#no worries about being abused or homeless or very sick if the drugs bring a whole new hell

[craycraybluejay]

i should get more method by smoking more weed + remembering the million times i got too fucked up and thought i was going to die or just very but not too fucked up and how it felt in the moment. the confusion, weird fixations, wack visuals, nausea, dissassociation, shame, real and vivid fear of death.

i can tell y'all i have had someone make active attempts on my life but there is no death as frightening as the idea of dying in a puddle of puke and other bodily fluids feeling so disoriented and so much physical pain and discomfort that you'd pay a million dollars to crawl directly out of your body. there's easier OD concepts to stomach like one depressants but the concept of dying on a psychedelic or an upper or even a stimulating dissociative is terrifying. or dying from contaminants which injure you a lot more than whatever you were meaning to take ever could.

i want to write angel having a seizure the way i did. i want to write him compulsively adding different substances because just the one isn't enough. i want to torture this lil guy as he tries and fails to save himself :3

[scarecoen]

Trigger warning ⚠️ domestic violence.

I've typed this story a million times so I'm just going to summarize as much as I can.

A few days ago I was assaulted by my partner's family members. And as I've mentioned, I've typed this a million times and I'm honestly just exhausted thinking about it, but we could use some help.

My partner has always had a transphobic family. (I don't have anyone but my dad, who's in no position to help anyone.)

Her mom used her disability against her and manipulated her into giving her MOST of her checks. She's abused the system and my girlfriend.

When I met Jackie, she was with a terrible biggot. Jackie had came out, and her mother conspired with an abusive long distance ex, to fly her here, to stage an "intervention" and stop my partner from transitioning.

It worked. For years.

I met Jackie here on tumblr, we became good, SECRET friends because she wasn't allowed to talk to anyone.

I told Jackie openly about my views regarding gender and how I myself, was not cis.

Eventually she told her partner about us playing games together, which she responded to by harassing me.

Jackie ended up spilling the beans to me, about her mom, about the ex, everything. I realized that she had been extremely isolated and controlled her whole life.

So I intervened.

I got the two of them to separate, which wasn't smooth because Jackie was scared. She had been with her abuser for 9 years at this point. She's never known anything else.

The ex moved back to her state, and I started seeing Jackie, although she was stuck at her mom's... who was trying to play innocent at this time.

Eventually, I kinda just came and picked her up, she stayed the night, she didn't want to go back home. And I can't blame her. The house wasn't only disgusting, her family microagressed her all the time and they would tell her to pretty much stay in a dark room all day.

Ofc I didn't bring her back.

During early quarantine, we had a lot of self reflection and she started distancing herself from her mother, coming around to holding her accountable for her horrible actions.

Her mom messaged her things like "Why won't you talk to me? It's like you're trying to punish us!" Ect, just every fucking manipulative thing she could say, without ever apologizing.

Unfortunately the place we were staying fell through when my best friend's ex husband decided he wants a divorce and decided to throw in some transphobic hatespeach towards me.

We were all looking for somewhere to go.

I'm sure you know where this is going but listen, she told us EVERYTHING we wanted to hear. She told us she's not hateful now, told us she would go to trans support groups, pride, said she's realized how much she loves Jackie and it's time to accept her- and look- we had NO WHERE TO GO. We have 2 cats and at the time, a car that has no a/c or functional locks. AND I have a chronic autoimmune condition that I recently started taking chemo meds for. (Methotrexate.)

I'm too sick to be on the street, and survive. I had to think about me, Jackie, Zoe, and Boops.

And Jackie wanted to go..

I told her we'd be cautious and try to get out asap.

Well, looking for places right when the housing market crashed really fucked us up. That- and because I had only just finally got approved for disability, means I was set back in life- and had no credit to my name. No credit= no place to live.

I had almost built enough, but things went down hill very quickly with her family. Which leads us to right now:

After weeks of microagressions, giving us breakthrough covid cases, yelling at us to clean other's messes, and forcing us and our cats to isolate in our room, many broken promises, and straight up transphobic hatespeach (because she promised to get vaccinated but then said nvm as soon as we moved in and she went on vacation and got covid and gave it to us, which nearly killed me--) she said not getting the vaccine "IS A CHOICE, JUST LIKE YOU BEING TRANS AND TAKING *gestures to my testosterone* THOSE DRUGS."

We just were avoiding each other while I desperately try to gather resources for us to get out, NOW.

Of course, that wasn't good enough, so when her step father messaged her in all caps about our cats having to stay in our room and "I WON'T FUCKING TELL YOU AGAIN" my partner had a breakdown..

Her mom had let her step dad talk to her like this her whole life, basically.

Out of desperation, we went to her sister for help, maybe hoping she'd give us a place to stay for two weeks while we sign off on the lease for our new apartment.

She pretended to want to help and even said... something fucking weird? She made the comment that I'm a good person and I'm so much like her own boyfriend, that it's "scary"...

A few hours later she came to the house. She talked nicely to us, to gain access to our bedroom.

Then she attacked me.

I called the police right before, and was on the phone with dispatch when she lunged at me because she was aggressively trying to MAKE Jackie go into a separate room WITHOUT ME and Jackie was saying no, BEGGING her to STOP.

I wasn't going to let her take Jackie into that room. She looked fucking crazy.

All of the family came into our room, her two sisters, her mom, and her cousin- When they heard yelling.

It was actually me telling her mom that she's a terrible mother, that triggered her sister to try and attack me- although I knew she was planning on trying to from the moment she came into our room.

And that was after her mom was screaming in my face that if I have something to say, say it now.

Dispatch heard everything and sent emt as well...

But the police stayed outside, talking to them for a WHILE before even asking for us.

Her cousin is the only one that would have stood up for me, saying her sister never should have tried to hit me. But he was in the room with Jackie, giving her support...

I faced the cops alone.

He already had "that look."

He shined a light into my eye, letting the family stay on the porch, throwing insults and just letting it happen. He asked me where I'm hurt, and before I could even show him the scratches on my arm, he said "how do I know YOU didn't put those there?"

I wanted to fucking die in that moment.

This is a conservative city.

No one has equality stickers here. No one flies gay flags. People here that are lgbt- they LEAVE.

This is EXACTLY WHY.

I said "well is there any reason I should tell you anything when, clearly, you're already bias?"

I looked at the emts. I looked at his partner. I looked at all the lights and people coming out of their houses-

And behind me was her family.

Her sister that assaulted me, was laughing about having work in the morning.

All of them were looking at me, with hate in their eyes.

He tried to feed me bullshit about "well if I'm taking someone to jail, there has to be proof."

He dismissed everything I attempted to say, until I just stared at the ground and he decided he did his job here.

I told him my whole fucking body hurts because I had 4 people fucking toss my 100lbs ass all over the fucking room, which was a mess that he refused to look at.

He said "I don't see bruises."

I SPAT "BRUISES TAKE TIME?"

He retorted IMMEDIATELY- "YOU'RE NOT EVEN RED."

I asked what about the dispatcher- she seemed concerned- to which he said "you see, sometimes when people call us- they scream and be dramatic- for a quicker response."

I asked what we could do while the two weeks go by for our new place, and he fucking said "I DONT KNOW. BARRICADE YOURSELF IN YOUR ROOM OR SOMETHING."

Needless to say, we are now safe, in a hotel and I've gotten in touch with a few lgbt organizations that are attempting to help us get justice.

Unfortunately because it's a holiday weekend, all we can do is wait right now.

Our first order of business is getting a protection order, so that we can retrieve the rest of our things without her sister trying to attack us again. (I say us because she kept jumping towards Jackie, like she was threatening to hit her.)

I've been so gaslit and victim blamed that I was too scared to go to the er, even though this all happened in the midst of a flare, possibly including my liver health.

There's so much more to this story, as I'm sure other trans people can relate.. unfortunately.

The emts reluctantly offered to take me to the er, but I was like "and leave my partner here with them?" And he just fucking shrugged dude.

I hate this city.

I want out so bad but unfortunately I've committed to a year, but at least it'll be *our* apartment.

We could NOT stay there for two more weeks. Her step dad is a violent offender that has attempted to murder a homeless prostitute over some fucking pocket change- and he has a GUN in the house.

This hotel might run us into a hole, despite it being the cheapest, shittiest hotel in town, it's still going to be about 700$ for ONE week.

To ADD INSULT TO INJURY, SOMEONE ATTEMPTED TO STEAL MY VEHICLE WHILE WE'VE BEEN STAYING HERE.

I'm feeling incredibly paranoid and unsafe, but I'm on anxiety meds now at least and its SORTA helping us cope (My partner and I have the same Dr and she gave her permission to have some.)

The organization BRAVO is trying to help us with a hotel voucher, but because of all the natural disasters, it's hard to find room in charity for people like us, which is fair enough. We aren't immediately on the street, and for that I'm incredibly thankful.

However, if you or anyone you know wish to help you can donate to venmo: kittyzibby. Or you could just signal boost this.

If you can't help, I understand. And IF YOU'RE STRUGGLING FINANCIALLY, don't worry about it, for real.

Right now I'm just scared we'll go into debt before getting the apartment settled in.

