I’m sitting here at work outside smoking a cig, taking a 5 minute break. Since I have been here and had some time away from the intimidating blank screen that always seems to be before me. I have received many messages from my son. He was telling me how sorry he was that he came off snappy and rude. That I thanked him for and gave him credit when he did by telling him so. I don’t understand why he can be so open with me but so closed off to the only man that has ever remained in his life. Not by choice. He wants to be there because he loves him. He’s the only male figure to have remained in his life even when I wasn’t there. He and my son even made plans to stay together when I got home, if I didn’t stick to my word on my sobriety, and stay out of jail. Nick was going to continue living with him regardless of where I chose to go because it was stable and safe. They were both fed up with me going back and forth. Jail was a revolving door for me for may years. The thing is, I have done what I said I was going to do. I quit taking money and having to tell lies on what really happened to it. It’s so much easier living the truth. What was I ever thinking, in my many fuck-up’s along the way, that I’d ever be happy living how I was. It was chaotic as fuck. It was also all I have ever known.
The way I watched people live around me while I was growing up was awkward. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to graduate high school and then off to college. (That was a big if). I knew that I had a very low self esteem and I tried to make myself be like the other regular kids I went to school with. It was very difficult because I didn’t come from a family with money. I grew up receiving had me downs from my sister and other people that donated used clothes to the less fortunate. My father made it a rule that just because I wore one outfit on a Monday didn’t mean it was dirty and he would make me wear it twice in the same week. Sometimes it was back to back. It made me shrink inside myself and question why I had to be the odd one in the group. The one that was always made fun of and talked down to. My sister would try and pick out my clothes and sometimes even get up early enough to do my hair. She battled with school herself and quit during her middle school years. She was always violent and would fight anyone she didn’t like or that tried to intimidate her. I had the privilege of riding the school bus with her a few times. I loved that. If someone even looked at me sideways with her just a few seats behind me, she made it clear I was her little sister and they we’re to leave me alone or else. They got the hint. It was no secret about whether she would fight someone or not. She tried teaching me to stand up for myself all the time. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a cancer, but I wore my feelings and my heart on my sleeve. I’m the biggest cry baby you’ll ever meet in your life. The few little scrapes I did manage to get myself into were few and far between. Every time though she’d be right there watching yelling at me that if I didn’t kick ass and stand my ground that she was waiting to kick my ass if I failed. Not wanting to go rounds with her I did what I was told.
Of course every time someone had to call the police. I had a charge as a minor for one encounter on a day I basically skipped school. Supposedly this girl I ride the bus with had been talking crap about me and my sister made me confront her as she was descending the steps off the bus. Naturally she side stepped me to avoid what I was trying to get out of her. I think I ended up throwing the first punch, smack, push, what have you. I don’t even know, or remember if I was even struck by the girl. I just knew what I did to her hurt her real bad. Shem was running away from me trying to get home. I came up behind her and plated the hardest smack against the side of her head that I could. Little did I know that I struck her ear, and the way my hand made contact with her head made a suction cup and I damaged her eardrum with that hit. I knew I hurt her because it caused her to drop to the ground instantly. I walked away from that scene with butterflies all in my belly and my adrenaline pumping. I couldn’t get in trouble for the fight if I had been hit first. So I had my sister and I think my cousin to punch me in the arm to leave red marks and hopefully a bruise. It was my only shot at getting away with what I had done and saying she started it.
I was a follower. Now I’m standing my ground for things that are right and true. I’m trying to anyways. I’m not perfect and I know that I never will be. At least now though, I know the difference between the two. I want people to remember me when I’m no longer here. But I want it to be in a positive way. Yes I have relapsed and gotten messed up a few times since I have been home. As I said though, I’m not perfect. I’m not trying to be the Bible thumper and go around preaching all these great and wonderful things that are going to come if only you live your life a certain way, all the while I’m still getting high and deceiving everyone else that I talk to. Hypocrite I try not to be. It reminds me too much of my father honestly.
