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...because isn't every day a beginning?

For me, 10/31 is the end of the year so 11/1 heralds the genuine beginning of 2017 (those who might find numerology interesting note this is point blank Year One).

My New Years over the past decade or so have had PhDs in shit slinging and havoc wreaking...this year felt different. I'd been waiting for whatever was around the corner and it felt as if I'd finally found the corner.

Now, I mention this because [I don't remember at the moment]...ah, yes. The Bullshit, much like The Neverending Story's Nothing, is highly reluctant to let go of such a tasty morsel, one upon which it has selfishly and mercilessly gnawed for nearly a decade...while I feel refreshing blessings pouring in, there are some intense battles yet to be fought before I can claim true freedom.

Now then, would you like to come on a journey? I'm certain I could use exactly your set of skills and I'm sure what you'll find here is nothing like what you expected...

I offer you my heart and my hand.

South Park is a beloved American cartoon, and it coined the phrase “turd in the punchbowl.” Well, there is.

This entry is full of rants and prejudices. It's offensive, and nobody should read it.

I think to develop empathy, one has to have either suffered themselves or has to see other people suffering and try to help them.

I met someone a few months ago that I have been insanely passionate about. I’m almost 40, and this is the first woman I have ever felt for this deeply my entire life. Four months is longer than just a crush, right? She’s a rich Parisian woman who spent half her adult life overseas working for NGOs in undeveloped hellholes like the Congo, Iraq, and Liberia. Maybe because of her time overseas and the fact that she has seen the real suffering that people in those countries are subjected to every day, she has developed empathy and a greater awareness of what life is really like. That gives her depth of character and helps make me like her.

I’ve gone out with a lot women in France, but I’ve been wary of French women on account of how Americanized many of them are. (Of course, they will deny that there is anything American about them.) Until I met her, I was OK being single, but I was expecting to die alone. We had been talking about commitment and she brought up marriage. We both got carried away with passion of the moment. A day later, we took the night train out of Paris. We arrived at the French Riviera just before dawn.

My new girlfriend Laëtitia and I had spent two happy weeks at her vacation house in a French village down there. It was our last full day. The air was transparent and the sea was perfectly blue. It was chilly in the shade. The wind made ripples in the pool. We had lunch under the olive trees in the yard. The sun glinted off the Mediteranean Sea. Lunch was cheese and this morning’s baguette bread from a bakery in the town at the bottom of the hill. We drank some red wine from her uncle’s winery located not far from the house. It was good with the Camembert cheese.



Half way through the meal, she drops the turd, and it plunks with a hollow splash: “for this relationship to work, we need to have three children.

“What?!”

I want to marry you but I need to have a family,” she said.

I said, “marriage is a family. Just me and you can be a family.”

She said: "I've always wanted children."

I said: "let's adopt."

She said, “I want to feel what it’s like to be pregnant and have a life form inside me.”

The scene from the movie Aliens popped into my mind. An alien life-form erupts out of the crewman’s abdomen in a fountain of gore. It looks like a lamprey with a gaping mouth. A newborn's mouth has the same shape minus the teeth. It's covered in slime that looks like afterbirth, and it screams. It’s a metaphor for my generation’s view of childbirth. It’s distasteful, gory, and ruins the figure and the special parts of the mother. It signals the death of the sex life and the end of romance. Not completely and not always of course, but the spouse is no longer the center of attention in the relationship. Freedom, time for hobbies, and even a chance for a career is gone for many.

I don’t know what her problem with adoption is. There are millions of children all over the world who need to be adopted. She’s smart enough to know about the state of the world. It's not a nice place or even a safe place for the majority. I didn’t need to remind her of the fact that the world population is around 7,4 billion. Overpopulation and human activity have caused environmental degradation and resource depletion so extreme that life as we know it is now threatened and has roughly a 50% chance of going on for another 100 years according to scientists who study these things. Add to that abusive politics, the bad economy, and ever worsening socio-economic inequities.

Smart children typically experience something called "existential depression." At a young age, they realize they have been born into a Hell World. Their illusions that the rulers of America (and every other country) are the Good Guys, that everybody has enough to eat, that wars are fought to bring about justice, that those in power care about the environment, that life is even remotely fair, that human nature is altruistic, and that life is all carefree are shattered. A form of depression sinks in. Bluelight is a monument to people suffering from it, and the Bluelight Shrine is a memorial to many of those who have been crushed by it. I left America to try to get away from the root cause of that evil. Donald Trump.

I would certainly never have one of my own and would never even adopt a child in the US because I'm horrified by the knowledge that they would become Americanized. France is a better place to grow up.

Also, I don’t care for babies. I don’t see the appeal. What’s the difference between having one of your own and adopting? None. Adopting is better. You can get one that’s big enough to already be toilet trained and old enough that you do not have to wake up every 2 hours to tend it. And you know it’s not going to be crippled or have Down’s Syndrome.

Even better, you’re helping somebody. You can take somebody out of their toilet bowl country and give them a chance to live a fulfilled life.

If I want to watch something grow, I will plant a garden. I don’t think babies are cute. If I want something cute to love me and be dependent on me, I will get a cat.

It’s not just me. More people than ever in history including the Great Depression are childfree and plan to stay that way. The birth rate is below the population replacement rate, and my generation and younger has the lowest birthrate in recorded history. Immigration is the only thing keeping the population stable. "Natives" tend not to have children at all. Immigrants are more likely to be the ones having the babies. Birth rate is inversely correlated to level of education and income.

Also, I don’t believe men in civilized countries genuinely want children. My own father did not want me and he was not ashamed to tell me. Instead, it is always the woman wants it. She gets Baby Rabies on account of her biological clock. It’s just hormones. Once infected, the woman pesters or threatens to leave her husband. The husband gives in and gives her a baby. Maybe he convinces himself he actually wants it too.

Marriage as an institution developed from rape as a practice. Andrea Dworkin

Men in primitive countries are different. Women are property, and as property, they can be stolen by other primitive men. Primitive men are extremely patriarchal, and keeping a woman pregnant and caring for babies is a way to lay claim on the woman and keep her in the fetters of childbirth at home. Uneducated men also find it “macho” to have a baby. It satisfies their animalistic ego. By nature, men like to build and create. Uneducated men cannot create anything worthwhile with their minds so they try to create something with their body.

According to feminist literature (the Dwork and others), primitive patriarchal societies put enormous social pressure on women to have babies. I said before that it is a hormonal drive that makes women want babies. For some, yes, but for most women in primitive societies, the desire for babies is not genuine. Who in their right mind would want to put their body through that ordeal?! The external pressure to have babies is a control mechanism created by the patriarchy, and it is so pervasive that it becomes a form of brainwashing. She internalizes it and becomes convinced that it is her own desire.

Yeah I know I'm generalizing about men who live in undeveloped countries, but an illiterate will never write a book. Not all men are like that, but the vast majority are. Doing a little bit of research on the subject should satisfy anybody that I know what I'm talking about. One might start with the correlation between literacy rates and birth rates by country.

Sex feels a lot better without condoms. There is never going to be a pregnancy scare. We both got tested for disease.

She knows I had a vasectomy. If I didn’t care about her, I would have lied about it or lied and told her I would have it reversed. I won't string her along, and I cannot ethically justify having a child. That’s where the relationship stands after four months. She's the only person I've ever loved this much and felt this connected to. I’m heartbroken. It feels like somebody close to me has died.

People say finding love is a numbers game. I know the statistics, and I'm familiar with how to use the famous Drake equation to calculate the odds that I will find another. Unless I'm willing to "settle," there is a 97% chance that I will not. My last American Girlfriend was the result of settling, and that did not work out well for me or for my now deceased cats.



In college and high school, I passionately loved a couple of girls in a way that wasn't healthy. The relationships were sick and twisted. Each time, they resulted in me almost being murdered. I determined never again to take a risk with another woman. Since college, i loved, but I never gave anyone my heart. The love always burned itself out after a month or so. Attraction or romance did not last long. It felt more like the way you love a friend. The time I lived with one, and I wrote about her, she was more like a friend than a lover. I loved her, but did not enjoy sex with her. It was only to please her. I usually faked my own orgasms with her. I didn’t like that. It’s usually the woman who fakes the orgasm. What kind of dude has to fake an orgasm? I just wasn’t passionate about her.

When a woman reaches ****** with a man she is only collaborating with the patriarchal system, eroticising her own oppression. Sheila Jeffrys

Well, to start my name is Edan; & this is my life. I've been using drugs for 8+ years now [Opiates, & Benzodiazepines] , & have been IVing pills for about 4 years now.

Today, which is the 31st of October, & the year is 2016.
Many of you all may have things to do for the "Holiday", parties, etc... Me on the other hand, do not have any of those to attend to, or look for- nor do I even care, or want to be apart of this "Holiday". I woke up at around, uhh maybe around 1:40PM-2PM. Got dressed, popped my first few Alprozalam pills of today which was only 1MG, & 120MG's of OxyContin along side with NyQuil capsules/Tagamet for a longer duration and effects for my opaite pain medication, & my anti-depressante/anti-anxiety medication. I don't just pop my pain medication, I put both 60MG pills under my tongue, allow them to bind together, & slowly melt into a gunkey, sticky, mess of OxyContin to allow an almost IR effect to help kill my upper neck/back pain I have due to an accident I had at the young age of 12. Anyways it hit me a few hours later and I'm still feeling it now; I have another 60MG OP I will take, like I took the other two, in maybe an hour or now- I'm unsure when, but I will for sure do so. It's been a normal day today, hanging out with my father, letting my GF go visits her family with our new puppy since her mothers BF (a brother to me in a since) that also got a puppy from the same litter of dogs, so both play and I don't have to watch her all damn day and be on her little back making sure she doesn't piss, & shit all over my house. I've been mostly on my computer today watching, & listening to music. Not doing much else, & really just relaxing with my lights out so the kids don't come to my home asking for candy, & such. Got a phone call from my mother and we talked about the same ol'shit we always talk about when she calls to check up on me, trying to figure out if I've been doing good and what else she ask me. Now at this very moment [7:48PM] I'm on YouTuber, on my computer watching some top 10 or top 5 shit out of boredom; waiting on my GF to get back home then cook food for the both of us and see if my father wants me to cook anything unless he already made something for himself and me. I'll be soon to eat but that's after I take my OxyContin so I have an empty stomach to get all the bang for my buck so I can relax and sleep in a few hours after I eat, & hang out with my GF for some hours watching Netflix or whatever we both want to watch or do. I just popped my OxyContin 60MG and now it's just a waiting game- as in, waiting an hour or more for it to turn into gunky shit/syrupy shit that I then eat. I'll post more either tonight before I cook to say what I'm making, eating, & what I'm cooking for my GF. If I do not post tonight I will tomorrow for sure if I'm not too busy. It may not be right as I awake but probably the same time I started to type this out.