I will update on things once our case moves along more, and we were already considering turning to OF sexwork before all of this, so if there could be support that way, maybe we'll get that going once we get moved in. That way, I feel good about providing a service in return.

Thank you so much for sticking with us during all of this. And really- we're doing much better today. We've given each other pep talks, but we are still determined to start our lives together.

Her family was merely trying to scare me away from her, but I got my girl's name tatted on me for a reason.

I know I'm not the bad person here.

Every time Jackie is feeling more gender euphoric, and showing me her changes, and seeing her get more confident, the more I know that what I'm doing with and for her, is right.

I love her so much. And I will never abandon her, like they tried to get me to do.

Jackie is taking a break from some socials, but she's given me permission to talk about what's been happening.

She needs justice too.

I will update as much as I can, but seriously, I think we both just have a fire under our asses now.

Mentally, we're stronger than ever.

Thank you for reading. My heart really goes out to the rest of the queer community that have experienced or are going through similar things.

It's really made me realize why we need to stick together and fight this bigotry bullshit! 🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍🌈

[id-on-parade]

A New Day

This will probably be a pretty long post. I’m gonna put the positives at the front, then i’m gonna exorcise some demons from my mind. This exorcism is to remove them from my head, not to put them into someone else’s, so i’ll go ahead and put an end to positives notice, and i guess read on at your own risk.

I am currently waiting on a list of approved Mental Health care providers in my area from my insurance company, I’ve just gotten off the phone with them and they said they would send it to me and I should pick one. After picking one and confirming they are accepting patients I should call the insurance folks back to get approval for a number of appointments. They close at five, so hopefully I’ll get the list soon so i can get this rolling - hopefully i’ll get this sorted today. Its funny that I feel this sense of almost giving up on doing it myself, this outdated cultural stigma at the same time that I feel a strong sense of hope that this will be a turning point in my mental health. I look back and wonder with a decent sense of awe how different my life might have been had I received mental health care as a teen when this all started.

I had a pretty heavy depressive episode yesterday, and am happy to report that today feels more like my standard levels of depression, i’m me again today - the me that most know, not the me that’s falling and can’t seem to catch hold. this information that today is a new day, i’ve survived, and the pit appears to have closed is the end of the positives for this post. here on in will be an unloading of a very stressful and difficult week, read on if you wish, but i gotta get these demons out somewhere, so here they go.

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I guess i should start at the start. I returned this last week from a week of sick leave wherein I had some Covid symptoms, my wife had some Covid symptoms and at the start of that sick week, that was majorly stressful.  I got tested, nasal swab, x-ray, and found to be negative for covid, or pneumonia. my wife’s insurance, however, had her do an online appointment, she answered some questions, the internet told her it was likely viral sinusitis, and wrote her a note to take the week off as well, no seeing a doctor, no actual tests. now, luckily, we both seem to have gotten better over that week - but boy was that frustrating.

When I returned to work, my boss and I had a bit of a disagreement about what a sick note through Saturday meant, he thought i should have come in Saturday, I thought i shouldn't. I even called Saturday and someone over the phone told me i was not scheduled Saturday. at the end of the conversation he had basically made it seem like i was dumb for thinking about it the way i did, that it didn’t matter about the call on Saturday, and that i might get in trouble. then he said “so, for next time, you know - come in on the day that’s listed.” So far, no trouble has come down the pipeline about that, but he’s been much less jovial with me of late.

That’s probably a decent bit of paranoia, we’ve all been less jovial of late, at my work. Providing mental health care to inpatient teens is hard. there’s a lot of secondhand trauma. (more on that later) there’s a lot of firsthand trauma. (more on that later). These kids are quite ill, and they are trying so hard, often put up against a life that’s honestly too difficult for even most adults, my whole heart goes to them. Right now, With the pandemic, and the rioting, they have more stress than ever, and less access to their loved ones, and anyone who knows anything about mental illness, knows what that means for their mental health. And with all of our patients having suddenly much worse mental health it means not only that my coworkers and I are dealing with more unsafe situations, and absorbing more trauma, but on the back-end we’re watching these kids backslide through months of progress, and sometimes that’s so heartbreaking. It’s normal, to backslide, and it doesn’t mean anything negative about the kids, but it doesn’t make it less heartbreaking. so yeah, coworkers are all in their stressed out, panic, survival modes, and its pretty visible right now - which means sometimes we are not as awesome to each other as we could be.

One of my coworkers was especially not awesome, to himself, this week. I really looked up to this  guy. takes heart to be openly flamboyantly queer with these kids, and he was, and he was always honest with them as far as accountability, a real no-sugar-coating type guy. when things got rough, it wasn’t unusual to hear him say “look at your life, look at your choices” to these kids, where other staff might handhold, and walk them through an analysis of what they’d been doing. Well, this week he must have finally snapped from the stress, as about 5 cop cars and a firetruck arrived at the neighboring cottage to retrieve him from the bathroom, where he had sequestered himself to huff aerosol mid shift. He won’t be returning, and he was damn good at this. he’ll be missed, and I hope away from the job he can recover.

Stream of consciousness, this brings us to kids and trauma. To avoid trauma, as the kids also care about that coworker, I ushered the kids I was outside with into the building. well, all but one. This is a fairly new patient, AFAB NB, spent a long time homeless before coming to us, family ain’t about the identity. As the cops rolled up, they were hurling insults, flipping them off, and generally saying things that I had to remind them to watch their language for. not that i reminded them very loud, because honestly, mood. But then they got silent as the cops sent to work, and they got real still. they stopped responding to me, and that was when i decided to walk around in front of them and force eye contact. they were on the verge of tears. I said “They aren’t here for you, you’re safe here, let’s go inside - it isn’t helping you to watch this.” they said It’s just --- the last time I saw the Cops they were hauling away my boyfriend”. - “that is extremely traumatic, if you come inside with me we can work on some coping, and help you to get the thoughts out, will you come inside with me?” -- “I wan’t to, But I just Can’t, I Can’t Make Myself.” - “Can you take my arm and we’ll walk together?” --”NO! I Can’t Have Anyone Touch Me Right Now, PLEASE” - “Absolutely, you’re safe here, how about if we take it slow, and I walk beside you instead?” -- “o-okay” it took us roughly 5 minutes to walk the 20 steps to the door. Once inside, they wept in a ball for some time, before beginning to work on coping skills with me. In processing, they let me know they were having such trouble because the boyfriend they were remembering had been very abusive, and the cops were hauling him off because of the beatings he had heaped upon them. that they hated the cops because they thought they loved him at the time, even though they now know he was not good for them, but knowing that hadn’t made them hate the cops less. And that seeing the cops had put their mind firmly into memories of being abused, and that they were having trouble breaking free of that thought trap. eventually we were able to get them involved in group activities and somewhat distracted, at least.

There’s a kid who reminds me of me as a teen, he’s depressed, and angry. unlike me as a teen he’s also very slow to process, and to avoid falling behind when he fails to process things he either makes cruel jokes, or explodes with anger. His dog is dying. His family barely sees him normally, but with the virus they don’t do much at all. His only contact is family therapy, and when he remembers to call them. he often doesn’t remember to call them until after phone time is over. then he wants to scream and shout and tear everything apart when he doesn’t get to make the call. This story though, is about a day he did remember to call. And his family let him know about the riots, all across the country. He’s trying hard to understand, but he doesn’t. He thinks, his being here, after drug and assault charges, has something to do with whats going on out there. that maybe his case is also unjust. but he also knows he needs this care. but he also sees himself backsliding and feels hopeless about progress, due to the depression. This is when he decides to try to recruit his peers to escape with him. All of his peers, to their credit, stayed the fuck out of it. but it did mean convincing him of the value of treatment, and the potential risk of breaking down a door - while he was trying to break down a door. he’s one of the few that I honestly don’t know, if i’m alone with him and he swings on me, if i could defend myself well enough until support arrived. he didn’t that day. but boy was that A Lot Of Stress.

The kid who has assaulted the most staff and peers, physically, verbally, sexually. started a plan that had him out of Low Stim and with peers in Close Attention this week, because we were receiving a new kid this week, at six foot, straight from juvie, a known fighter, and an off-meds psychopath. and, even though Low Stim has 2 rooms, we’re trying to get sexually assaultive kid out of there so there isn't risk in the dual occupancy. i’ll talk about new kid later, for now lets talk about the more long term patient. this patient has trouble with building relationships, an echo of the abuse he experienced in younger life, frequently he gets sexually explicit, physically assaultive and perhaps fecally oriented while doing so, especially when he is worried about relationships, or feels “too silly”. the trouble being of course, our counseling works best when we build strong relationships with patients, and even regular jokes can push him into the “too silly” category. He did well for the first bit. after about three days the back to back escalations began. a peer told a joke, he laughed too much, the staff pulled all the other kids inside and away from him to protect them. he whipped out his dick, pissed all over the place, tried showing it to staff, then began throwing sidewalk chalk everywhere, windows, doors, the roof, towards other buildings, whatnot. when the support staff arrived and 12 of us asked him to proceed to a quiet room, he did so of his own volition, rather than us taking him, and due to that, my coworker did not lock him there. no sooner had the extra staff gone than he came out banging around.we went hands on and locked him there. at the end of an hour and a half, my coworker deemed he had calmed enough to rejoin his peers. no sooner had he made his way back into the milieu than he began trying to hug and grope various staff.we again hauled him into a quiet room and locked him there. as the shift neared its end, we called security and had them help us get him back to his room in the LSA, not wanting to leave night shift with a kid in a QR. once back there, he tried to show staff his dick, again, and eventually settled into refusing to go to his room, when it was clear staff wouldn’t interact with him anymore for the night and expected him to go to bed, he went in his room, drug his mattress to being half down in the doorway, looked at me and said “is this in my room enough?” before laying down to try to sleep. he was scared, after everything he didnt want to be alone, and would rather not follow directions and potentially be in trouble, than be by himself in his room. I let him stay there. More of the same throughout the following day, and the day after that is when his story intersects with new kids in just about the most traumatic way.

