It started with a dream. Then the dream came to life. Little was I to know how this unfolding would continue to change me. Stuck in a world of illusion, I had hit my bottom, then the grace of God embraced me and now the truth sets me free.
The House in My Dream
The house in my dream was not my dream home at all
Just somewhere I stayed once in a while
The door I had walked through many times before
Revolved as many arrived and departed
I didn’t stay there alone but
No one acknowledged me
Always muffled voices of visitors new and old
Weary one day, I found myself there
In this house like a disproportionate castle
Too few rooms for too many people
Searching like me for somewhere to rest…to be alone
Still thinking the room I had was waiting…time had eluded me
Maybe my room had been given to another
Diligently seeking my quarter
Yet not remembering where
I began searching for another…somewhere…anywhere
Quickly passing others unaware
Dim lighting, passage to passage, turning many corners
Finally, I saw ahead
Shades of yellow, orange and gold
Soft pillows of silk and transparent white veils
But as I entered I knew
It was occupied by another
I could hear her music
Alive like no other
Familiar tunes from time gone by
She asked who is there?
Somehow I knew her
A long lost friend
And she knew someone was there…intruding
Remaining invisible
I quickly passed her room
Not wanting her to see me…no desire to explain
So I turned and finally found that familiar entrance
To my forgotten room
That upward cave previously ventured
Leading to where I stayed many times before
Exhausted yet relieved
I scurried through that entrance
Different than I remembered
This time going to where
I thought I wanted to be
Wasn’t so easy
Like rock climbing with no gear
Weakened by time, wear and tear
Many times had journeyed there before
What I tried to grasp began to crumble
What I thought was rock was only plaster rubble
Cracked and rotten
I knew right then when I was half way there
As I looked below
How far I would fall…I felt my fear
If I tried to go there again
It would be the end…in my heart I knew
That wasn’t my room anymore.
Kara’s Dream 4/7/02 3AM
I was lost. Addicted to pain killers for nearly 7 years, my life was a mess. A typical day consisted of 10-12 Vicodin ES, 6-8 Soma, and various tranquilizers starting from waking until sleep. I could pass out for a few hours at a time until my next craving but, I truly had no rest in my life. A typical week consisted of counting out pills, setting doctors appointments, filling prescriptions and visiting urgent care clinics or hospital emergency rooms. It was such a relief whenever I saw a new drug store being built. It was like a new dealer, I just need to get the secret password…a new “script”. When I first became introduced to painkillers, I thought everyone should be able to take at least a couple a day and we’d all get along better.
I started experimenting with drugs around the age of 12. Once I hit junior high, I met some “friends” and we started partying. I remember the first time I smoked a joint, some girlfriends and I were at the beach in northern California and we met this “hippie” type guy who sold us 3 joints for 5 dollars.
From the moment I took those first few puffs, I was free. We danced in the waves and sang opera. We laughed so hard. I was sure that was my answer. From that time on, marijuana became my friend. I started hanging out with a few girls and we started to “party” every chance we got. My friend Kyla’s mom was so nice, she even would buy us beer, we could even drink it at her house and she never mentioned it to my mother. We met these older guy’s and soon they were nice enough to buy the beer, get us high and we never had to pay for it. Soon, we didn’t have to “party” at Kyla’s house, we had a new place and there was always a party going on.
This partying lasted nearly 20 years. It became a way of life, something to look forward to. I was miserable. By the time I was 15, I became sexually active and boys became my next drug. I just wanted to be loved. A few times I thought I had found it when I would get that sense of belonging when I would have sex with them and then settle for a few minutes of cuddling afterward. I hated myself and was on an endless search for someone who could love and protect me.
There were a few “good guys” but I would find a way to get rid of them quickly if they treated me too well or were overly respectful. I needed to find my “soul mate”. Those nice guys just didn’t give me “that feeling”. When I was between boys or getting ready to find a replacement, the obsession would take over again until I compulsively jumped from one frying pan into another. The anxiety I felt without that “excited” feeling, was unbearable. I literally felt like I wanted to jump out of my own skin.
When I was 19 I met an older man, Tommy. Tommy sold drugs to the father of Jeff, a boyfriend I had at the time. I always had a live-in boyfriend and Jeff was no exception. Stan was Jeff’s father and quite a character. He was a con-man just like my father and had many similar qualities. He always had a story. There was no way to tell what part of his accounts were true or false but there was a charm about him that made one almost not care either way.
Late at night, Stan would knock on our apartment door and ask to come in. He had bags of cocaine and offered to share with us if we would just let him in. We would stay up all night and sometimes days if there was enough. My eye would drift to the baggy as I kept track of the supply at all times. He was always generous with the lines unlike normal suppliers who would give you just enough and then require a favor or money before they would give you anymore. Jeff’s father was never like that. He just didn’t want to do it alone. I can remember a feeling of panic every time it was almost gone. Then we would have to come down and that was the worst feeling of all. That fear of helplessness and physical craving would keep me moving until I would drop in exhaustion, just like every other manifestation of my disease. I never did like to share. It wasn’t logic, since there was never enough. I was insatiable.
Even though I knew a lot of people and could “fit in” with any click, I always felt different. I was never comfortable in my own skin so I became a chameleon. My personality could change in a split second depending on who I was around as I became very skilled at being what other people projected upon me so that I could get the acceptance for which I was so desperate. I felt most like myself around the “losers”. They were like me. I could count on them to always want to get loaded like I did and we did, almost every day. It was amazing. No matter what group I hung out with, the ones with the dope always wanted to share with me. I was popular in that crowd…the smart one. They would look up to me. I was a leader amongst the lost yet so lost myself. Years later a wise man would ask me the question; where is the one eyed man king? I wouldn’t understand the significance of the answer he gave me until years later when if finally made perfect sense. “Where”, I asked? The tall black man with big eyes and a stutter explained with a tone of irony; a one eyed man is king in the Land of the Blind.
