Damn it, fuck this! I can't say what I need to say. I crumple another page into the trashcan. Why can't I think straight? Too many distractions. First there is my mother. If it isn't her way, it's no way. Then nursing a broken heart from my latest attempt and what I thought was love. Failed miserably. You would think this would be perfect influence on my writing. So why the hell can't I write?? Why am I always thinking of them? Music, yes, music and a bottle of gin. Would that work?
"Raven, get yourself together!" I yell out loud, hoping no one else can hear me.
I make my way to the kitchen, grab the gin bottle from under the cabinet, grab a glass from the other cabinet. I add three cubes of ice, no more no less. I pour the gin over the ice, and I begin to think of all the events of the past week. Mom's hospital visit, being replaced like yesterday's trash, and of course the blank pages taunting me. DEADLINES!!! I shake my head, grab my glass and set at my desk. What to write, where to start, what is my story?
If I opened up and let all the fear go, who would listen? Who would read this darkness that comes from deep inside? I take a long drink and settle back into my chair. I want to be free, brave, and true. Am I doomed to a psych ward for my horrible feelings inside? This darkness rising, waiting to strike.
Suppression has held me together, but at this moment, this one moment, I just want to scream at the top of my lungs. I want the dark words to flow from my head to the paper, with no filter. No more hiding, no more waiting. Time is now.
I down my drink with a huge gulp, slam my glass on the table and say the two words that I have been dying to say.
Lost Little Girl Part 2
Another day, another drama. I wake up and it is all about her. Do I have time for myself? What does that even mean anymore? I can't remember the last time I got dolled up for a night out amongst friends. Why? They quit inviting. I can't blame them really. When every time I plan to go, some kind of drama happens. So instead, I just say no thank you from the get go. It was exhausting trying to plan, and making sure my things fit around her schedule. How in the world will I ever get ahead?
I do have some solace. I like to call it TV series therapy. Late at night, when the house is finally quiet, I can sit down and try to watch an old TV series and get lost in the characters. Sad to say, they become my friends in a way. I escape, even if it is just an hour or so at a time. I forget what is really happening. I forget about the abyss I have submerged myself into. I forget most of all, that I am hiding. It is what I do best.
Blending in and becoming a chameleon is probably my best asset. Why? When you blend, and don't stand out, no one asks questions. No one pries into your private life. No questions, no awkward details. I mean seriously, dealing with the demise of an addict is not on a person's top ten discussion list.
I do keep searching, trying to figure it out. Where is the light at the end of this tunnel? How can I emerge unscathed? The answer is simple.
I won't. One way or another, this has become a part of who I am, and who I am to become. Now if I could only figure out who exactly that is. I often tell myself, "Raven it could be worse. Think if you were born in a third world country." It is true.
Yet still the tightness in my chest, when I see the remnants of her use, reminds me otherwise. I just shake my head, shed a silent tear, if I say what I find, its a fight.
I think it is time for another episode of Buffy, or Angel, I need to see how they are tonight.
Lost Little Girl Part 1
Here is a new story I am sharing with all of you. Graphic words and material may be written here. Please be advised.
I slowly open my door, I tiptoe into the kitchen, find a clean cup or bowl or whatever will hold my cereal. I carefully pour my milk and I sit down with my TV tray in front of the old fashioned television set. I have to be very very quiet, I tell myself. I don't want to wake mommy. She is "sick" and will get mad if I do. I tiptoe into her room, yes she is home, asleep, and breathing. Whew we made it through another night. Now back to my cartoons.
At 34, you would think this scenario would never have to play in my head again. Unfortunately for me, it is a daily recurrence. As hard as I wish, and as much as I try not to be bothered by the same events, the harder it is for me to let go. This memory should just haunt me, right? I should be over this type of thing?
Impossible. Not going to happen, I have tried, and contemplated, I have yelled and cried, I spoke with intelligence and logic, but nothing changes. Same selfish acts, same selfish mother. People may see this and scream how dare you! Do you know how lucky you are to still have her in your life? Do you know you should show respect?
All I can say in response is, walk in my shoes, see what I see, and then we will talk. Wake up every morning, tiptoe into her room, check if she is breathing. Stay awake at night when she has disappeared. Or better yet wait for the call from the hospital saying she has been admitted because she was too fucking high to get back home.
Then, I welcome all comments and concerns. As hard as it is to say this, and as hard as it is to admit, I need to. Release this secret from upon my chest. Set it free, to fly in the wind. Let go, so I can stop choking on the truth. So I can stop pretending it will be alright. Most of all find out who I really am, besides a series of built up lies and made up stories of how wonderful, I imagined it would be to just be normal. That my friends was never going to be a part of my story. Much less a part of my life.
So I keep beating around the bush. Okay, breath, here it goes. My name is Raven Jackson and my mother is an addict.
Whew, there I said it, clear and honest. Now do I get a pin or something for sharing?