New kid is over six feet, muscular, dead eyed, and arrived wearing a juvie orange jumper which he refuses to change from. developmentally, it is hard to distinguish this mustachioed individual from a fully grown man. in all of his dealings with staff, he was robotically polite. out of staffs sight he could be heard screaming angrilly, wailing in dispair, cursing out people who aren’t there, and then pleading “ oh no, no no no, NO NO NO NO” like you would expect to hear from a prone person while someone with a bloody knife walked towards them. I know because for a lot of the week i sat and listened to this. i listened to him strike himself after the pleading as well. and while I personally was not threatened in any way by his actions, it was still extremely stressful and distressing. Throughout the week, whenever the longer term patient overheard these things, he would should “would you stop, damn” to the new kid, and less polite versions. I tried to remind the long term patient that everyone struggled with different things, and that it would be better to ignore his peer, or at least make politer requests. no such luck. it seemed, throughout the week as though new kid simply did not hear long term patient.he proved that wrong on saturday afternoon, when he marched out of his room and began wailing on long term patient. after long term patient fell, new patient grabbed him by the hair and pulled him into a room, where the beating could be heard to continue. By the time we had enough staff to safely go in, new kid was standing one foot on long term kids throat, looking him in the eyes and repeating “i’m going to kill you” but, dispassionately.

I think thats it for work stress, I covered viral stress earlier. I am stressed by the riots. it makes me profoundly sad that it must come to this, but i also find myself firmly believe it HAD to come to this. that this rioting is righteous, and the only road to social change. I’ve been a punk since I was a teen, and I feel like i should do more for this movement, but honestly all of my energy is being spent keeping me going and treating these kids.

My depression has picked my relationship with bestie to fixate on in these trying times, and I fear I may have damaged that relationship because of it this weekend. bestie has just started a new schedule which is excellent for her. I’m so happy that she is now on a schedule that works for her needs, and will allow a healthy amount of sleep, and time at home, and for her to sleep close to the hours she’d prefer to be sleeping. I had been very lucky in that her last schedule was very close to my own schedule, and so our time at home nearly entirely overlapped. she chose to spend a number of mornings, and late evenings after the rest of the house just hanging out, her and I, and I absolutely love that time. I don’t want to sound entitled to it, at all. it is a gift she gives to me, that I am so happy to receive and which i am so glad she wants to give to me. With the new schedule she will have to leave early enough that the morning hangouts will not be an option, and because of this likely ought to go to bed early enough that the hangouts while the house slumbers aren’t a healthy choice. My depression tried hard to have me believing that this meant those times were just gone. After work saturday, bestie and wifey were listening to an excellent, but extremely despairing/sad audio drama.It was very enjoyable. It was probably not a mentally healthy choice for me to partake in that, and had I requested a different hangouts activity, they might have been a little sad, but probably would have swapped. instead, rather than be an even minor inconvenience I joined because i wanted the hangouts, and had a great time listening to a great story and felt like while the despair was growing in me, in resonance with the story, i’d sleep on it and it’d be alright sunday. I woke up sunday honestly too depressed to get out of bed. just laying in spiral. I asked bestie to join us in bed, when i heard her going to get her phone charger, hoping extra cuddles would help me get through, i don’t know why i couldn’t ask for what I wanted, I had the opportunity and I’m sure it would have been fine, now, in hindsight. I felt like at the time I was so certain something would go wrong. eventually everyone came to the bed and there was a semi-cudllepuddle. people didn't want to fall back asleep, it makes sense not to full cuddle puddle for that. as people set in on their various phone activities I started to get that feeling like i wasn’t part of what was happening (despite being there. I know, I don’t know why, but when the depression gets going it gets harder to fight.) and rather than grab my phone and to the separate activities together thing I just withdrew. i recall someone commenting on it, and I thought i said something confirmatory about it. The blondes (wifey and besties husband) went to the store, and I could tell bestie might fall asleep, so i tried to get her to stay awake, she needed to for the new schedule. in interacting i’d asked to hold her hand, and she observed i was sad to relinquish it when she wanted it back. admitting that made me sad, led to just an outpouring of all of this stuff sans work stuff. and the worry about time to spend. I shouldn’t have dumped all of that on her, she didn’t consent to listening to that, and she certainly had a stressful enough time. I hate that when I’m in the throws of this damn disease I can’t seem to stop this. I don’t want to hurt the people I love. I don’t want to push them away. She reminded me I ought to go to therapy. I worry I may have offended her by talking about worrying about time we’d get to spend together. That voice in my brain is trying to convince me that her response means that those times mean so much more to me than to her. thats a damn lie. its a damn lie and it needs to get out. I’m exorcising it with the lot.

I’ve just received the list. I’m ending this here, and moving forward with that productive enterprise

[writingisbeautiful10]

The Truth About Lilith.-Got7 Series

Trigger Warnings: Death of a character (Murder labeled as suicide). Mention of rape, physical abuse and drugs. Cussing involved. Mentions of struggles with homelessness. 

A/N: As I have said this is going to be a long and rough series. Got7 is not yet mentioned. PLEASE IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE TRIGGER WARNINGS DO NOT READ THIS. All these characters are o/cs. There is probably some mistakes. I will go through this again tomorrow and if tumblr will let me I will correct those mistakes. I hope you enjoy!  ALSO THE SONGS USED IN THIS CHAPTER ARE:

ROOTS BY IN THIS MOMENT & NOBODY'S HOME BY AVRIL LAVIGNE. THESE SONGS WERE JUST INSPIRATION FOR THESE CHARACTERS!

Chapter One: Crystal And Lila’s Introduction

     All I could hear was the band's name. Tiger Bloods. The crowd just kept shouting it in excitement. Tiger Bloods. Now is the part in the chant where they would shout the members names too. Tiger Bloods. Crystal. Mia. Harper. Lila. Here we go again. We walked out on the stage. Now is where we perform. The songs we wrote. The songs we hold so dear to heart. The songs about our own lives. Every damn concert. This feeling did not know when to stop bothering me. Worry. Worry of our music being shared with the rest of the world. It was like sharing pieces of ourselves. 

     The first song. "Roots". It was the song I probably hold closest to my heart. This song was about my struggles as a child and how I grew stronger from it. How these days, I don't mind welcoming pain. Worse pain can do is make me stronger. I will not break. I always tell myself that. I will not break. You can not break me. I look into the crowd and found the very face I was looking for. Elijah. He was the light of everyday for me. For all I know, he's the one reason I did not break these days. He always knew when to be there for me. 

     I continue singing.

     "I bite down a little harder. My blades a little sharper. My roots, my roots run deep into the hollow. I strike back a little harder. I scream a little louder. My roots, my roots run deep into the hollow. I'm stronger than I ever knew. I'm strong because of you. I hit back a little louder. Fuck you a little harder. My roots, my roots run deep into the hollow."

     Most of our fans, when asked what their favorite thing is about us, say it's the realness. The raw emotion in the songs and performance. It's true. It's real. The emotions pouring out of me right now are real. It's anger. It's pain. It's sadness. It's sorrow. It's grief. It's strength. It's growth. It's everything. I pour my heart in these songs especially this one. My fans noticed that too. They love when I sing this song. They sing with me so loud, they don't need a mic to be heard. 

     This song always brings me back to what my past was. The rape I suffered and the beatings. My father and his best friend were evil creatures. Sure, my father kicked his best friend out of his life once he found out about the rape but that didn't stop the beatings he landed on me and my brother. The hellish blood bath he gave us when we stood up for our mother after he beat her too. The drunk finally left our lives when I was sixteen. Took sixteen long years of survival but by then, my mother was so lost. It took me and my brother to save her from herself and her drugs. Took another two years. I was eighteen when the nightmare of my parents ended. Eighteen years, I put on a warrior's face scared to show my emotions to my family. 

     Sure, I was publicly releasing music about my emotions but I used a false name til this year so they didn’t find it. I used to known as Lilith Gold. Now the world knows my real name. Now the world knows all of our real names. We stopped hiding. We were sick of it. 

     "You want to know why I like the pain, you say? There's a sick part of me thankful for the hate. I, I stay positive and I, I push forward, you see? I, I got to do the right thing for my family! So I smile and I say that the world is just fine, as these fucking parasites eat up my spine. So I ask you once and I ask you again. Where do your roots start and where do your roots end?"