Stan’s drug problem got worse. He switched from cocaine to crystal methamphetamine “meth” because it was cheaper and would last longer. I thank God in heaven, that drug never appealed to me. I hated the taste of chemicals and it burned my sinuses so much; it didn’t seem worth it, if I could still locate cocaine. In December of 1988, Stan told us that Tommy was having a Christmas party and we were all invited. When we arrived at the party, I was so impressed with how nice the home and furniture were. The spread was amazing. I could only hope to live in as nice of a home one day. Even though Tommy was 44, I was attracted to him from the moment we met. He told me how pretty I was and I got that feeling. My heart was pounding and he was the source of the drugs.
Tommy made me feel safe. He seemed to have an endless supply of whatever type of drug you could want. One of the things I learned from him was that there was always a way to change the way you feel. He taught me that I could solve my “coming down” panic feelings with pain killers. Instead of hours of tossing and turning in torture, there was a more streamline and less time consuming way. We would take a cocktail of various tranquilizers, opiates and muscle relaxers after he gave me my last line and then we would smoke pot until they “kicked in”.
That would ease the pain and leave drugs left for the morning to get back up again.
I actually looked forward to the relief of being able to pass out from downers. When I took downers during the day, they had the opposite effect. It was a miracle! I had taken my uncles pain killers once when I was watching their house and I broke my toe. A friend at the time found out that I was taking them and offered me large amounts of money for just a few pills. I didn’t understand what was wrong with her. I just gave her some. She seemed so desperate. I would never get like that.
So began the cycle. Up and down, up and down. When I wasn’t up I felt like shit. My body ached without some drug in it. I began working for Tommy on a sales lot. I became the “liner”. One day when I was sitting in an open house, this older man came in and asked me if I had started using cocaine yet. I lied to him and said no. How would he think that, I wondered. “Just wait”, he said. “If you haven’t yet, you will”. It got so bad, I was going in the bathroom in what seemed like every five minutes to do a “bump”. I was so horrified one day, I was eating some Canadian hard mints and bit a hole through me tongue. When I went into the bathroom to try and stop the bleeding, I noticed this white crust around my nostrils. That was what was one of the first images I had in my mind of what I was becoming that would contribute to my admitting I was powerless over my disease. I viewed my self as a “coke whore”. Here I was with this older man, I was allowing to control my life with drugs and I couldn’t stop. I put up with emotional, psychic and physical abuse for many years. I couldn’t leave. He was the one who was teaching me what life was all about. Soon into the relationship, I became pregnant. I was so sick from using and the pregnancy, I thought that I was going to die. I became dehydrated from constant vomiting; using or smoking cigarettes became nearly impossible. I called my aunt Linda and asked for her help. I wanted to have this baby. I had already had an abortion at 16 years old and promised myself I would never do that again. Tommy said no.
Our “busy season” was coming up and I would be useless this way. We sold these mini-homes called park models to “snowbirds” that would come to Arizona in the winter months to escape the cold of freezing climates from the Midwest, northwest and Canada. I couldn’t work, I didn’t want to have sex, use drugs and I was getting sicker by the day. I could barely get out of bed. The crystal meth made Tommy especially mean and cruel. Instead of the up and down of cocaine, he would stay up for days at a time and seemed to get angry at the drop of a hat. It was like he changed into a different person when he used that drug. I asked him if he could take me to the doctor but he told me we could get into trouble if they tested me for drugs. Besides that, it would be a waste of time, since he wasn’t going to allow me to stay pregnant anyway. It wasn’t “good for my health”. There was not time for this. There was no way he was going to let me have this child and his taking me to the doctor or hospital was out of the question. I was pregnant and in withdrawal and it felt like I was dying. I called my moms sister who lived in Arizona over and over again and she never returned my call even though the first time I has spoken to her she told me she would help me.
My mom was gone. She had moved back to California after a short stay in Arizona and had followed her drug addict husband home after they sold me and Jeff the home my grandparents had helped them buy. Jeff and I had moved from the apartment into this house when I couldn’t afford to pay for it anymore because using drugs took up time I usually would have been producing income. My mom was gone. My aunt was betraying me. I was all alone. The solution to the “problem” was very clear; I would do what I promised God I could never allow happening again. I would have another abortion. The “season” was quickly approaching as my physical health continued to decline. As soon as I agreed, Tommy had his parents pick me up from the sales lot one day to go to the pregnancy crisis clinic to “get it taken care of”.
As we arrived, I wondered if it would be different than the last time. I had been through this before, when I was 16. I had run away from home and had been living in an apartment with my cousin in Utah. After being sent away from home at the age of 15 to live with my estranged father, I became extremely defiant. I could figure out any way to get out of rules. When I was 15 I got a boyfriend. He was older than the other boys and he like me. I was special to him. I gave up my virginity in a cheap hotel room on the El Camino Real, a cruising strip in northern California sometime in September of 1985. I like the power I felt when a man wanted me. Dan was my first “love”. He was a singer and smoked cigarettes. He was Scottish and his father had a strong Scottish accent. He would sing me songs and was already out of high school. We dated for about a year before we started having sex. He would come over to our house and play with my little brother. Since I had taken on a mother role with my little brother, by the time I was fifteen, I was already trying to find a father figure for both of us. That is probably why I was always attracted to older men. The problem was that no matter how paternal someone appeared, all of the men I was with were really just immature little boys inside. Just like many of the others to come, Dan was charming and an alcoholic.
