long before the weight of motherhood smothered her chances of happiness. She taught me to cook before she stopped bringing home food.  She showed me that women could mow the lawn, before she proved she could not survive without a man or drugs.  She handmade Halloween costumes before she started leaving holiday decorations out year round. She told me I was smart and pretty, before she told me how much she hated me. I was kissed and touched on the forehead when I was sick before I ever had to roll her on her side to prevent her from drowning in her own vomit.  On my 17th birthday I left home and The Cape for the last time.  I took only the good stuff with me.  At least that’s what I thought.  But today, the bad shit creeps back into my head and my heart and my bones and I’m angry that she’s infiltrated.

My mother was a woman with limited to non-existent coping skills. She was wild and simple. She has always needed more love and attention than any one person could sustain. She did the best she could with what she was made of. She loved me. She loved us, the best way she knew how. To the surprise of some, I never questioned whether or not she loved me. She was once good intentioned, beautiful, passionate and fun. She just couldn’t deal. With anything.

I’m grateful to her for life. I just want out now. I want the right to decide who is in my life and who is not. I would like to never see her again. I don’t want to help her, and I don’t wish bad things for her, and in my opinion that’s relatively gracious of me. I don’t want to field calls about her. I don’t want to be asked “mother’s maiden name” on websites. I don’t want to explain each time I’m asked for medical history. I want her out of my mind, and I want the weight of her lifted from my body.  I just want my sentence to be over.

I want to draw my hands back and blow the dust away…for me…and for her. If there was a plug, I would pull it.

Unicorns & Rainbows: Why Abused Women Stay

Personal Encounters, , , , ,

During the last week, I’ve mentally toyed with the idea of writing about domestic abuse.  Because some of the stories and comments I read were such harsh triggers for me, I would craft a message, and then shut down.  I made a committment to myself to write about it later, when I felt like I could organize the story chronologically.  Maybe then, I’d be a little stronger, and it would be easier.  I can’t do it.  But I have a few things to say.

This was actually not triggered by the Janay Palmer & Ray Rice story,itself.  It came from how the media spoke about Janay (and others like her) and what people say when they have absolutely no experiences even remotely close to this.

The video was terrible, the story is sad.  But, to be truthful, it didn’t shock anyone who has lived with an abuser longer than the “honeymoon phase” of the relationship.  Part of me wants to tell you it was shocking.  It wasn’t, for me.  I really hope it was for you, but it wasn’t for a lot of women…or men.

Inevitably, right now, every online media outlet is publishing a story about an abuse survivor.  “Experts” are being brought in to uhelp people understand why she stayed, why she married him, why he did it and why she’s defending him.

Then, tonight, I scrolled through my Facebook news feed on my smartphone, and nearly lost my shit when I saw a comment made by someone I know.  He’s not a bad guy.  He’s actually terribly sweet.  The thing is…he has no fucking idea what he’s talking about.  He was saying some shit like the first time she was a victim and the second time she allowed herself to be and then went on a rant about how “these women” should leave.  After I wrote a message, I deleted it.  Then I wrote a comment under the same story and deleted it.  I realized that all of that bullshit would have been obnoxious, and had little chance of changing  anyone’s thoughts about “these women.”

“These women” are sitting right next to you at work.  They’re not all walking around with black eyes and sunglasses.  It’s possible you had a crush on one of “these women”, and you never thought in a million years she would have been beat up. “These women” aren’t all crazy or helpless or weak. “These women” are not all after someone’s paycheck, and I’m willing to bet that many would forgo even NFL money if they could just somehow be allowed to leave, with their children, without fallout, guilt, responsibility or fear.

Why do they stay?  For every woman, there is a different reason.  Sometimes 100 reasons.

“…if she considers herself a victim in this situation…”

Uhmmmm…What?!  Whether SHE considers herself a victim?  hmm.  This is an interesting statement.  Let’s think this through.  What this is, is a society that is afraid to call someone something they don’t want to be called or associated with.  We are now in a place where news anchors are actually afraid to call A woman who was punched out a “victim” unless she identifies with it?  So, follow me here for  a minute.  I’m walking through a department store with my bag over my shoulder.  Someone comes up from behind me, grabs my pocketbook and runs off.  This is all caught on camera.  NOBODY is going to refrain from calling me a victim, just incase I don’t identify with it.   Why the fuck are they so scared to do it in this case.  She was fucking knocked out.  She’s a fucking victim.  I don’t care what she calls herself.  Stop talking nonsense.

MC900439225

“She should just leave.”

