Helping

Anna Nicole Smith. Britney Spears.

I mention those two in my journal today, because they are/were both people in trouble and in the constant media spotlight. Be it alcohol, drugs, pick your poison, they fell into 'it' and didn't get out.

Yet, I've read all these articles and entries and commentaries of people ridiculing the people who are around Anna Nicole and Britney for not helping. Howard K. Stern. Lynne Spears. Managers, friends, family etc.............all in the hot seat for not fixing these darlings, not getting them "help" not curing them or steering them away from the bowels of addiction.............

Help a person who is an addict? A true living breathing addict who's life is dictated by the poison of their choice. Help them? And blame family members and friends for not curing or saving an addict??
You have to be fucking kidding me.

I reserve the right to be a bitch for a moment. If you have never dealt with someone who is an addict, keep your blaming opinion to yourself. If you have never held a garbage can under the mouth of someone going through withdrawals and suffered next to them while they went through it, shut up. If you have never drove someone to rehab with all the hope your mind possesses only to have them leave rehab and step right back into drugs and alcohol, you have no right to judge from afar.

~If you have never been hurt, punched, spit on, screamed at, kicked, stolen from, called collect from jail, sat through court for or by an addict...then shut it.

~If you've never picked a person up off a sidewalk laying in their own vomit, feared for your life, or one of your family members, hired an attorney for someone who is an addict, spent a holiday in a hospital, a suicide ward, a city jail, a rehab center, a mental hospital all typical places to visit an addict then save commentary for someone else. 

~If you have never been thrown up on, taken a knife away from a person who is intentionally cutting themselves, called the police to have your loved one arrested, locked away or have the police pull you out of your bedroom window in the middle of the night to save your life from said addict in the house then reserve judgments, you're optimist suggestions don't count.

~Unless you've invested 10's of thousands of dollars trying to help someone, you're perspective is that of Candy Land mentality.

No offense, but those are the truths I've lived through, and I know other families of addicts have lived through. Read any book you'd like, watch any movie you choose, hear any story you want, but until you've lived face to face with it, you have no clue, notion or perspective of what it's really like. Period.

Oh sure, you can toss all sorts of brilliant idea's out that sound good in theory. Hell, we've tried them all with my brother, but alcohol reigns supreme and within it's dictatorship, our good intentions flounder in the shadows of wishful sobriety. Vodka's voice is louder then love and hope. Rum clears the path for all self destruction and self mutilation. Old English malt liquor provides the strength to transform my brother into a vicious piece of human with no regard to anything, anyone around him.

When you've tried everything available (I dare anyone to come up with one we haven't tried) to help someone such as my brother, you are left with empty bottles, broken hearts and a monster who masquerades as human being.

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The thing is, some time today, I have to go check on my brother. I need to go find out if he lived through the night. What a horrible truth to state, but it's the hard cold addiction facts. Truth be told, I'm shocked he's made it this long. The 32 year old man/boy I dealt with yesterday is a mere shell of a human. I don't believe in a Godly hell, but I have no doubt my brother is deep in the darkest reaches of a personal hell a person could be. He is a nonfunctioning alcoholic who has taken his sickness to the most inner reaches of insanity an addict can go. The only way out for him now is death or personal choice of sobriety.

Thats the cold hard fact. The only possible way to for an addict to come back is through personal choice. No matter how many people try to help, or think they have helped, or dare to even take credit for helping, it's up to the addict to actually do it, and follow through. It's that simple.

I've lost my brother to alcohol. My true brother, the one I used to fish with and tease and beat the crap out of and hug and love. That boy is long gone and I'm not sure if I'll ever see him again.

At this point, and with this entry, I give myself pardon. If he hasn't made it through the night, or if he dies tomorrow, or next week, or in a year from now, I know I did everything in my power to help him. I know addiction was more powerful then love and hope and help and family and life. I know addiction was the God, the dictator, the circus leader in this entire tragedy. And when he finally dies from his hellish world of addiction, I will gladly tell anyone to fuck off if they imply or question that I or my parents didn't do enough to help him, we didn't support him enough, or love him enough and willingly let him slip away.

Most of all, I will always cling to the memory of the Brother I once had.
I love you Ben. Up camping with my little bro when we were still innocent~~~~~~~

Vanilla Nyquil

I boasted. I participated in self indulgent words. I bragged. It was innocent enough, I swear, all I said was this, "Well, I haven't been sick in so long I can't remember."

The statement that sealed the kiss of death.

