Saturday, September 8, 2012

A year ago today...

I dragged my depressed psychotic ass to a rehab in Dickson Tennessee.

I roomed with a 25 year old heroin who was angry...dang, she was angry cause she had to protect her mama from all those bad men mama chose.

sometimes she could, sometimes she couldn't, all her life she lived in that shallow breath PTSD state where she never knew what was coming... heightened alert, fight or flight, the central nervous system cannot perpetually exist in that state, so she did what we all did...

go crazy.


beat someone up.

go to jail.

pop a dozen oxy, wait for the pain to go away...via the high or the overdose, either one she didn't fucking care...JUST GO AWAY, PAIN. I don't wanna feel anymore.

Ghetto Barbie.

She was a trapped panther in that house in the country.

Constantly pacing, pacing pacing...

A little fireball of street smarts and pain.

There we were.

I needed to relearn my mothering, she needed a mama...there we were.

She showed up on my second day, she was wary and wry, this wasn't her first rodeo, she knew the game.

Relapse, one month out and back she was again.

Her mama had gotten her shit together finally and was throwing hard earned money at the problem that wouldn't go away.

We were an odd combination: me, the chubby mama from suburbia who melted into a puddle of depression way back in Cali, and she: Ghetto Barbie, tiny white girl using on the streets of Atlanta/Richmond/Nashville, wherever she could hook it up.

I loved her, and I wanted her to get better, change, see the light, come to Jeezus, you get the gist:

I didn't want her to die.

I wanted her to stop hurting.

She was never going to see her Mama getting beaten again, although the memories haunted her and made her into the taut sinewy animal I came to know.

Well, I was perfect for her in this sense: I was codependent to a fault, and if Ghetto Barbie knew how to work her own mama she sure as hell knew how to work me.

Pretty soon I was cooking her meals for her cause...fuck, I don't know why.

I needed to mother.  She needed a mama.  Problem solved.

Except, as with any codependent relationship, she didn't do what I thought she needed to do.

She did not participate in the therapy, talked shit about anyone and everyone, projected like a mad women onto all that crossed her path, and she avoided the reason for coming in the first place: she avoided the pain.

She smoked, and laughed, smoked and laughed, smoked and laughed,
but when the doc's light went on she stared at the ground, for two hours every day.

And afterward, everyday, it was the therapist's fault for not drawing her out.

We were rebels together too.

Anyone who knows me knows that my inner child is 15 years old, and she's a rule breaker...

Hand in hand, we were a perfect storm.

We hid in closets during AA meetings, broke into houses on the property that were off limits and drank coffee with sugar: contraband!

When I discovered a vicodin and a viagra left in the crevices of my cosmetic bag instead of flushing them down the toilet we giddily swallowed them effect, what a shock.

We hiked down roads that were off limits, hated the same girls together, frustrated the 'adventure' therapist with our appallingly rude lack of interest in his sessions. (presenting Star Wars as Recovery to a bunch of women for two hours?  Fuck you, Bobbie, I'm still pissed.)

So it is only know that I have been back for a year and I write this shit down that I realize that while I was helping her she was helping me.

I was her mama, yes...her rehab mama.

but she was the companion to that 15 year old girl who was me, the one who felt so alone after the rape, the one who needed to be a kid and not a warrior and yet felt she did not have a choice.
See here:
i was a teenage slut

She helped me to be a kid again, free to poke snakes and laugh hysterically and smoke until we were green.

As I reflect back on all that I learned in rehab, I realize that although the therapy was top notch (and I mean top fucking notch...Karen, I am forever indebted to you for saving my life), a large part of the experiences that I had there in Dixon, Tennessee that helped heal me had to do with the community of women that I was among.

Today, it is Ghetto Barbie that I am grateful for.

She helped save my life as well.

Rehab is like summer camp for fucked up people.

You vow that you will stay in touch, but it never turns out like that.