No shit, huh?  You think?  That’s an incredibly intelligent solution.  Maye she should get on her unicorn and ride right out on a rainbow.  I’m sure that’s not what people really mean, but leaving is not so easy.  Unfortunately for us, there’s about 85 million other problems and things to consider with that solution.  You see, when you’re getting smacked around at home, there’s a very high likelihood that this is not the only fucked up thing you’re dealing with.  Alcoholism and drug addiction would be a good first guess.  It’s possible the place she has to go back to is actually worse than this.  And, when you’re having your ribs bruised at home, leaving takes a back seat to pretending everything is okay for everyone else.  Mental abuse, isolation, stalking, depression, fear shame and guilt are some other things we’re probably struggling with.  I can’t imagine the thought of having any of those moments video tapped and shared publically.  I was 17, far away from normal.  I didn’t even have  a car to get into.  As far as I was concerned this was a choice I made and I had to figure it out by myself.  There was no place to go and no way to get there.  I wish I had a unicorn.

“She was hitting him, too.”

This one is tricky.  I can see why you’d say that.  I’m going to respond to this one by sharing my own experience, because it’s the only one I know.  You see, when he first started hitting m, I was so shocked (or hurt, or stunned) that I couldn’t respond.  And, in the beginning it was never very violent, compared to how I grew up.  I was snatched up, maybe smacked, pushed or thrown.  These were usually quick, and before my mind could fully grasp what happened, he was immediately “fixing” it.  Usually he cried, apologized and in some twisted way made me “understand” why he did it.  I felt sorry for him.  I did call the police the first time I got hurt.  After getting thrown across a room and smacked, I can guarantee you that the last thing you’re ready to deal with is police lights on your street, officers in your house, and writing statements.  I felt like a loser for being involved.  Then, I felt bad for getting him in trouble.  Plus I was sore, cried out, and tired.  That would be the last time I called the police.  Fast forward three years…he’s a little more comfortable now, and I know it.  When the striking gets stronger, and I know what’s coming, I could respond in kind.  I’ve hit back, pushed, and thrown things.  Sometimes I cowered, if I thought it would be quick and quiet.  Other times I hit back, because I was afraid it wouldn’t be.  The longer it goes on, the worse it gets.  Just because she is hitting back doesn’t mean she wants, or provoked it.  She’s actually in survival mode.  Every day.  Even when she’s not being hit, she is tapping into whatever she has for coping skills, and she doesn’t even know it.

“She knows he hits her and she stays.  At this point she’s just asking for it.”

Oh, boy.  Dumb ass alert.  Actually, what we’re trying to do is keep the situation under control.  It sounds ridicuous..control someone who is out of control, I know.  But, there’s a need to try to limit the damage, not make him upset, sad, jealous or angry.  The last thing we want him to feel is threatened or jealous, and he’s likely very controlling.  If he thinks I’m planning to leave, or that I have someplace to go, it will likely get worse.  Keeping him happy becomes a priority.  No one asks for this.  In fact, I asked for something quite different.  It wasn’t a unicorn, or a rainbow.  If someone had sent me one, I probably wouldn’t have gotten on anyway.

Rainbow

My shit…It wasn’t always bad, we had a lot of great times.   I loved him like crazy.  When it was good it was good, when it was bad it was bad.  I could have told someone.  I could have asked for help.  I didn’t want to be a burden.  I lied about it.   I was ashamed.   I felt responsible.  I was embarrassed.  I was used to being hit by people who loved me.  I thought I provoked it.  I talked back a lot.  I didn’t think I deserved any better.  I believe he loved me.  I loved him a lot.  I was scared he would kill himself if I left.  On more than one occasion I left, and he attempted just that.  He was worthy of love, but needed help.  He did try counseling.  He tried not to drink, sometimes.  I stayed for five years.  Three days after I ended it for the last time, he died of a heart attack.  His family blamed me.  It’s been 16 years and I’m still not over it.

In my own opinion it’s ridiculous to try to use one couple’s story to understand the dynamics of all abusive relationships.  Every one of us has a background, upbringing and story that’s so unique.  These stories have so many knots they’re impossible to untangle. Don’t assume to know, or work too hard to uncover secrets.  Maybe a woman will share her story someday.  And, if she doesn’t, it’s her story to keep not yours to understand.  If you suspect someone you know is being abused at home, ask and listen.  Don’t judge.  Don’t judge even a little.  And, if she talks be prepared to be uncomfortable.  Help her be social, because her “normal” is  probably off a bit.  Remember that you can’t fix it for her.

xo

bandaid

 

 

Are You My Mother?