    This part hit the hardest. This part was the part I always choked back the tears. Oh, you should have the look on my mother's face when she heard it. She cried. She cried for so long. She apologized. She kept apologizing. Mother you're only human. Just like me. I already forgave you. I forgave you. I forgave Carter. I forgave him too. I forgave you most of all, mother.

     I remember she replied. 

     "You don't forgive David?" She asked.

     One last tear past my cheek as I replied, "I do. Not for him. Not like I do you and Carter. What David did to me? It wasn't humane. It was pure evil."

     "My roots, my roots run deep into the hollow." I finished the song out still choking back tears.

     I see Elijah in the crowd letting a few of his tears flow past his cheeks. 

     The agony I go through with sharing this side of me to the world never overloaded the happiness and relief I got every time I finally got it out of my system. 

     Next song. This is one isn't written by me. It's Lila's. This is something else that our fans loved about us. While I can sing. I can also play some of the instruments the band requires. We all can. We can all sing. Me and Lila trade places. I take the guitar and watch her begin to pour her soul in the song that she holds most to her heart. 

     "Nobody's Home" is about Lila's time after her family kicked her and her sister out. The pain she suffered going through the shame that family told her she was to them. You see, Lila's a lesbian and her family is conservative Christians. When they kicked her out, Juliet stood up for Lila causing them to kick her out too. During this time in her life she was thirteen and Juliet was twelve. Not a year later, they met me. While I had nothing I could do about where they lived, I let them sneak in my room at times. Mia let them sneak into her too room at times. Lila and Mia became fast friends, even faster than her and I did. I fed them every chance I got. Every dollar of allowance I could give, I gave to them. They still had to go to school, you know? I let them borrow my clothes as did Mia. I even lied to my mom and said I lost my journal or my pens and pencils in order to get more even though it oftentimes made my father angry. 

     "She wants to go home but nobody's home. It's where she lies broken inside. There's no place to go, no place to go to dry her eyes. Broken inside." Lila sang on about the pain she watched her little sister go through because once Juliet stood up for her, their parents refused to let her back in.

     Her parents refused to let either one of them back in. 

     They just kept standing by their decisions. Lila even said that her and Juliet lived off of breakfast and lunch at school and off the showers in the gyms. They had finally developed a system where they just stayed in the school to live. They hid wherever they could to avoid getting caught. The process continued except for when Mia and I let them sneak in with us and eat whatever we could sneak into our rooms at night. I remember the stories they used to tell us to play it off as if it wasn't as bad as it was. They used to say they were staying with an aunt but that the bed was painful and that she refused to give them money. Mia and I figured out quickly that it was a lie but let them say what they wanted. It lasted at least a year before a fight I had with Lila brought out that Mia and I knew they were staying at the school on the days they didn't spend with us. That fight nearly teared us apart but thank goodness it didn't. We ended up apologizing to each other and making up. 

     "Her feelings she hides. Her dreams she can't find. She's losing her mind. She's falling behind. She can't find her place. She's losing her faith. She's falling from grace. She's all over the place. Yeah." She shook her head to the left just enough for me to see the tear run down her cheek while singing with such passion.

     Lila continues to say that the hardest part of it all was losing Juliet. 

     Juliet died just before Lila was able to start working to help them out more. Lila was so excited to finally be able to take care of her baby sister better. Her death nearly killed Lila. Juliet was fourteen years old. She was murdered. The killer was never caught. The cops tried to play it off suicide. In fact, they did write it off as suicide. You see, they didn't see her face that morning like Mia, Lila and I did. She hadn't smile that much in a long time. Why was she smiling? She was smiling because she was excited just as Lila was. Finally, they could begin the new journey of maybe being able to make enough to feed themselves. They knew if Lila was to do good and stick with job, she would keep getting raises and she could maybe one day, just maybe get them out of the gutter. That one day, she'd be able to get a job too and do the same leading to maybe not living in the school anymore. 

     Someone murdered Juliet Kayla Chaplin and to this day we don't know who it was. It kills all of us inside but it took the light out of Lila. Juliet was her world. She almost felt as if instead of Juliet being a sister,it felt like she lost a daughter.

     "She's lost inside, lost inside. Oh. Oh. She's lost inside, lost inside. Oh. Oh. Oh." In Lila's voice it was oblivious that she was choking up as she ended the song.

     The crowd started shouting. Justice for Juliet. Justice for Juliet Chaplin. The tears finally started coming to a halt as the dark brunette stood strong and raised her mic in her hand letting the crowd shout into the mic. 

     That. 

     That was Lila's way of saying that this is what I am. I am strong and I am going to find the killer. I am going to make sure the person who did this fucking pays.

TO BE CONTINUED.

A/N: I will be posting Crystal and Lila’s profiles after this! That way you have a way better feel for who they are. I hope you enjoyed reading loves. 

[pokefanbri]

I got in touch with my 1st love a couple months ago..hes a half native American & white dude, pretty pudgy now like triple the size of himself in middle school lol. Doesn't have much time left on this earth I feel for him, im glad I know now cause if I hadn't it probably would've been alot more devastating. Doesnt have to wear a mask cuz really whats the point. We met for coffee, got to hang out at the mall & he visited my work, we did talk & clear the air..got some things out that were left unsaid & i gotta say it really did help & we're better for it 😊 we're now cool & no hard feelings.

We used to be on & off in hs but the last time I broke it off with him for good reasons & also due to my mother 😒 If it weren't for him & our own experiences, & then every guy since...I would've have known how much I really love or attached I can be to someone (which has been all of them really but does disintegrate over time & going into new relationships they become just a distant memory as the yrs go by & then ur all about the new guy 🤔 basically right) or how unattached I can get when I just dont love them anymore...(of which has only happened twice)

For the record I've had 5 relationships my whole life...not counting flings..out of 2 they broke up with me.. & they so happen to be the ones i fell hard & fast for...its a common theme but they are the best ones I've experienced & I think I have a confirmed type now that I think about it lol. Im thinking too much again, but..they're top tier unforgettable.

I fell damn fucking hard this time around just like I did Thomas..don't think I got enough of him either...😤 seriously wtf is it with these charming & hilarious, headstrong, smart ass, string bean, stoner, Leo men fucking my heart up after only a few months time! What is the universe trying to tell me! I swear to God in another lifetime they would've been friends its an incredible likeness. History repeated itself it seems..I was so in love with him too, we were only 19 but omg he was awesome & we were ALL OVER EACHOTHER 🤤. He was my coworker, a red headed skinny bobblehead tho, & lived in my apt complex his best friend Danny boy did too in his own, hard core Call of Duty players I remember they high jacked my tv for optimum experience...😒 walking the tv across the parking lot was super sketchy looking lol.

Anyway after Thomas broke up with me for saying the L word "too soon" it freaked him out I guess & my brain cracked from the devastation...doctors are convinced it was the weed 😒 and apparently I ODd on Tylenol...crock of bs btw but whatever...i couldn't sleep & for days I was in a haze til I finally called my aunt for help & all of a sudden I was locked away in a psych ward for 2 weeks so they could observe what was wrong & diagnose me. Had to quit pima college & stop working, put everything on hold for my health. After I came back, Tom admitted he wanted me back but he hated my 1st love with a passion. I confessed I was back with my 1st as he was there at my side & visiting..when Tom had no idea where tf I was, me missing worried him sick. I had no clue & for all I knew he forgot about me while I was grieving over us in the hospital (I couldn't have my phone..knew a select few #s by heart otherwise he would've been the 1st I'd call), I was still dazed & super fucked up from the hospital..just outright exhausted when Thomas came to my apartment wanting to try again....yea I messed that up though regretfully. I told him the truth...I know it hurt him, hurt me too. Never saw Thomas again 😔 he was my 2nd, wonder how he is.

After I broke up with my 1st there was like a 1 or 2 month relationship with a fat Irish dude named Patrick I met from college, he insulted my mom..kicked his ass the curb 😂 yea she chased him away too just like my 1st...but an Irish version..was kinda a deadbeat anyway good riddance. I was alone for about 5 years after that til eventually met my ex-husband matt & was with him for technically 7 years & then that ended.

Long story short I was hit with another love bomb over the past year (T2.0 lol) & the fallout is taking forever to disapate lol...well good technically I don't want it to yet lmao, it feels good to love someone with a full heart except for the fact they ain't here 😔

I love genuinely & with a full heart, ive never had a problem with love, except for my abusive mother I sought approval for....never have I been with someone that didnt want it...didn't want me, until him. If someone shows that to me in a relationship it hurts me at the roots, u don't understand how much it brings out that little girl that just wants to be loved back..to be wanted. It hurts to think im not even worth that. I realize though that he may have his own issues to get past first b4 he can learn to give it back & its not my fault. I should on some things honestly but I don't blame him..not anymore. I blame my own trauma that made me so fucking sensitive & off-putting to him, going from 1 relationship to another without healing first, & not knowing how to function walking on eggshells around a new person trying not to piss them off...not knowing how to do a fresh relationship from the start again....when you've been with 1 person prior for 7 yrs.

