Back To School September / October

Every couple of weeks, I hope to post a Back To School blog for US, THE PARENTS.
* One week, I will introduce you to amazing, relaxing products with a special interview by the products creator.
* Another week I will give you tops and quotes from parents who got off of drugs for their kids, and stay off of drugs for their kids.
* Tips on dealing with Children’s Services.
* Pets and kids.
* Making sure your kids actually do their homework
* Kids and bullies
* Anything readers suggest.
Send suggestions to: lalitadevibastet@yahoo.com

Find this on my new site, “A Little Bit of Everything

Been Reading, Been Writing — Update

Ok. I freely admit that I have avoided the various David Bowie tributes like the plague. How can they pay tribute to a man who, in my mind, is still alive? It’s offensive! Not to mention too soon…


Then we have the Trump inauguration. Which means his run for POTUS wasn’t some huge, unfunny joke.

Trump in a bathrobe. Eeewwww.
Trump in a bathrobe. Eeewwww.

And then my Nikita dies. The kitten that I got to keep me company when a cruel judge gave my son’s abusive dad 2 weeks in July and 2 weeks in August — which was used the first year to “fatten” our son up and which his dad gave up — last minute — the 2nd year. Either way, that first year, as I cried myself to sleep, worrying about the various abuses my son’s dad and girlfriend at the time were doing, it was my autumn colored Nikita (the Russian female version of Nicholas, my son’s name), who dried my tears on her fur and lulled me to sleep with her purring. She slept on my chest until she got too big and then slept by my side. She was always there for me. The night I realized that she wouldn’t make it, we sat in the dark as I scritched her favorite spots and she purred. Just before 3 a.m., she put her hands /front paws on my leg, took three deep breaths, and she was gone.

Nikita didn't like posing for pictures.
Nikita didn’t like posing for pictures.

Ema was there, too, my tuxedo girl, 2 years older but dying of thyroid cancer 16 days after Nikita. The tumor was in her throat and, even if I’d had the money, nobody would operate. Like Nikita, she wasn’t in pain — until the last few hours. Having worked in a cat clinic, I know how to euthanize a cat, and due to my health problems, I had the ingredients legally. I went to the pharmacy downstairs to get what looked like a mini-turkey baster, albeit a bit big for a cat, and returned to find Ema dead.

Ema / Emanon (
Ema / Emanon (“No Name” backwards as I wasn’t ready for a new cat.)

And that’s how I spent my first 2 months of the year: inauguration; crying and carrying my dead cats down the hallway to the trash compactor because I had nowhere to bury them. Fortunately, my son always considered Nikita my cat, but we were given Ema by my son’s dad when we first moved in and my son was 18 months old. I’d said, after Fluffy, my 22.5 year old cat dying the previous year, that I wasn’t ready. But does Bad Dad listen? (Only to the committee’s in his head. A story I’m working on.)

It’s not gotten any easier to write / type fast on a phone. And I’m trying to get out my autobiography: the drugs, being a Professional Dominatrix, the years I spent trying to get my dad to love me at the expense of my happiness. Which is more interesting? What will people relate to more?

Fun story: last December, our therapist went on permanent maternity leave and suddenly the replacement therapist couldn’t fit us in her schedule. So why did New Therapist say that she could see us? I was going Thursday morning and my son Friday after school. First new therapist switched my son to Wednesday, his only early day off but with getting up at 6am, school, therapy, getting home at 7pm, homework just didn’t fit — which I’d said would happen. My Thursday mornings became Monday mornings, but Monday is just a bad day because I know that my weekends with my son are limited and a strong depression hits me Monday. Was that the last weekend before my son decides I’m not cool, or that his friends are cooler?

So we stopped going. (Update: I’ve since called the place we went. We both need therapy. No call back. I’ll try again today, Thursday, since I first called Monday.)

I’ve been reading books about drugs (“Fall to Pieces”, by Mary Forsberg Weiland; “Not Dead & Not for Sale”, by Scott Weiland) and thinking about the time that I was using and… I know that I would never use while my son is living at home; honestly, I probably never will have my goddess heroin in me again — but if I had to state that, it would be harder to shut that voice off. That addict, “Once is ok” voice. So I tell myself that I’ll be able to in a decade, in 8 years… But with the stuff out there nowadays, I’m way too scared. Cutting heroin with fentanyl and carfentanyl — which is used to put down elephants for surgery! No, thanks. I think watching my son as an adult, writing, and having a clouder of cats sounds better.

Off Topic Story:

Back when I was using in college (I’m a “functional addict”: I can support my habit legally, work, go to school with a B+ / 3.3 average, A in my major, Political Science.), I was going down an escalator when I saw a payphone. It was nearing my 27 March birthday, and I was afraid I was becoming an addict. I called an ex who had moved to L.A. and she said I could spend the first week of Spring Break there. (Not sure if I told her why.) A few days before, Scott Weiland went on Howard Stern. I’d seen the drug scene change and figured Scott wouldn’t have the same dealer. I had connections and planned to bring him some heroin and a bit of coke. But then he said that he was “clean”. Well, I’m not going to tempt him so I never went. That day, he was arrested for trying to buy drugs. Dumbass! My birthday happened. I went to a Rancid show the next night with my fake friend, who had once been a real friend, and the cold cheese on warm bread sandwich just kept coming up. (Ironically during, “Dope Sick Girl”.) I’d seen them a bunch of times so I left. I finished my last half bag when I got home and woke Friday 2 March to large snowflakes. I had a flight to L.A.! I brought an apple but was so dope sick the entire six hours. As I got off the plane, my ex lit up, but was pointing to the guy in front of me; I was staring at his awesome ass. He stumbled, turned, banged into me muttering about leaving his hat… Scott Weiland! My ex and I said our Hello’s, she admitted that I was right about needing a car in Los Angeles (she’d never been before moving out there; I wish that I could do that.), and we got on one of those moving walkways. The place was empty except for Scott and some girl who glared at me while Scott looked at me from the walkway opposite ours. I wanted to run over and ask about any connections he might have, before remembering this was a time to detox. And that’s my Scott Weiland story. Exciting, no? (Sarcasm)