All my closest friends had already jumped into the fire. Losing my virginity was almost like an initiation to keep up with the pack. The peer pressure was so great that by the time I finally did have sex, all my friends knew where and when it was going to happen. It was so hard for him to penetrate we had to get into the shower in the motel room. I remember hitting my head on the plastic tub enclosure when it finally happened. This was my first love and the moment I became a “real woman”. Once the first time was over, Dan expected it all of the time. He said he liked how “I was” in bed. He told me I was a natural. That was a real compliment coming from someone so experience in the area of sex. Dan always prided himself on being a lady’s man. Since he was such a lady’s man he could have almost anyone he wanted but he chose me. If he wanted me when he could have anybody he wanted, I must be pretty special. He started picking me up in his van conversion and we would go to his special spots and have sex. I was finally good at something and as long as I had that talent, I thought I had some control. I remember that warm feeling of finally being accepted and validated. I never felt accepted by my mom who was always pretty busy working or finding someone to love her. She was getting hers and I finally found mine.
When I disclosed to my mother that Dan and I were having sex and that I wanted to get on birth control she found my long lost father and sent me to go live with him. Leaving Dan and all my other friends was especially painful since I really felt like they were my true family. The click of friends I had found became the group I relied upon for my self worth and sense of belonging since I never got that at “home”. I came to believe that If I could just be pretty enough and good enough at sex, I was sure to find a man that could make my life better and the nightmare of being alone go away. When I found “him” It would just “us against the world”, like Romeo and Juliet or Bonnie and Clyde. The fantasy started early. Once I had found the one, we would start our own family and I would make sure to do things entirely different than they had been done to me. I would never pick a man over my children. I would never leave my children alone and force them to fend for themselves like my mother had done to me and my little brother.
My life became an endless string of relationships that I tried to make work no matter what the consequences. I would hang in there no matter what. I wouldn’t just leave when things got a little tough like I had seen growing up. That is exactly what didn’t happen. When one man wouldn’t give me what I wanted, I would just move on to the next. I usually had a few waiting in the background even when I was being so loyal with the one I was with. I got a weird satisfaction from having a “back up: man ironically similar to the feeling of safety I would get when I had an extra stash of whatever drug I happened to be on.
With Tommy, it was different. He took care of me. He was the strong one. With the others, I told myself that I was in control, the one calling the shots. Tommy was older and wiser. He was going to take me places. He told me, I was “worth saving”.
When Tommy’s parents and I arrived at the abortion clinic, we checked in at the reception area and had a seat. I kept fantasizing about running out through the glass door. I was so sad and embarrassed. I thought that they didn’t know I had done this before and I was too ashamed to tell them. The feeling of loathing I felt for these people was overbearing as I hated them since they were helping to kill their future grandchild. They didn’t want it, they couldn’t stand me and they only were putting up with the situation to help their son. Tommy’s entire family only tolerated me because Tommy wanted to be with me. He was twenty five years older than me and I was younger than most of his other children. I remember the shame and humiliation I felt when we were in public and it was a common occurrence for people to make comments such as;” What a beautiful daughter you have” or “Is this your father?” I began to hate being seen in public for this reason. It was better if we just stayed in and used.
When it was my turn for “the procedure” they called me back. The first thing I was handed was a valium. I was so thankful and relieved. It made me emotionally numb. Up to that point, I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. Even as I sat in the waiting room with Jim and Elna, I had maniac plans to escape before it was my turn. I was plagued with guilt and shame from the first one as each minute passed. I remember thinking that I could never trust myself again. As the valium kicked in, those thoughts and feelings slipped away and were replaced with thoughts that allowed me to justify it. At least if I was not pregnant I could use and smoke again and I wouldn’t have to feel so guilty for exposing the fetus to the drugs. That little blue pill of courage caused me to walk back through those swinging doors and get up on the table. The vacuum was turned on and I was tugged and pulled and told to push and after about 15 minutes and the sound of a bag being removed from the room, it was over. A clinic staff member rubbed my stomach and then I got up and walked back out to the waiting room. Tommy’s parents looked at me with relief an asked me; “Is it done”? I nodded and they took me home.
I don’t remember a lot more about that day. I’m sure I slept. After recuperating from the abortion for a couple of days, I began back to work. There were buyers and we needed to “get their money”. The “season” was upon us. One of the other salesmen who knew what had happened made a comment to me that I never forgot. He told me that “one day I would despise the fact that I had ever met Tommy”. He was right but I didn’t realize it for many more years. I would just stay numb.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Green Room
My spiritual awakening began as a dream. On April 7, 2002 I was drawn out of a deep sleep compelled to write a poem about this dream experience immediately after it occurred. The details of the dream were so vivid, and there was this overwhelming sense of purpose to let the images pour themselves out through my writing which was complete in only 2-3 minutes. I named this writing; The House in my Dream , dated it and went back to sleep.
Months later, I finally “hit bottom” with an addiction to narcotic painkillers and other controlled substances that were killing me. What began as relief from the constant angst I felt at 12 years old had now become an everyday requirement just to function. I became willing to embrace any other form of existence other that that which had taken over my life. The choice was now narrowed and I had reached the fork in the road. I was either going to live or die.