I think I’ll continue to keep praying for the strength to remain clear headed and not clouded by the use of drugs while saying what I think. Is there such a thing as a functioning addict? I mean come on. People want to know the truth. A part of me thinks that yes it’s possible. Certain drugs give you the edge your looking for and the urge to want to be better and do better. I know that for a fact. I work everyday and come home tired like everybody else. I also am under the influence of Suboxone on a daily basis. So does me saying all these things still make me a hypocrite because I am under the influence of medication everyday? I really want to know myself. Someone speak to me. I feel as though I’m alone in the dark with my words and my thoughts…
I'd rather read a good book, VS watching the movie made from it on TV. Most thoughts on that are 'why'. Well, my answer for that is that there aren't any limitations to your imagination. Therefore, when I'm reading an action packed thriller that I can't put down or stop turning the pages of is because the details are written by the author describing the scene/situation with such clarity, that I think it's far better than what anyone can visibly see on TV. That being my opinion only, I'm sure millions and billions of avid readers out there agree with me 100% on that reason alone. I've always had an active imagination growing up. I'd use the almost empty cans of shaving cream my dad would give me, as the whipped cream on top of the mud pies I made.Of course dad got the first one. After all, he did give me the topping. I was very versatile also. I was the biggest tom boy of a little girl you'd ever see one day. To dividing Barbie clothes between me and my older sister (when I was lucky enough to get her to play with me). I had to play by her rules though. Perks of being the older sibling I guess. I loved playing with the Hot Wheel's cars in the dirt. Making race tracks and underground tunnels I'd dig out for them. Sometimes my dad would be outside with me showing me all kinds of different things I could pretend to do when playing cars. I have one day in particular that stands out among the rest. It was when I learned to do the underground tunnels for the cars to go through. He showed me by taking a simple stick off the ground and using it like a tool to push the dirt out from one side to the other. It wasn't a tunnel without keeping the top part intact. I acted like there was a cave-in, and then accidents, crashing the cars together. No one ever got hurt in my imagination though, just the cars got hurt. Growing up with a sister 6-years older than me taught me lots of things, both good and bad. If I kept her secrets, she kept mine. And the only reason I even had any secrets was because she allowed me to. I got to sneak and smoke in her bedroom at night after our parents went to bed. I had to be very quiet because I got caught most of the time. But I was always caught by our momma. And then all she made me do was get back in bed. I came from a poor family so anything name brand wasn't known to me for a long time. I was bullied and made fun of all throughout my school years. It doesn't matter which year you pick. From the 1st grade, all the way through high school. I know that's terrible to have to admit, but I think it'd be even worse having to admit to being the bully. I swore to myself I'd never treat anyone the way those kids treated me and made me feel. It bothered me so bad I'd dream about standing up for, and actually fighting over other kids getting bullied. I woke up all of a sudden one morning after punching the lights out of a bully in my dream. When I really punched the headboard and made my knuckles bleed. Come on! When a child is taking on the burden of other bullied kids, you know that's a heavy burden to bear. It was also very hard on me. I never talked about it to my parents though. Yeah, they knew. But back then no one really knew what to do about that problem like they do now. Or, well, think they do. I've been in counseling since starting school. I can't remember a day going by without me seeing the school guidance counselor. Shout out to Mrs. Reeves though, at Lone Oak High School. She made the biggest impression on me as far as wanting to help other kids like me. The bullies were actually the kids who came from well-to-do families. Kids who never knew what it was like to experience the disappointment of being told 'No'. Or that there wasn't enough money to buy what they wanted. Kids that figured there wasn't anything better to do except make fun of the less fortunate to get them through their day or to have a conversation piece. The anger and hatred that built up inside of me was, and still is undescribable. The thoughts they caused me to have. Picturing the tables being turned and the bad things said back to them, bad things being done back to them. It only made me feel better on the inside. I've been asked by numerous doctors in my life if I'm suicidal. I've answered no, being completely honest each time. But never have they asked if I've felt homicidal! I know, scary right? The outcome of such thoughts is what triggered the start of mass school shootings. Coming into adulthood was strange territory for me as well, and actually caused me a lot of uncomfortable times, knowing things I knew I could now do but never felt comfortable ever talking about. Even with my sister, the person I was closest to, I couldn't open up and freely talk about anything of the sexual nature. I guess because bad things have happened to me on more than one occasion when I was still very much an innocent child. With me hiding such horrid things from my parents, along with everyone else, I felt I couldn't talk about the good kind of sex either. Man did that ever set me back, keeping me immature of certain things I should've known already but didn't. Because in my mind I was still that child who was hurt in a bad way. They were called 'Red Touches' back then. What we were taught to call them in school anyways. Then just when I was becoming independent and living on my own, learning to stand up for myself in a way that would make my sister proud of me, I lost her. That caused me to go into a deep depression I didn't come out of for many years afterwards. March 29, 2003 changed my life forever. I lost my 2-year old nephew that night to a raging house fire. My sister passed 17 days later in the burn unit in Vanderbilt, Tennessee. However, if you've read 'My Story', a post on my blog. Then you'll know that in order for me to know what I now know, and to be the person that I now am, all of the bad shit had to happen first or else I wouldn't have caught and held onto the message so vital for me to have acquired in my life. Helping the less fortunate. Being someone's somebody they can depend on being there when they need them the most. After receiving confirmation that my nephew didn't suffer, not for one second in that house fire... Was I able to let that burden go, only to let in that oxygen, that life support I desperately needed to save myself from a lifetime of misery. Even though I know my sister, Jennifer, isn't physically here to cheer and root me on. I know without a shadow of a doubt, her and Lil Jesse (my nephew) are both doing so from Heaven today, and everyday that follows. If you're suffering from addiction of any kind and you want or need someone to talk to I'm a damn good listener! My contact information is listed on my contact page. Please call, reach out for support. You're not alone no matter what negative thoughts are telling you that you are. God is always there for you as well. If you'd like to learn more about Jesus and how He died to save us, don't hesitate to ask. I'll share what I know is all good, and positive about God. Whom I choose to call my higher power. If you don't believe in God, then the subject will not be pushed. EVER! If you're battling mental health issues and feel alone like no one knows what you feel like. Then I'm here to tell you there's billions of people out there that will share with you that they too, feel just like you do. Hit me up on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter. All of my accounts should be connected to my website. If you're waiting on me to respond and it's been a while since you tried getting in touch with me, then by all means be more persistent and bug the shit out of me. Make me see your messages. I will eventually and I'll always reply when I can. This is the best I think I've written in this 'about me' section. It's the most I've opened up publicly I know that. I'm open minded, I keep it 100 all of the time, even if it's something I don't like myself, or for others, I still have to keep it 100 with myself in order for me to keep it that way with everyone else. I hope this told everyone a little bit about me, maybe more than I originally intended. But it's all accurate and up to date with where I'm at in my life right now. Thank you all and God Bless
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