GB and I have spoken a few times, and I know she has had some setbacks (Say this to yourself in a southern drawl: :"APPARENTLY, popping a few of my Gramma's Percocet was not APPROPRIATE")

I call her, she never answers, I assume she is using, it's the codependent in me that keeps me on the hook.

A year ago today I started to change my life.  But I couldn't have done it without everyone that I did it with, and today, I want to acknowledge my rehab daughter, my partner in crime, Ghetto Barbie.
Thank you, chica.
Deuces ;)
Keep your nose clean, stay away from the pills, the heroin, and the bad people.
Take deep breaths, keep yourself grounded and watch your anger.
Call me when you can, visit if you want, and NO, I will not make you another quesadilla, I thought I taught you how to make those yourself.
I love you, GB.
Stay safe.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Lesbian Drama?

It's been a while since I've written, folks.  That's how it usually goes: get happy, get complacent, stop writing.
At least for me that's how it goes.
And then there's this:

Get a job, a job you like, where you cannot possibly write about your co workers or your bosses or the customers because you actually like all of the above, and somewhere, in the back of your addled brain there exists tact.  I know, right? this me?

I have been doing big things, big things for me.  Which is strange, because my life was so small before I left wounded man way back when.

If you recall, I had a nervous breakdown, went to rehab in Dickson Tennesee, strightebned my shit out, came home, tried to work on my marriage, attented SLAA meetings in basements where I was the only female surrounded by creeps in elastic waist sweatpants and tiny boners, contacted Mr. Normal, had a emotional affair, started to get depressed again and realized that
Fuck, it was my marriage that was keeping me sick.

So, just to remind y'all: I left, went to stay in a Domestic Violence shelter for a month, where I learned about welfare, food stamps, THU (transitional housing units), and how to survive with no money, which it turns out is possible if you put your life on blast.  People start showing up for you in all sorts of ways: dentists offering their services for free, Republicans sending you checks, old high school friends buying you the favorite brownie pan you left behind.

In this past year, I have grown exponentially, and have been graced countless times with the kindness of strangers, friends, lovers and family...did I leave anyone out?

Rehab.  DV Shelter.  THU.  Job.  School.
 And now.  My own apartment, again due to the kindness of an acquaintance who saw the good in me, who saw the fight in me, who saw that I was providing for my children...making it happen, one fucking tiny step at a time.

This year has taught me that people are mostly good, and just, and kind.
Deep Breath.
 I am wallowing in the gratefulness I feel, and really, this should be the end of this post.

But wait.

There's just this little thing, it's not a big deal.

I started dating a woman who acted like a man better than most men that I know and she seemed perfect for me and I fell in love with her like never before and why is it that butch women look so good in that white wife beater...

WHY, GOD...WHY????

She was so comfortable in her own skin.  She was existing outside the norms of society and she was fucking rocking it!

She was broken, I was broken.  She was butch, I was femme.  She was a mother.  I was a mother.  She had been to rehab.  I had been to rehab.  She was a case manager.  I was the client (stop freaking out...she does not work anywhere near the place where I was staying...she's not stoopid)

She had SWAGGER.  It was the weirdest thing to me that I was attracted to this person imitating  a gender, but she was doing it so naturally that I fell for it.

Dear Fellow Lesbians, Please stop rolling your eyes at all the gushing.  This is new to me.  Thanks.

We explored a Daddy/girl relationship, which is hot beyond belief, don't knock it till you've tried it.
Ok, maybe you will never try it, but don't judge me or her, cause it was working for us.

At first, she was emotionally unavailable.  You know that saying that when people show you who they are, BELIEVE THEM?
I heeded no such warning.
My heart was leading.  My honey pot was in a close second, and every impulse control behavior modification technique that I had learned in rehab flew out the fucking window because I was in love, she was great, I don't want to pay attention to the nagging feeling that this is obsession and not intimacy because IT FEELS GOOD, DAMMIT!!

