Here is My Real Head series Pt. 1

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson

I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 
Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust

Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

 

     One of the things I’ve deemed most important for me to do is to face things I’m afraid of. It strongly ties in with the quote I assigned the year 2010, ‘Find what you are afraid of, face it, and then you won’t be afraid of it anymore.’ [Marilyn Manson, 1998]  Not that I never did before 2010, but now more than ever I’ve recognized its importance, particularly its importance in my life.
     I’m afraid of a few physical things. Sharks, tornadoes, and getting water in my eyes, to name a few. However, the majority of my fears have always upheld residency in the psychological or sociological realm. I am so well groomed still to this very day that I am frequently terrified of speaking what’s really on my mind. If not terrified, the fear persists on an unnatural scale of appropriateness.
     As a child, I used to secretly draw pictures of my dad with another family because I wasn’t brave enough to tell him that his actions led me to believe that he wanted to leave me and our ‘family’ (loosely used). Years later when he found one of the scrawlings, horrifyingly in my presence, I was deeply ashamed.

     Whenever I reflect back to those instances or ones similar, I shake my head at my childhood self. I wish I could lend her a helping hand, or some useful advice. I wish I could tell her to not fear being as brave as she really wanted to be, no matter what anyone tried to convince her with otherwise. I wish I could tell her how to escape the inevitable outside party conditioning after her own shampooing, but I don’t even have a substantial solution. I wish I could have saved myself for the child’s sake, for me then and for me now, but the lyric ‘there’s no one here to save ourselves’ [‘Man That You Fear’, Marilyn Manson] has never rung truer in my ears.

     Today I decided I wanted to list some things that are my completely honest opinions about the topic discussed. I am showing you my ‘real head’ without any reservations watering my beliefs. Fear-ladden, some. But today I am bravery stricken and bravery is self-contagious.

(This got to be nearly 2,700 words and seven pages long in Microsoft Word, so I am going to split it up into parts that have relative topics. I’ll post them in daily succession. Thank you for reading!)

1. Addiction

     I consider the title ‘addict’ the middle stepping stone of anything relating to the sorts of drugs, alcohol, cutting, sex, etc. The first stone is active participation, the second stone is claiming addiction as a state of being and existing, and the third stone is realizing you don’t necessarily have to be stuck in that mindset forever. It’s realizing NA, AA, SMA, etc. is all a form of brainwashing watered down by society into acceptability. Were these groups advocating something of a different topic, it would be a church or a cult which are equally despicable by various parties, and equally despicable by me personally.
     Not everyone can be strong enough to hop to the third stone, I am at terms with that and hold no resentment towards people that haven’t taken that leap, even if I feel they’re capable of landing safely. By no means, however, do I consider it a leap of faith. It is a reality to me, unless otherwise proved by something scientific.
     Your body is not eternally addicted to physically addictive drugs as far as I know, and you can change your mind to dispel whatever mental addiction subsides, at the least enough so that you won’t partake again. It’s a conscious choice we must make if we want to live happily without constantly being reminded of our faults and past, and I know with me personally it made me feel worse than better. Last time I checked, in any other form that’s considered dwelling, and frowned upon by the populations of major societies when it comes to any other subject like past relationships, or a poor childhood. No one wants to hear you whine or offer up the same excuses for everything, so why is it okay here? Well in my opinion it shouldn’t be, but because it keeps a majority of past ‘abusers’ under control, it’s a popular remedy.
     It’s important to remember that with the help of NA, AA, SMA, etc., you’re ultimately making the decision on whether or not to repeat your actions. The group may be offering something to your table of guilt, but are they really offering up respectable plates of reason? It’s important to come to terms with why you’re not still repeating your past behaviors. Do you genuinely not want to, or are you not because someone else is telling you to? Although the brainwashing can work, it doesn’t work forever, and it’s hardly different than the church convincing you their spiritual scriptures are what create your morals. Your genetics have and always will write your morality, as your mind will always inscribe what behaviors you do and do not participate in.

2. Self Mutilation 
     I don’t consider self mutilation in the form of cutting necessarily an addiction. I recognize that endorphins are released in the brain as a feeling of release when the act is carried through, and perhaps that does add a physical addictive attribute to the act. In my opinion, it doesn’t have as strong of a backing as drugs or alcohol. I believe that it’s favored by many, therefore allowing it the popular label of ‘addiction’ by society.

     I have experienced many mindsets when self mutilating, the most popular being dissociation without memory of the act, spur of the moment anger, rage, or sadness, and as a show of control over my physical behavior. I have upheld the last one listed within the past two weeks a single time, and I do not regret it. I wasn’t sad, and I am not sad now over the fact of my behavior. I am proud actually, proud of my control that it began and ended when and where it did, among other things.
     I don’t consider myself an addict any longer. I finally realize that I am above something that doesn’t even exist. Being an idea isn’t existence, otherwise all church or cult sermons—who can tell the difference anymore—would be true. I got caught up in believing something that wasn’t true, not all too uncommon of human beings, ha.

A Syntax of Self-Annihilation

Recorded by Alexis Mullino
from 5:15 PM 8 December 2009
through 2:43 AM 9 December 2009

"Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze 
into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche

    The following of what you are about to read will in no way grant me personal gratification. At most, it has the capability of producing embarrassment due to my shame, grammatical errors, improper use of words, and the commentary of spectators.

    My reason for publicizing this very private flow of conscious is exclusively for the purpose of helping others who also experience nights of torture at the superiority of their free-thinking minds by clearly expressing that I am not afraid to be honest. As it follows anything I release of similar motive, I am left in the frightening aftermath of hoping someone will let my exploitation and sacrifice impact them positively instead of ignoring everything said and simply mocking me.