{End of first blog post for October, the 31st, 7:55PM}

So the cycle flips again, with new seemingly-exponentially-blossoming consciousness circuits taking form through revelation.

Status: Generally anxious and vaguely-depressing-yet-hopeful state of consciousness.
Remedy: The same tools I have been using for many years and countless trips, cyclically. All is fine and good when the cycle is allowed to come full circle in a timely manner with some sort of regularity. The problem is when the cycle is disturbed in either direction- too much or too little. I now stand at the precipice of an unusually-extended 'off' period, waiting to make the jump into the new beginning, anticipating the sweetly-scented bloom of a dew-dropped flower at sunrise, waiting for the swelling radiation to stimulate my senses and rinse my body clean as the dew evaporates off my stem and pedals, lifting me up into an physical and energetic alignment not felt since the awakening of Springtime.
Waiting for the world inside my mind to return to a crisp focus that I can only remember, as through a degaussing of my energy fields, removing a film of noise accumulated from a daily barrage of EM pollution, unavoidable in today's environment, re-centering my phase into a grounded state in me electromagnetic and electro-chemical energy systems, like a magnet taken to an old TV.

For now, I imagine. I set my intentions. I pray to the guiding spirits, I trust they will keep me from danger, as long as I listen to them and keep my ear to the ground. Stay woke AF, fam.

The start seemed fun everything went as planned . .
Then the overstep, one overstep ruined it all
Not knowing the people or thinking that the people would be another way
No acceptance, thus no future


It was all an idea to fix oneself
Failed due to overtrust the situation
Knowing but not knowing ~ reality vs advantage “%”
Not complete fail the possibly in others hands
Never sharing the full objective to others till after failure
Constant fail in location
The thought of getting fucked with or just sitting
Obvious observations
Time logs / contacts previous night
Always something more

Some days I'm just not sure how to start or what to write about. Today, as much as I wanted to write something positive instead of negative, the negative is just easier to get out. When my day is positive, and nothing is wrong I have a difficult time forcing myself to sit down and write. But I feel like it's important to write when I'm feeling/doing good as well as when I'm sad/angry/depressed so when I read back through my entries I can see that life wasn't bad ALL The time...however, today isn't necessarily a good day...yet.

Today I am anxiously awaiting my boyfriend getting home from work. Not because I'm dying to be with him! Haha, we've been together for almost 11 years. No, because I am waiting to hear back from an employer. One that I interviewed with last Tuesday at a really good restaurant that is three blocks away from my home. It's especially nerve wrecking because I don't have my own phone. My egg donor/womb rental (mother) shut my phone off a few weeks (maybe a few months now?) without giving me a heads up, so I have to depend on my boyfriend to a)answer his phone-which he has a difficult time doing, especially if it's a number he's not familiar with, and b) relay the message to me if/when the call comes in. I interviewed on Tuesday and I thought it went well and when I asked when they were planning on opening I was told in 9 days and that they would probably be calling folks back at the end of the week because things are happening so quickly. Well, I called Thursday and talked with the manager who interviewed me and he said that he wouldn't be making any decisions until Monday (today) or Tuesday. I know he interviewed a TON of people for every position in the restaurant. I really want this job. I really NEED this job. I don't want to bug the manager, but I also want to stand out because of how many folks he must have interviewed.

A huge part of me is super depressed. It seems like every time I interview and I walk away feeling like I did fantastic, I never get the job. That implies that I DO get the job when I leave the interview feeling like I failed, OR when I am hired on the spot. So because I felt so great after the interview there is a feeling in the pit of my stomach that is eating away at my mind today. I even pulled up a friend the other day and asked her to pray for me about this job (and I am not religious in any way...but a part of me does believe in the power of positive thoughts and maybe the more positive thoughts that are floating around the better? I don't know why I asked her to, I just did..that's how much I really want/need this job)...and it's completely out of my control. I feel anxious, I feel jittery, I feel sad (although I ought not to yet...I haven't been turned down for the job yet) and I feel almost hopeless. I have 20 years of serving experience. I am a damn good server! I look good on paper! A degree from an amazing university, volunteer work in the community, leadership skills....I am an honest, loyal, dependable, reliable, trustworthy, hard working employee. I would be a great asset to any company! So why is it that I'm having such a hard time finding a great job?

My plan was to call the manager when my boyfriend got home, but now I'm second guessing myself. I don't want to come across as needy or high maintenance due to calling too much, but then again, he is hiring for a whole damn restaurant, so I know he must have interviewed a TON of folks and I want to stand out. Fuck.

My recovery is up and down. My cravings are starting to come back. I think about taking 10-15 of those perks I have sitting in my cabinet and CWE'ing them and drinking the liquid...just to feel high again. But I haven't yet. Smoking herb kinda helps the cravings, but I can only smoke at night, because if I smoke during the day I do get HIGH and if I am not constantly moving around then I'm on my way to the land of nod AND I eat my weight in sugar (not great! I tell my boyfriend that we're going to give up opiate addiction and trade it for diabetes! ha ha). Drinking doesn't sound all that great anymore, and I use to LOVE to throw back a few beers with a side of whiskey. And some times I think to myself, hmmmm a whiskey and pbr sounds delicious right now, but I know better. Again, I can't drink during the day. I have two children and responsibilities, and if I day drank, I'd not be a very good mom. Hence the reasons I became an opiate addict in the first place! I could take opiates all day, starting the moment I wake up, and still be fully functional! It was great! Until it wasn't...until my tolerance sky rocketed and eventually (you all know the story) I was just using to keep from getting sick and had to use astronomically high amounts of oxy (or any other pharm) to get high...either that or switch to H, which I eventually did. I think that if I were to get this job it would really help in my recovery. Being productive and not depressed because we're so broke, with two kids and pets galore (two rats, one cat, and two bull frogs), would make a huge difference in my cravings.

But no matter how much I want this, no matter how good this job would be for me, no matter what kind of great employee I'd be, I have absolutely NO say in if I get this job. I wish I did. I can't stop thinking about how much I need this.

Oh how I need to get high, to take my mind off of this crazy torture. Do I call the manager today? Do I wait until tomorrow? Fuck, the anticipation is killing me! Just take the meds...my mind says...just take them and forget about calling today-you don't want to be "that" girl. A friend told me today that I should think of job hunting/interviewing like dating. I called him once to follow up (he knows I'm interested) and now the ball is in his court. Ugh. Maybe if I were to follow those dating rules I wouldn't have had so much problems with dating as a younger me...but that's not even me with dating! If I like someone, I don't play those silly games, I just go for the gold! Let it be known that I like them and even asking them out on a date first. Patience has never been a strong suit of mine, although I am learning more day by day.

Ahh fuck me. IF my boyfriend doesn't get home soon (as in before dinner rush time at a restaurant) I will be stuck forcing myself to wait until tomorrow to call and follow up.

I guess that's all for now folks. Don't know what else to say. Until next time!

Today is the 25th day I've been on MMT and I still have mixed feelings about it. Part of me says 'what the fuck...why did I do this? Now I can't even get high just once in a while-like to celebrate or something' and the other part of me says 'well, duh! That's why I went on it in the first place! So I couldn't get high, even just once in a while. Because it never stays just once in a while. It always turns into a binge-whether it's my pain pills all in a week or it's a bag of smack (or multiple bags of smack-until I run out of spending money)".

I suppose that really means that I'm still craving at times. Not enough to actually go use, but enough to where my mind is on it a bunch. Going up to 80/mgs just isn't an option for me right now. 70/mgs needs to be okay. I need it to be okay. I plan on staying on mmt for a while and I don't want to get up into the 100's when it comes to my dose. That's one of the reasons why my boyfriend hasn't gone up past 40mgs (and he's been on it a week longer than I), is because he plans on being on mmt for a long time (possibly a lifer) and by staying at 40mgs right now, and for as long as he can, he gives himself some room to go up when he really needs to. From what I've read though (and I could totally have just misinterpreted the meaning behind this) due to methadone's NMDA antagonist property a person could theoretically stay at the same dose for years without needed to increase their dose and still be satisfied with it. So why not just find the dose that works well and then stay there? Anyway...70mgs seems to be good for me. I figure if the cravings get so bad I'm finding my self actually trying to talk my boyfriend into copping OR if I find myself reaching for my pills to CWE, then it's probably time to go up. But for now, I need to learn some fucking self control!

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The job that I had I quit. It just wasn't going to work out. My first and only shift was on a Friday and not one customer came in, hence to tips for me (and a server lives off their tips!) then Monday I was called off not even an hour before my shift, so Tuesday I called in a quit. The amount of money I would have paid my baby sitter would have trumped what I would have made at the pizza shop. I did however interview for a sweet new seafood restaurant opening up three blocks away from my house and I have my finger and toes crossed on this job. If I don't get it, I'm seriously going to cry! I really really need this job! And I would do a great job there. I would love it! It my neighborhood, I love my neighborhood and I want to work there. It would be perfect for me, because I could walk there (my boyfriend would be able to use the car then and make an extra $1/hr by giving someone a ride), my sitter lives just two blocks up from the restaurant, and I could be working in my neighborhood. It's not a bar, so that's a huge plus as well! I'm really nervous that I'm not going to get it. I've been interviewing like crazy in this town and I have yet to be hired at a good restaurant. Part of me thinks it's because I don't have the "look" meaning I don't do my hair and make up all fancy AND my front top tooth has a small chip in it. Being on Medicaid and being an adult, they won't cover it and since I'm broke I can't afford to get a replacement tooth. But I've been serving tables for twenty fucking years. And I'm really good at what I do. And I REALLY FUCKING NEED this job! If I don't get it, I'll be crushed. I'm so tired of not getting good serving jobs. I mean, I'm willing to go work at fucking Micky D's just to make ends meet for my family, but I've got a fucking degree from one of the most prestigious public university's in the nation and loads of experience in food service. I am not religious by any means, but you better believe that I'm praying my ass off I get this job. Please please PLEASE let me get this job!!!

