#5-1-18

Little Kitty enjoying spring

I grew up in a good home. My parents are still married. I had everything I needed and most of what I wanted. Something wasn’t right, though. Even at 12, I remember never feeling good enough. That’s when I began cutting myself. That worked, for a while. It was than that i began signing my journals with “not alive at 25”. I’d decided I didn’t want to live longer than that. That was the deadline I put on the universe to make me want to live. Eventually, I got caught cutting. I had to find another way to ease what I thought was pain. I lost my virginity at 13. My problems had been solved. I spent he next couple years sleeping with my peers. I didn’t really want to but they made me feel important. I was making good grades. I was a great cheerleader. I was popular. I went to church. For some reason I still cried myself to sleep at night. The only things that stopped the tears were self harm or sex. Both of which had continued to get me in trouble. When I got drunk for the first time, I thought I’d found the cure to depression. I was invincible! Until my senior prom when I realized being drunk took away my motor skills so severely that I could keep unwanted hands out of my pants. Shit. What now? I knew what I was doing wasn’t working but I was also certain I wouldn’t be content without some form of relief.

When I was offered an opiate, an OxyContin pain killer to be exact, it was as if my prayers had been answered. Finally! Something to make me feel as beautiful and genius as ever without hindering my motor skills! It didn’t take long after that. I went back for more a couple times. After about two weeks, when I asked for more, the dealer only had heroin. I wasn’t afraid of anything. I googled how to shoot heroin and never looked back. The habit became expensive. I was physically dependent, dope sick without it. Over the course of the step few years I stole from my parents, from my boyfriends parents, my neighbors, until finally I thought there was nothing left to sell. I was homeless, hopeless, and seemingly helpless. I called my drug dealer. I asked if he could just front me some heroin one more time. I promised him I’d pay him soon. He told me he wasn’t giving me anymore fronts. He told me he had a better idea. He told me that if I sucked his dick, he’d give me drugs and money. I hung up the phone. I called my boyfriend and told him the preposterous proposition I’d just been given. My boyfriend reminded me that we’d both be sick the next day if I didn’t do it. I swallowed what little bit of pride I had left and called the drug dealer back. We met at toysrus is river gate. I treated it like a date, he treated it like what it was. When I was finished, I threw up. I went back to hotel I was staying in at the time. I showered and scrubbed my skin until it bled. I hated myself even more then that I ever did before. I promised myself it was just one time that tomorrow I’d be able to keep a job and that would keep my high. It didn’t just happen once. To tell you he truth, the first two weeks of it were terrible. It was awkward and disgusting. Pretty soon, though, I couldn’t feel anything anymore. Every ounce of dignity I thought I’d ever have was gone. I was a prostitute. After I while, I remember getting a call. It was time to go. This time, the client I was meeting lived pretty far out. I stood up from the hotel bed and stepped in something wet. I was wearing socks. I hate stepping in something wet while wearing socks. I looked in the mirror. My hair looked wet. It wasn’t. It had just been that long since I’d washed it. The clothes I was wearing were stolen. I was hungry. All of a sudden, I thought of my father. I thought of the pony rides he used to take me on and how he used to tell me I could be whatever I wanted to be when I grew up. I thought about who I actually became. It was a brief moment of clarity that faded when the phone rang again. It wasn’t long after that that my boyfriend decided to get clean.

I was terrified of being by myself, so I went to a mental hospital and told them I’d kill myself if they didn’t get me off the drugs. I called my mother. I told her I’d be home soon. She told me I wasn’t welcome. Thank God. My parents cutting me off is what saved my life. I went to halfway house in south Nashville. It looked exactly what you might honk a half way house to would look like. I kept using so I got kicked out. That’s when I met lyn. I came to rci and had a home. I laughed until I cried with women just trying to make it through one more day. I was taught how to mop, and not to wash towels with anything but towels. I cried with women when I had nightmares about the men that abused me while I was on the streets. I prayed with Lyn. I played volleyball with other residents. I remember a few months had passed and i unpacked my suit case. I had decided that was home. It still is. I have a house in Donelson. I’m in school to be a nurse. I have a car. I’ve received medical treatment for the hepatitis I contacted while on the streets and been cured. While those blessing are appreciated, the greatest gift recovery has given me is a desire to live. No matter what happens, I want to be alive to see it. None of this would have been possible had it not been for recovery community. I’m 26 years old and I haven’t wanted to die it quite some time. I have 3.5 years clean. You know, the only reason I started going to church was the make sure Godwhy was teaching my boyfriend at the time the right stuff. I remember when I walked in here for the first time. The shame that was on my shoulders. I never stopped believing in God. There was a lot of pain in that. I didn’t feel worthy to be in a building where I knew God was. The jokes of me because two years later, I’m still attending this church and it not to protect Justin anymore. It’s to thank God for my life and to learn how to show others his mercy. I still have nightmares about the men. Sometimes, I still feel disgusting. In those times, I looked down at my hand and see my wedding band. I’m reminded that God can turn a hoe into a housewife, and I am worthy of that gift.

So I just read that out loud at it was about six minutes. That makes me feel better. Maybe it is possible after all. Writing it though took much longer and now I’m tired.

I met an angel at the lake merritt station the other night. His name was Methuselah and he said I looked like I belonged to the Shoshone tribe. He knew my sign and guessed my birthdate. He also knew that I was a middle child. He said that by looking in my eyes he could tell I was on the verge of a clairvoyant breakthrough. We chatted a bit about making the choice to exist and he gave me some words of encouragement. He had to leave so he held my hands and gave me a kiss goodbye. That whole encounter couldn’t have come at a better time.