    With attempts at writing my history into an auto-biographical format of various sorts, the abyss has taunted me with provocation unmatched to anything it has ever exhibited before. As strong as I have forcibly designed myself to be and as far as I may have come so far, I am no exception to being regularly tormented by the seemingly clockwork mind commonly shared by those previously or currently victimized by something or other.

    I always feel most comfortable in someone else’s darkness as opposed to my own, but I can’t hold residency there forever. In owning my darkness, I hope it provides others with the authenticity that they are not alone in theirs. Although we may not find much realism amongst our darkest thoughts, recognizing I am not alone is quite possibly the most realistic thing my mind has ever thunk.

    Interpret these declarations for what you will. It’s likely I wrote from my mind following my usual manner, but rereading what I barely remember recording, I wonder if perhaps my heart finally saw a chance to reveal itself in writing due to my distress, owing to the fact that I was in no condition to repress it like I normally do. Regardless, take them for whatever you need to so you may better understand yourself.

    5:15 PM- What a feeling it is to be able to indulge in your desired behaviors. I shall drink this water till I am sick, lest my jeans do not fit. Come forth darkness. Come. Forth.

    5:16 PM- To create you must first destroy. Myself is not excluded.

    5:56 PM- I am fighting demons— and for what? So I can temporarily break free from my ‘demons’, which are actually just a frowned upon part of me, and still exist dissatisfied? Come one, come all, Alexis. Be all that you have created yourself to be, reluctantly or not.

    5:59 PM- I taste metal everyday. There’s no one here to save ourself. I.. this is what you should fear. you are what you should fear. Nothing more, nothing less. So says my trusted influence, savior, saint. SAINT.

    8:29 PM- I know I’m in second place.

    9:29 PM- My life is a re-run of things I didn’t learn from.

    9:36 PM- I am too terrified.

    9:45 PM- “I’m not an artist, I’m a fucking work of art.” Can my body be included? By the way, it’s mine. I can do what I want, opinions of others do not matter. Weakness? It’s a conscious choice. I could kill everything that I am, only to be reborn tomorrow. However the choice resides in whether I want the rebirth to take place within this current body, or another.

    9:50 PM- I am pushing everyone away because I don’t want to be talked out of feeling how I obviously want to feel. Let me suffer without additional confliction. Do not suppress me. I might as well kill myself, I’m already dead.

    9:53 PM- I am numb from your power. Absolutely numb.

    9:53 PM- God has come.

    10:18 PM- How long will THIS episode last? Can I beat weeks ago’s record time?

    Unknown- There have been so many mistakes made I have been expected to pay for. I only have enough money for myself.

    11:57 PM- All I feel is eyes when there is none. Don’t cry now because it doesn’t affect me. Pointless behaviors pointlessly expressing your pseudo-care. I am scared to speak for all ears will hear me, but all I feel is eyes when there is none.

    12:11 AM- I always wanted everything to just be okay. I wanted stability, and I was passed up. All attempts are now futile.

    12:53 AM- As always, once ‘everyone’ is back in their comfort zone I am left alone to remain suffering. You are nothing to me after today.

    2:43 AM- Sometimes not knowing what to do next is good. However, I cannot evolve standing still. I must love in the only direction left— forward.

    This is quite possibly one of the hardest things I have yet to publish. I tremble with fear, yet my desire to hold strength for others until they can hold it themselves surpasses any selfish fright or worry I have. It is important to remember that everything I am, all that I study, and all that I do is all for you if you allow it to be. I have proclaimed before, "I will be your savior and servant if you let me."

Now we'll play my game.

"When you figure out those things...you let me know."

We'll play your way.


If you want to unload your responsibilities on me, they will be dealt with in how I deem appropriate. I am vicious, I can and will go all the way. Before I send anyone crying let me get one thing clear-- I don't hurt people, people let what I do and say hurt them. It sounds like a malicious excuse, but we're all guilty of self-inflicting the pain we feel. At times, even I have let what people have said and done hurt me. However, I'm mainly just annoyed by people. They can take my revenge however their strength allows. I have to make a lot of determining choices right now. Do I push through, or do I barrel through? I can become a bulldozer, but how many insects will I hurt along the way to my target of demolishment?


My family always told me I didn't deserve to be treated like I was growing up, but now I'm not sure what has changed since they told me that lie. Do they believe I deserve to be treated like shit now? What changed between being an innocent child, and being a victimized teenager? Does that mean I needed to become the target of resentment, because that's exactly what's happening. I know I don't deserve to be treated this way, or to have this life. I have done nothing.


Let me sarcastically apologize dear family, for being molested by five different people on numerous occasions throughout my life, for being addicted to self mutilation since I was twelve years old, for two of you walking out on me, for not being aborted. I know how much that affected YOU, you selfish excuses for caring human beings. If you have any wonder in your mind that maybe you're someone I'm talking to-- you are. If I ever feel my purpose has dissipated, it will be one of the last day of my life. Perhaps it's a good thing I learned how self mutilation can destroy a person, because I can never lose sight of what matters. It will be my very end.

"Hope I don't look weak, cause when the wolf cry you still see that wolf teeth motha fucka." - Lil Wayne

Denying hysterics

     Anxiety often plagues me, even though it probably shouldn't considering I take Vyvanse every morning before my eyelids are even completely open and aware of the world. A big part of my conscience believes—or chooses to believe—that it's just excitement though, and who's to tell me I shouldn't be excited? I am a seventeen year old fairly attractive girl that's not a mother, pregnant, on drugs, in a relationship, and my life is nearly completely void of restriction on what I do when I want to do it. I am assuming so because my parents trust me enough with typical daily-do's that they let me create my own boundaries— which I do. I also don't have any problems in my life that I cannot handle alone, therefore I'm a pretty stable, free person. Or teenager, your pick depending on how much you respect me.

