Sicker than Others.

When I was just finishing middle school, I was very meticulous about my appearance. This was complicated as a fat girl. However, I had discovered in the pages of Seventeen magazine the joys of camouflage. This included spending hours on my nails. I would try all sorts of combinations of wet n wild eye liners, eye shadows, and Bonnie Bell lip smackers. I would spend my free time combing the malls for just the right outfit, the one that would make people like me. In the mean time, I always carried gum or candy in my purse so people would have a reason to talk to me.

It is hard to believe that it wasn't too much later than I was sleeping on a mattress that was pulled from the garbage. It was complimented by other scores. I had a recliner someone left for the trash man, a mirror left outside a retail place, and a trashcan that became my vomitorium. As I crawled deeper into the bottom of a spoon, I prayed there would be someone to love me at the other end. Would someone come and rescue me from my life absent of love? Would I be out at a bar one day only to have them see through my pinned eyes and into my soul. It probably wasn't going to happen this way.

When I think about the damage I have done to myself, it is easy to get discouraged. The list is fairly lengthy: destroyed my credit, rotten teeth, scars, felony conviction, estrangement from family, nerve damage to my feet, scars, PTSD, lack of faith in humanity, and an overall inability to connect with others. Some of things have been repaired over time. Some have not. Personally, I find that the love of animals has made it easy to cope in the world of humans. The unconditional love of my furry friends makes me feel loveable and supported after a hard day of being an adult. Going from injecting gutter water into being a public health professional has been a steep uphill climb. The anxiety I feel some times revolves around feeling as if I am an imposter, that my life is going to crumble at any moment under the weight of this fraud.

When I started writing this blog, I got a few eye rolls from people. Why couldn't I just leave the past in the past? Did I really want to rehash all these old events? I complete disagree. I see my writing as a conduit for exercising my demons. The dark cloud of depression still kicks around in my mind. My past is something so incongruent with my current life, I can only understand it by piecing it back together like forensic evidence. The reality is that no matter who I am today, I will always be the person who sacrificed everything for that next hit. I want to know why in the philosophical sense- like why do we (the collective we) cast aside all the trappings of civilized society to pursue a few chemical compounds that inextricably alter the paths we follow. They say in twelve step meetings that some people are sicker than others. Maybe some people pursue a relief from their circumstances with the same vigor that some people pursue their goals. We all need a purpose in life. When you feel rudderless pouring down the eternal stream of life, drugs temporary provide an anchor that pulls you to shore. Until the day, battered and bruised, you crash on the rocks searching for a new way to travel again.

I have a bunch of personal problems swirling around at the moment. I will update you all soon.