My family has caught so much shit recently-my oldest has been struggling with lice for over a year (schools in my county no longer send kids home if they have lice since it's only a nuisance and it doesn't spread disease so every time we beat the damn things, she gets reinfested from some kid in her class), pink eye just last month and now fucking ringworm from the pet rats I bought her a month ago. On top of all that, my boyfriend and I have made so many bad life choices in the past that we're really trying to better ourselves and our family and it seems like nothing we do ever gets us ahead. I just want to work my ass off, and have money to save so I can get my kids into cool activities. So I can take them shopping for clothes that aren't second (or third or fourth hand-me-downs) hand. So I can buy them a bicycle. So I can make things right. I'm tired of leaning on my boyfriend's mom to cover our ass when we don't have enough money to pay our bills (which wasn't a problem when it was just me, but us as a team, we've had a difficult time doing that). And yes, I know, all of these came out of the decisions I made, so I have no one or nothing to blame but myself. And I am fully capable of taking full responsibility for those bad choices, but all I'm asking for is a chance. A chance to show the owners who interviewed me what I can do. A chance to finally get on our feet. A chance to change our family's trajectory. I fucking took the plunge and traded getting high for methadone maintenance. I'm trading in my bar nights, getting fucking drunk and acting silly with friends, for cuddling up cozy with my boyfriend for movies, popcorn and pot. Or maybe craft night with him. I don't know, doing something healthy for a change instead of self destructive. Just please universe, please please please! Give me this job. Give me this chance. PLEASE!

Today I am very down in the dumps. I just want to crawl under my covers in bed and not come out-ever.

I'm feeling sad, depressed, and want to just give up on life, and I can't even get high (which is probably a good thing, in the end). I almost asked to go up to 80/mg today, but I knew I was really just wanting to feel high today so I didn't ask to go up.

I was late to the clinc (based on my routine that I've been building these last three weeks) because my boyfriend didn't wake up and go to his clinic until 6am and he wasn't back until 6:40am. Now that he's working at a labor ready type place he decided that my routine doesn't mean shit. My routine was helping ME; it was helping me feel on the ball. It was helping get me out of bed every morning and be dressed and have breakfast cooking when my children woke up. It was helping me feel better about myself. But he didn't care about any of that. He doesn't understand how this little thing could mean so much to me.

And I am being selfish. And mean. Or so I'm told.

Maybe I am being too over dramatic about this. I just don't understand why, if he doesn't have to be to work until 8am (or sometimes later) why I couldn't keep my routine going-alarm goes off at 6am, I get up and dressed and out the door by 6:15am, go dose and am back by 6:40am, giving me time to smoke with my coffee, use the toilet and then wake the girls up (if they haven't woken up naturally by then). I don't understand why he can't accept that something as little as that routine is important to me. So what if it's not important to him. I'm trying to do this whole recovery thing and when he doesn't support the little things that I'm finding helps, it hurts. Routines and staying busy helps me not use.

Before he decided to actually go accept jobs at this labor ready type temp job center, he was staying in bed until at least 8am (sometimes later) each morning while I rocked my mornings. For me to function well and have a happy clear head, I need to get myself up early and go do something; I need to have a purpose or goal for the day. Before I decided to hop on the MMT train, my boyfriend did first and we talked about what that would look like. We both agreed that he would wake up early, before the girls got up, and go dose so he could be helping me with the girls' morning routine. This was important to me because in the past (and remember, we've been together almost 11 years) I know how long he can stay in bed. He can stay in bed for HOURS after I wake up and start the day with the girls. And with him moving into MY apartment and us trying to save and build this relationship AGAIN (for the third time) I knew the things that would trigger me and cause me to want to use, or blow up and get angry and fight. And I didn't want that. I wanted this time to be different. I thought we were both ready to change... But that never happened. So when I started my program, I decided that I would set my goal of being up that early each morning (because really, my clinic stays open until 12:30 during the week, so I could have slept in as much as I wanted to and still dose each day), and focus on what I could be doing to better myself and just accepted that he was going to still be in bed until after my oldest left for school.


He acts like this should be no big deal, and he's probably right. It probably shouldn't be a big deal. I should just adjust to dosing whenever he gets back. And maybe if he had some rhyme or reason to when he wakes up and leaves, maybe it would be easier for me to adjust. BUT there is NO routine there-one day he could wake up at when his alarm first goes off at 5:45am and actually be out the door and at his clinic when they open at 6am, dose and be back by 6:15 and other days he will hit snooze on his alarm a few times, before actually getting up and, sloth like, get ready to go and then be back by 6:45/7am. There is no consistency there. And yes, I'm probably being pretty petty about all this. But FUCK this is MY apartment that I let him live in.

Yes, they are petty stupid things, but when I moved out I gained the right to have rules in my home. These little things play a big part in my mental stability. Without them I feel chaotic and restless and want to use to dull the chaos that I feel. I know that children thrive on routine and stability, and you know what? So do I! I thrive on my routine! I'm happier keeping with it and am able to set other goals because my morning routine allows me to get all the little things done and have time to focus on bigger things. I have more energy too. With raising children it's important for me to raise them right (whatever that means)-for me to show them it's important to clean the house, to learn how to cook, to have manners, to not depend on the tv to fill up the hours in the day...my kids are already going to have the deck stacked against them with addiction running deep on both sides of their parents so I think it's important to show them what stability looks like. What responsibility looks like. What normality looks like (and I say that in reference to drug use vs non drug use). Is that so bad? Because my boyfriend makes me feel like I'm a fucking nut job for wanting all that.

And now the fights are back. This morning was spent yelling at each other and fighting. Another reason I moved out of the house was to keep my girls away from our fighting. I don't want that happening in my apartment. We fought for so long, so loud and so mean when we lived together that I couldn't take it anymore. It wasn't fair to our girls. And whenever I would ask him to leave so we could NOT be fighting in front of the girls, he never would. So now I'm stuck in this shitty position...AGAIN...
When we first started hanging out again I was really trying to keep my temper in check. I was really tying to accept him and to move on and allow everything that happened in the past stay in the past. And we were doing a good job together. We talked about what we both needed and he accepted what I needed and I did the same for him. I told him I needed him to be honest with me, 100% because in the past he's lied to me, over and over again, and I couldn't accept lying. I told him that without trust there is no foundation on which to build a relationship. I also told him that I needed to be with someone who could find happiness. I wanted someone who wasn't depressed all the time. When I look into someone's eyes I want to see light, not dark and with my boyfriend his eyes have always been filled with sadness, depression and hopelessness. And that is scary. I don't want to send the rest of my life with someone who can't find happiness. Well, when we got back together he did smile! And the smile in his eyes lead me to believe that we could be happy together! I believed that we could finally laugh and joke together, and roll around and be silly with each other and enjoy life. I didn't realize that the heroin he was bringing over for us to smoke had a HUGE role in this...

...he refuses to accept that when we first started hanging out again, and everything was so amazing between us, heroin had a major role in that. I can see it crystal clear now as hindsight is 20/20-the heroin we were smoking caused me to feel euphoria and acceptance and a warm glow. I was able to forget about all sorts of small things because, everything was just fine and dandy in the fog of heroin intoxication. He doesn't think that had anything to do with his smiles in his eyes and his ability to do things and be happy with the mundane life we live right now. He swears up and down heroin had nothing to do with his happiness...but yet, now he's walking around with a deep sadness back in his eyes. He's lied to me and not kept his word. And he tells me that the reason the smile has left his eyes and his face is because I have pulled away from him. Our sex life is just about non-existent once again. And that's why he's sad...

...but on my side I've pulled away from him because of the lies that I caught him in. I've pulled away from him because of the lack of employment that he promised me was changing in August (and now it's October...and he's only worked two days since we've been back together). I've pulled away because without the heroin fog I see clearly now. I see that he's not willing to better himself and change. I see that those smiles in his eyes were him being high. I see that the things that are important to me aren't important to him.. How am I suppose to keep smiling and sleeping with him when we're so clearly different in our hopes and dreams for life.

And now here I am, after writing this post, thinking to myself that maybe it is me that is the problem. Maybe I have been too hard on him. And maybe I should just run away and disappear and they would be so much better without me. Of course I would NEVER do that. EVER. But I do think about it. And that's what has been on my mind all morning since the fight...that I just want to disappear. But my children are so important to me. I'm just so tired...so so tired...

And more than anything I want a partner who will pull me up instead of drag me down. I want a partner who has the same goals in life, who has goals in life! I want a partner who supports me as I support him. I want a partner I can trust. And on top of that, I wish my current boyfriend, the father of my children, was that partner...but he's not and it saddens me....

Four years and a few months and we have a kid.

She wasn't ever supposed to be even a possibility and yet she is here and walking and talking and almost potty trained.

After all, if a major scam like Scientology qualifies as a religion, anything is possible. Especially since Scientology is more of a corporation masquerading as a religion, I don't see why this is such a difficult thing to accomplish. It's not that we'd want money from people, or to recruit them, or even tax exempt status! We just don't need the government interfering by telling adults what they can put in their bodies. Yes, we are well aware of all the warnings, but as that pre-Revolutionary War flag says, "Don't Tread On Me." That's pretty much the long and short of it, in my view.

Yeah, I've started writing my fanfiction at Panera and I'm far more productive then writing in my bed.

Where in my bed I'd peck away at 200-300 words at a time, I wrote 1600 words yesterday and 800 words today.

I just don't think I have the money to buy a $2 cup of coffee every time I want to get some work done



OKAY FINE YOU CAN BITCH NOW

I have lagged on writing these last few days. The last time I posted was day 17...I am pretty sure I had written a post for day 19 but it was so long that BL didn't post it so I had copy and pasted it into a word doc, meaning to come back and edit it to fit here, but I never got around to it. I think it was filled with anger at my boyfriend but once I wrote it all out, the anger faded away and I'll probably just leave it as a word doc, as there is much to write about without going back to being angry.

So where to start? Last Friday I started my new job at a crappy pizza joint. I worked 4.5 hours on a Friday night and not ONE customer came in...not one. So I am currently still searching for another job. We paid the babysitter about what I made in my hourly, so this job just isn't really worth it.