     I've wondered if my anxiety/excitement brews from the fact that I like building up casual events to seem like extravagant evenings that only exist in fairy tales. A perfect example is watching movies at home. For the majority of the time we spend together, a friend of mine comes over at night and we watch at least one movie that we've typically decided on earlier in the afternoon. Throughout the entire day I'll pump myself up about the movie, repeating in my head and out-loud to anyone who's willing to listen about how amazing and kickass this cinematic experience is going to be, even if I think I won't like the movie or if I've already seen it. On occasion, I'll even try to get him pumped about it, by talking about it if we happen to be on the phone, or texting him asking him if he's as excited as I am, silly stuff like that. This is irrelevant to my point, but by the time the movie ha actually made it into the DVD player, I am so ecstatic for something that's really not that exciting that I sit on the edge of the couch for a good fifteen minutes into the movie. I'm almost to the point of being unable to contain myself. Eventually though, whoever I'm watching the movie with gets me to relax and sit back. Regardless of my calmed exterior, I still hop up several times throughout the movie—even if I'm thoroughly enjoying it—finding things to run around the house and do "real quick".

     I learned in my days of active addiction that making small things seem greater makes the greater things seem unrealistic in how wonderful they are. Turning events like going out to get ice cream with my dad every night, something so simple and insignificant to the bigger picture of my life, provided me something to look forward to, and in a sense, a reason to live. I was on a daily suicide mission that was never followed through with, and I firmly believe it's because of things like this that it never was, but because of the build-up I gave this nightly outing, I will remember them as a whole, therefore making them part of the "bigger picture". It helped me a great deal in gathering the strength to dig myself out of the abyss I knew all too well.

     This truly is all over the place, I'm spazzing right now. Some days are worse than others for me as far as anxiety level, or excitement, or whatever. I'm not exactly sure why, I've even exercised today, even if it was only a few mile bike ride before it began to rain too hard for me to ride safely. I am assuming today however it is because of my sugar intake, which has been a lot higher than it normally is. I had two cups of Coke earlier today—I cannot remember the last time I've drank Coke by the way, I don't drink soda anymore—and my dad's girlfriend Lisa brought me iced coffee this afternoon unexpectedly. She said I could save it for later, but it's pretty hard to save iced coffee because for one the ice would melt, and saved coffee in any form never tastes the same later. She also brought me a brownie which I've taken a few nibbles of, which is of course more sugar.

     I had pizza for lunch, another rarity in my diet. I'm sure sugar is somehow in that. Oh and I had cake. Damn, that is a lot of sugar today... I have had half a smart water though, so maybe that could flush some of it out? I definitely need to drink the rest of that water now that my coffee is gone. I know when I am in the process of consuming sugar and I start to slow down with the speed of intake that I've probably had too much, I just wish I had realized that earlier before it took me an hour to drink a small cup of coffee. My body really isn't used to sugary things anymore, and with Vyvanse, or any type of ADD/ADHD medication in my system, it can really send me into overdrive mode where my focus is on the borderline of not even useful anymore because the only thing circulating in my brain is all those organized thoughts already in existence, but then they start becoming warped again and I am in hysterics. It's so close to the abyss of relapse, it's insane, but without the relapse desire. Almost. Sometimes I seriously consider relapse when I'm like this because I know it'd calm me down real quick, but I still recognize that it's not worth it because I haven't been triggered by something I might find convincing enough. I cannot imagine the terrible things that could happen if I were to be like this and be triggered. I feel drunk, high, insane, bi-polar, excited, happy, nervous, anxious, like an addict all at once right now, and I'm hardly any of those things. I feel crazy, but I know it's not my fault. Yet in a sense it is. I just forgot to control myself, let's write that line down in the book of "famous last words", okay? I really did forget though.

     If you took notice, this started out as me trying to construct something that appeared calm and collected, when in reality I have been neither the entire two hours I've been trying to write this and make sense of the topic— denying my anxiety. Towards the end I just let it go freelance style, which something I never do, let alone publish. But I'll be daring—more daring that starting a sentence with "but", which is a big "no-no" in my world of style of grammar rules—and let it be known that sometimes I'm a little crazy too.

I want to know what's inside you.

     A long time ago people tried to make me feel like shit for writing about "disturbing" things—my real thoughts—and it worked. (After writing this, I have come to believe that the phrase "disturbing thoughts" derives from the reality that it doesn't bother—"to bother" is the definition of disturb—the thinker, it "disturbs" people that hear about it.) I admit and understand that they didn't make me feel like shit, but that I let their influence ultimately decide that I was going to make myself feel like shit. This really started then I was nine years old so I was only a child, but regardless they were relentless in their goal of getting me to shut up about my personal truths. Recently, I've discovered that people will not listen to anything I say once they get the idea in their head that I'm talking about just them—since when is something I talk about all about someone else? I don't care about you when I'm talking about me.—so I'm going to say right now that I am speaking of my family, friends, peers, and school system. Wade into one of those pools if you belong there, and for the first time in your life of knowing me, listen up to what I have to say.