If that moment had been a movie, the phone would have rang immediately and a sinister voice would have whispered in a snake like voice...."Seven daysssssss" (my nod to the movie ~The Ring)

I should admit, in my most delirious fever induced moments this week, I did some irrational blaming. I thought of the woman who sneezed next to me in the store last weekend. The man who touched the ATM machine before me while hacking up a lung, etc. etc........

Oh, and I even thought of all you AOL journals people whom I'm visited lately who were sick. Can you catch the flu via Internet? Just another form of virus right? Was it you Deb? Or you Mary? (p.s. I do hope you are feeling better !)

If thats the case, everyone's phone should be ringing......right about now...seven daysssss.......don't say I didn't warn you~

I'm higher then a kite right now. I'm on a Nyquil overdosed ride induced by too many doses in a 24 hour period. This is evidenced by a shaking brain, weary body, hyper thoughts and a deep desire to pass out, but can't. Since I have already used up all my sympathy cards with the family, I decided to come write here, Nyquil style. Lucky You.

There is only one person who knows me 3-D style, knows what I look like in the flesh, what my voice sounds like, how I talk, move, and carry myself in the real world, that has read this online journal. This person remarked once, that what I write here is all Vanilla. Meaning, I only skim the surface of who I am, what I am about, what I'm willing to talk about. I keep it simple and sweet, like Vanilla. The friend was right.

I've also noticed, as time marches on, I've tightened my thought strings even more then the original Vanilla statement from my friend. This is really starting to annoy me. Something changed, at some point in time, and I'm not sure what happened, when it happened, but it did. The strange and unexplainable writing goes elsewhere now. The issues I tumble around in my mind stay safe on paper.

Damn, this journal is like a marriage gone bad. I started out posting regular entries, like newlyweds have daily bed romps. I used to communicate with it's blank possibilities and felt good about it, and now, I'm like a cranky wife who clamps her mouth shut and says, "I'm fine" and talks about furniture. So sad.

I wish, it was like it used to be, when I would sit down and write things and not give a fuck what it sounded like. Hmmm, a bit like that sentence. I need a journal adjustment. Or journal counseling. A fresh start. A redo. A do-over. A makeover.

I want to sneak back out of my shell and cover the vanilla with some delightfully dark chocolate, some sinister cherry sauce and toss some candy adornment on whenever I feel like it. I want to touch the tender walls of my own individual mentality again here. The good, the bad and the unexplainable.

So why type all that out instead of just doing? Personal accountability. A person like me needs a touch of concrete to motivate in one direction. Does any of this matter to anyone who may be bored to tears reading this? Nope, but thats the point :o) The manifestation of my silent nature is slowly eroding my mood through time, and I've recognized the need to open up once and for all. Good luck to me.

If I don't, I suppose I could blame this lapse in protective judgment to the Nyquil and fever. Then again, I never did like excuses of any sort, nyquil included. Time is the ultimate judge of all things~~

The Beauty of Paper

Charley @ Courage commented:  "This might seem pedantic, but what type of notebook do you use? I have two that I carry with me, and I'm wondering which kind you use and why you use it as opposed to another."

I'll tell you what Charley, I'll answer that question today here in my journal, complete with visuals and rambling blather. I need a distraction~~

I covet fine paper goods like a wine collector adores rare vintages. Notebooks fall under the paper good stipulations. If I'm going to take the time to place my words in something, by paper gods, it's going to be worthy.

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For me there are two writing categories in which my notebooks fall, but one prevailing condition, rule, doctrine and requirement is no lines~

I am of the NO LINES mentality. No lines, no lines, no damn jail cell lines mantra. Much like Joan Crawford famously screamed "NO wire hangers, in this house, EVER" I feel about as much passion about not allowing lines infiltrate my home. Of course, I feel about the same passion about no blue pens allowed as well, but I'll stay on subject here. The only exception made for paper with lines in this household is the girls required school work. Thats it, all other offending paper with lines is cut off at the front door.

First stage collections of writing: These are the notebooks I pack around like my baby blankets. My 100% preferred notebook is purchased at the Art Store. They are hard bound black, wire spine, and thick white blank paper inside. Ideal for creative doodling, sporadic thoughts and unfinished notions. I believe they are supposed to be sketch books. You can buy them in all sizes and I couldn't live without them. Best of all, no stifling, handcuffing, thought squishing lines :o)                         Observe visual exhibit #1

If I want to write little I can, if I want to write bigger, I can, if I want to write sideways, I can, there is no limitations in any of my notebooks. I don't do well with confinement, in any form, manner or shape of life..............lines on paper make me crazy!

I will mention one other notebook I utilize, but I don't love it as much as my art notebooks. I have a few Moleskin notebooks that serve a specific purpose, so I won't discount those, but the paper quality is questionable.