I grew up being beaten as a kid, I have no father, my mother chose drugs over her own children, everybody in my family arent like a hallmark card far from it...its fucking tucson ok it's a hell hole. A good amount are notorious for causing trouble around the city, nobody talks to eachother..stays away & fends for themselves, or just killing themselves with drugs & selfishly hurting people around them. Very few of us are really trying to make it out & create life for ourselves but it's really hard to escape because we're all struggling. I cry because I've been strong for way too long on my own, I cry when I think im not good enough. Besides some relationships & friendships along the way for support guess who's always taken care of herself to survive, yours truly. It's a huge accomplishment that I've never been homeless, only a couple times have I had to rely on a friend or family member for a roof over my head & that was just 2020-2021,boy is it good to have connections during a pandemic phew, alot more tough to find someone willing to help. My big sis Lisa, my mentor assigned to me at 12 yrs old cuz my mom couldn't be a real parent lol...she says im a strong princess thats gone through hell & back, she's seen me do it countless times, she can attest to how much of a boss & survivor I am...she knows I deserve nothing but to be appreciated,respected, valued. I'm underestimated all the time because apparently people think they can read what kinda person I am just by looking at me or by word of mouth, hell no very doubtful screw u lol... i don't need anybody's belittling opinions of what kind of person I am ok, how about talk to me & ill see if u in the ballpark lol cuz I guarantee im a boss ass goody 2 shoes that can kick butt 😊. So listen here, I know my worth & I deserve a prince to keep me safe from the big bad world right? I need an actual shoulder to cry on not someone that'll walk away when I need them most 😔 Why tf do I feel like rapunzel & all I get is fuckin Flynn 😂 I'm a queen ok, hear me now.

This will be my 3rd own rented apartment. The 1st time I was a teen & imancipated...had that place for a few years 1st & 2nd love era, 2nd time was the escape from my mother as an adult & I moved away eventually got married. And now at another turning point in my life... escaping a very different hell & losing pretty much everything including the man that started it all, 3rd time is the charm right. Fuck my life sidewinder style. Honestly this is the best apartment complex I've found that I want as my home....its gated nothing can touch me from outside unless I say so, so at least im secure to a point.

Why am I talking and not sleeping 😐 I'm tired, it's 5am now. Yeaaaaa I'm done 💤

[doctor-paprika]

Heroin sucks.

I have no followers, so I guess I am using this as a diary entry that no one will see but can help me vent a bit.

I am learning how to tumblr so have been randomly searching any interests that come to mind. Of course, one of the first I could think of was heroin/addiction recovery, but very few results came up. After that, I stupidly just searched the word “heroin” and the results really brought me down (lower than I already was, which was surprising.)

A few accounts were splattered with pictures of Kurt Cobain, which didn’t surprise me. Soon I saw several accounts with videos of people shooting up, people talking about how much they love heroin and other drugs, and of course, people talking of how they may be addicts, but they aren’t dirty junkies!

When I was 14 I began eating pills. Benzos were fun, but opiates were my favourite. I took them from medicine cabinets and kept myself in steady supply that way. Years passed, I graduated high school, fell in and out of a few relationships, and eventually began seeing someone who had been using heroin for a while. They would leave the room to shoot up, but one night I told them to stay, and I asked them to share.

I was 19, had a good job, a reliable car, over $4k in the bank I had earned every penny of on my own, a good relationship with my parents, and a few people I called friends.

I don’t want to sit here and put down my partner at the time because it is counterproductive. All I will say is that they were 26, had never had a job, a driver’s license, a high school diploma, but got lots of money given to them without question by their mother.

I say this just to give you (the person who is not reading this) an idea of my situation at the time.

I loved my first shot. There was no mark left on my arm, which shocked me. Before this, I had needed four nurses to hold me down to get a tetanus shot, but suddenly the fear was gone. I didn’t want to bring up doing it again, so was very excited when my partner asked a few days later if I would like to join them in shooting up again. The second time was even better than the first.

The lies came quickly. Calls to my job, claiming my car was broken down. Calls to my parents coming up with various reasons as to why I wouldn’t be home that night. The few friends I had became unimportant, I had new “friends” that I met through my partner, and they either sold, used, or both.

A few months after I turned 20 I quit my job, officially moved in with my partner, and had begun to spend almost every moment of every day coming up with ways to get heroin. I felt like a cool adult, able to make my own decisions and get high whenever I wanted! What fun!

Without having to pay for food, rent, or anything but heroin, I ran out of my $4k in less than a year. I had been saving all of my money from age 15-19 and it was gone in just a few months. I also got my car taken from me by my parents. My partners mom knew that we used, she sobbed about it, yelled about it, and acted like it was the worst thing that could have ever happened to her… but would still give us $100-300 a day so we wouldn’t get sick, and provided a nice, new car for us.

I was lucky to live in the Bay Area, because all it took was a fifteen minute drive to Oakland and I had access to dozens of dealers. There were also many needle exchanges around the city in which each person could get 400 free, new clean needles and all the ties, cooks, cottons, and anything else a heroin addict could need, including a limited supply of Narcan - which I always kept on me after having OD’d myself once and watching another friend OD, and having us both be saved by the opioid antagonist.

Oh, and I began smoking crack. Lots of crack. Crack was great! And heroin was a perfect comedown! I was awake most hours of every day, and spent almost every second of those hours worrying about how the next hour would go.

By the time my parents found out about my use, I was 22. They had been my best friends and now we were completely out of contact. My mom would occasionally stop by the apartment my partner and I shared with their mom, but by then I had begun living in the car we had, because being in Oakland all the time was easier than having to drive there every day.

My partners mom would occasionally go through periods where she decided to cut us off. She was married to an alcoholic whose health was declining so had to tend to his addiction more than ours at that point. I had never imagined myself having to fly a sign for money, but now I was doing it all day, every day, and most of the time was stuck standing out there sick. Lots of homeless people live on the streets of Oakland, so to get a good spot to stand you needed to get out early, and find some confidence to fight others who wanted your spot. I had shit thrown at me, usually open drink containers, I got yelled at to get a job, to get the fuck off the median, to kill myself. I didn’t understand what I was doing to offend these people so bad. My least favorite part was the men who would hold out a dollar, just to pull it in once I got close and show me their dick before laughing and driving off - and the worst of that was one who actually came on my hand, he could have at least gave me the dollar after!

Once my partners mom was at the hospital daily with her rapidly declining husband, waiting for him to get a liver transplant that eventually came too late, we began staying at the apartment more. Every wall became covered in blood spatter, shot from rigs that had become blocked with coagulated blood. You could not see one inch of the floor, as it was covered in used rigs and bloody rags. Surprisingly, we didn’t get the security deposit back! I will always feel terrible that I let my cat live in that fucked up place.

I joined a methadone clinic a few times to try to avoid going through withdrawal, but I would always stop going because the drive there took away time I could have spent flying my sign, smoking crack, or shooting dope.

I was 23, my job was flying a sign, my car was in three accidents that left it barely functioning, had no money for longer than a few minutes (more usually a few hours because dealers were generally slow movers), was out of contact with my parents for thirteen months, and I didn’t have one friend. I had also gotten below 90lbs, which didn’t go well with my 5'8" body - inside or out. You know you’re at rock bottom when you have old crack dealers with no teeth telling you how unhealthy you look.

You know what my most commonly used phrases during those years were? • “I’m not a junkie, I’m a functioning addict!” • “I’m not a dirty crackhead, I take showers, brush my teeth, and wash my face (in the bathroom at Safeway.)” • “My parents/friends are so stupid, they don’t get that I’m totally fine. I’m better than fine, this stuff makes me feel great! If they tried it, they’d know!” • “I know *drug dealers name* takes a long time to meet up, but we’re friends! Not like how it is for them with all the junkies out here!” • “I’ve never had to whore myself out, I’ve never been to jail, I’m not like these nasty junkies out here..”

You know what kind of things I did that I thought were totally normal and definitely didn’t make me a mentally ill drug abuser? • searched the floor of my car for lost crack rocks for hours, tearing apart any parts of it I could - one time even thinking I had found a big chunk of crack and immediately smoked it, but it was a popcorn kernel! Worst thing I’ve ever smelled or tasted. • gone through every inch of my partners mom’s room to find any loose change or gold jewelery I could sell. • sold every book, videogame, DVD, CD, and any item I owned that I could get even a dollar for, including things I had had since my childhood that had incredible sentimental value. • sold every Safeway giftcard my partners mother would give us for 75% of its value, knowing it meant my partner and I would have no food for the foreseeable future. ¹ • then spent the money we got for the giftcard on crack, knowing that without food in our system we would throw up bile after each hit. • had to shit so badly after taking a hit of crack that I went on a curb where others could see, in the middle of the day, and then taken another hit right when I was done. • taken suboxone sooner than I knew I should have, and proceeded to vomit non-stop while driving, followed my shitting my pants three times, selling a PS4 that belonged to my partners friend, and driving to meet a dealer while still vomiting and wearing my shit filled pants.