     I cannot and do not blame you for my choices and actions, but I can fairly claim that you assisted me in the path I took of leading myself towards choices of suggestions you implied. I'll start with the one highest on the scale of seriousness— my addiction to self mutilation. Of course no one chose that for me, I was the one that decided to pick up pliers the first time I put a toe in that ocean. However, by telling me for years to shut up and not express my thoughts that disturbed you, I was taught that no one cared and no one wanted to hear about it. Therefore, I inflicted the pain I felt within upon myself. As led to believe, I was the one at fault, and the one that is supposed to deal with it privately and silently. Oh the confusion that drove me towards once my thoughts became visible in a way that wasn't the ill-advised words, all of a sudden people showed concern and pointed more fingers in wonder at why I never spoke about anything going on in my head. (What the fuck? It was too late.)

     I'm sick and tired of being pushed into the ground amongst worms. People have to get very sick (and tired) of something before they refuse to stand—or lie down in this case—for it any longer. This day has come for me way too late in my life, but regardless it has come, and it's probably as unexpected as Christ's second coming will be (insert a ha-ha).

     Depression hits me at times, but I'm not depressed all the time. Although, my mind has been forever tainted, and is constantly clouded with sick thoughts and ideas because I suffer from a very serious addiction that is barely recognized in current society. People consider disorders as reasons for my life-long "depression", but in reality I have been self mutilating since I was five years old. That's kindergarten, if you're curious. My point is that I have been ill with addiction from the age that my words started making sense and people could understand me, so they have come to believe that I was born with something wrong, when in actuality I wasn't.

     Due to recent depression, I contemplate suicide often. As Nietzsche explained better than I ever could, "The thought of suicide is a powerful solace: by means of it one gets through many a bad night." It's comforting to consider suicide in the midst of crying fits, because it gives me the sense of having another option. Deep down I know that for me, personally, my life is of too great value that it's not a realistic option. Still the fact remains that by simply pretending that I could make such a selfish decision, it sometimes helps me drift into sleep, which is ultimately the goal of crying after the sun has set.

     Without editing and logical explanation for why some of these things could never be followed through with, I think hard and often about: the indescribable feeling and sight of slicing my skin open again, how great relapse would be as a wonderful finale for this clean time in my life, locations of possible self mutilation in the future, words and phrases I would want to cut into my body if I ever chose to again, ways I could kill myself so my body isn't ruined for my funeral, planning specific details of said funeral such as location, my outfit, and attendees, spitting on my birth mother's face at her funeral if she were to ever commit suicide, and physically beating her body into the ground now as she stands live and well. The list goes on, but I don't believe it matters if you speak about things you'll never follow through with—except spitting on my birth mother's face, that will happen at her funeral even if it's not the result of a self-inflicted death—despite how fucked up they may be, and it doesn't scare me. It scares other people. I've written all of this before, and I never published it for the world to read. I am not afraid.

Place of mentality

     A spectator's glimpse into my mind isn't the same as asking me personally about where I'm at mentally.

     Place of mentality is something that I believe is crucial to frequently inquire children about. Unfortunately however, parents habitually waste their time badgering their children about insignificant details of who they were with that night, and where. Of course you should always know where your children are and who they are with, but with age and maturity, the questions should gradually ease at a respectful pace of growth.

     Back to my point, I haven't been this depressed in years, I actually haven't been this depressed since I was in my prime years of self mutilation addiction. The desire to hunt for a razor blade pangs at my sides with every heavy half-breath that lifts my rib cage, and only causes additional physically painful sobs to ensue while I mentally fight the nearly impossible battle of being sucked back into the darkness. Do you really know how hard it is to not give into something your mind is compelling you do?

     I'm at the point now where one of the reasons I want to relapse is just because it'd make some actual sense. I don't understand how I can be miserable to this extreme degree on a daily basis without self mutilation co-existing within my life.

     I'm just tired of people having the idea in their head that reading COSA18 is the same thing as asking me how I'm really doing. Reading this doesn't count as a conversation at all, especially if you never bring up the topic you read about. Also, poking fun at or taking lightly anything I've blogged or Tweeted about is completely heartless. If anything were to stop me, it'd be people I care about making a joke out of me.

The addict is often the target of judgement

     I've been there before, but if I had to admit it now that I needed medication due to having Bipolar II, I would feel extremely weak. When my doctor diagnosed me as having ADD/ADHD, she even suggested that she might have misdiagnosed me years ago with the emotional disorder. Adderall should be enough to keep me happy, especially Adderall that time-releases for twelve hours, right? Why doesn't it then?

     My dad has said some pretty hurtful things to me about this before. "You get cranky at night", and "Maybe you need medication for your depression too". They may seem minute compared to things your parents may have said or done to you, but my dad and I have a very strong relationship. We have always been very understanding of each others ways. I haven't figured out why as of late, I'm the main target of his rare judgmental thoughts. In my opinion, I should be the last person he judges considering I'm his daughter, and I'm not irrational.

     I feel attacked when he—or anyone else—says things like that for two main reasons. One, everyone still treats me like I'm actively self mutilating, when I'm not. Usually I'm not treated like such in every day life, but when I get upset in any way that's when it begins. Now my emotions are exaggerated by others, when I used to be the one exaggerating them to ridiculous lengths. I suppose they're so used to it—despite it being over two years later—that they feel it's their job now to make sure everything that I go through is an irrational crisis, when it's really not. It's not even so much that they turn the event into a crisis, but they expect my reaction to be dramatic, so they act as if it is already, or as if I'm going to explode at any second.

     My second reason ties into the first. I'm expected to be happy now because I'm clean, which is fine because I typically am in a cheerful mood. I truly believe that deep down underneath all the mental disorders and traumatic experiences I was meant to be a happy, productive human being. However, now they demand without words that because I'm clean, I cannot ever be sad, upset, or angry. That "so obviously" equals relapse in their eyes, which just isn't true. I didn't work so hard to regain their trust and respect for two years, just for them to throw things back in my face once I finally feel comfortable enough to show them my emotions, whatever they may be.

