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: firstname.lastname@example.org
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.
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.
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.
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)
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.
These books have Alina Sarkov as the main character in a world that is similar to Russia, but not quite. There are people called, “Grisha”, who have different powers: the Squallers, dressed in blue, who can control the winds; Inferni who can control fire; Heartrenders who can slow and stop your heart; and so on. Alina is an orphan fgom Ravka, which was split in two pieces with The Fold between them. The Fold is a place of pure darkness, but Alina is the first Sun (Light) Summoner in hundreds of years. She goes for training and meets The Darkling who says they were meant to destroy The Fold together. As these are YA (Young Adult) novels, Alina is divided between the boy she grew up with, a tracker named Mal (I feel that I should point out that “mal” means “bad” in most common languages.), or The Darkling.
After reading The Grisha Trilogy on Scribd, I knew that I had to read The Six of Crows and it’s sequal, Crooked Kingdom. The characters are different, but it takes place after the events of The Grisha Trilogy. While I believe that we should support our fellow writers as much as we can, I am on Disability. My monthly income doesn’t cover rent on a crappy, falling apart, Hellhole, much less transportation (I have go pay for my son on non-school days now), laundry, toilet paper/ paper tosels, electricity (I’d include gas, but cannot affkrd tbe minjmum $20-$30/month), etc. So I found two sites where I could read these books for free:
Oh, while we’re on the subject of Free Online sruff:
THE WALKING DEAD:
I was talking to a crush of mine who is into The Walking Dead. My son is scared of zombies (even though, in addition to a Fire Safety Plan we have a Zombie Escape Plan), so I’ve only seen the first couple of seasons. But I’ve read the comic since issue #1. Turns out, I don’t have to wait gor the graphic novel or the Compendium. If you Google, “Walking Dead Comic Free“, you’ll find a site that has them all. Free.I’m now up to #147.
How cool is that?
(and everything I wrote was deleted, so I’ll try to start over a bit…)
Reccommended by Gerard Way, former lead singer of My Chemical Romance, I had to try it. It is an excellent app for beginners, although the down side is that it won’t go onto hour SD card.
October 2016: Three weeks ago, I started Monday off with a yearly checkup at my clinic. Despite my seeing my Primary Care Doctor and my Pain Dr the previous week. The yearly checkup includes meeting with the very nice doctor whom, after 4 years, I cannot understand due to his accent and so I wind up getting stuck with way more needles than anyone else because I smile and nod. The TB (Tuberculosis) test goes in the ring of my SandmanKey To Hell tattoo on my forearm because, four years ago, I squealed, “Don’t stick the needle in the tattoo!” and this has apparently become a runnjng joke between us. Then it’s an EKG test and having blood taken.
When I first started there, instead of the required monthly meetings with one’s counselor, I chose to go weekly when I found out his speciality was PTSD* (read my previous posts like, “This Is What It’s Like” — which still needs a good ending — and you’ll see why I have PTSD. I see a seperate therapist once a week but I needed it at the time as I was new to the whole “being crippled by your son’s dad in front of your son and the court giving the dad more unsupervised visitation despite video of the incident”.) On the way to my then counselor, I would pass the nurse who took my blood and try to joke around with her. I’ve since found ojt it’s not me, it’s her — even the males say she’s a bitch.
So last Monday I sat in the chair and didn’t try to joke or do more than be polite. She stuck in the needle, took a few vials, removed the needle, and handed me a single gauze to cover the vein. Unfortunately, she had hit a really good spot and the blood bubbled up through the gauze, down my arm in three streams, and onto the arm-rest before she could hand me more gauze and alcohol(!!!) pads. “Ohmig-d, I am. So. Sorry.” I said, pressing extra gauze and ripping open alcohol pads with one hand. I was mortified. And a bit woozy.
She grunted. Literally grunted. Wha???
I wiped the blood off the arm-rest, my arm, kept applying pressure, added fresh gauze, one bandaid, two, the blood would not stop flowing. Finally I left the room with three gauze pads and two bandaids, trying to hold my phone, sweatshirt and bag, all while applying pressure and I still had to get on line to get medicated. And the blood had already soaked through, so I was basically trying to keep the gauze and bandaids in place while returning three bottles and drinking my methadone.
I decided to head home. Unfortunately, I missed the 4th Avenue bus stop and figured since I needed a new goodie, I’d get off at 5th Avenue to go to DII (D2, which used to be, “Dee & Dee”). As I walked up the wheelchair ramp, holding onto the railing with my right hand, I suddenly felt like I hadbeen stabbed in the upper right thigh.
The culpret? A bicycle chained to the bars with the handlebar sticking out so that, 3 weeks later, I can still see the outline in the bruise on my upper thigh.
It’s been almost five years since my son’s dad put me in a choke-hold and slammed my spine on his knee. At first, after numerous tests (CT-scans, MRI’s, X-rays, etc), it was only two herniated and one bulging disc with massive nerve damage. Apparently, my son’s dad had hit that magical “Sweet Spot” which resulted in nerve damage in both my upper and lower body. At last count, I have three herniated discs in the lower (lumbar) spine, with bulging discs on either side (“Like bookends,” I told my pain dr.). The nerve damage causes muscle spasms which can sometimes pull a muscle; the herniatef, and bulging, discs cause, well, a lot of fucking pain. Continue reading “Wallowing In Self-Pity & Getting “The Art of Asking” by Amanda Palmer”→
I’ve been working on a post to fully describe my personal spread that I use for tarot readings, but it isn’t quite finished. I’ve decided to put the cart before the horse and post this reading for a good friend, and when I finish the post on my tarot spread, I will insert a link. Continue reading “Tarot Reading for X”→