Saturday night I went out to meet a friend for a night of drinking at our favorite dive bar. Since I get tested each and every morning for alcohol (via breathalyzer) I've been pretty paranoid about coming up dirty so I decided I wouldn't drink unless it was Saturday (clinic is closed on Sunday-automatic take home). Well...after what happened Saturday night, I don't think I'll be drinking like that for a long long time.

I do the family pizza and movie night with my kids and boyfriend, put the kids to bed and get ready to head out. I grab a tall boy of pbr for the walk in the pouring down rain and put my funky rain boots on and begin my walk (stomping in massive puddles the whole way). Meet up with my friend, grab another beer for the walk to the bar and then hang at the bar. I didn't come out with more than five bucks and I know my friends didn't buy my that many drinks, but I did get drunk. I swear I didn't have more than I usually drink (maybe 6-7 beers total and 2-3 shots of whiskey over a few hours) but I got TRASHED. I woke up the next morning in bed, with a nasty hangover and didn't remember even going to sleep. Didn't remember leaving the bar. Didn't remember anything that happened. I don't black out often, and I ate a TON before going out. I think it was the methadone in my system that caused the alcohol to effect me like it did.

Well, after waking up and walking out of my room to pee and then walking straight back to my bed to get under the covers again (Sunday is my only day I sleep in) my boyfriend walks in my room and tells me he's leaving for a while. He looks really depressed. I say ok....is everything ok? And he says that after what happened last night he needs to leave. I again say ok. He replies, "do you not remember what happened last night" and I say nope! What happened?
I guess I called him someone else's name during sex a few times last night, and I also kept saying "I love you Matt" (my boyfriends name is NOT Matt) and my boyfriend was pretty hurt by that. I got kinda pissed off that he was so hurt (as I have never been romantically involved with my friend Matt, EVER, and NEVER have wanted to be AT ALL) especially since I have caught him lying to me about two women that he's seen behind my back before and I had to confront him about it and feelings were actually there between them, and I was expected to forgive him. But I was also still kinda drunk, kinda dehydrated and REALLY hungover. I tried chugging water, and then drank my dose, and then proceeded to throw up my dose. At that point I was super upset because I knew that I was in for it that day. I couldn't replace my methadone, and being on 70mg I knew I was in for a day/night of being sick until I could get to the clinic Monday morning.

I try to tell him that I must have been really really fucked up last night, that I don't remember anything, and that I was so drunk that I just threw up my dose. I said that my brain must have NOT been functioning well because really this guy I kept calling him was ONLY a friend and that was it. Seriously!

I was sick all day, for the most part. I had my bottle of percocets that I was trying NOT to take, since I am on MMT, but since I threw up my dose I knew I had to take something to hold w/d at bay, so I grab 7 of them and swallow them. Not even 3 minutes later they come back up too. Along with any water I drink. So as time went by, I became sicker and sicker. I spent most of the day curled up in a ball on my bed, running to the bathroom vomiting every so often. It got so bad that whenever I went to vomit it felt like I was reaching down into the depths of my stomach and throwing up stomach bile or acid. Ugh.

I felt horrible because my boyfriend did leave for a while and my kids needed me, but I couldn't freaking move. I usually don't allow them to watch more than an hour or two of tv a day (sometimes not even that much) but that day I had to cave and let them be little couch potatoes. Luckily for me my oldest is a doll and really really helped me out with my youngest, and they are both very empathetic people and were trying to take care of me as well. But I messaged my boyfriend and told him that I threw up my dose and I was dope sick and the kids really needed a parent around that wasn't sick. IT wasn't fair to them that I made such a bad decision.

He did end up coming home and picking up ALL My slack, which I am very grateful for. I also managed to nibble on a few pretzels SLOWLY and sip on some water SLOWLY, which calmed my stomach just enough for me to swallow one perk at a time, allowing me to finally get 50mg of oxy in my system, which eventually halted a little bit of my w/d.

I slept on and off, shaking in my bed on and off, until 5am (ish) when I grabbed 50mg more of oxy so when I saw my counselor at the clinic for our monthly meeting at 7am I wouldn't be in severe w/d.
I dosed at 7am and met with my counselor and then came back home to get the girls ready for the day and to eventually talk with my boyfriend.

After apologizing over and over again, and swearing up and down that there was NOTHING between my friend and I and there never has been, he forgave me. I told him I was so sorry I hurt him so much because of my bad choice to drink like that. That my brain was just malfunctioning. I told him that I know he probably doesn't believe me when I say that there was NOTHING between us and that's another reason why I felt so bad, is that I hurt him so much when really there was nothing to be hurt about, just my brain not working.
I told him I wasn't going to be going out like that anymore, because not only did I hurt him, but I could have hurt myself. I could have not woken up. I didn't realize how dangerous it was to drink on that much methadone. But I don't plan on doing it again.

Well, I kept waiting for my dose on Monday to hit me, because I was still feeling like crap. I almost threw up an hour after taking it, well I did throw up a bit, but I held most of it back, and only a tiny bit of vomit escaped my stomach.
I thought that because I (unintentionally) skipped my dose Sunday, that my Monday dose would hit me hard.
It never kicked it! I felt like crap all day, in mild w/d and it was super hard to fall asleep and RLS started up at night too. I'm not sure what the fuck happened, but my Monday dose didn't take effect.

Crap, time is up for me to write even though I have so much more I want to write. I have to get ready to head into this crap job of mine. I want to quit so fucking bad, and I had an interview for a great job, right around the corner from my house at a new restaurant opening up in ten days, today but I won't know if I got the job for another day or so. So the responsible part of me says to keep going to this crap job, even though NO customers come in.

blogs has been inactive lately

The household of a schizophrenic parent is a warzone, and anyone born into such bad circumstances is caught in enemy fire without shelter or the protection of a supporting army. Like mentally disabled war veterans, the survivors of such parents are likely to come out mentally broken from shell shock that can manifest as PTSD, panic attacks, or crippling anxiety.

Among the symptoms of schizophrenia are visual and auditory hallucinations, delusions, disorganized thinking and speech, lack of emotions (flat affect), unchanging facial expression, speaks in a monotone, social isolation, and inability to care for oneself including extreme neglect of hygiene. Schizophrenia occurs in around 1 percent of the population, and it often starts in the twenties.

When she was still a teenager, my mother met a drunkard who promised to earn a million dollars and spend it on her. He would buy her “dream house” and give her a fairy tale life. That fact that he wore his uniform when he trolled for girls at the college near his military base must have helped make him look like he had his life together. She was swept off her feet by his act. She dropped out of college which her father had been paying for, and she married him. She had completed only one year but was close to flunking out. Although she didn’t graduate with a traditional degree like a BS, BA, BFA, etc, she got the letters that her brothers criticised her for: MRS.

My father took her to an isolated logging town on the coast of Washington state. He deposited her in a house he rented there. He was soon discharged from the military, worked at a mill for a little for a while but soon lost the job. Instead of doing anything productive (jobs were plentiful at the time), he went to the local taverns to drink all day. Left alone in this way, my mother settled into endless days of eating doughnuts, drinking A&W root beer, and dozing in a reclining chair in front of a big color television, an expensive appliance then. For company, she had fifteen cats

Within a few years, she was pregnant, and I was born. My mother didn’t talk much and went for days without saying a single word, but in childhood, my mother still spoke to me sometimes. Some of it was bizarre. Maybe she didn’t think I could remember.

My memory since 18 months of age is almost continuous except for one really big lapse at the age of two when I was kicked in the head by a neighbor’s horse.

Sometimes, she described the ongoing visits by “ghosts” while she was home alone since before I was born. The visitations happened any time of day when she was home alone and fully awake in the house. I suspect it might be one reason she never turned off the TV. They were her New Age spirit guides, and their visits were as real and solid as those of the Jehovah’s Witness missionaries that were constantly giving her piles of Watchtower religious tracts. Thee ghosts and disembodied voices told her important things about her past life as Cleopatra (what she told me) and gave her personal information about her spiritual gurus Shirley McClain and Ruth Montgomery. She truly believed all of this.

After I left home, I realized that she probably had a mental illness, but my mother never saw a psychiatrist or got a diagnosis. I hadn’t thought of what it might be until my new girlfriend asked about her. Not only did she hallucinate, but she had many of the main positive and negative symptoms of schizophrenia. Her symptoms were extreme, and maybe because of them, she did not function in life. She never even took care of herself, never bathing, washing, or changing her clothes. Before I cut off contact with her, I had gently suggested she see a counselor or doctor but she reacted like a rabid dog. Without a diagnosis, I never found out if she truly suffered from an untreated mental illness like schizophrenia or she was simply a nasty and lazy person.

Being familiar with my mother’s sick and twisted personality, I realized that she was probably a schizophrenic. I will never know for sure what was wrong with her.

Inheritance of schizophrenia is not Mendelian, and there is no single binary gene allele that causes it. Instead, heredity is complicated and involves the interaction of a number of genes as well as possible epigenetic factors. Children of one schizophrenic parent have around a 17 percent chance of getting it. More often, instead of becoming schizophrenic, the children of a schizophrenic inherit only some of the genes. Whether from that partial heredity or from exposure to the toxic environment the parent created, other mental illnesses are common in children including depression, autism, Asperger’s syndrome, anxiety disorder, PTSD, bipolar disorder, chemical dependency, low self-esteem, and suicidal tendency. If both parents are schizophrenic, the odds of being schizophrenic go up to 50 percent.

You need a license to drive a car, but anybody can have a child. My generation sterilizes themselves willingly with procedures like vasectomies or subdermal anti-conception implants. That’s still only a small demographic compared to the whole world and doesn’t make much difference in the issues of overpopulation. The human race is on the road to breeding itself into environmental collapse and resource exhaustion.

Even if you don’t believe in overpopulation and the risks associated with it, being born to incompetent or abusive parents has a strong chance of ruining the future for those unlucky children.

Since early childhood, I wanted "ghosts” to visit me too, but no matter how hard I tried to find one or see one of the many that my mother said was with us, I never properly saw one. Despite that, I didn’t give up. By the age of 12, I had read dozens of books on the subject and had learned meditation practices and occult summonings all with the intention of inducing the experience. Instead of seeing a “ghost,” mental images flashed into my mind. The images were ordinary, stable, and photorealistic. In being stable, they were fully formed images on the inside of my eyelids. Sometimes they formed outside in areas of solid color like dark pools of water, dark walls, or shadowy places like caves. The images persisted for minutes at a time.