     The comments and actions of others makes me want to clam up again, and not show my negative emotions because they're not accepting of them. Since the comments made by my dad, I've held back from crying on several occasions when I have been really upset, only to cry myself to sleep later. I just want to avoid more judgement, and more hurtful things being said towards me.

     I don't understand how me, out of all the types of people out there, is the one being judged. I recovered from a disease of addiction, and I'm the main target of people's judgement? Some of these people should really take a peek into their mirrors and reexamine themselves. If judgement is to exist in our world, I know I'm not the one deserving of it most.

     My point in all this is that I don't believe I need medication, I consider the few problems I do have to be pretty rational. I'm not worrying over things that will never happen, like a shark flying through my window and eating me. So why do people insist I do?

I can check "riding in an ambulance" off my list of things to do before I turn 18..

     I've been justifying not writing this by the throbbing pain and soreness in my right arm where the IV was for six hours Thursday night. Even at this moment I truly feel like that day was a dream, and not real in any way shape or form. Not even in the way that's a joke, like "haha it was so crazy it was like a dream", but I seriously still don't feel like myself. I think it has a lot to do with the new coping mechanisms I've developed, that I haven't had the opportunity to experience since I've been clean from self mutilation. The new being very detached, almost like anything traumatic is lived through as if it were an out-of-body experience. 

     I'm sure we could all figure out how I used to cope. I'd much rather things feel like a dream than feel even more pain from a cut on my arm. (Why did it take me so long to come to that realization?) I was in the hospital for three-four hours before I remembered that I have scars on my arms, and that everyone could see them. It didn't cross my mind once that they'd lock me away upon seeing them, which is a huge step for me. One of my biggest fears involving my addiction has always been the fear of being locked away again.

     So on to my story. Thursday was a pretty "normal" day I suppose. I stayed at my mom's the night prior because she had to go to the doctor's for a form of spinal surgery Thursday morning, which was really needles being poked into her spine much like an epidural. My aunt Stacey and I took her, and the procedure was supposed to take two hours, but thankfully we were only there for about forty-five minutes which was pretty darn cool. Not that we would have been bored, Stacey brought her DS and had a Scrabble game for it which was amazing. I so want that game! I'm a huge Scrabble lover, as if that weren't obvious.

     My mom felt well enough, so we went to go get lunch at Little Saigon, aka "Noodle Hut". I only ate a third of my bowl (more on why that's important later), and I saved the rest for dinner. After lunch Stacey drove us back to my mom's, and then she went home. Steph (my mom) and I sat on the couch and hung out for a while watching TV and chatting, then she ended up taking a nap. At 6 PM my dad picked me up from her house and we went to Walgreens to pick up some things, and pulled up in front of our house around 6:30 PM.

     That's when it began. I was sitting completely still in the car, then all of a sudden a sharp pain exlodes in my chest, right where my heart is. I shouted out in pain from quite possibly the second worst thing I've ever felt in my entire life—sinus migraine being the worst thing I have ever experienced, my head felt like it was going to literally explode from within—but I thought it would pass sort of like a muscle spasm or something. I kept my hands clenched over my chest, but then it happened again, and then again. Breathing made it feel like my ribs were going to crack from the pressure of my lungs pressing against them, which already felt like there wasn't enough room in them for a deep inhale—not that I dared try.

     After the first jolt of intense pain my dad asked if he should call 911 and I said no, but after the second I told him we should just drive to the hospital because it obviously wasn't going away. He started driving towards the fire station—its a lot closer than any hospital, which are all twenty minutes or more away—with 911 on the phone as I tried to get ahold of my mom, but I couldn't. (In the midst of all this, I had one or two more "jolts" of pain.) The 911 operator told him to pull over as soon as he could, so we pulled over in a church parking lot only a few streets away from my house, which was very weird. I've passed this lot thousands of times in the six years I've lived in Orlando, and never once did the idea cross my mind on what might happen there one day.

     The fire truck pulled up and got me out of the car and onto the ground leaning against it for support. They plugged me up to some machines and then the worst part came—the IV. I am absolutely terrified of IVs—not to be mistaken with needles like a shot, but IVs—because of past experiences. The needle going in wasn't as bad as it was the last time I was in the hospital, which took six times in total before they got it right. This time it only took the paramedics one try, thankfully and surprisingly because I have zero visible veins in my left arm, and only a single very faint one in my right. They put water in immediately after which wasn't that bad, despite my dad saying "It might feel cold!" (it wasn't), knowing I was terrified and probably didn't want to know that. Really. I could have lived the rest of my life and been okay with not knowing they had put anything into my vein.

IV in, the paramedics said the "A" word, which probably is what sent me into "time to cope" mode. An ambulance pulled up next and they put me on the stretcher—or did I get on it myself?— and put me in the back. This taught me something very valuable, which I will remember for any hospital visit I ever have to endure in my life. The lesson I learned is that when you're in an emergency, you have no shame. Absolutely none. Pretty sure this goes for child birth too, which is why I'd imagine it seems to hardly phase expectant mothers that their legs are spread eagel for hours at a time during labor. So back to my story, the paramedic in the back of the ambulance with me pulled up my entire shirt way above my bra to stick some monitor things over my heart, and trust me no boy has ever, ever! seen me like this before. I am not the type of girl to float around with no clothes on for eyes other than my own to see. With this experience though, it didn't phase me, not one bit. For one I was terrified, and two.. well, I don't have a two, but the message I'm trying to carry to you is that if you're like me and scared about baring all for hospitals in an emergency, trust me, you won't care in the moment, and you won't after either. A looot of people saw my lady-bits up top that day, and I could care less.