Second stage collections of writing: If I like something I've written, or believe it's worthy of a better tribute then muddled in with my doodles and eclectic writing, I will then transfer it into the permanent collection. At this stage of writing, nothing but a leather bound journal with handmade (blank) paper will appease me. Because I live in a little town that thinks rainbows, angel cherubs and bunny rabbits on a cardboard covered journal filled with cheap lined paper is an acceptable writing tool, I have to buy all my leather journals online or when I travel. I love the feel of the leather. I appreciate the touch and feel of the handmade paper and the way it 'take's" the ink from my special pens.

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I understand that my fascination with paper, pens, lines, leather, blank, quality, etc.....could seem a bit irrelevant, but give me a moment........ I once read this little quote, "The written word is the choicest of all relics." So if I regard my writings as a relic of myself, and I entertain the concept that it will remain long after I am gone, why not take the effort to place it in something nice.

All writing is a ritual. It's up to the individual to define how much enjoyment they will derive from the process. The above mentioned notebooks/journals give me the greatest pleasure during my writing rituals. I have no doubt, that pleasure is different from person to person. If someone like lines and blue pens, then thats all that matters, as long as it feels comfortable. ~~  I swear, I won't hold it against you either, my strange requirements stop with me! *grin*

~~I like to nudge myself to take one step beyond simple, beyond the normal and paint alittle extraordinary into everything I do~~

The Paper Goods (Top shelf, leather bound journals, second shelf~ all stationary *ok, I noticed one leather journal snuck on top of the stationary* ~third shelf, black notebooks and misc.)

Does anyone else put this much effort into their paper goods, writing, rituals?

Someone?

Anyone?

(crossing fingers) 

Observations of the Random Kind

Once again, I don't like my previous post, but have nothing of interest to write about. To improvise is to bullshit, and I can do that, anything, to push certain writing down a notch.

I have a notebook I carry around with me, always, every second, without exception. On the first page I've titled it as such:
Observations Of The
Human Watching Kind
~
Capture Of Personal
Fleeting Thoughts

Much like the start of this entry, in all my writing notebooks I have a starting 'explanation' page. I worry that if I don't put in a sub-clause title / reason for the writing, should I kick the bucket unexpectedly, my writings could be sorely and severely misinterpreted!

When I was young, Harriet the Spy was my hero, so I blame her for the Human watching. I can be anywhere, found scribbling little observations down at random. In a line for a movie, on a park bench, bathroom stall at Target, on the river bank, in a money bank. Doesn't matter, like a pistol in a holster on my hip, I'm always ready to fire down anything that catches my fancy. I was strolling through my notebook this morning and in my humble opinion, some of my observations are rather funny, some just weird, and some just quirky old me.
Today, I thought I would share a few recent notes...............

~ "My haircut is coldddddd honey" whined a man standing outside in line for hockey tickets in front of me. He did have a military short haircut, and it was quite cold outside, but he received no sympathy from the woman. She said, "It looks a hellava lot better short and I told you to wear a hat!"

~I witnessed a five alarm fire today and was amazed by the rainbow created by the fireman's water. Rainbow over fire, beautiful. I wonder if anyone else noticed.

~ The teenagers piled into the car, giggling from the nights dance festivities. I asked the required Mother questions. How was it? Are you all sober and free of illegal substances?  Did anything happen at the dance I wouldn't want to know, but your obligated to tell me? And with that final question all of them but Shelby laughed. Maintaining my hip, no one will get tossed in jail for telling me the truth rule, I pressed for explanation. Whispers and more giggling. Finally, one brave and bold teenie bopper stepped up and said, "Tonight a whole bunch of the boys nominated you as the official M. I. L. F.  of the 9th grade"
For once I found myself speechless, wordless and musical chords of the Mrs. Robinson theme song bounced ear to ear. Sweat pants and flannel for all future school functions. Shit. Shouldn't I get a tiara, a sash, or a bikini for that title?

~ This evening while reading Walt Whitman a new and refreshed sense of word loathing came over me. Once again, I abhor the word poet and poetry. He uses those words like a shield of supremacy and arrogant sword of importance. While I embrace the beauty of his word smithing, his use of the word poet, feels like a self indulgent abuse of purpose.

~ On Meeting Ben's (My Brother)  girlfriends Mother.
This is it, I've discovered the holy grail to all things insane. With her, the image of crazy cannot be ignored, denied or even guessed upon. The actual visual only compliments her insane aura.
With her erratic white hair defying the very notion we call gravity, the spastic arm movements and constant shifting on her heals I could have assessed a wildly quirky character. Nope, that wasn't all.