Many of them were scenes, people, and things I had seen earlier during the previous days, but these were not interesting. In a few months something about them changed. They were things and people I would see within the next few days but that I did not remember ever having seen before.

Around the same age of 12, I started gettign weekly migraines. My parents didn’t believe in migraines, so of course, I was never taken to a doctor to get treated. One side effect of of migraines is the migraine Aura. The aura is a form of visual disturbance. First, my vision is filled with sparkles that look like specks of mica flashing in the water in the sunlight. Second, every thing is surrounded by a halo that looks like the halos that surround Saints in medieval paintings. Third, there are other strange shapes made of phosphenes that look like what people see under the influence of mescaline, ayahuasca, or mushrooms. Sometimes the effects is so intense it reminds me of an Alex? Grey
psychedelic painting.

That is when I began to sketch and describe them in notebooks. It inspired me to want to learn to draw. I wanted to prove I had seen something unusual. It would have been good evidence if I could record what I saw. I didn’t know how to draw, so despite my best efforts of drawing a portrait of an image I saw floating in a shadow or in a dream, my sketches were not close to the images I remembered.

It's been two days since my last post. If I wait for it to disappear off the front page, I'll never finish.

An author friend had just introduced me to a French girl at a party. Something about Laëtitia instantly drew me to her. There was something about her eyes. I felt compelled to look into them. I could fall into them. I felt like I was skydiving. Skydiving at terminal velocity feels good, but in this case, I didn’t know if a parachute would deploy landing me gently in the beautiful countryside or if I would hit the ground with a bloody splat. We talked for three hours, left the party, walked along the river at midnight, and had our first kiss on the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris, with Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the golden dome of Beaux Arts, and the Louvre all in the background. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before that fast and intensely.

The writing of this gets confusing because there is a huge gap in time between the girls and by the number of characters. In the US, I went 10 years with only 1 girlfriend, not that the relationship lasted more than a few years, but here in 10 months I have been involved with a lot more than 1 girl. I always only look for a serious long term relationship, and that is all i ever wanted. Things haven’t worked as planned, and I’ve gone through a large number looking for one. I’m ashamed of how many there have been. I never wanted to one of those people. I’m only writing about the ones that had the biggest impact on me. I left Maiz out on the bridge the last time. It was the same bridge where Laetitia and I went. I didn’t even realize it until afterwards.

Not long ago, I wrote about my friend Maiz. Maiz is the young wife of the Albanian ambassador. Maiz and I were seeing each other for a while earlier this year. I had strong feelings for her, and we had/have a strong connection. I think I looked to her as a friend but not really as a girlfriend. It is hard to describe. Who looks at somebody else’s wife as a girlfriend anyway? She is married, and she had just started with the divorce. The relationship was complicated. We put the relationship on hold. We are still friends and talk and see each other regularly. We have both been open and honest to each other but kept our secret from her pederast husband. There was never any hostility between us.

Laetitia and I spent several weeks together before we professed our love, and after two months she told me she wanted to marry me. I said I would like that, but I would like to get to know her better before I make that commitment. She agreed.

The weather turned cold, and we took the night train out of Paris. In the early morning, the train arrived in a small town near Cannes. Her villa was a 15 minute taxi ride away from the depot.

Late summer on the Riviera (Côte d’Azur) the weather is warm in the sun but cool in the shade. The land is dry. Rising from the sea, steep, rocky hills covered with vineyards and trees in dusty olive greens become mountains. The sky was an intense blue. It reminded of the California coast. We were to spend a couple weeks at her villa overlooking the Mediterranean sea. The mild opioid withdrawals added a heavy tone of nostalgia to everything.

At the Riviera, I was tapering off the opiate painkillers that I had started again after a cluster of migraines hit recently. I had completely quit opiates and tramadol, but the pain and vomiting was unbearable that last time. It was the worst migraine I’ve had in a year. I hadn’t been able to move from my bed for a day. I hadn’t even been able to get up to use the toilet. I was so sick in fact, I texted my ex-lover Maiz from bed and asked her to come to my flat to help me. She had to get the tramadol from my medicine cabinet, pour me a glass of water, and feed me 2 two hundred milligram tramadol pills while holding the water so I could sip it. Maiz is a physician and is educated about migraines. I hadn’t asked Laetitia because I didn’t want her to see me like that.


photo of pool and sea

Her house is on a hilltop not far from some forgotten Roman ruins. It’s a typical Mediterranean house with a tile roof, stucco walls, tile floor, and a pool.

We spent the days visiting the surrounding medieval towns, walking through natural areas, exploring ruins, and eating. Eating is a big part of life in France. When we didn’t eat out, we cooked at home. I didn’t know how to cook, but Laetitia showed me what to do. In all, I did about half the cooking. We ate a lot of cheese, grilled some steak, vegetables, bread, olives, and wine.

Eating out was usually OK. A funny thing about French people is that they eat a lot of pork. One time, the only restaurant open in town served nothing but pork. We were both hungry, but Laetitia was thoughtful enough to go to a grocery store and buy food for a picnic lunch. I only had to mention my food allergies one time to her and there were no surprise poisonings with pork or garlic.

Castelly is a fortified medieval town built on a rock on the edge of the sea. The rock is, in fact, a plateau with sheer sides and whose top is somewhat smaller than a square kilometer in area. The town’s foundations date to pre-Roman times. The Romans conquered and destroyed it. They rebuilt it on the ruins of the old Celtic-Gaul opidum. Within its walls are a castle and a chateau. Narrow streets wind among the medieval houses which have all been preserved. They have shops on the bottom floor and living quarters above the shops.

The sunlight was a gold hue that accentuated the yellow ochres of the buildings lining the narrow street. Flowering vines, their flowers intense magentas and blues, framed the archways and grew up the walls to the eaves of many of the buildings. The flowering plants were all around and overhung the archways of passages between streets and doorways.

Laetitia and I strolled through a narrow streets. They were shaded by high walls and trees. Most of the buildings were three stories high and contiguous to one another. The shops were designed for tourists. They sold designer clothing, art, jewelry, handbags, kitchen gear and dining settings, shoes, bakeries, chocolate, and a few brasseries. Dozens of stray cats sunbathed in the middle of the streets. There weren’t any cars.




During the tourist season, it is not possible to walk down the street, but instead one must push through a crowd packed shoulder to shoulder like a crowded stadium rock concert. It was deserted this time of year.

http://i.imgur.com/XAAYZxR.png



photo of oragne cat



We walked out the city’s west gate and followed a steep path that winded down the chateau’s terraced vineyards. The sun was setting. The fall palette of the vines caught the red ochers, rust colors, and deep purples of the sunset. We found a grassy area next to some overgrown Roman ruins overlooking the valley. We had a picnic of wine and cheese with some pastries from the bakery. The setting looked like a Romantic period painting. The afternoon and, in fact, the whole trip had been romantic.

I couldn’t help but wonder whether this was too good to be true. Maybe my past experiences have made me irrationally suspicious and there was nothing to worry about.

Today is day 17 on the program and my second day at 70mgs. So far so good. Had to breathe into the breathalyzer this am and of course passed it no problem. I really want to drink a beer to celebrate my new job, but I can wait until Saturday. So far 70 mgs seems good. I'm a bit more tired toward the middle of the day than I was on 60mg or lower but so far the cravings aren't back and that's what I was going for. Side effects are still sweating when I do housework, difficulty with sexual climax, and urine retention ( I think that's the right term for it...when you gotta go, but it's difficult to go) and now tiredness by early afternoon (I dose at 6:30am). I find that as long as I'm up and doing something I'm fine, but as soon as I sit down I become super tired, like I could nap really easily. But I know if I DO nap it'll be a pain in the ass to wake up (as in I'll be super grumpy when I have to get up because I just want to stay in dreamland). My counselor did tell me yesterday that I have 45 days to play around with my dosage and to find the 'sweet spot' so to say. I'm actually thinking about going back down to maybe 60/65mgs. I guess we'll see tomorrow when I'm at work!

Really the new job isn't all that great...back to food service. And not even a full restaurant! It's a weird breakfast/pizza restaurant. The place has only been opened for about six months so it's still new and it's in a weird industrialized part of town (not many homes there, just car shops and warehouses) with day hours-7am-7pm. Not want I wanted to do, AND not what was suppose to happen either. My boyfriend was suppose to have a job right now and I was going to keep focusing on my birth business trying to build it up and sign on more clients but he hasn't got a job and we're outta stuff (like tp for the house and smokes for us) AND my internet bill is two months overdue and they will shut if off come Monday if half of it isn't paid AND it's halfway through the month and we have nothing in our rent/energy jar AND holiday's are coming up. With two children, autumn and winter are busy, expensive months for us as a family. Especially since three out of the four of us have birthdays in winter.

I'm actually really upset that my boyfriend doesn't have a job yet. Like pissed off even. I let him back in my life and two months later I'm flat broke with no way to get household items that I need for the house, I have nothing in my spare cash fund for smokes or extras, my bills are late, and the kicker? He introduced me to heroin and I was hooked and bought US hundreds of dollars in heroin (hence all my money gone). While it WAS my choice to accept his offer to try it (and I ought not to have, really I ought to have known better considering my 10 year opiate habit) who introduces heroin to someone they LOVE? Especially someone who you know has a control problem with opiates. I take full responsibility for my addiction and my choice to use heroin though. I'm just venting right now, as I am really pissed off at my boyfriend right now.

He told me in August (or was it end of July) that he was getting unemployment and that he would start paying off the back child support he owed me. Well that never happened. I don't even know what happened to his claim. I honestly think that he never followed up on it. I tried to walk him though the process (since I collected UI in 2013 for a minute) but he didn't want my help and that was ok. I would have rather him figure it all out himself as I don't want to enable him any longer.

Then he told me he'd have a job by the end of the week one week in August (early August I believe) from one of those labor ready (temp agency) places...and here were are in October...this kinda shit has gone on since we got back together. Getting back together happened too quick now that have some sober time under my belt. To be honest, looking back, I think it was the heroin that fucked up my brain and my judgement. When I was high I felt overly loving and happy and I just moved too fast. I don't think that he'd be living here right now if I had never began smoking heroin. But he is, and now I have to deal with that. I made some really stupid decisions while chasing the dragon and now I have to deal with the repercussions of those decisions.