     Once they were done plugging me up to machines and putting an oxygen thing around my face, we were off. My dad followed behind us, which was comforting. For the duration of the ride I could see him at all times through the little windows in the back of the ambulance. For some reason though, the driver took the worst possible road, all brick, so it was a very painful ride. The paramedic in the back with me even yelled at the driver over it, and told him next time to take a different road. (Which creeped me out and got very depressing throughts churning through my brain.. how many people had died on this same stretcher? Or in this same ambulance? How many people will die on this stretcher, or in this same ambulance?) Once we got to the hospital (a children's hospital, funnily enough), they took me out and rolled me into a room in the ER, and my dad showed up a few minutes later after he parked.

     They asked me a ton of questions, restarted my oxygen, and plugged me back into all these machines plus some. They really treated me as if I were on drugs and this were my fault, one woman even asking, "I know your dad is here, but have you done drugs or had any alcohol today?" I quickly retorted with as much attitude as I could muster, "No, and I go to NA meetings every single week." Needless to say, that was the last time they asked me about drugs or drinking, but they still made me take a urine test for "just some tests". Pfft, yeah right. As far as I know the only thing they take urine samples for is drug tests and pregnancy tests. For the latter—you have to have sex to get pregnant.

     Their obvious judgments really hurt my feelings even though I knew I couldn't control what they thought. I knew that all these doctors and nurses just saw a seventeen year old girl with piercings, dark hair, and chest pains. They also knew I started taking a stronger form of Adderall this week—which is why my dad and I freaked out in the first place, because one of the side effects is sudden death, alongside with heart attacks—so they probably thought I abused it. I wish I had a dollar for every time they mentioned me taking Adderall, I'd be a very rich lady.

     A while after the urine test—by the way, pissing on your own hand trying to "catch" something really humbles you—I got a chest x-ray which kind of hurt. (Is that even possible? It felt like an extremely faint electric shock.) They did finally take blood too, which is the absolute worst part of the IV experience for me. I can literally feel the blood being sucked from my veins, the feeling is so horrible I cannot even put it into words appropriate enough to describe it. They used some machine too I think—I wasn't looking, of course—which made a horrific sound that made me want to cry. I also don't understand why I always get a real nurse, and then a nurse in training that uses my arm for learning things she should already know. Why do these people get degrees if they don't know how to even take blood!? Can't they practice on dead bodies, or simulated bodies? Regardless, you nurses in training, take blood from kids that are already screaming and completely unaware because they're already drowning in exaggerated emotions. Not me.

     Hours later they cleared me and told me I could leave, which really means they couldn't figure out what was wrong and since I wasn't dying they gave up. However, while we were waiting inside the room I overheard them talking about me and the nurses speculating over "some sort of heart attack, maybe", but obviously that didn't happen or I wouldn't be typing this right now from home. The doctors told me personally that it could be a later effect of having had H1N1/Swine Flu, which I believe is very likely (and scary). Funnily enough they forgot about my IV, and were going to just let me walk out with it still in my arm. My dad had to stop the nurse to get her to take it out, and when she did she ended up ripping off a layer of my skin which is now lighter than the skin around it.

It's been two days since this all happened, and for some reason I still feel like hell. My body feels like the firetruck hit me that day instead of pulling up to help me, which makes me jokingly—sort of—speculate if I've really been dead these past two days and I'm in a movie-type deal. You know, girl dies but goes on living in the movie until the end when you find out she's really dead, like Ellen Page in An American Crime. (Sorry if I spoiled that for anybody, but if you haven't seen it yet, that's a crime.) Of course we all know that isn't true, but wouldn't that be something to blog about?

I haven't started taking my Adderall again yet. I was going to today, but I left the house having forgotten to take it before I left, besides it was too late in the day to anyway considering this new Adderall I'm taking lasts for twelve hours. I will probably start tomorrow so I'm active and alive to shop for more clothes, or Monday, when I am going to force myself back into reality.. hopefully. I really don't understand why this entire experience has taken so much out of me.

     Oh! About the food I saved from Little Saigon, while we were in the hospital my dad went out to the car to get my purse. He took a long time, and later on I found out he went out into the car and ate my left overs too! Haha. I was really upset about it.

Dear blogging world,

     I've tried so hard for the two and a half hours I've been home tonight to do some "recreational blog reading", aka, reading about things that aren't really a part of my bigger picture like husbands, children, and crafts. Usually I feel guilty doing things that aren't exactly productive (see: reading blogs on cooking/baking, but I suppose in a sense that is sort of productive if I do cook it for my family), but I decided I would take tonight for myself and read some fun blogs that I really enjoy.

     The problem is I cried for an hour or so tonight. I haven't posted my blog about it yet, but I spent six hours of last night in the hospital, and it was extremely traumatic for me. I hadn't completely "released" over the stress of it, and since there's nothing I can do these days but cry for a release, I knew it was coming soon. However, someone in my family decided to take my physical weakness from the hospital ordeal and frustration at my biological mother's guilt trips and turn it into "have you noticed you get cranky and get upset easier at night?" Can I have a "what the fuck" please? (Cue crying.) I feel like for as long as I shall live, the people that know I used to self mutilate—and were there to witness it—will constantly judge my actions. Unfortunately the majority of these people are my close relatives. You can see why it would hurt and bring tears to my eyes. I wish people would just realize that I am not the same person I was over two years ago, but from the sounds and stories from other addicts experiencing the same situation, it could be years, if ever, before people trust me again which is extremely upsetting. I know my wrongs, but please accept my redemption.