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Quite often I see or smell something that provokes a strong thought, a feeling, a flashback, an adrenaline rush or a belly-dropping oh-shit moment.  On May 20th it happened while scrolling through my Facebook news feed.

Yikes!
Yikes!

It was pretty average in terms of the kinds of flashbacks I have now and then.  It came in quick, punched me in the chest and moved on.  I read the title and I froze. I couldn’t hear, but the moment was so loud.

A 63-year-old woman overdosed on heroin? Here’s the fucked up thought process that follows…

Are you my mother? Shit.  Is she dead?  How old is my mother now? Is she 63? Wait! She was born in 1953. Counts upwards by tens. 1963, 1973, 1983. Gets confused. Quits. 2014-1953=61. My mother is 61? Ok. Not her. What is she doing in Mashpee? She used to buy drugs in Mashpee all the time…back when she worked in a nursing home. That was pretty fucked up. Remember those days? Not all of ’em. How did she end up in a nursing home? Who pays for that? Wait. The thud. My heart.  One big thud.  literally.  I consider it a reminder to make sure I’m paying attention to whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing at that moment. You know…driving, presenting, having a conversation. Little things.  Right, it’s not her. Right.

My heart usually starts to slow after the thud, which is good, because I hate that wicked fast beat feeling. It kind of scares me and excites me at the same time. I could cry, laugh, or fight. Maybe all three.  At once.  It’s just fucking weird. It makes my throat and under my tongue feel fluttery and I reach for it. I can hear. Only my heartbeat, but I hear it. It’s beat is so loud, like techno in slow motion.  She’s doing heroin now?  Hitting the pipe was always her thing.

My mother the “crack head”, I think to myself and wonder, When did she start using heroin?  Not her.  Right.  I know it’s not her.  Open the fucking link and just check it.  It’s not even her. I just witnessed her being sent away, six days earlier. She stood up there in handcuffs like she was totally fucking normal.  Black-eyed and white haired.  She’s not even in Mashpee.  She’s in jail.  Or, treatment.  Whatever we’re calling it these days.  90-days trouble free remember?  She’s a slippery bitch with a horseshoe up her ass, though.  She’s managed to evade jail a zillion times.  Read that shit, maybe she talked her way out of this one, too.  Why didn’t she use her master manipulation powers to, I don’t know, get me into college or pay an electric bill?  It’s not even her.  Probably not.  Read it!

Are you my mother?
I read it.
It was not my mother.  Not today.  I don’t know if she was someone’s mother.  But, she has a mother.  And a head injury.

A deep breath. A quick spot check….feel my heart, touch my throat, fix my hair.  Exhale deeply. The adrenaline wears off slowly and the headache and fatigue creep in.

It wasn’t her today. I wonder if I’ll be sad when it is her? I mean, I’m ready for the call.  The fact that I haven received it already is a friggin’ miracle. Either that, or the Irish really are just lucky.  Am I so terrible that I wouldn’t cry when my own mother dies?  Baby diaper commercials and Olympic gymnastics make me cry.  I don’t even cry when I think my mother’s maybe dead.  I’m awful.

Six days before seeing this post, I’m sitting in a courtroom watching my mother stand there in handcuffs with missing teeth and a black eye…no tears.  I learned hugs, kisses and snuggles from this woman, and I called her “Mumma” when I was little.  I fought fiercely as an adolescent to live with her, because I never wanted her to be alone. I pretended everything was okay as a teenager, because I didn’t want her to be in trouble. She never makes eye contact with me.  Still, no tears.

What’s wrong with me?  I watched a court clinician recommend she be sent away for treatment. “Sectioned” they call it.  I can remember the name, intent, and number of several legislative directives, bills and regulations for work.  Yet, while watching a judge consider taking away the personal rights of the woman who gave birth to me, I don’t even care to inquire about what “Section” they’re referring to.  I don’t care and it doesn’t matter. At this moment I’m pretty sure she’s walking out of here, she always walks.

I’m wondering what she thought when she saw me.  I’ve seen her maybe 4 times in the last 5 years. Four times too many. I’ve spoken to her less.  Mentally, I’m planning the swift walk out to my car so that I don’t have an interaction with her.  It’s my luck that I’d be the one who gets arrested for punching her face after she says some dumb shit thing. Or breathes. (Totally normal thought, right?) That’s the kind of luck I have, though.  I’m not a junkie, have a career, own a house, pay out my ass in taxes, volunteer, no unpaid speeding tickets…and I’d be the ass-hole on the news for beating up an old lady.  So, yes, swift exit.  No one provokes a rage in me like that woman.