So, I’m still working on my TAROT DECK. I’d love to find
a visual artist

who could help me with my tarot deck. I’m not sure why it’s so hard. Maybe because I can’t offer money?

Then there’s the story I thought my ex had completely deleted: I had floor plans; lists of characters including date of birth; date of death (& reason); relationship to other characters; etc. I had an outline, etc. Now I’ve got a few notes, but maybe it’ll be enough to write The Great American Novel my dad always referred to (still trying to please my dad. Pathetic.).

Yesterday, Monday, 27 March, was my birthday. My grandma guilt tripped me so I guilt tripped​ my son into seeing my dad. (Christianity and Catholicism come from Judaism, so we have been using guilt thousands of years before the Catholics.). Unfortunately​, I had a cold and missed the Birthday celebration which went on without me. Odd. How do you celebrate someone’s birthday without them present but still alive? My dad bought my son an expensive video camera and is giving us (another) hand-me-down-I-hope-there’s-no-porn-like-last-time laptop. The laptop is more important than the camera. We NEED a laptop.

Maybe next year I’ll be included in my own birthday celebration.
Blessed Be,

D. K. Stevens

To My Dad (not the good, sectioned, in order version. That would require more than a phone.)

(UPDATE, October 2016:

In September 2016, there was a bombing near my dad’s apartment. I knew he was physically ok, but I sent him an email titled, “Are You OK?”. His response caused major anxiety and panic attacks and I wrote a draft response. I also went iver his email point by point, but there are only so many times one can insert the word, “Bullshit”. My dad has been rewriting history for a while. I’m aware that he does not like the Real Me, but I find it odd that, when rewriting history, he doesn’t make me into someone that he likes — or loves. Instead I am made out to be worse than I ever was, which confuses me. Why not make me into the child he always wanted me to be? I posted the email responses but quickly took it down. My father needs psychological help and I felt posting would have “gone to far”. But in going through my Drafts, I found this. Maybe he’ll see it, most likely he won’t, but these memes are as close as I can get to letting him know how I feel.)

I love my dad but, as you will soon see, he has hurt me again. I had a great set up but an accidental click on “trash” ruined it. So here are the memes in no special order. (I hate WordPress on my phone but my grandma refuses to listen to what my son and I need and goes with what my dad, aka, The Favorite, says, and we wind up with a bigger Netflix screen. Thanks, dad. Big help. My son can show his teachers YouTube instead of a science project!)

Notice the name here, dad:

Aaand of course some are missing and they’re not divided but that’s what happens when you don’t have a compiter or laptop — glad you ignored the last list of ten and chose one to watch Netflix on, Dad, but we needed one so my kid wouldn’t have to skip lunch and stay late to use the school computer. (And if you start in on his weight, I’ll remind you how you called me “fat” when Playboy asked me to pose for them. Or how you pointed at me and an unnamed Doorman, telling us if we didn’t lose weight we’d get diabetes a week before you fell into your first diabetic coma. Or I’ll poke your belly. Arse.)

I’M NOT IGNORING YOU :)

To those who have been concerned about my lack of online time these past two weeks:

My son has had a cold. He’s given me two since school started, but apparently I passed on his latest: sore throat, coughing, mild fever at night. He was in bed all weekend and I kept him home on Monday.

I know. No Big Deal. I’ve always been over-protective. But there’s something I’ve failed to mention.

N was born in early November, so that’s when he gets his yearly check-up. Two years ago there was a minor problem, and it was there last year. This led to a follow-up visit in January for a second blood test. A few months later he was called in for a sonogram of his kidneys.

At the beginning of summer break we were told that one of his kidneys was smaller than the other. Not a big deal, it’s possible to live with one kidney, but his larger kidney wasn’t covering for his smaller kidney. I was referred to a specialist, but after waiting 6 weeks, debating whether to tell my son, he freaked out at the specialists office. And we lost the appointment.

We did get blood taken again and, with the sonogram, it looks like my son — as of now — should be able to make it through his teens before needing a new kidney. This is ideal as I’m not a match and if his kidneys are adult-sized, he has more of a chance of finding a doner.

Ideally, his larger kidney will kick in and do it’s fucking job.

Realistically, his smaller kidney will be removed and he’ll need a healthy kidney to make up for what his larger kidney is not doing.

Worst case, he’ll need a kidney sooner. Meaning his smaller kidney will be removed and he’ll be on dialysis waiting for a doner since the larger kidney is a fuck-up… Like me.

So meds are a problem for my son. Even for a stupid cold. My son knows some but not all — not even most — of this. He thinks it’s No Big Deal. But it is.

Sorry.

Not ignoring. Just wallowing in self-pity.

— Dee / Kat