     So blogging world, while I would love to sit here and read you, my eyes are stinging just from being open and burning from trying to read anything longer than the length of an incomplete sentence. Editing this to be post-worthy will be painful, but I must do it or I'll regret it tomorrow.

     I think I'll bake cookies in the morning.

The sad thing is..

..is that I cannot afford to get upset because a "certain someone" will freak out on me. God forbid I ever speak my own mind, God forbid I ever open my mouth and tell people how I feel as a release so I don't hurt myself. My intentions aren't to make anyone feel guilty or to say "Hey you, listen to me or I'll cut myself", but if you're talking breaks why don't you throw one my way while you're at it? Depression, anger, and sadness are all a lot harder to deal with when you're carrying around an addiction 24/7—THERE ARE NO BREAKS—that's constantly ready to pop it's head out and start screaming.

It absolutely enrages me when people make comments about me doing "nothing". Last time I checked I'm not just sitting around doing "nothing". While it may seem like it to you because you're a forty-something year old woman/man/alien stuck in a rut of an unproductive life, cut me some slack and remember I'm only seventeen years old. I think I'm entitled to a break once in a while, just like you, but don't be pissed that I'm actually getting one. I can't even buy cigarettes, how can you possibly expect it from me to be saving the world in a red cape? Can we talk about how fair that is? I'm not one of the lucky ones that's been struck with young fame, so there is only so much I can do.

I'm here as a vessel, but I'm not here for you to take out your anger and frustrations on me. I am a PERSON, a human trying to be human so I can show you how to live happier! I'm sacrificing my life so people like you can waste yours on trivial experiences that you don't even appreciate enough to thank me, and others like me. Why do you do this to me? What did I EVER do to you?

You know who you are, and your numbers are more than one.

Edit 09/16/09 6:03PM: Sometimes all it takes is for my sponsor to listen to me like no one else will to save my day.

No relapse exists here. 

Charles Bukowski

"If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is." - Charles Bukowski
 
When I got home from shopping tonight, I sat down at my dad's laptop in the dining room like I have grown accustomed to using lately. I was still logged in, but a window was open that I hadn't opened. It was a webpage of quotes, with one highlighted. That is what you read above.
 
My dad obviously highlighted this, but I am thinking he is hint-dropping for me to read it because I was still logged in. He's crazy about always being personally logged in to use his laptop (he likes his synced Outlook, etc), so he must have looked it up logged in as me for a reason.
 
 
This quote, whether directed towards me or not, gives me strength to go all the way. I'll tell anyone that'll listen: I don't know how, or what degrees I need to do it, but I'm going to write self help books, specializing in self mutilation. I plan on educating the world that it can become an addiction, which is something you can't completely overcome. I want to be a spokeswoman on this subject.
 
As a saint, I will be alone with the Gods one day.
We will laugh at my suffering, because of all the good it's done.
Thank you for making me feel like an angel.

I hope you're feeling today.

Sometimes we forget those with addictions can experience emotions normally once again.

Why is it that as addicts we are expected to start having "normal"-which is a nice word for "positive"-emotions once we're clean such as happiness, excitement, and hope. However, when it comes to negative emotions, people completely forget how they are just as "normal" as positive emotions. It is okay for me to be sad, angry, or stressed. As stated, these are "normal", and completely acceptable by those in society without any past problem, such as an addiction. Yet when I, an addict, go through any of these types of feelings in the presence of others, they start treating me like an active addict again. Untrustworthy, mentally unstable, and a danger to myself with the possibility of being so to others as well. Often my peers even treat whatever emotion I'm showing them as if it is more dramatic than its true nature. Sadness turns into depression, anger turns into rage, stressed turns into suicidal.

I am here to enlighten you that I will be okay. I cannot speak for all addicts, but I can speak for myself. I have over two years clean, and it wasn't a ride filled with all smiles. It may seem like it was to you, but that's only because I was nervous about showing my negative emotions to others during the beginning of my recovery. I didn't want people to jump to conclusions that I had relapsed again since I had very little clean time under my belt. A reaction like that could have upset me to the point that I might have relapsed after-the-fact from being in such a fragile state. I feel confident enough now in my ability to not relapse to show my emotions and risk the reactions. Still, I long for respect.

So here I am now, being treated the same way I used to fear. The difference is that this time nothing will take away my recovery, especially something that's so miniscule in affliction to me now as this. Regardless, it still hurts, sometimes even worse because I have no way of release.

My request to those in any type of relationship with an addict, may it be a friendship, a romance, a fellow employee, is this: if the addict you're acquainted with is truly taking great strides in trying to regain your trust and respect, it is more than likely genuine. If you feel uneasy-which is only to be expected-politely question their clean time. Longer lengths of clean time (of course its all relevant to what you consider a long time, but be reasonable) can sometimes make you feel more confident in trusting them again.

Not to say that just because you have a longer amount of clean time means that you're actually becoming better mentally and spiritually, however I personally believe it is more likely. Although, even those with twenty years clean can relapse. Regardless, our request is still the same. All we ask is that you give us a second.. or millionth chance. Please.

To the still suffering addict and those that self mutilate:

(Originally written on May 11th, 2009. Posted to COSA18 on September 14th, 2009.)

     Some of you may not know, but I go to Narcotics Anonymous meetings. I started going over a year ago with my biological mother to support her when she realized she had a drug addiction. As I kept going, I realized I was getting something from it, quite unexpectedly. The number one thing about NA is carrying the message to the still suffering addict, and in her short clean time, she carried that message to me. It was just luck that I had not cut myself within that time frame. Unfortunately, she stopped going and is back in active addiction.