I locked myself in the bathroom with my last bottle of pills and started taking them one after the other while I listened to the music on hold waiting for the voice to come back on the suicide prevention hot line. As I sat on the floor leaning up against the base cabinets with a glass of water and open pill bottle in my shaking hands, I couldn’t believe my life had come to this. I had no where left to go and I was too tired of what it was taking to keep up with the demands of my addiction. My eyes began to lose focus as I stared out my bathroom window at the 6ft block wall around my house through my poor dried up bougainvillea plant. I realized my life had become a prison and I couldn’t see any way out.
I was done. I finally conceded to my inner most self that I couldn’t do this anymore. All the lies and doctors’ visits, excuses and self deception about my “little problem” had to end. It just wasn’t working anymore. My motto of a “Vicodan a day to keep emotional pain away” turned into garbage bags full of empty pill bottles, dozens of trip to Urgent Care facilities, doctor’s offices and Hospital Emergency Rooms. Getting and using drugs had taken over my life. During the years of my addiction to narcotics, I had abandoned every other area of my life; my son, my business, my health, friends, family and most of all myself. My home was a disaster with massive piles of unsorted mail, filing boxes, bankruptcy paperwork, unpaid bills and paperwork piled high in my living room. The smell of cat and dog feces and urine in my house and garage were overpowering and getting them spayed or neutered was not on my priority list.
My need for drugs was overwhelming and I was finally defeated when upon my attempt to get just “one more refill”, one of my favorite doctors had just turned me down. I really didn’t want to call but I had to. I dialed the doctor’s office and my heart was pounding as I waited for the receptionist to answer. I only had one narcotic left and I could not function without them. I had tried to quit so many times before and never could. I would always end up in bed, shaking and unable to sleep, eat or even leave the house let alone run a business or take care of my son. She answered and I made my plea. Her answer was what I had almost expected; “Kara, we just gave you that prescription last week and it was for 60 pills.” I could tell they were on to me. I had to give it one last feeble attempt anyway. “I know, I haven’t taken them all, I just can’t find them….I just misplace them. Can’t you just ask doctor if she can refill it again just one more time?” I was pleading as I began to panic. The nurse put me on hold to check with the doctor.
I remember waiting for the nurse on pins and needles. Part of me was dying for that prescription and part of me prayed for this to finally be over. I knew as I waited that if she wouldn’t fill it, I might die. It truly felt like I wouldn’t be able to live without them. At that point the thought of leaving didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I just wanted my suffering and dependency to end but I didn’t know what to do. By the time the nurse came back on the line, my heart felt like it was beating outside of my chest and my hands had already began to sweat. “Kara, doctor said she will not refill the prescription and we have to place a red flag on your file” “A red flag?! What does that mean”, I questioned as my mind simultaneously began to scan its other resources to get more somewhere else. “It means that we will be reviewing your file to evaluate your narcotic intake”. I was speechless. It was finally over. I had been found out.
As I hung up the phone, the anxiety I felt was overwhelming. I didn’t know how to function without those pills. My mind started to race searching my memory for any place I might have hidden some pills in my house. I began searching from room to room in every cabinet and found nothing. I used to hide pills which I would miraculously find when I ran low but those hiding places were exhausted. I started to review my options; find another doctor, make myself a spectacle in another hospital emergency room with one of my famous migraine headaches and beg for a shot or just die. I decided I was willing to die. I was so tired and worn out. I grabbed my cell phone, wallet and last bottle of muscle relaxers and locked myself in my bathroom. I opened the bottle and started taking one every couple of minutes. It was only 11am, I had just taken my last Vicodan and I knew within the next hour I would be in severe physical pain. I opened my wallet and pulled out the State assisted health care card and called the Crisis Line. “I can’t live this way anymore, I can’t stop taking these pills”, I told the hot line volunteer. I was thinking that maybe someone could lock me up in a mental hospital. I thought my only hope would be getting locked up somewhere in a padded room where I wouldn’t be able to physically get out and get more.
The hot line representative informed me that drug addiction doesn’t qualify as mental illness and that the mental hospital might not take my insurance. She then proceeded to ask me “Are you planning on hurting yourself or someone else?” “Hurt myself or someone else?” That was the understatement of the year! I had been hurting myself and others since I could remember. She obviously didn’t get it and I wasn’t sure how to explain it. I didn’t even understand it myself. All I knew is that when it came to getting and using drugs everything else would be subject to suffer. I had to have them at all costs just to survive, so I thought.
She asked me another questions. “Are you in immediate danger?” “Yes”, I answered. “I’m addicted to pain medication and I just ran out and I can’t live like this anymore”. She paused a minute. “I’m not sure you called the right line… I don’t think we can help you with that. Have you called your doctor?” “Oh yeah”, I replied. “I’m taking pills right now. Isn’t there a way you can just lock me up? I can’t stop and I can’t live this way anymore”, I repeated now pleading with her. She told me there was a hospital I might be able to go to but it wasn’t for drug addicts, it was for the mentally ill. She wasn’t sure they would take me. “Can you hold just a minute?” I waited.
The muscle relaxers I had been gulping down were really kicking in. Previously, I had never taken more than a couple of these at a time. I just used them to mix with other pills for a heightened effect. I had gotten up to swallowing 20-30 various pills a day. My daily “pill cocktails” consisted of various combinations of narcotics, muscle relaxers and anti-anxiety medication. I became so dependent on them that I couldn’t get out of bed without taking something. I even began keeping pills by my bedside so I could just reach over without having to get up to take them.