I really wanted to kick him out today. He's super depressed again. He said he's been having panic attacks and that he doesn't feel it's fair that I'm dumping all this stress on his back. But I am NOT just dumping it. I've been warning him for the past few weeks that this is where things were going. Tried to let him know that I'm getting really worried about money issues and that because of that worry and upset I'm pushing him away. When we first got back together we were very lovey dovey and I saw smiles on his face and in his eyes (and that was new to me...he never smiled before and his eyes were always dull and lifeless). I thought that this time would be different. That he'd finally found himself and his motivation and everything. But I was wrong. Without the H he was back to being depressed. Which is one of the reasons we decided on the MMT program, but even that's not helping his depression. It's depressing to me! I'm using this program as a chance to reprogram my mind and habits. I'm trying the best I can to rebuild my life. For myself AND for my children. I was always a highly functioning addict but my money was always tied up in drugs. I'm looking forward to working (although I wish it was more birth work) and being able to save extra money and spend it on things that AREN'T DRUGS!! YAY!

Well...shit, once again my entry is kind of all over the place. I have to end it here. Got to round up work shoes and what not for tomorrow. Maybe my boyfriend will surprise me with him getting a job too today as he finally went out to find work. Maybe...

Part 20 Am I a Gold Digger who is going to marry a rich French woman for the French equivalent of a Green Card and an easy life of luxory?

I like it here. It’s like living in Disneyland. I want to stay. To stay here, I must keep renewing my visa. I have a job which takes care of that for me. But the problem is that I’m burned out. I’m sick of working in a
hierarchical structure beneath people who have agendas and who are nearly always significantly less educated and obviously less intelligence. I don’t like ignorant people who have poor judgement, who lack the knowledge to make good decisions, and who lack the insight to know they lack the knowledge and telling me what to do.

I went into medical research field because I wanted to be part of something bigger and to help people. Trying to solve a disease in an academic setting is altruistic. I don’t mind that the pay is low. In fact, during the last two years, I made more money spending a few hours per year clicking “buy” or “sell” in my brokerage account than I have slaving in the lab 80 hours a week each year for an idiot boss. The work conditions (working for somebody who is both incompetent and micromanaging) stifle the ability to work. Medical research is no longer valued in any Western country, at least not by the people who control the funding. Society’s funding priorities have shifted maintaining the war in Eurasia.

With Bill Clinton’s wife sure to be in the Whitehouse, the fighting is guaranteed to escalate to the point of a full scale conflict. She makes the Bushes look like Pacifists. She voted to invade Iraq, and then she single-handedly talked Obama into conducting military operations in Libya and Syria. Even Bush’s warmongering former advisors admonished her not to go into those regions on the grounds that it was too unstable. The entire region is much worse than it was before she began her meddling. It must be emphasized that the destruction she unleashed in the Middle East only the beginning of her scheme. It is her grand ambition to entrench the neoliberal New World Order of Reagan and George Bush the Elder into the region. She is working against her own old age. She knows she does not have many years left during which she will have the energy to act. That has made her impulsive and grandiose. My prediction is that after the region melts down into Gulf War 3, the economy will collapse so badly that the last eight years of economic malaise will look like the Good Old Days. While the rest of us suffer, she, her family, and her co-conspirators will profit immensely.

Not only is her politics degenerate, but her character is so low that she has launched a campaign to viciously attack and discredit the women her husband raped, groped, sexually harassed, and exploited.

I’m finished with America, and I never want to go back, not even to visit. I don’t have any friends or family there. My property in storage is just stuff. Most of it can be replaced. Even the things that are valuable like my sack of money, gold and jewels, artwork I have collected, high end bicycles and classic motorcycles, and irreplaceable things like the few childhood photos and souvenirs that exist, I can’t take them with me when I die.

My two cats were all I really wanted to bring here, but my last American girlfriend who said she loved them and promised to care for them locked them out of her flat and made them have to try to survive on the the streets of San Francisco. They got hit by cars. So fsck it.

In the US, marrying for a Green Card is a cottage industry. An American offers to marry a foreigner who wants to live in America for a fee.

Also in the US possibly the majority of women want to marry a millionaire. They write how-to books, produce TV shows, and make websites that offer to make the Gold Digger’s dream come true. These women will go to extremes and humiliate themselves if they think it will secure them a wedding ring. Whether or not the admit it, for these women, marriage is a form of prostitution, and they are the greedy whores. I despise Gold Diggers, and sometimes I hate hypocrites more than I hate Gold Diggers.

A solution fell into my lap. I have been seeing a French girl seriously for the last two months. She knows about my work and visa situation. She offered to marry me. She said I could quit my job and stay home and write.

She’s pretty, educated, kind, and rich. We share a lot of interests. I’m looking for a long term relationship and so is she. No big problems have come up. We haven’t tried living together yet to find out for sure. She says she’s in love with me. I love her, and it is about as intense as you can love somebody you have only known for two months. I told her I would think about it. What could possibly go wrong? I don’t know, but why would somebody make such an offer? Since when does an unobtainable rich Parisien woman propose marriage to a poor foreigner? It sounds too good to be true.

Today marks a year since I was lying on the bathroom floor after I overdosed on heroin, vodka, and xanax. I had thrown up blood and lost touch of reality. All I remember is everything blurring and I could barely breath. I just wanted it all to end, but at the same time I didn't want to die. I was so scared and then I blacked out as the girl in the other room nodded off. She enjoyed her high as I held on for dear life in her bathroom, alone and afraid. However, somehow I eventually came back to reality and pulled myself off her bathroom floor on my hands and knees. I still don't know how I managed to get up off that bathroom floor because honestly I shouldn't have been able to, but by the grace of God I managed to. I still lack the faith I should, but that night there had to have been someone of higher power watching out for me. I should have died, but I didn't.

A year ago, that same night my very good friend who took the same concoction died. I don't want to go through all the details because trust me I re-live it everyday. The liquid that came out of him still feels as if it remains on my hands and the sound of his dying breaths still can be heard. I try and try to shake it, but I can't. That experience was one of the worst situations that I have ever been through. The thoughts of if I wasn't so fucked up would he still be alive… repeats in my head all the time. I still can't graps the fact that he died and I didn't. He had a life going for him and three kids. I didn't. I was suicidal as fuck at that time and was being self destructive. I didn't care. I wanted to die. I didn't want to make it to 21. Yet, I still am here and he isn't. I know it's not my fault, but then again, I don't know at the same time. I wish I did, but I can't let that night plague my life or memories of him. All the good memories we've shared will forever remain in my heart. He was/is such an amazing person with an anazing heart. Rest in peace

A year later today, I am somehow now at a better place. I will never forget that night and yes, I am still going through it; however, I have to keep going. It took me months to realize it and months of continuing to be strungout on dope. I kept using to numb the pain of what I believed to be a pathetic life. Then one day everything changed. I realized I couldn't keep going this way and so I had to do things differently. I didn't plan it. It just came to me that this would be the day I would stop. This would be the day I would stop being self destructive and filled with self hatred. It was literally the morning before my 21st birthday. It was so strange because for once I felt as if things were going to become better. I don't know why, but I just did. I even started to feel happy for once. It was crazy and I was even scared. It was so long since I've experienced this emotion and simply by just waking up. I thought at times this can't be true… it was going to go away… this was all a mere tease and my happiness would fade. Thankfully I finally told myself that it wasn't and I had to believe that good things were possible.

So ever since that day in September I have been clean from heroin and I am doing so well. I have a lot to still do, but I can proudly say I've accomplished a lot so far too. I feel like a person again. I feel as if I have a soul for once. I really can't explain how I feel exactly, but I feel amazing. I wish my friend was here to experience this with me. I wish he was just here period. Sadly, I can't change the fact that he died, but I can move forward knowing in time that things will be alright. I don't want his death to be in vain and trust me I've learned a lot from it. I will never take life for granted again. Life is too beautiful. Yes, I still feel down sometimes, but I don't stay down anymore. I find ways to bring myself up and my friends as well as my family help me with open arms. I am grateful for you guys. I am grateful for this second chance at life.

I'm going post some stream of consciousness entries. I write them uninterrupted and don't edit them except for the worst of the spelling errors.

The faubourg Saint-Germain was green and lush. Plane trees shaded the streets. Lavender, fragrant in the heat, was blooming in courtyard gardens and window pots all around the neighborhood. The smell permeated the streets.

The faubourg Saint-Germain is one of the most chic neighborhoods in Paris. It has some of the most quintessentially Parisian buildings, is full of houses of dead poets and artists, has some of the most well-known museums, and has some terrific restaurants.

The streets were relatively quiet today. A lot of people were abroad for the summer holiday. Still, some people were throwing parties. Tonight’s party was near the Quai de Voltaire at a restaurant that had been privatized. This restaurant has a covered courtyard garden with a second level of tables on the mezzanine.


find a photo that shows courtyard

I arrived early. I sit in a dark corner for a while before it got crowded and I had to start talking to people. I found a table half hidden under a potted tree. I work full time at a lab and don’t get much time to write. I got in a full hour of writing before I had to speak to anybody other than the host.

My author friend Benoit arrived, and a waiter brought us wine. Benoit introduced me to a French girl, Laetitia. I was surprised. In the past, he has only introduced me to non-European women. Like me, he avoids women of western European ancestry on account of their reputation for being superficial and false. I find MIddle Eastern, Asian, and African women to be easier to approach and relate to, and they more often make loyal friends. Laetitia is blond, blue, tall, thin, and sportive. I was reluctant to talk to her. Had he not introduced her and vouched for her, I would have avoided speaking to her and never even made eye contact with her. Like most French girls, she was elegant, dressed nicely, graceful, educated, and cultured.

French women and in particular Parisian women are feminine and are comfortable being feminine. Those qualities are all things I like but are increasingly hard to find in America. My generation of American women dress, talk, and act like the female version of Beavis and Butthead. It’s okay if some people like that, but it’s not my thing.