     Recently I've started going again. It's been a year, and I'm still clean because of the things I learned the short time I spent at NA. I've realized a few things already, one being that when the time is right, I need to suck it up and try my hardest to carry the message back to my biological mother. I truly believe the most important person is the still suffering addict, and when I have that moment of silence at every meeting I think of how lucky and grateful I am to have gotten guidance with my addiction.

     You're probably wondering why I attend NA when I have a self mutilation addiction. Well to be quite honest, there are no support groups whatsoever that support self mutilation in Orlando, or even Florida that I know of. I've researched it, and there is a Self Mutilators Anonymous, and you can even create your own branch of an SMA meeting in your local area. I'm sure you can figure out where I'm going from here.

     It breaks my heart when I think of those still suffering, especially with the addiction I personally hold close to heart. I know how difficult it is to deal with it and not have the knowledge to recognize it as a real addiction. Many times I was told to just stop, just STOP. But you cannot just STOP an addiction, it's something that will be with you for the rest of your life, something you have to surrender to, so it doesn't consume you. You can, however, live a clean life, free from active addiction. You can walk the path I am today. In the end, we are all addicts, and we are all the same.

     For years I've felt that I was put on this planet to do something, but I wasn't sure what. I didn't feel like I deserved the life I got, so I realized that my life is the way it is so I can teach and help others be strong like me. I was lucky, I was born arrogant and brave. I strive every day to do the greater good for the greater number, and I am never a part of that number. I will gladly humiliate myself to help someone in need, especially an addict.

     I've come to the conclusion that one of my life callings is to start at least one branch of SMA in Orlando, FL. I will stick with this even if it takes me years to do so, because they really do have no one to go to unlike those suffering from addiction to alcohol or narcotics. I was lucky enough to find a home amongst those in NA, and am extremely grateful that they took me in when I literally had no place else to go. NA has saved and changed my entire life, and will continue to do so long after I'm dead for others. I hope SMA can do the same for those like me.

     If you're interested in the process of my creation of an SMA branch, let me know. I can keep you updated on the status, but I will warn you - this will take time. Also, if you are a still suffering addict from any addiction, I will do my best to help you in complete confidentiality. If you need a list of meetings (especially NA, which I have a definite physical list of), I will gladly supply you with as much help as I can give.

Just for today: I admit that I am powerless over my addiction. I will surrender to win.

Disclaimer: I am not speaking on the behalf of NA or any other organization, I am simply speaking on how it has affected and changed my personal life.

Smoking During Pregnancy

(Originally written on March 16th, 2009. Posted to COSA18 on September 16th, 2009.)

     This is a topic that has bothered me for as long as I have been aware of smoking and pregnancy in general.

     I've seen it come up often in my life as of late, I'm older, and more of my friends/acquaintances are having children. With that, people I know feel the need to smoke (some who aren't even 18, in which that case it's illegal), and don't care enough to quit while pregnant. Check out this quote from lungusa.org:

"Smoking-related diseases claim an estimated 438,000 American lives each year, including those affected indirectly, such as babies born prematurely due to prenatal maternal smoking and victims of "secondhand" exposure to tobacco's carcinogens."

     However, if you're smoking while pregnant I doubt the facts are going to get under your skin far enough to make you quit because you've probably heard it from others. Everyone knows that smoking can hurt developing babies, but sometimes that isn't enough.

     So from my own opinions, first of all smoking is absolutely disgusting, pregnant or not. You're really putting toxins up to your lips, and for what? To get through hard times? That's an excuse, because up until the moment you picked up your first cigarette you got through life without them (it doesn't matter how well you did, the fact is you did because you're still here). But today I'm not here to lecture you on your own health as much as I am about your unborn child's health. Here is another quote from ash.org:

"More than 60 percent of all crib deaths, also known as sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS), could be prevented if people stopped smoking around their babies and pregnant women, the report in the British Medical Journal said."

     If you read carefully, that's just around babies and pregnant women. I am absolutely positive the risks go up if you are the pregnant woman smoking! Not only that, it is positively selfish to smoke while pregnant, because not only are you harming yourself, but you are harming another human being that cannot get away from it. Do you really want to bring a child into the world who's body is telling them to get away from you? Smoking is toxic, and while it doesn't directly kill like heavier narcotics, it kills nearly half a million lives in just America due to related issues (as said in a quote above).

     Cutting down on cigarettes won't save your baby either. It's proven that those that force themselves to smoke fewer cigarettes inhale deeper when they do, equaling the effects of smoking more cigarettes with regular inhalation.

     If you're pregnant and you can't control yourself enough to stop smoking while pregnant, in my opinion you're not ready to be a mother. If you cannot control one extremely dangerous aspect of your life, and can't show self-control from the very beginning, how can you raise a child healthily with such personal bad habits? Children take lessons from their parents sub-consciously very early on. Do you really want your children to take after your horrible examples? Be honest with yourself. No matter how many times you tell your children or other people's children, "Don't smoke like I do, don't ever grow up and smoke," you're still showing by example—which delivers a stronger message—that smoking is okay.

     Abusing substances, and even alcohol, is horrible. However, there is hope. There are many ways and many people that are willing to help you overcome addiction, and you can take the first step today. If you decide today is the first day, or maybe you just want to see what it's about, try finding a Narcotics Anonymous meeting near you with this locator. Generally NA isn't typically for those that smoke just cigarettes, but if you're a pregnant woman smoking then I'm sure someone there has some advice or direction they'd be willing to offer.

     All in all, good luck with your baby. I hope you make the correct decision!