I’m hearing accounts of living conditions that sound like a special edition of Hoarders-meets-Pitbull Rescue-meets-Intervention. I’m not exaggerating. Crack pipes and needles strewn about. DUI cases, stealing money, no utilities, prostitutes and police. Not only am I not shocked, I’m still not crying.  She trying to defend herself and she’s speaking when she’s not supposed to.  I’m trying to determine if she pretending she’s okay and everything’s normal…or if she really thinks she’s normal.  I fear it’s the later.  She usually cries.  No tears.  From either of us.  I look at her and wonder if the court officers can smell abuse, cigarettes, dogs, vodka, neglect, rotten teeth and crack on her?  I want to apologize for her.  I’m feeling sorry for her.  There was a time when this woman didn’t leave the house unless her underwear matched the shoes, bag, heels and hat that she coordinated with a button down, belted dress. She hand-made gingham curtains to match the tablecloth and napkins in our kitchen.  If she could see this woman, my mother would be sad.  Maybe I’m not sad because I don’t even know who this woman is.

Are you my mother?  Where is that woman who braided my hair precisely?  Where’s the mom who let me slide into her bed to snuggle and was always so warm?  And she was beautiful and funny.  She had a smile that still had teeth in it.  She was like a magnet.  A crazy magnet, but people were drawn to her.

I understand the impact of drugs more than I understand drugs.  Most of the time, I have no empathy and no sympathy for people who can’t pull themselves up and just deal.  I don’t feel sorry for folks who don’t have a strong moral compass, and who’s grey line between right and wrong is more like a fucking canyon.  Even if it’s chemically induced.  I detest a person who makes choices and then whines about having to deal with consequences.  Cry at home, set your alarm, and get your ass to work like everyone else.  I hate people who play victim, and scheme.  I hate when people can’t handle their own shit.   I think dependence on people or substance is weak.

Occasionally though, I’m struck so uncontrollably with feelings, that it shocks even me. Most of the time I do actually hate this person.  I mean, seriously, I’ve had visions of reaching in and pulling her throat out.  Once, I mentally drove my car through the front of her house.  That’s normal, right? (If you’re thinking “oh, hate is such a strong word”, believe me I know. It’s actually not strong enough.  But I can grit my teeth and spit when I say it, so I like it.)  Sometimes I feel something, and the idea that she provokes something resembling a feeling-other than hate-makes me mad.  I still wonder who my mother is.  When she’s in trouble I always feel so bad for her.  She usually becomes child-like in her confusion and I feel guilty not rescuing.  Today, I’m just here to witness.

They took her away that day. “Up to 90-days”, they said.  I wanted to say that she was taken away a long time ago, but I didn’t say anything.  I don’t know who they took.

I closed Facebook.

Where is my mother?

If she hurt you, I’m sorry.  If she stole from you, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry she got so fucked up.  I think she maybe always was a little wild, but it was manageable and she was functional.  Until she met Dr. Feelgood.  I’m sure I still love her.  From way over here.  I just can’t help her.

Drugs and alcohol take people away. Loving and fun people are replaced with strangers who have similar traits. Their replacements are weak, sorry, vulnerable, in pain, and need help.

Drugs and alcohol take non-users, too. Their replacements are hard, tired, in pain, and need help. (Not me, though. I’ve totally got this. wink!) Seriously, I think I used to be nicer. And gentle.  And forgiving, and empathetic.  I trusted and gave second chances and I believed in change.  I don’t do a whole lot of that now.  Not that I don’t ever do it, I just don’t do it often.  I’m not blaming the addict, that’s my own shit.  Don’t go clicking the comment button to rip into me about the disease, or the gene, the effects of mental illness, or the lack of services.  In a stronger moment, I could probably speak in front of congress about the needs of mental health and substance abuse patients and families. So settle down social-work-warrior.

What I am saying is this…

No throats were yanked out.  No houses were driven through.
Senior citizens apparently DO do use heroin. And crack. So do children.
Help them if you can do it without hurting yourself, or your family. Help them until you can hardly help yourself.
Walk away when you know you have to.
Don’t judge other people when they do finally walk (or run screaming.) Not everyone can help.
Not everyone can be helped.
Epidemic is overused and we’re desensitized to it. We need a better word for ‘major fuck show of a drug problem’.