I have been told by Mr. Normal that I am a walking errogeneous zone.  It's a card that I play, and I play it well.
It's not the healthiest card.
In fact, in verges on sex/love addiction issues, but hey: I was horny.  I was needy.  She was hot.  The end.

But Wait....

Somehow I reeled her in or she reeled me in I dunno, I can't remember.

Suddenly, Mrs. Handsome was calling, emailing, texting incessantly, as was I.

Suddenly, there was the unhealthy freaky obsession that LLC (lesbian life coach) had warned me about.

I ignored the fact that she was private and I was an open book.

I ignored the fact that she and her ex wife had a trauma bond that was probably impossible to break or penetrate, and besides that, it was looking like she wasn't really ready to do that anyway.

I ignored the fact that she reminded me of Wounded Man.

Yes.  Hold that thought for a second.

My new 'Daddy' reminded me of my ex husband.

Fuck, serious back peddling there.

How was that 20,000 grand worth of therapy working for ya, Katie??

Mrs. Handsome stirred in me a femininity that had never seen the light of day.  I was buying lacy bras and looking sideways at her coquettishly and cooking!

I was fucking cooking for her.

I need a class on gender roles...right fucking now.

I think this is so interesting, because I am a feminist at heart, and was this woman, playing a man, which made me want to play at being a woman more.

Keep up, folks.  I ain't got alot of time left.

Mrs. Handsome and I shared a few glorious weeks together.  It was some teenage dream shit alright, which I thoroughly enjoyed, obsessive energy or not.

And then.

She pulled some borderline personality pranks on me, which my little butch boi in Nashville calls "come here, go away."

I learned alot of shit in rehab, and am self aware to a fault.

Annoyingly, this makes me aware of other people's freaky psych idiosyncrasies as well.

We all know that I am a little cray cray.

It makes me spicy...interesting...(help me out here)

But to have cray cray pulled on me makes me a bad fucking poker player, period.

And, it gives me a taste of what I have done to other people, which makes me feel shamed and grateful all at the same time.

She was obsessed with me on monday morning.

By monday evening she was done with me, goodbye Mrs. Handsome, it's been a great ride.

Wha happen?

Hold up, Scully.  I got a theory I'm working on.

Ex wife and she spend time together.  Ex wife finds out Mrs. Handsome is dating someone else and is happy.  Ex wife starts batting her eyelashes again, "I miss us", rescue me, rescue me.

So there's that.

Oh yeah, and she might be dating other people...


I want my panties back...RIGHT NOW!

Here's what I have learned from this:

My honesty and communication skills that I have honed with Mr. Normal these past nine months are precious to me.

If you say you are a 'private' person, that means you still got shit to hide, girl...and we are not compatible.

I am over the fact that she went all cold shoulder-y on me right quick.

I am grateful to have dodged the bullet of the 'come here, go away' shit.

but that doesn't mean she still doesn't make my spine tingle.  Shoot, she makes the front of my spine tingle.

But the most important lesson I have learned here is what I am willing to accept and what I am not willing to accept.

And...I am not willing to accept 'privacy' as a thinly veiled attempt at 'dishonesty'

If I am calling myself out as well, which I am willing to do, I now know that I cannot also charm the pants (panties?) off someone in 24 hours.

You were right, LLC...these things take time.

So, I am giving myself time.

I am taking care of myself, being held in the hands of great friends, a super cool compassionate set of bosses, and the butch lesbian that I stopped on the street last night to ask her if this was normal.

Next year, I will be in Lady Love capital of California, AKA UC Santa Cruz, where the world will be my oyster (no jokes, too easy, too obvious.)

In the meantime... if y'all happen to run across a butch lady who looks fantastic in a wife beater and is willing to be honest with no ex wife trauma bond attachments or no piece on the side, hit me up.

Oh, and this isn't lesbian drama.  This is just drama, period. That was just a ploy to get you to read this long soliloquy about me.

You got played :)

Welcome to the club.