Too much information? Gross? It’s weird for me to talk about it, because I have incredibly bad anxiety and don’t like to be open about more than I have to be, but drug addiction is gross and people need to realize that. There are people out there buying clothes and accessories with “Xanax” and “Percoset” labeled on them! Alcohol is glamourized in the media all the time! And the worst part is, I get it. I get that feeling that of independence, that feeling of being cooler than others, that feeling of finally having found something to calm down my brain even a little bit and falling head over heels for it, that feeling of doing something illegal and scary and the adrenaline rush from it.

When I was in middle school there was an assembly where a man talked about his drug use. It ended with him saying quitting cigarettes was harder than quitting heroin. Once I got addicted to heroin, I knew that was complete bullshit. I wish there was a way to tell kids, adults, anyone who might be considering using that they should do anything else, that their lives can so easily be ruined for who knows how long, but unfortunately most will only learn from experience.

Addicts are demonized, we are looked at as scum, as monsters, as those you should stay far from. Addicts are people. Many addicts are brilliant minds that suffer from mental illnesses, some known and some not. I knew I was mentally ill, but the therapy groups gave me anxiety and the meds didn’t work quick enough so I took the route I felt would be easier, which proved to be the opposite. Addiction is a disease, whether people choose to believe it or not. The biggest argument I have heard against this is that addicts choose what has happened to them. Do you put down a diabetic, even if they are only dealing with that disease because they ate tons of pies and cakes every day? Do you put down a person with cancer, even if they are only dealing with that disease because they tanned themselves in the sun or under tanning booths every day? I chose to use heroin, I chose to use crack, I chose to eat pills, I chose to drink, but I did not choose to be an addict. Long before I did any of those drugs I was addicted to picking at my skin, addicted to cleaning, addicted to exercising and watching my diet very closely, but no on has ever put me down for having dermatillomania, for having OCD, or for having anorexia.

Those with mental illness are looked at as lesser beings, as being incompetent, as needing to be pushed aside and stepped on. But we are strong, we are bright, and we deserve love and acceptance.

I have been off of heroin since early 2014, but I will be celebrating my one year date of being completely clean and sober in eleven days. I never think about drugs anymore, until I see videos of others shooting up, text or images promoting the addict lifestyle, and unfortunately for me those are all too common and too easily found.

If you are an addict, ask for help. If you suffer from, or even think you may suffer from, any mental illness, ask for help. Even if it is hard to find at first, it is out there. Therapy, medications, rehabilitation and the like are out there.

But, you’re not reading this are you? Like I said, this is just a way for a rambling, ex-junkie to vent.

[offansandflames]

So this month is apparently my month. May is both Medical Health Awareness Month and Brain Tumor Awareness Month.

Look everyone, I’ve made a thing!

To be honest, I hesitated before posting this, especially since I’m getting to know people much better. I had some shit to deal with, and I was pretty graceless about it at points. I only hope that my sharing this both encourages understanding for people who’ve gone down my path and also brings you all some happiness. Seriously it breaks my heart to hear what some of my loved ones are going through, and I want them to know that even if your world feels like it’s ending, there’s hope.

I thought I had everything planned out at the age of 15. I was going to go to Stanford and become a pediatrician, my life calling. Through high school, I worked roughly 90 hours a week, between school, homework, and my extracurriculars (co-captain of the tennis team, swim, cross-country, National Honors Society, weekly volunteer work at the hospital, and Amnesty International). I even made it on the news, with the title “Future Doctor” under my name. I had a 4.7 GPA and the burning passion of a million suns.

I was literally EN FUEGO. But

Headaches. Horrible headaches. I gained 30 pounds (that’s 14 kg) in a single month, while eating very healthily and exercising vigorously. Then deep as hell depression. And daily hallucinations. I literally felt like I was losing my mind. My blood chemistry levels were swinging around like they were on crack, but no one could figure out what was going on.

My mom (dad was gone) told me I was being melodramatic and looked fat and disgusting as hell. She’d roll her eyes when I’d react to my hallucinations. I went to doctors who reassured me “Puberty is difficult for everyone.”

At the very least, she continued to send me to hospitals throughout the Los Angeles area. Finally, they decide to scan my head to “rule it out.” I lay there with a cage on my face and was serenaded for 40 minutes by what sounded like the mating call of a dozen fax machines.

ADVENTURE TIME ! ! !

I was called back into the hospital (UCLA) in a matter of days, which is strange on account of the fact that most people have to wait months. When I see my doctor there, suddenly a neurosurgeon walks into the room. “Okay, that’s weird.”

He slaps an image of my brain up on the wall, points to it, and says, “You’ve got something there.”

He said it kinda like he was telling me I had spinach in my team.

“What?”

“A brain tumor.”

For a few months, peoples’ attitudes changed. My mom told me about a dozen times a day that I was going to be okay. I think she was reassuring herself more than me. I was a little worried, but more than that, I was happy. It was proof that I wasn’t crazy. And most importantly, there was something in my brain that could be removed. I could actually be normal again! No one understood how much I’d been suffering all along.

By the way, the niceness lasted for a few months. Went away after that, then back into the abuse.

I’m going to take a minute out and say something. I’m sure tons of people reading this have gone through hard times, especially around that age, and were not taken seriously. Listen, I had a fucking brain tumor and was still dismissed. I took it personally and felt like a piece of crap, though now I look back and see how wrong it was. I’m really sorry for those of you in a similar situation. All I can do is advise you not to let that guilt you into thinking your struggles are inconsequential, though I did a shit job of that myself. I love you all.

-ahem- Back into it then…

The physical pain stayed constant, but the psychological issues exploded. I always remember that I’d be standing in a room, then everything in my field of vision became neon. The room would stretch out for what seemed like miles, and my ears would ring so loudly it hurt. Then random shit (looked like humanoid figures) would come out at me. Terrifying.

My mom again insisted I was being dramatic. It was a house of cards, and as it was bound to, it fell. I injured myself pretty badly and was sent to a psych ward (at UCLA) for a week. I was still holding on to that dream of becoming a pediatrician, but in all honesty, I didn’t know if I’d be alive that far into the future.

No one close in my life was supportive. They viewed this as me just being “dramatic.” They diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder in the ward.

My psych state continued to deteriorate to the point that I lost touch with reality. The depression was as crushing as death, and I saw no reason why anyone would want to live. Life was just a pointless dream. I took a bunch of pills one night and was rushed to the hospital by ambulance. I was in a coma for about 3 days and nearly died.

I woke up in the Intensive Care Unit, confused as to how I’d gotten there (I had no memory) but also not really caring. My family was screaming at me about how close I’d come to death, but the most they’d get out of me was a shrug. They sent me back to the UCLA psych ward, and literally, I was sent back to the very same room.

I don’t know how, but through all of that shit, I kept my grades up. I still had a 4.7 GPA when I got out of high school. I scored a free ride to UCLA, the same place where I’d found out about my brain tumor, and the place where I’d been kept in a psych ward twice. Crazy. Meanwhile, the tumor grew and bled into my surrounding brain tissue.

But the depression just kept getting worse, and so did the hypomania that accompanies Bipolar. I kept having blank periods and would wake up in the ICU, again with screaming and crying family members. I didn’t want to die anymore, so I was very upset by this. I wouldn’t even remember trying to take my life, so it literally felt like I just went to bed and woke up in the hospital. That happened at least three times, maybe more.

I got into the drugs (literally the worst ones) and became addicted to them. Bipolar is tricky, and my mood would swing. At some points, I was so depressed and disillusioned. I would often say, “I’m not making it to my 30’s.” I accepted that as a fact. So who cares if I’m addicted to shit? Becoming a pediatrician was a pipe dream. Something’s going to knock me out, either the drugs, my psych issues, or the brain tumor. Whatever.

Then I’d come out of that depressed stupor and realize, “Holy FUCK, what am I doing with my life?!”

Sober up. Then relapse. Then sober up. Eventually, I got so sick physically that I could hardly leave my house. That ended the drug use.

My treatment team was fairly large, and all of them were well renowned. I’d been told by different ones that I was risking going blind by not having surgery. Others said that the surgery was just too dangerous and would itself risk my vision, could lead me to have a stroke, or could, ya know, kill me. One doctor thought I needed my hypothalamus removed, which I previously didn’t even realize was a thing.

I started having something called cluster headaches. These are informally called “suicide headaches,” and are debated to be the most painful medical condition in existence, worse even than childbirth. I spent about 70% of my waking hours having those for months. I thought I’d known pain before. I didn’t know jack shit, but I sure learned fast.

I was then too sick to go to school. It was obvious, but the final straw was when I went to take my finals and passed out on the lawn for several hours. When I came to, my head was screaming, and my vision was blocked by large neon splotches. I told my mom thought I couldn’t go to school the next quarter. She said that if I didn’t work or go to school, I had no place to stay.

Enter: Homelessness!

At that point, I was beyond fucked. I had nowhere to go. For about a week, I stayed on my best friend’s couch. His house was literally a drug den, and basically shit was never farther than a few feet from my head. I started using again, and that was probably the darkest point.

I had no home, was critically ill, had no money or food, and was on drugs. I’d had to drop out of college, and my goal of becoming a pediatrician was laughably far away. Looked like the end of the road.