As I was on hold, a call “beeped” in on the other line. I clicked over to my boyfriend at the time who was just calling to check on me. “I was just thinking about you, how are you doing”? “Okay”, I lied. “What are you doing?” he prodded. Well, I’m sitting on the floor in my bathroom on the phone”, I could barely speak by now. Doug and I had been seeing each other for almost two years. He would drink and I took pills and sometimes we would smoke pot together, it was a careful arrangement. Occasionally he would question me about my “pill problem” but the conversations usually ended with my turning the conversation around to point out his drinking problem to get him to back off. I remember once being so furious with him for discussing “my secret” with one of his friends who had been through a pain pill addiction and suggested ways to help me. I felt indescribable rage when Doug admitted to me that he had exposed me like this. I didn’t want his or anyone else’s help. How dare he violate me like that? I could have killed him. At that time, I believed I could figure it out on my own. He had betrayed me and our arrangement.
Less than thirty days later, my cheek now was pressed on the cold linoleum floor, nothing mattered. I was too tired to fight any longer. Pain had now passed the point of expression. My skin started to crawl. I just wanted it to end. In those minutes before Doug’s call I remember thinking that my only hope would be to get locked up and restrained in a padded room. I had to harness this demon inside of me before it killed me. Suddenly there was pounding on the bathroom door. “Kara, open the door!” Doug’s voice was concerned but stern. I could barely move. The muscle relaxers had taken a hold of me and my body felt like jello. His voice sounded like and echo and it was hard for me to respond. “Just a minute…”
I tried to get up. A rush of fear came through my body. I was afraid to open the door. The shame I felt for what I had become was overwhelming. Opening that door meant I might go back. The pounding on the door got louder. “Kara, if you don’t open the door, I’m coming in anyway.” I was frozen and couldn’t say a word. As I reached over toward the door handle, the door swung up. He used the little key we kept on the top of the door frame. “What is going on?” he asked with this look I’ve never seen on his face. Doug always joked about everything. He was a comedic/magician by trade and always had a line for everything and every circumstance, a way to keep people from really getting to know him. He was a master of illusion. I can’t live like this anymore. You were right. I have a pill problem. I have a big pill problem. My life is a disaster and I won’t live like this anymore. I just took a bunch of Soma and I’m out of Vicodan and I need to go to the mental hospital. If they can’t help me I don’t know what to do but I’d rather die than go on like this. He agreed and helped me get up off the floor. The volunteer returned to the line and gave me the name of the State Mental Hospital. I have the phone to Doug for directions.
I remember streams of tears being brushed gently from my face as the rush of air came through my rolled down window as Doug drove us toward Phoenix in his little green truck that brisk November day. It was sad to me that I had become so weak and unable to control my addiction any longer. My tears were filled with shattered pride, shame and embarrassment. I was finally being exposed for the fraud I had perpetrated: me. The one who “could always hold it together”, the “survivor”, “the phoenix rising above its own ashes” was now being taken to a mental hospital to be locked up. It would soon be over, one way or another. I was hazy and depressed, petrified yet somewhat relieved. The fight, I thought was almost over.
I stumbled ahead of Doug as we walked through the automatic doors of the entrance to the Maricopa County Mental Hospital. We were directed to a woman in intake assessment on the other side of the lobby. Not waiting for any prompting, I walked up to her desk and informed her that I couldn’t live “my life” this way anymore and needed for her to check me in as soon as possible. She took one look at me and asked me what I had taken. All I remember is admitting that I had taken about a half a bottle of muscle relaxers. She immediately contacted paramedics and the ambulance with three or four arrived in what seemed like about 30 seconds.
I lay flat on my back as they quickly checked my vitals and eye dilation. I remember feeling so disassociated with my body while this occurred. It was as if I was watching this happen to someone else. “Did she try and kill herself” one of them asked. “That’s what it looks like” said the intake nurse she’s taken a bunch of pills. “Do you see that?” one asked the other referring to the signals they were receiving from my body as they read their monitors, “We need to take her in.” They lifted my body on the stretcher while the whole lobby watched including Doug who was nearby with a look of disbelief and concern. I wanted to hide my face but couldn’t lift my arms. I was so out of my body at time during this experience it truly was as if this was happening to someone else. As they carried me into the ambulance, I remember telling them through blurred speech that I had a terrible migraine and could they please “give me a shot of something (narcotic)”. “You don’t need anything else in your system right now; we will be to the hospital in just a few minutes”. The gig was done. I had just really screwed myself over. I kept thinking of ways to jump of the stretcher and out of the ambulance but they had me surrounded. “How stupid you are”, my head told me. “Now you’ve really screwed yourself over and there is no way out”. I wanted to jump out of my skin but the muscle relaxers were too powerful, I couldn’t even lift my head. We arrived to the Maricopa Medical Center just a parking lot away from the mental hospital. It had only been a few minutes but felt like an eternity as I slipped in and out of consciousness even though the paramedics were doing their best to keep me alert.
Doug had followed in his little green truck and hurried to my side within moments. “We have a possible suicide attempt” one paramedic explained to the nurse as they rolled me into the emergency room. Those words stung my ears. I left for a little while and when I returned, a doctors face appeared in front of mine and he softly posed the question; “Why were you trying to kill yourself?” It was as if I was in some weird dream. I couldn’t tell what was real or if I was actually awake but as the word came out I realized this was actually happening. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself; I slowly pulled the word out, “I just don’t want to live my life anymore”. “Hmm…That sounds like you were trying to take your life, doesn’t it?” he shared with a deep and perplexed look. His kindness hurt. There was a strength he had which made me feel relief and comfort. “I just want the pain to stop”. “I have ruined my life, I can’t stop taking pills, and I have hurt so many people” He asked me to explain about the “hurting people” part as he ordered something made out of black chalk for me to drink that would neutralize the drug I had taken.