I have tried hard to learn to screen the rotten girls from the good. For me, it’s a matter of life and death. I’ve put my complete trust in some stinkers. I gave an example about how I almost died before I learned to screen them when I wrote about the Millennium Slut. I've tried to find a girlfriend , a keeper, and have learned to be picky about who they are; . she has to be highly educated or have talents. I never thought about it before, but most of the girls I have gone out with in France are wealthy. I’m a poor foreigner, and here, there is not such a big class barrier in meeting women. Contrary to the US, in Europe, wealth, meaning OLD money, appears to correlate with education, intelligence, and good taste. In the US, I have found a negative correlation with the same thing but a positive correlation with a sense of entitlement and lack of empathy. As for morals, any American trailer park or ghetto has a higher proportion of people with better character than the American upper caste.

Most people don’t know this because the upper caste has become self-isolating. The American upper caste has built its walls to keep out the riffraff. The walls are in the form of the high cost of accessing their hangouts. They don’t want the rest of us to see them close up. The times they are among the non-rich, they are condescending and treat the rest of us like trash. The American upper caste is exemplified by people like Donald Trump, the Bushes, Kardassians, and the Clintons. To be fair, I met some wealthy American expats here who are not like that. Some explain that they relocate here to get away from that mindset.

Maybe it is not just the rich. Most American Women of all castes treat me like trash. My last American girlfriend was from a poor family, and she had the bad taste to go with it. Worse, she was unwilling or unable to see her many stigmata and make improvements. She stopped working on herself after college.

I’ll rant about three of her stigmata. She did not have a moral or political problem with shopping at Walmart. I do.


random non-gross photo of walmart from internet


Despite the fact that I grew up white trash, I had never set foot in a Walmart until I met her. I began reading at a young age and was horrified at Walmart’s dirty secrets. My parents didn’t know and didn’t care when I told them how unethical Walmart was. As if chinese slave labor that made it’s consumer goods isn’t appalling enough, and if the fact that it drove thousands of small local businesses into bankruptcy, the fact that many things that comes from Walmart break the first time you use it should scare away anybody with common sense. But Aelyssa always had an excuse to go to Walmart. I’d rather pay twice as much, go hungry, go without whatever they sold cheaply, and ride my bike 10 miles in the rain than get it at Walmart. The highlight of my parents’ life was watching TV. I had never owned a TV until met her.

I’m allergic to a few kinds of food. Pork is one of them, but that didn’t stop my parents from trying to make me eat it every day. Pork was one of my parents’ favorite foods. Ironically, my father was a Jew, but like most poor people in America, he loved pork. And like many uneducated people in America, he did not believe in allergies. He even cooked it himself - my mother had a mental illness and almost never cooked. They usually ate it three times a day. it started in the morning with a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and fried pig brains. What began as a fat piece of raw bacon looked like a burnt stick when he was done cooking it. It was always charred all the way through. While it cooked, it emitted heavy clouds of smoke and often caught fire. The kitchen did not have an exhaust fan and the windows did not open. The smoke would get so thick that it burned my eyes, and I could not breath. The smoke was oily, and it would get in my clothes. On school days, I would go around all day smelling like rancid grease. If poverty has a smell, that would be it. Afternoons for my parents were often barbecued pork ribs or a ham sandwich. Salted and cured ham was popular with him. He snacked on chitlins and pork rinds. Suppers, when he cooked, were often pork chops, pigs feet, or ham.

I never liked pork, but when I turned 10 or so, I could no longer even force myself to eat it. Whenever I tried, it made me violently sick and gave me a rash. Still, they always scolded me for not eating it. My parents didn’t believe in allergies and called me a sissy. They said I was pretending to be sick for attention. Allergies were invented by “greedy doctors,” my parents’ term for the medical establishment.

I had mostly been able to avoid it and not eaten a pork chop since I was 10. An exception was when I met my last American girlfriend Aelyssa. Once, she guilted me into eating it despite the fact that I had told her several times recently before that I was allergic to pork. I came home from work one night and found the dining room table laid out for a fancy dinner. There were candles, and it was set with a full meal and cocktails. There several dishes including vegetables, homemade bread, cakes, pudding, and meat. I thought it was a steak. I was happy to see a steak. I had been hinting that I would like to grill some steak. I was impressed and took a photo.




She explained that her father said he knows that a woman is a good cook if she can cook a pork chop correctly. Then she is someone to marry. Her father is Archie Bunker, and sadly, whatever that old fool says is golden to her. That’s when I realized it was a pork chop.

It was obvious she had spent the whole day cooking. It was my birthday which I had not told her about. It was also the first time she prepared an elaborate meal. I wanted to be grateful. I did not remind her for what would have been the 10th time that I cannot eat pork without risking death. There was some medicine in the bathroom that which should prevent a reaction if I took it in time. I thought I would be safe. I ate it and told her what a good cook she was.

Around 3AM, I was jolted into consciousness when I crashed to the floor. I was writhing on the floor next to the bed, my lungs full of vomit. I tried to gasp and my lungs made a raspy, choking sound. I thrashed around and crawled to the wall where I tried to claw a hole through the small window where it met the second story roof and the floor. I didn’t know where I was or what was happening, but I knew I might die. I had been in a dead sleep, and when my oxygen-starved brain realized what was happening, I tried to perform the Heimlich Manouevre on myself. I broke a lamp and knocked over some other furniture.

The lights flashed on. My gf was standing behind me screaming, “ Are you drunk! Are you on drugs! What is your problem! Get back to bed!“ I had never seen her that mad before.

I eventually coughed some of it out and got out enough fluid from my lungs that I could breath again. I vomited out chunks of undigested pork chop. I looked at my hands. My skin was blue all the way up to my shoulders. I realized she would have let me die.

I had puked in my sleep and choked on it. That’s how drunks die. I only had one glass of wine and no drugs that night. When I got back from washing out my mouth in the bathroom, she scolded me for wasting a perfectly good meal and making a mess in the room. She didn’t believe in allergies either.

The last month has been pretty damn rough for me. I picked up an addiction to benzos at the end of August and it gradually got worse until things came to a head. I wrecked my car into a guardrail while pretty high on coke and some RC benzo. It didn't do terminal damage and I was able to keep driving home so I didn't get arrested but my family was pissed so in all my benzo'd out wisdom I told them what was going on with my dependence. The next day they made me go to the emergency room where I was admitted to detox off benzos.

It was a pretty miserable experience even though I had a private room and the worlds fastest Ativan taper. The hospital kept pushing me to go into there month long inpatient rehab program which would have forced me to quit methadone maintenance without so much as a taper. I knew it was a horrible idea but trying to fight off aggressive sales people in the midst of having your mind bent by withdrawals was a difficult experience. They kept telling my mom methadone maintenance was the same thing as being a heroin addict and all that 12 step propaganda. To her credit she stood strong for the most part as she has seen how much maintenance has improved my life over the last year. In the end they lied and said I could do outpatient treatment and stay on methadone. When I got out I found that was totally untrue I would still be required to quit methadone.

The whole experience reinforced my belief that most all drug rehabs are completely out of touch with reality. I wonder how many people are convinced to get off maintenance get there money taken then sent home to relapse and die after 30 days. Hell I still would have been dope sick after 30 days. The whole idea was insanity. There is a reason opioid relapse rates are above 90 percent. Rehab programs are unequipped to deal with the unique problems of patients like me.

The whole experience has further motivated me too pursue activism in an aggressive manner on behalf of all maintenance patients. If I ever get my shit together enough to finish my degree I am going to open a halfway house and outpatient rehab program that accepts maintenance patients. Not only is the service desperately needed I feel there is money to be made. I always say I have no problem with the 12 steps but I cant help but feel like its influence has had a negative effect on the quality of drug treatment in this country.

I am still hurting from the benzo withdrawal but I am hanging tough even though I had a slip up 2 days ago. I am really hoping that I feel better sooner rather then later but from what I have read its going to be a long recovery.

I went up to 70mgs today and I'm really hoping that I found my sweet spot, so to speak! I'm feeling really good today but really I'll know in another day or two as normally after a dose increase I've been good for about two-three days before I start craving again. Like I said, I'm really hoping 70mgs holds me. My boyfriend doesn't know I'm up this high. He's on 40mg and he started the program about a week before I did. A part of me doesn't really want him to know because I think he'll give me crap about it (we both talked about staying as low as possible) but I really don't want to want to use anymore and I think he just wants to not be sick and still have the ability to get high on top of his dose. I'm not sure. We're both at different places in our recovery.

Oh, so I wrote the other day about my failed UA for alcohol and I thought everything was peachy since I talked with my counselor yesterday before I dosed but when I asked to increase this morning I was told I had to wait while they talked to my counselor. I guess they are just as strict with alcohol as they are with benzos at my clinic because I have to blow a breathalyzer every morning before I dose for 60 days and if I fail just once I'll be tapered back down to 60mg. I'm kinda pissed off by that because I really like going out to my bar once in a while after work on Mondays and I enjoy a few drinks some nights! It's not like I'm drinking like a fish or anything. But really why I'm upset about it is because when I went through induction I wasn't told this policy. My counselor stressed benzos to the max and that was fine with me because I don't abuse benzos. They are great for when I have panic attacks or when I need to abort a trip, but I RARELY use them. I think I've taken one Xanax in all of 2016. My patient handbook also doesn't say that about alcohol like it does benzos. Shit so now the only night I can drink is Saturday nights because the clinic is closed on Sunday (automatic takehome!). I'm trying to not let it effect me too much, but again occasionally if I'm craving (but not having w/d) I'll grab a tall boy of PBR and a shooter of whiskey and that'll help, but now I can't even do that at night because I don't want to fail my breathalyzer. But I don't want to go up either. I have read that as you go up, so do the unwanted side effects. Right now the major pain in the ass side effect I'm dealing with is sweating! Ugh the littlest physical exertion causes me to sweat like a pig and in turn makes me break out! I haven't EVER had acne like this, not even in puberty/high school. That and not being able to orgasm...that one is a bitch! I get horny like crazy horny, but I just can't climax and it's super frustrating.

Well, that's all I got for today. I'm sure I could write a ton more, but I have shit I gotta do instead of just sit at the computer all day. Finally finished both Methadone mega threads...finally. Shit that took FOREVER! But I did it, and now I feel like I can post in V2.0 now. Until tomorrow

I had to talk to my counselor today before I was allowed to dose. Last Tuesday morning I had to pee in a cup (at least I'm not watched!) and failed for alcohol that I drank last Monday after work. Got the lecture about how alcohol and benzos are big no no's at the clinic and how I could die if I mixed methadone and alcohol and all that jazz. Ugh...I don't know how I feel about not being able to drink...at all! I mean, at night, when the cravings get real bad, I would like to be able to reach for a beer and a shot to help. At least I can smoke pot and it not effect my take homes (when I get them)

I'm still trying to decide if I want to go up to 70mg. A part of me does because I'm still thinking about using a large part of the day. I'm not sure if I want to go up to 70mg because I know I'll get that warm glow again OR if it's because at 70mg my tolerance is raised so high that taking oxy wouldn't do jack shit. Or if it's a mix of both... I just don't know.