The homeless shelters were full, and I was totally prepared to get a sleeping bag and camp out under a bridge. Possibly just die there. Thank the lord, my fiance’s family decided to take me in. I lived there for months, not leaving the house even once, not even a mailbox trip. I was in excruciating pain every single day. Ironically, even though I was at my sickest physically, I was recovering psychologically. I wrote stories and loved to play Guitar Hero during what few comfortable hours I had.

I’ll still remember that early 2009, the headaches became drastically rarer. The tumor was growing slightly but no longer bleeding into my brain tissue. I thought, “Oh my god, what if I can finish college after all?”

It was a huge risk, but I flew out to California to finish up at UCLA. I was in horrible pain. I’d study over a puke bucket and with 2 pairs of shades on in the dark, with the text the size of my palm. I was seeing double. It didn’t matter to me that I had a sad story, or if it was “understandable” if I gave up. No one could save me from the consequences of that, so I pushed through.

Every day I walked to class, I passed by the old psych ward I’d stayed at. It just loomed there, monolithic and so tall. It felt like at any moment I’d be sucked back into its gravitational pull. Like being the slightest bit functional was just a brief gift, and I’d soon go back to where I belonged.

I finished my first quarter. Straight A’s.

I was so fucking proud of myself.

Another quarter came and went, and despite all the pain, I got 3 A’s and one A-. Passing by the ward one day, I took the elevator up to the ward’s floor. I wanted to face the past. The thought occurred to me that this time, I was coming here on my own free will. I was here to get an education and improve my life. Ever since that day, when I passed that building, I felt a swelling sense of pride and victory. I was on the right track again. Totally taking life by the huevos.

That quarter they found another tumor on me, in my adrenals. I didn’t let it throw me off much, because seriously nothing could rattle me at this point. I did admit to myself that becoming a pediatrician was not a wise path for me anymore. My health and immune system were too poor to make it through medical school, let alone residency. And even after that, I’d constantly be exposed to pathogens from my patients. Even now, I’m nowhere near healthy enough for that.

So it was time for Plan B. I studied economics, which I didn’t realize until later interested me like crazy.

I graduated from UCLA with a 3.4. It was nothing fancy, but it was by far the greatest accomplishment I’ve ever had in my life. To this day, I am so incredibly proud of myself for that. I know that I can take whatever life dishes out and throw it right back in that bitch’s face.

The recession was deep when I graduated, so I decided to go to grad school. I passed with a 3.7 GPA, and the brain tumor stopped growing. We don’t even know why.

Flash forward to now.

I’m still mentally ill. I take about 7 medications a day. Sometimes I’ll still have hallucinations and cluster headaches. This shit doesn’t just disappear.

My family likes to pretend that they’d been so supportive about the horrible things I’d had to go through.

But the fact is that I’m working a relatively high paying job and am engaged to a wonderful person whom I’ve been with for 11 years. I’ve traveled to twenty different countries (and counting) since I graduated from grad school, one of my greatest life goals. I lost all those excess pounds and am training now to run a half marathon. I’m passionate about life and like to think that I’ve helped some people in life-changing ways. I look back and can’t believe that I made it, but I did.

I went from homeless, penniless, and critically ill to being comfortable, having a healthy relationship, and traveling the world.

What freaks me out is how damned close I’d come to ending it. People tell you “It gets better” all the time. I know it sounds like trite bullshit, but it’s true. You have to be strong and adaptable, but I truly do believe in resiliency of the human spirit.

Nobody asked for my advice, but I went through hell to learn it, so I’m sharing. Never let life take more from you than it absolutely must. If you’ve never been truly tested, you would be shocked at how adaptable and resilient people can be. Don’t give up; as they say, this too shall pass. It’s okay if you don’t have your shit figured out yet, I promise you.

Please don’t compare yourself to others who might have had a “more difficult” life and chide yourself for hurting. You have every right to feel as you do and do not deserve to be dismissed. If you beat yourself up for feeling the way you do, you’ll only be weaker in the end.

Oh yeah, and also...

And for those who need help, I am here.

[patriciahaefeli]

Accountability: The Gift That We’re Not Giving

     I got an email the other day from a college student who had missed five classes and who, as a result, had not handed in her mid-term or her research paper. In it, she explained that the reason for her absences and failure to submit assignments was that her cat had been sick and ultimately died. She assured me that she was obtaining a note from her Vet to confirm this. 

     I don’t have time for a lot of carefully worded observations right now, so forgive me if this is overly blunt. I’ve got a full-time teaching job, and two part-time jobs. I’m back in graduate school. I’m a mom, a wife, a sister, daughter and friend (and these relationships are my priority, as without them, none of the other things would be possible.) I like to work, and I work hard. I care about the job I do, and I care about my students. 

     Dealing with teenagers and young adults as I do each day, I thought I was beyond being shocked. I thought I’d seen pretty much everything, and that includes a lot: Kids being removed from school in handcuffs, kids in gangs, kids whose parents are in gangs, kids who receive “home-instruction” for literally months because they cannot pass a drug test, kids who are homeless or abused at home, and kids who abuse others. Kids who who cut themselves, starve themselves, and threaten to, or try to kill themselves.I’ve been to teenaged baby showers, and teenaged funerals. 

     I’ve seen kids whose families survive on next to nothing, or who have serious learning disabilities work really hard and thrive, and those on the “Free-and-Reduced” lunch plans who have the latest iPhone, sneakers, and gel manicures. I’ve seen those who deal with serious learning disabilities, who’ve lost everything in a house fire, who’ve lost a parent, or who are in foster care dig deep and despite everything, study for that test, hand in that paper, show up for that game/meet. 

     What is conspicuously missing from my experience? Kids who are capable, whose needs are getting met, who are consistently showing up for their lives. Kids who have everything they need (and a lot they don’t)– except a sense of responsibility; for their actions and decisions, for the work they do (and don't do) and the for the consequences of all of those things. 

     In the interest of fairness and full-disclosure and all that, let me just say that I wasn’t always a good student or a good teacher. During my first teaching experience, right out of college and into a highly rated high school, my performance was marginal. Although I now believe with every fiber of my being that I was meant to be a teacher, at that time, I wasn’t so sure. It was a combination of things. I was young, inexperienced, and often too afraid to ask for help. I was tough on my students, unyielding and again, afraid. Afraid that if I wasn’t those things, I’d lose control of my classes, and that scared me more than anything. It was for the best that I left just shy of three years to enter the corporate world. 

     For the purposes of this rant today, my history as a student is a tad more interesting. In October of my freshman year in high school, progress reports were mailed home. Mine indicated that I was currently earning three D’s and one F. My father, report in hand, decided to have a chat with me that night. In a very calm, quiet voice, he asked me to explain. Encouraged by his apparent reasonableness, I did, telling him honestly that at that particular time, my social life was simply way more important to me than my grades. He nodded, understanding completely. I almost relaxed too, even though I didn’t completely understand what he meant when he responded (again, quietly, calmly), “Well, then I think what we need to do here, is to re-arrange your priorities.” 

      And re-arrange he did. Every day, instead of cheerleading, hanging out with friends, or talking incessantly on the (wall) phone at home, I went after school to one of the teachers whose classes I was doing poorly in. I was expected to make up missing work (whether or not the teacher would accept it), and if necessary, get extra help. I did this every day until the end of the marking period, and ‘Lo and behold! My grades improved! Drastically! It worked, by God – and not just for that marking period, but for all subsequent marking periods! The message had been received loud and clear: Schoolwork first, social life second. 

     The point is, lest you think that these are the tirades of a dyed-in-the-wool doctoral candidate, that I have been that kid. The second part of that truth is that I had it (figuratively, of course) beaten out of me. I didn’t turn it around because I was upset at having disappointed my parents (although I was), or because I was thinking about college, or because I just had some kind of epiphany about what, exactly, my job was at the time. I turned it around because I didn’t like the consequences of not turning it around. It’s that simple. 

     Which brings me back to the idea of being afraid, because oh, man, the degree to which fear is driving the bus here! Parents are afraid to take things away or impose punishments, public school teachers are afraid of being blamed for their failing students, colleges are afraid of losing enrollment stats, and kids are afraid of…nuthin’. 

     Know what I’m afraid of most of all? The day these kids hear this complete sentence: “NO.” I’m part of the problem here, I’m well aware. That tough-as-nails 23-year-old teacher I once was has left the building permanently. A combination of having my own kids and getting older has made me complicit, mellowed me to the point of being “soft.” I say “okay,” way too often. I’ve justified it by saying that it’s better that they do it late, or halfway, than not at all. I’ve pretended to believe outrageous lies and I've accepted ridiculous excuses. I’ve worried that their lives are hard, that hearing “no,” might be the thing to put them over the edge. I’ve told myself that everyone deserves to be cut a break just once (or twice, or three times…) 

     The fact is, 95% of the time, when I say “okay,” what I’m really doing is: 1) Telling them that I don’t believe they can do it; and 2) Failing to give them the priceless, often life-changing opportunity to be accountable; to face the consequences of their actions. 

     Oh, and by the way? The girl with the dead cat got her extension. Not from me, but from my co-conspirator, the Dean of Students. 

