When I’m done posting this I’m going to put up some sort of warning label on my homepage. I’ll need to make it huge and bright yellow or maybe red and flashing if possible. Sound effects would be great. Horns. We’ll see about that.
I have a little issue. But I’m about to bridge it, like a creek needing crossed. It’s small like a creek really. The little insignificant thing of which I speak is this: I write. A lot. But what I write is too provocative for my
blog grandma. So I haven’t been posting. Try as I might all I write about is sex, drugs and rock and roll. Literally. And need I remind you that it’s all non-fiction?
I hesitate posting my recent material because I’m afraid of judgement. Strangers? Phew, I could care less, happy to share my true self. It’s my relatives, bosses, and future bosses I’m worried about.
In short: I really didn’t want to write an addiction memoir. But I have. The story of my life is all about trying to stay afloat with the anchor of addiction at my foot. Thing is, I’ve been afloat for about ten years now. But even if it has been a decade since I nearly overdosed on the bathroom floor of the lady whose kids I used to babysit, I’m still an addict.
Addicts know this. Alcoholics know this. Ideally therapists and drug counselors know this too. I feel like its only a matter of time before the props are knocked out from under me.
Non-addicts understand the concept but only to the extent that non-musicians understand music. I don’t want to be an addict. That is such an awful thing to be. Such a let-down to the family. But I’m afraid at the end of the day, I am.
I’ve never had help. Not one counseling session. I’m writing a book about it instead. Talk about self-help. They say: write the book you want to read. Well, I want to read about a desperate girl. I want to know that someone else has been there. Will I get that from writing this book? No, but someone else will and that’s just as important. And so I will write about addiction and its many shades of gray. People say, You’re not an addict. You don’t do drugs. Wrong. I am an addict. I don’t do drugs. That’s almost harder. Almost.
I stood for too long at the bank of the creek and I must cross the bridge I’ve built. I must be brave. To stop now means I stop writing. I cannot, I will not write about pretty things. To stop now means no more blog. I cannot, will not post material that I don’t have. All I have left is truth.
This does not mean I will be posting more regularly (I still plan to average, oh, a post a week), this just means I’m uncensoring myself. If you are my grandmother, great aunt, uncle, father, mother, boyfriend’s mother, know that I’m kicking it up a notch and at the end of the day I need you to accept me as I am. I can no longer be the girl I wanted to be for you. Because the girl I really am is simply a little more…dirty, and daring.
I’m also half-heartedly trying to create a “flu-shot effect”. That’s where the nurse (me) preps you for an incredibly unbearable needle-in-the-arm-experience by asking you a silly questions like “So what do you do?” and then quickly jabs you in the arm but she uses a kid-sized needle that didn’t hurt at all and you reply “Ohh, social workwasthatit? That wasn’t that bad.”