“My clients…there are these old people…I have a business… and I have lost their money. They trusted me and I betrayed them. I can’t stand myself for what I’ve done.” I continued to explain to him what a horrible mother I was and how many lies I had been living, all the doctors and hospitals and friends I had deceived to get drugs. I had let everyone down and hurt so many. He seemed to take what I was saying in and prompted me with questions I didn't expect or quite know how to answer. “How do you expect to pay all of those people back if you are not around?” “How can you become a good mother for your son or a good friend, if you take your life?” I explained again, “I wasn’t trying to take my life”, this time a little more strongly. “I just couldn’t stand the pain”. He explained that I “had come close” and suggested I ask myself those questions and see what I came up with. He gave the nurse orders for my treatment and told me he would be back later to check on me. The nurse came shortly with the chalk milk shake the doctor had ordered for me to help neutralize the chemicals in my system.
While the nurse helped administer this horrible chalky substance I was being forced to swallow he started asking me questions too. This was starting to get annoying because I felt like no one understood what I was trying to explain. “So... why were you trying to kill yourself?" he prompted so casually he might as well have asked what I had had for breakfast. I looked at Doug and he could see the frustration and embarrassment in my eyes. “Do I have to explain this again?!” I was getting angry now. “No, I was just wondering”, he smiled. This guy is a little odd, I thought to myself. Why would he act so nonchalant if he thought I just tried to kill myself? “I wasn’t trying to kill myself; I just can’t live my life the same way anymore”. “So why don’t you change it?” he suggested plainly as if surprised, I hadn’t thought of that simple possibility. “It’s not that easy”, I explained. “I can’t stop taking pain killers and my life is a mess beyond repair. Plus I’m just too tired.” He explained that God would help me if I asked for help and that I might be surprised at the results if I just gave it a chance. I felt a flicker of hope and my anger toward him just disappeared.
After I finished about half of the chalk milkshake, I convinced Doug to smuggle the cup to the bathroom and pour the rest out. I was much more awake and he agreed if I would just take a couple more sips. Soon the doctor was back and asked me how I was feeling. I told him much better and that I was ready to leave. He agreed as long as I promised to go directly back to the mental hospital and check myself in immediately. I was discharged with an “OD” diagnosis and the instructions, “return to emergency room if suicidal thoughts arise”. Doug and I got in his little green truck and drove back to the other parking lot. It was getting dark.
The nurse immediately recognized me as we walked back in the lobby and told me to take a seat while she got my paperwork together. It had gotten pretty busy in there by now and she told me it would be a “little while” before I would be able to get in. I agreed and Doug went to another building to find some vending machine food for us to have for dinner. I looked around at all the people in the room. I was grateful none of them had probably been there during my little “paramedic scene”.
My attention was caught by a man and woman who were sitting close by... He was a large, burly type of fellow with dark hair receding from a shiny balding head. He reminded me of “Lenny” from “Of Mice and Men” and was obviously a bit deranged. He kept rocking back and forth with the mantra “I don’t want to go in the green room…I don’t want to go into the green room”, almost in perfect rhythm. He was wearing a green t-shirt and jeans and sat close to this woman dressed professionally and I was sure she wasn’t his girlfriend. I later discovered that this was his “case worker” as I eavesdropped while they finished his paperwork. “What the hell is the green room” I wondered to myself, now alarmed. I leaned over to his case worker and asked. She explained that it was a temporary room you sat in for a few hours until they can locate a bed. I became frantic. Never mind the green room. I don’t want to be in any enclosed area alone with “Lenny”. Not that he seemed dangerous but thoughts of scenes from “One Flew over the Coo coos Nest” flashed through my mind and I started to have second thoughts about all of this. As I was contemplating my next move, the nurse appeared with “my paperwork” she held on a clip board in front of me. She leaned over as she explained what I would be signing. “This is where you put the names of anyone you want to be able to call and get information about you. This is where you put the names of anyone who you want to be able to visit. And this is where you initial and sign acknowledging that you are turning your rights to the State of Arizona”.
I took the clipboard from her and asked if I could think about it for a minute. “She smiled and agreed; “I’ll be right back. Let me know if you have any questions. Don’t go anywhere.” she directed as she glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. My attention started to waiver between the contract in front of me and “her” across the lobby. The words; “Don’t go anywhere” started to echo in my head and all of the sudden I felt claustrophobic. I wanted to run. Memories of escaping out of a juvenile facility when I was 15 came pouring in and that pounding rapid heartbeat began to happen. There had to be another way. In that instant, I felt a determination to find another way. There had to be some other possibility besides the “Green Room with Lenny.”
I sat the clipboard down on the seat next to me, glanced over toward the nurse to make sure she wasn’t looking and darted out the door. I found Doug by the snack machine just around the corner. “Let’s get the hell outa here,” he was surprised at my sudden burst of energy. “Are you sure”, he asked me, with a bit of a smile on his face. “Absolutely”, I exclaimed. He grabbed the granola bar and “Cheetos” from behind the plastic window of the snack machine, we ran out the door and sped away in the little green truck. I disappeared from that mental hospital and reappeared in a 12 step fellowship almost two weeks later. This time it took a magician.