     Something needs to change, folks. And fast.

[rockymountainwriter]

Modern Day Slavery: Human Sex Trafficking Among Native American Women

I can remember as a young girl, I wanted to go to college and become a teacher.  However, I didn’t just want to teach in a regular school.  I wanted to live and teach on an Indian Reservation.  I don’t know where this came from but my empathy for the Native American has always been with me.  My mother, who is part Native American, was put in a home when she was only seven.  Her mother and father were both alcoholics as was her grandmother.  The three of them would get rip roaring drunk, leaving my mother and her three brothers to fend for themselves up in the hills of Altoona, PA.  They hunted squirrel for food, and often times did not have a warm coat to wear in the winter.  My grandfather worked deep in the bowels of the earth shoveling coal.  One bitter cold winter day he came home to find all four children out on the front porch of their tiny shack they called home.  My great grandmother and grandmother were entertaining men inside and the children had gotten in the way.  It was then he decided it was time to think of the kids and he put them in a Catholic charity home.

All four children were separated and it wasn’t until they became adults did they reconnect with each other.  Their life was extremely hard growing up in the Catholic orphanage.  The nuns were cruel and because they were half breeds, it entitled them to an even crueler lifestyle.  They were beaten on a regular basis, had their heads dipped in scalding hot water, and their bodies scrubbed down with stiff bristled scrub brushes.  They became slaves to the nuns, mopping floors, cleaning toilets with toothbrushes, and endless amounts of laundry.  There was no time to play or to even own toys, a doll for my mother or some toy trucks for her brothers.  Life was hard.  They lived in poverty and hopelessness.   My mother often wonders where her life would have gone if she had not been adopted out at the age of fifteen to her father’s sister.  It became quite evident shortly after moving into her new home the reason she was taken out of the Catholic orphanage.  She became their slave.  Not a sex slave but one who had to take care of the household, not just cleaning but cooking.  She went to school but when they told her she would have to earn money to wear a bra or to buy Kotex for herself, she dropped out of the ninth grade.  She got a job working at a local creamery, and this is where she met my father, a handsome Italian man who wore an Airforce uniform.  They knew each other two months when my father proposed, offering her a better life in New York.  She took it.

When I first came across an article about Native American women and sex trafficking, it wrenched my stomach. The more research I did on it, the more disturbed I became.  This problem has existed since the 1500s, when the Europeans came over and drove the American Indian off their lands.  They pillaged and raped.  They captured and enslaved.  They massacred.  I couldn’t believe it was still going on today in every aspect.  My bubble burst.  A friend of mine works with Dakota youth on an Indian reservation and I became involved in helping them raise money for their children and their schools.  However, I was shocked to learn the true statistics of what happens to their young children, especially young girls, in the 21st century.  This is when I met Lisa Brunner.

Lisa Brunner has been an active advocate in the sex trafficking of Native American women for many years.  She lives on a reservation in the Dakotas.  She is educated and wants to end the violence perpetrated against her sisters.  The young girls on her reservation look up to her and see her as a role model.  Traveling all over the world to meet with other advocates and government officials discussing ways to end the violence against Native American women, Lisa, along with her seventeen year old son, found themselves in Oslo, Norway at a summit hearing this past summer discussing the success of the Nordic Model. The Nordic Model, also known as the Sex Buyer Law, decriminalizes all those who are prostituted and makes buying people for sex a criminal offence.  The Nordic Model has been implemented by Sweden, Norway, Australia, Canada, and soon New Zealand.  “As a Native American woman, I normally do not feel safe traveling alone so I bring my seventeen year old son with me.  One day, after the summit talks, we decided to take in some sights in the city of Oslo.  We found ourselves in a little town square with cobblestone streets and many outdoor cafés.  Walking by one of the cafes, my son and I had noticed three large men sitting outside, two black men and one white man. As we approached, I could feel their eyes devouring every part of my body, making me very uncomfortable.  We decided to go to a different café across from where these men were sitting.  While enjoying our lunch, a young girl, from Nigeria I think, was walking with her mother and older sister. I could tell they were enjoying each other’s company as well as the beautiful weather.  They were all engaged in a conversation, laughing and smiling as they walked along the cobblestones.  It didn’t take long for one of the black men to get up from his seat and walk over to the young girl who looked to be around fourteen.  As he joined the three of them, his attention was on the young girl and I noticed he was rubbing his hand up and down her back.  Not only did my stomach churn while watching this brazen act, but I began to feel nauseous. Her body language clearly displaying she was not comfortable with this man touching her. I could see the fear in her facial expression.  I overhead him say to her, “Are you for sale?”  Pulling away from him, reaching for her mother, she vehemently told him she was not for sale, all three scurried as fast as they could out of the area.  Walking back to his friends, laughing, I overheard him telling them, I guess she’s not for sale.  I, myself, was visibly shaken by witnessing this encounter as was my son.  He told me then and there, I was not to go anywhere without him”.

According to Lisa, “More than 1 in 3 Native American women will be raped, more than 6 in 10 will be physically assaulted and Native women will be murdered at a rate of ten times more than the national average.”  Native Americans have the highest dropout rate from high school.  They have the highest homeless, runaway and thrown away youth in shelters than any other group nationwide as well as the highest percent of children involved in the welfare system.  Most of these young girls have been sexually assaulted/abused from someone in their family and the majority are either drug users or become drug addicted.  Many believe it is a “career choice” for them because their mother or grandmother were prostitutes.  And the biggest cause of all this, says Lisa, is poverty and history.

Native women in Duluth, Minnesota are extremely vulnerable to being lured into prostitution.  Generations of them have sold themselves to survive.  This story, in particular, from Indian Country Today by Mary Annette Pember is a powerful one about three generations of Native women who have sold themselves out to prostitution in order to survive.  Mary and her mother Ruth are just two Native American women who have survived the life of a “boat whore”. And yet, the citizens of Duluth, fearful if they talk about it and oftentimes feel it might infect them somehow if they do talk about it, sweep it under the carpet and say “boys will be boys”.  “The story of the boat whore has been like a queer kind of natural disaster that visits destruction on the powerless yet holds them responsible” (Pember 2012).

The story of Mary starts from her birth.  She was one of 21 children conceived through her mother’s liaisons with seamen.  Her exposure to the “life” was an accident.  She was 15, broke and homeless, standing on the street with a girlfriend when a Pakistani man approached them.  He invited the girls on board his boat, and thus began her life on the boats.  She would meet seamen in Duluth and accompany them back to their ships, where she would have sex with them and other crew members in exchange for food, money, drinks, and a place to stay.  Most times she stayed on the ships as they sailed from port to port.  “Life on the boats was a nonstop party”.  Mary claims the seamen treated her better than her white foster parents.  However, things changed after 9/11 and Mary found herself being pimped out by an older white woman and her husband who owned a bar.  She says she drank all the time and took care of the bar’s customers in exchange for food, lodging, child care, and alcohol.  She desperately wanted out of the life of prostitution and it wasn’t until she got very sick and was put into a nursing home that her time as a prostitute ended.

Mary is now 51 and lives in a small but comfortable house overlooking the bright, clear waters of Lake Superior.  Advocates say that Mary’s ability to normalize her life as a child prostitute is common among Native girls who have been frequently exposed to sexual abuse and violence. Research done in a report by Shattered Hearts found that “Native girls and women who exchange sex for food and shelter don’t consider the acts to be prostitution” (Shattered Hearts 22). They are simply doing what they have to do to stay alive, engaging in survival sex.  But Mary worries about her daughter, who at the age of 14 began her life with a pimp so she could have nice clothes to wear.  No matter what she tells her daughter, her answer is “look at you – you did the same thing!” Mary has gone from child prostitute, to survivor, to advocate.  Today, Mary focuses her time on spreading the word about the dangers of sex trafficking, she says, “You know, for a long time I didn’t care about anything, but now I’m getting my groove back”

I can’t help but wonder what would have happened to my mother if she had not met my father when she did.  Would she have turned to prostitution eventually?  According to the stats, it’s quite possible.  She could be considered a throw away youth, she endured years of physical and emotional abuse, she dropped out of school in ninth grade, and she lived in poverty.  When she was adopted, it was only to take care of an aging aunt and uncle.  For me, growing up and listening to the horrific details of my mother’s young life has caused me to empathize with Native American women.  After speaking with Lisa, it has lit a fire in my belly to educate everyone I can about this ever troubling problem.  Do I think the Nordic Model would work here?  I don’t know.  Like Sweden, much research will need to go into such a program before implementing it in the United States.  We may not be able to change history, but we can change the poverty status of all the Native American Indian reservations.

Works Cited

Brunner, Lisa. Personal interview. 13 Sept. 2016

Pember, Mary Annette. (2012). “Native Girls are being Exploited and Destroyed at an Alarming Rate”. Indian Country Today Media Network. 16 August 2012. Web.

“The Commercial Sexual Exploitation of American Indian Women and Girls in Minnesota”. Shattered Hearts. Minnesota Indian Women’s Resource Center. August 2009.

Picture: Port of Duluth. Indian Country Today Media Network. 16 August 2012. Web.