Thursday, January 31, 2013

Children and sleep

I am not really sure why children don't enjoy sleep as much as me. Or at least MY children. Please new mothers, do not believe all the stuff people tell you "oh, they should be sleeping through the night at ___" or "just let them cry it out" or the famous "if ONLY you were co-sleeping". My son is almost two and still wakes up. He slept in the same room with us until less than six months ago. He still woke up. I breastffeed as a semi crunchy mom. Let the haters hate- my son STILL gets a bottle. Throw stones now glass house residents.

I am resolved to the fact that some kids are not sleep through the night sleepers. If you have one- I had one of three- do not put it in our face. WE are tired, we don't want to hear it. I promise. Moms get bitchy, judgy, and all those other things from time to time. We love our kids but don't expect us to embrace every aspect of parenting. Breastfeeding is hard, bottle feeding is tiring, cloth diapers stink, disposables clog up the landfill, playgroups get irrritating, children get whiny, etc etc etc. We are so lucky their skin is so smooth, their smile for engaging, their hugs the best thing on earth or many of us would have never procreated. When you get your first crayon smeared valentine, you will know it was all worth it. But I still miss sleep.

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Short story

Depressed. Sitting in the bed with my clothes still on. I don’t have the energy to make anything happen for myself. I have slept 14 hours. Or maybe 15. I am not sure. My hair hurt. I’m tired. I am in mood again. I thought I had these feelings suppressed better than a happy memory.. I can’t eat enough sugar, take enough baths, spent enough money to get these enormous stones off my chest. The world is slanted and blurry. I still remember. I lay by myself on a sidewalk…
I have done maybe a gram of speed today. I am laying behind my shopping chart on my blankets in a dirty parking garage on Sutter street, San Francisco. 25 years old, hopeless and homeless. It’s been raining recently and the rain comes in the garage and homeless kids sleep around the puddles if they sleep at all. It is safer to travel in packs when you are young and on the street. I am older but I am only a minor threat. I will take your drugs but I won’t rape you in your sleep so that makes me a companion worth having. I thought I was doing well for awhile. I had a little job at a store. I would clean up and park my shopping cart in back. But, here I am again. I am laying on my side, in my clothes.
I have shot maybe and gram of that grey stinking speed and I am still not fucking high because no amount of drugs can hide the fact that that muther fucker may come back to terrorize me at any minute. He has already beaten me, broken my nose. He held me hostage with a knife behind the movie theater. I was wearing a cotton nightgown because it was hot outside. I never met a homeless woman like me. It was like I never even realized that the world takes place indoors and I was in some state of limbo where demons had access to me 24/7 in the toilet of an alley I called my home. No amount of wool blanket cardboard, or carts with nice wheels could move me into reality as long as I injected powder depression straight to my body I was suffocating with utter neglect. I was about 119 pounds at this time. Why would any man want to fight with me when I had already surrendered to my fate? I had given up on the dream and the shadows ran into on ear and out the other.-
I can’t remember if it was 95 or 96. But, Believe it or not, this story has a happy ending if you call violence happy. The violence wasn’t directed at me for once. It was directed at my tormentor and a hero emerged from the alley. On that day, at that very moment, in the rain, laying on my side, a dark knight in shining flannel emerged. “Tracey, who did this to you.” He knew (and I knew) that no one was doing anything to me at that moment. It was the collective done, the heavy sadness that is an injustice so great that people poison themselves with drain-o and red phophorus to escape into broken dreams.
When I met Him, I wasn’t expecting much so I didn’t get it. He wasn’t my type. He had a car, manners, he was old- much older than he actually was at the time. I would have guess prison, I would have never guessed murderer although he did wear that off-the-yard cologne. He had dark brown eyes that bounced around like fireflies escaping destiny on a dark night. He broke into my life like he broke into cars. He smashed the window, took what he could get, and left me to pick up the shattered pieces. I don’t think I even loved him unless fear is love. Although, if a dog fears you, I don’t think they really love you because they are still waiting for an opportunity to run out the door. I am sure when I was with him, I had that same far-away look. I was waiting for the door to open on my opaque opportunity for escape.
On our second date, he broke down my door because I wouldn’t open it for him. I realized at that moment that there would be no rest until this ended. Between the broke noses, the humiliation, the isolation, and lack of privacy I see the real way to torture someone who thinks they are above this treatment. I had an invisible leash and a head full of messages telling me I could never, ever leave. I thought I was stronger than this, I told myself. I escaped back into heroin but even she couldn’t kill the pain anymore.
A year later was when my messenger arrived with a message of hope. “Who did this to you?” I gave his name, rank, and serial number. If he thought he was some kind of street soldier, he would have to deal with my friend the quiet assassin. I am not sure why exactly John took up my cause. It wasn’t for sex because we never slept together. It wasn’t for money because I didn’t have any that didn’t go in my arm. It wasn’t for revenge because he has never met HIM. To this day, I would like to believe he took on my lost cause because it was the right thing to do for me. He promised me that day he would find HIM and he would take care of it. And, he did.
  • We can never tell

    I was thinking alot the past few days about the death of an addict. When I heard that Spanky died on Jan 17, I wasn't surprised because of his years of poor health. I was taken aback my my sadness. Here was a young man I loved- sure it was junkie love- but loved passionately at one time in my life. In early recovery, I used to accept his phone callas from jail and we would discuss getting back together if he ever got clean. Early on, I knew these were empty promises. I remember running into him after he was released. I was caught offguard by the smell of alcohol as I gave him a quick goodbye kiss. WTF? I thought you really meant it this time. I was only harbouring a glimmer of hope for him. That fire was quickly and publicly extinquished in that moment. I had decided that I needed to love myself more than any drug induced fanatsy that love conquers all. Love is love and it never stopped anyone from using.

    RIP Spanky. When you had that six months of clean time, I'm glad I got a chance to hash things out with you. I told you to stick with the men and go to meetings. I had already moved on but I hoped for a second I could pull you where I was at.

    I sent you thse messages. I hope you read them. In my heart, I know you did.
    Tracey Helton

    Daniel, I am sorry that you are so sick. Using sucks and it tears a person apart. I hope that you can feel better soon. I had some weird dreams about you a few months back. i was hoping you were going to come by and see my at my work. Maybe when I go back in late May. I am caught up with the family life. I have a great situation going but I don't forget where I came from. I just had 13 years clean in feb. I definately will always care for you and wish you recovery.
    May 13, 2011

  • i had another weird dream about you. i hope you are doing okay.


    • Tuesday, January 29, 2013

      My new blog

      I spend alot of time writing, reading and thinking tons of insane thoughts. Being the mother of three small children is stressful enough but being an addict in recovery adds to the mix. I hope you will enjoy following my journey- past present and future. everything I say in my writing is based on my feelings and my opinions.