Months later, I finally “hit bottom” with an addiction to narcotic painkillers and other controlled substances that were killing me. What began as relief from the constant angst I felt at 12 years old had now become an everyday requirement just to function. I became willing to embrace any other form of existence other that that which had taken over my life. The choice was now narrowed and I had reached the fork in the road. I was either going to live or die.
I locked myself in the bathroom with my last bottle of pills and started taking them one after the other while I listened to the music on hold waiting for the voice to come back on the suicide prevention hot line. As I sat on the floor leaning up against the base cabinets with a glass of water and open pill bottle in my shaking hands, I couldn’t believe my life had come to this. I had no where left to go and I was too tired of what it was taking to keep up with the demands of my addiction. My eyes began to lose focus as I stared out my bathroom window at the 6ft block wall around my house through my poor dried up bougainvillea plant. I realized my life had become a prison and I couldn’t see any way out.
I was done. I finally conceded to my inner most self that I couldn’t do this anymore. All the lies and doctors’ visits, excuses and self deception about my “little problem” had to end. It just wasn’t working anymore. My motto of a “Vicodan a day to keep emotional pain away” turned into garbage bags full of empty pill bottles, dozens of trip to Urgent Care facilities, doctor’s offices and Hospital Emergency Rooms. Getting and using drugs had taken over my life. During the years of my addiction to narcotics, I had abandoned every other area of my life; my son, my business, my health, friends, family and most of all myself. My home was a disaster with massive piles of unsorted mail, filing boxes, bankruptcy paperwork, unpaid bills and paperwork piled high in my living room. The smell of cat and dog feces and urine in my house and garage were overpowering and getting them spayed or neutered was not on my priority list.
My need for drugs was overwhelming and I was finally defeated when upon my attempt to get just “one more refill”, one of my favorite doctors had just turned me down. I really didn’t want to call but I had to. I dialed the doctor’s office and my heart was pounding as I waited for the receptionist to answer. I only had one narcotic left and I could not function without them. I had tried to quit so many times before and never could. I would always end up in bed, shaking and unable to sleep, eat or even leave the house let alone run a business or take care of my son. She answered and I made my plea. Her answer was what I had almost expected; “Kara, we just gave you that prescription last week and it was for 60 pills.” I could tell they were on to me. I had to give it one last feeble attempt anyway. “I know, I haven’t taken them all, I just can’t find them….I just misplace them. Can’t you just ask doctor if she can refill it again just one more time?” I was pleading as I began to panic. The nurse put me on hold to check with the doctor.
I remember waiting for the nurse on pins and needles. Part of me was dying for that prescription and part of me prayed for this to finally be over. I knew as I waited that if she wouldn’t fill it, I might die. It truly felt like I wouldn’t be able to live without them. At that point the thought of leaving didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I just wanted my suffering and dependency to end but I didn’t know what to do. By the time the nurse came back on the line, my heart felt like it was beating outside of my chest and my hands had already began to sweat. “Kara, doctor said she will not refill the prescription and we have to place a red flag on your file” “A red flag?! What does that mean”, I questioned as my mind simultaneously began to scan its other resources to get more somewhere else. “It means that we will be reviewing your file to evaluate your narcotic intake”. I was speechless. It was finally over. I had been found out.
As I hung up the phone, the anxiety I felt was overwhelming. I didn’t know how to function without those pills. My mind started to race searching my memory for any place I might have hidden some pills in my house. I began searching from room to room in every cabinet and found nothing. I used to hide pills which I would miraculously find when I ran low but those hiding places were exhausted. I started to review my options; find another doctor, make myself a spectacle in another hospital emergency room with one of my famous migraine headaches and beg for a shot or just die. I decided I was willing to die. I was so tired and worn out. I grabbed my cell phone, wallet and last bottle of muscle relaxers and locked myself in my bathroom. I opened the bottle and started taking one every couple of minutes. It was only 11am, I had just taken my last Vicodan and I knew within the next hour I would be in severe physical pain. I opened my wallet and pulled out the State assisted health care card and called the Crisis Line. “I can’t live this way anymore, I can’t stop taking these pills”, I told the hot line volunteer. I was thinking that maybe someone could lock me up in a mental hospital. I thought my only hope would be getting locked up somewhere in a padded room where I wouldn’t be able to physically get out and get more.
The hot line representative informed me that drug addiction doesn’t qualify as mental illness and that the mental hospital might not take my insurance. She then proceeded to ask me “Are you planning on hurting yourself or someone else?” “Hurt myself or someone else?” That was the understatement of the year! I had been hurting myself and others since I could remember. She obviously didn’t get it and I wasn’t sure how to explain it. I didn’t even understand it myself. All I knew is that when it came to getting and using drugs everything else would be subject to suffer. I had to have them at all costs just to survive, so I thought.
She asked me another questions. “Are you in immediate danger?” “Yes”, I answered. “I’m addicted to pain medication and I just ran out and I can’t live like this anymore”. She paused a minute. “I’m not sure you called the right line… I don’t think we can help you with that. Have you called your doctor?” “Oh yeah”, I replied. “I’m taking pills right now. Isn’t there a way you can just lock me up? I can’t stop and I can’t live this way anymore”, I repeated now pleading with her. She told me there was a hospital I might be able to go to but it wasn’t for drug addicts, it was for the mentally ill. She wasn’t sure they would take me. “Can you hold just a minute?” I waited.