I had two take homes this last weekend because a) my clinic is closed on Sunday on the regs, and b) Monday was Columbus Day and my clinic closed for that. Weird because my boyfriend's clinic wasn't closed yesterday. A bunch of different thoughts ran through my mind about what to do with my take homes. I contemplated taking an extra 10 or so mgs with my Sunday dose, hoping to get high a bit. I contemplated taking less on Sunday and take more on Monday, hoping to get a high a bit. I thought about not taking my take home dose at all on Sunday and keeping it locked away as an emergency dose (I work as a labor doula and if I were to get called at say 3am to a birth and that birth lasted until 3pm the next day I'd be screwed on dosing that day, so having that emergency take home squirreled away seems like a really good idea). I figured that I could either just skip dosing altogether OR I could take a bunch of oxy and save my take home. However, I didn't do any of that and just took my take homes like I'm suppose to. I figured that if I did anything other than take my doses the way I'm suppose to I would fuck up the tiny bit of energy or glow that I am getting at 60mg and would definitely have to go up to 70mg and then I'd feel super guilty as well. I don't want to fuck around with the methadone. The reason I got on the program to begin with was because I was tired of my drug seeking behavior and the cycle of addiction...the ups and downs, etc. etc. etc..

I battle the urge to get high each day. And each day I don't get high is a victory and a step closer to reprogramming my brain and one day breaking free of the cycle of addiction. I've thought about Ibogaine many times as well...I've heard/read that Ibogaine can completely wash away the want to get high. I am worried that even if I get clean and don't use, in my head there will always live the urge to get high...the desire will never go away.

Today went mostly well, until the end of the day. Toward the end of the afternoon I start to get restless, cold/hot sweats, anxiety and a giant craving to use. Maybe it's just because I have 110 perky C's sitting in my cabinet just calling out to me. On top of all those symptoms my boyfriend and I aren't as connected as we would both like to be (I'll probably dive into that in a future post) so that's causing major issues and my daughter's ratties are either fighting each other for dominance of the cage OR they have mites (which is going to either take money or time or both): trigger...shit, who am I kidding? Right now I'm still looking for an excuse to use. I don't want to be. I fought it hard lately. I really really really don't want to want to use. Ugh I was talking with my boyfriend the last couple days about my cravings as I've been trying to be completely honest with him (and he was suppose to be doing the same). Well all of a sudden he asked to get the keys because he had a few errands to run. I was surprised by this because the only thing we needed was salad. I was hoping that maybe he was going to get me a beer and a shot or something to help me get over the cravings. I kept asking him where he was going and as he was walking out the door he finally told me he was going to his guy's house. I told him no. I said don't spend money on H (we're pretty fucking broke and I thought we were completely broke). He said he wasn't going to spend money. When asked why he said that he replied "well you were saying that you were thinking of taking your pills so I figured I'd just pick something up". I broke down and said well, ok, do what you want. He ended up not going and I ended up breaking down and using. Ugh...I think I might have to go up tomorrow.

I don't necessarily want to be on 70mg but then again if I'm up there maybe it will jack my tolerance up so high that I won't be able to feel oxy. And I see now that I can't rely on my boyfriend to really be a rock when I'm toeing the line. Maybe 70 mg will be my sweet spot. I was almost there. I fought the cravings for a long time *for me*. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow I won't use. I don't want to.

i want to thank my higher power for being able to make it this long in my recovery.

hey, my names drew and i am an alcoholic.

i belong to 2 home groups, (dark side of the spoon, and friday night fights)
i also belong to a mens only ymca support group.

Just want to let my friends on bluelight know that I am alive and well.

I'm currently in a long-term treatment program, and wont be graduating it anytime soon.

love you all,

drew

Today marks exactly two weeks since I started the mmt program. It wasn't a decision made lightly. I had mulled over getting on methadone many times over the last few years but with Kratom being banned any day now, and blowing through hundreds of dollars in less than a month chasing the dragon I figured it was time. I am tired of being broke, and if/when I get money I'm tired of spending it on dope-on something that goes up in smoke. I want to be able to spend the money on my children. On hobbies. On household items like toilet paper and dish soap when I run out. I'm tired of being sick and tired all the time. Of going on binges and then needing at least a week to stabilize on kratom again. I'm tired of worrying that each dose of oxy I take may be my last due to liver failure.

Both my boyfriend and I decided to get on methadone as we both have a decade or more of opiate use under our belts. Mine began in 2006 and his began when he was 15 (maybe younger), and the ups and downs of opiate addiction could have had a major strain on our broken relationship. We've been together almost 11 years and I can't remember a time when we weren't using. There were times when we weren't physically dependent and only "chipping" but I would be lying to myself if I didn't admit that we've been dancing and battling addiction for a long time.

So...methadone. Liquid handcuffs. The juice. My first real opiate about a decade ago. I tried 30mgs just to see why my boyfriend took it every day. And I was non-tolerant at that time. And I spent over two days sick to my stomach, vomiting anytime I moved or put anything into my tummy. And I didn't learn. And now here I am, ten years later, on a dose of 60mg/day waiting to stabilize on it.

I'm still not sure how I feel about it. One on hand I feel great about it. I am getting up every day at 6am to go to the clinic and dose and then back just in time for the girls to wake up. At first I was biking to the clinic, which is about a mile or so away, but then my bike needed fixing to I began taking the bus to the clinic. Still waking up at 6am to head out the door by 6:15am, catch the bus at 6:21, dose by 6:30ish and then catch the bus back and walk in the door by 7am when my girls wake up. Now I'm using my boyfriend's car to dive to the clinic, still trying to set my alarm to wake early and I can't wait to get my bike back to start biking again. I enjoy biking to the clinic because it gets me up early in the morning and it wakes me up! Gets endorphins pumping through my system and helps me shake off the methadone sleepiness. With any opiate (and methadone especially due to it's long half life) it's so easy to fall back into a deep sleep. If I had my doses at home already (like when I was using my oxy) it was so difficult to get my ass outta bed in the morning and my mornings would SUCK! And that made me depressed because I have two young children, 8.5 and 2.5 and I really wanted to be the kind of mom who was up and showered and ready for the day to begin before they were up. I wanted them to wake up to me already being up and awake and happy, unlike my mom. Growing up my mother was an alcoholic and many mornings were spent just my sister and me alone, with me tending to my sister.

Another reason I want to start biking to the clinic again every morning once my bike is fixed (instead of driving the car) is because eventually I know that I will get take homes, and even further down the road I will have to start tapering off methadone (some day...maybe waaaaaay down the line or maybe sooner than later...I really don't know right now) and the habit of going to the clinic every morning is going to be an addiction all in itself. So by biking to the clinic every day I'm creating a routine of getting out of the house and exercising every morning. When I start getting take homes I plan on continuing to get up early and hoping on my bike. I don't want my only routine in the am is driving to the clinic because when that goes away I'll be screwed again and I think it'd be extra hard to get off the 'done when the time is right.

Where was I...oh yes...pro's of mmt. A stable dose of opiates in my system means that I won't be constantly up and down in my emotions and I won't have days at a time where I'm really down and unmotivated because I am in w/d or recovering from it. It's also really helping me curb cravings...not 100% YET, but better than kratom ever did! I've had 120 Percocet's in my possession for four days now. Before mmt I would probably only have half of the script left right now, but I still have 110 left! I broke down the first day I picked up my script and took ten of them, and then felt VERY guilty for it, which in turn wrecked havoc on my attitude. I have had some pretty major cravings and Saturday I asked to go up from 55mg to 65mg because of my cravings, but I was told that I had to wait and talk to my counselor before they upped me. I guess my UA came up dirty for alcohol and that's a big no no at the clinic. Now I knew that benzos and methadone were a big no no and if I ever came up dirty for benzos that I wouldn't be allowed to go over 60mg, but I didn't know that alcohol would do the same. My counselor wasn't there because it was a Saturday but they allowed me to go up 5mg to 60mg because they didn't want me to use since I was having really bad cravings. Two weeks ago when I started the program I was started at 30mg. The 30mg was ok, but didn't relieve everything so the next day I asked to go up 5mg. The dosing nurse recommended me go up 10mg, but at that time I was still hellbent on trying to stay at the lowest dose possible so I didn't get all the nasty side effects that come with higher doses AND I know what a bitch methadone is to come off of, so I thought a lower dose would be best.

I stayed at 35mg for a day or two before I asked to go up to 45mg. I was really surprised at how good I felt! I was super productive. My mind wasn't on getting high all the time. I was able to be present with my children and I didn't just "get through the day" like I have been for years. I was enjoying being alive again. It was nice. I've been reading through any and all threads, including the mega threads on methadone here on bluelight so I could be knowledgeable about the program. I keep reading that when you hit your dose, you'll know it. I'm not sure what that means. I don't want to chase the high from methadone, but what I do want to be content with it. I guess I'm not understanding what it is that makes a certain dose the right dose for someone. Is it a part of the makeup of methadone that takes the cravings away, or is it the slight glow you get from it at a certain dose? Does that glow stay with you for as long as your on methadone? Or does it go away?

Well, I think I've officially lost my train of thought here. I do tend to have that problem when writing...I have an outline in my head but when I start writing I end up on tangents and then the flow of my writing gets all wacky. Oh well. It's not like I'm writing for anyone other than myself and my own progress. If anyone wants to comment they can, but this is my way to document my road to recovery...or something like that lol. I'm going to try and write something each day. It's one of my goals that I'm setting for myself. There are so many things I want to accomplish every day and in the long run. I decided that since I took the plunge with methadone maintenance I might as well take this opportunity to break old habits and forge the way for new, healthy ones!

I got fanart for one of my fanfiction stories that I wrote and it's pretty amazing fanart and I'm showing it to anyone who wants to see it!

I'm warning you, though, it's pretty bloody and just plain creepy, so I'm putting it behind NSFW tags. It depicts the last scene of one of my stories.