Her verbal talk came out fast and unpredictable, I could barely keep up, comprehend and understand half of what she was spewing forth. With the wild white hair, the spazzy body movements, the truck driver banter and constant foot movement I could easily give a whacko sticker to her...........

BUT............the creme de le creme, the icing on the psycho ward entrance fee, was the single roaming eye. That eye that constantly shifted it's gaze from nose to ear while her one controllable eye stayed firmly locked on my amazed gaze.

I could barely take the pressure of this meeting. I didn't know if I should fall to the ground in remorse over my wicked thoughts or laugh to the high hell. Political correctness sunk into oblivion. My compassionate side was frozen in bewilderment. And the writer in me etched every little detail in my thoughts for future use. To think I disregarded T*** when she warned me her Mom was 'different.'

If this new girlfriend makes it, I'm going to need something strong, really strong next Thanksgiving....................


"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."           ~Ernest Hemmingway

Scarlet S

       Now that I've updated, revamped and used BIG BOLD TYPE on certain conditions of my upcoming personal funeral, (upcoming, as in it will happen someday, I still haven't found the magical elixir of life)  paperwork, restrictions and instructions (I'm a writer, I like to get the last word in) ....I'm ready to attack my current irritations in the written avenue I'm accustomed~~ 

       Deep breath, rewind, focus, write, review, let irritation rest in peace. Perhaps I just need the perspective of all the God fearing individuals who could understand the process of a Church funeral here. Or perhaps I just want to rant and rave and spew forth heathen babble that will ensure my passage into a mythological hell I regard as complete fairy tale rubbish.

       The thing is, I've now attended 2 funerals in 5 months. The first one was conducted in a funeral home and I thought it was beautiful. It was personal, it was about a fabulous man, his life, his devotions, his world.........The second one, this week, was conducted in a Church and by the time I had suffered through an elapsed time of 1 1/2 hours I was honestly disgusted. Obviously, I'm still carrying frustrated thoughts from this experience.

       Here's my impression of this funeral. Sit, stand, pray, sit, listen to God wisdom, stand, sing some more, pray some more, sit, more God talk, stand again, pray again, more talk about God, toss in some Jesus smack, ( I'm starting to wonder if they will ever mention the person who's funeral we are there for) let us sit again, more voodoo and scare tactics uttered, stand, more singing.....sit, One mention of persons name (to my utter relief) , more praying, up, down, up, down, a reading here and a reading there, sing some more, pray some more...........finally and presto, we have a eulogy about the person we are all there for.......thankfully......and then we are right back to up and down with a grand finale of watching people drink blood and flesh of Jesus, more singing, more praying...Yaaahoooo......

       So, it's true, I'm still appalled and shaken by the manner in which this person was murdered. I am still sickened, as all of the people who were effected by this tragedy, and have thought about it a lot. Perhaps a wee bit of my hostility about said situation is leaking into this entry and my opinions of this specific funeral. The fact is, she is gone, and we can all look back on such a situation and find questions, meaning and purpose. There's a thousand lessons to be learned by such a tragedy and reasons, whether you believe in God or not,  will never come easy. But I'm not writing about those today.......
      
       So what I want to know, what perplexes dear little Moi, is why such an event is not actually about the person for whom we are there for? Why does the Church mandate and overshadow a persons life in a such a manner? You can slice and dice the sermon (multiple at that) anyway you please, but it still boils down to being how God raised his exuberant hand in taking this person 'home.'...(even though she, as everyone else, was a sinner) That God, what a nice man he is~

       I honestly would have believed I was at a regular Saturday night mass if it wasn't for the crying people, split second mentions of her name and the beautiful picture of her up front and center. What I want to know, is did that service really honor that person, her whole life. Because in my mind, it wasn't about her, it was about God and Jesus and she was a side note for the reason we were there. This irks the hell out of me......no pun intended.

       Maybe all the God fearing folks were most satisfied, comforted and thoroughly enlightened (or scared shitless into never missing another week of Church) by the end of the service. Maybe I'm the selfish one for wanting the time to be about her, her accomplishments during the time she was alive, her family and her world. I am thankful a family member read a eulogy and gave us that brief remembrance of her. I admit, I wanted more.......

       This entry isn't meant to offend others. Typically I keep my writing and mouth shut about such things, it's always a lose, lose battle.... I make an honest effort to understand and accept certain ways, but this recent example of Church has me tossed upside down.........Maybe this funeral was just the icing on the cake from the heckling I've endured lately from the tyrant God Mamma's at my daughters school and I can no ignore the scarlet S on my forehead.

But GoodGod in heaven, what the hell.............