The muscle relaxers I had been gulping down were really kicking in. Previously, I had never taken more than a couple of these at a time. I just used them to mix with other pills for a heightened effect. I had gotten up to swallowing 20-30 various pills a day. My daily “pill cocktails” consisted of various combinations of narcotics, muscle relaxers and anti-anxiety medication. I became so dependent on them that I couldn’t get out of bed without taking something. I even began keeping pills by my bedside so I could just reach over without having to get up to take them.
As I was on hold, a call “beeped” in on the other line. I clicked over to my boyfriend at the time who was just calling to check on me. “I was just thinking about you, how are you doing”? “Okay”, I lied. “What are you doing?” he prodded. Well, I’m sitting on the floor in my bathroom on the phone”, I could barely speak by now. Doug and I had been seeing each other for almost two years. He would drink and I took pills and sometimes we would smoke pot together, it was a careful arrangement. Occasionally he would question me about my “pill problem” but the conversations usually ended with my turning the conversation around to point out his drinking problem to get him to back off. I remember once being so furious with him for discussing “my secret” with one of his friends who had been through a pain pill addiction and suggested ways to help me. I felt indescribable rage when Doug admitted to me that he had exposed me like this. I didn’t want his or anyone else’s help. How dare he violate me like that? I could have killed him. At that time, I believed I could figure it out on my own. He had betrayed me and our arrangement.
Less than thirty days later, my cheek now was pressed on the cold linoleum floor, nothing mattered. I was too tired to fight any longer. Pain had now passed the point of expression. My skin started to crawl. I just wanted it to end. In those minutes before Doug’s call I remember thinking that my only hope would be to get locked up and restrained in a padded room. I had to harness this demon inside of me before it killed me. Suddenly there was pounding on the bathroom door. “Kara, open the door!” Doug’s voice was concerned but stern. I could barely move. The muscle relaxers had taken a hold of me and my body felt like jello. His voice sounded like and echo and it was hard for me to respond. “Just a minute…”
I tried to get up. A rush of fear came through my body. I was afraid to open the door. The shame I felt for what I had become was overwhelming. Opening that door meant I might go back. The pounding on the door got louder. “Kara, if you don’t open the door, I’m coming in anyway.” I was frozen and couldn’t say a word. As I reached over toward the door handle, the door swung up. He used the little key we kept on the top of the door frame. “What is going on?” he asked with this look I’ve never seen on his face. Doug always joked about everything. He was a comedic/magician by trade and always had a line for everything and every circumstance, a way to keep people from really getting to know him. He was a master of illusion. I can’t live like this anymore. You were right. I have a pill problem. I have a big pill problem. My life is a disaster and I won’t live like this anymore. I just took a bunch of Soma and I’m out of Vicodan and I need to go to the mental hospital. If they can’t help me I don’t know what to do but I’d rather die than go on like this. He agreed and helped me get up off the floor. The volunteer returned to the line and gave me the name of the State Mental Hospital. I have the phone to Doug for directions.
I remember streams of tears being brushed gently from my face as the rush of air came through my rolled down window as Doug drove us toward Phoenix in his little green truck that brisk November day. It was sad to me that I had become so weak and unable to control my addiction any longer. My tears were filled with shattered pride, shame and embarrassment. I was finally being exposed for the fraud I had perpetrated: me. The one who “could always hold it together”, the “survivor”, “the phoenix rising above its own ashes” was now being taken to a mental hospital to be locked up. It would soon be over, one way or another. I was hazy and depressed, petrified yet somewhat relieved. The fight, I thought was almost over.
I stumbled ahead of Doug as we walked through the automatic doors of the entrance to the Maricopa County Mental Hospital. We were directed to a woman in intake assessment on the other side of the lobby. Not waiting for any prompting, I walked up to her desk and informed her that I couldn’t live “my life” this way anymore and needed for her to check me in as soon as possible. She took one look at me and asked me what I had taken. All I remember is admitting that I had taken about a half a bottle of muscle relaxers. She immediately contacted paramedics and the ambulance with three or four arrived in what seemed like about 30 seconds.
I lay flat on my back as they quickly checked my vitals and eye dilation. I remember feeling so disassociated with my body while this occurred. It was as if I was watching this happen to someone else. “Did she try and kill herself” one of them asked. “That’s what it looks like” said the intake nurse she’s taken a bunch of pills. “Do you see that?” one asked the other referring to the signals they were receiving from my body as they read their monitors, “We need to take her in.” They lifted my body on the stretcher while the whole lobby watched including Doug who was nearby with a look of disbelief and concern. I wanted to hide my face but couldn’t lift my arms. I was so out of my body at time during this experience it truly was as if this was happening to someone else. As they carried me into the ambulance, I remember telling them through blurred speech that I had a terrible migraine and could they please “give me a shot of something (narcotic)”. “You don’t need anything else in your system right now; we will be to the hospital in just a few minutes”. The gig was done. I had just really screwed myself over. I kept thinking of ways to jump of the stretcher and out of the ambulance but they had me surrounded. “How stupid you are”, my head told me. “Now you’ve really screwed yourself over and there is no way out”. I wanted to jump out of my skin but the muscle relaxers were too powerful, I couldn’t even lift my head. We arrived to the Maricopa Medical Center just a parking lot away from the mental hospital. It had only been a few minutes but felt like an eternity as I slipped in and out of consciousness even though the paramedics were doing their best to keep me alert.
Doug had followed in his little green truck and hurried to my side within moments. “We have a possible suicide attempt” one paramedic explained to the nurse as they rolled me into the emergency room. Those words stung my ears. I left for a little while and when I returned, a doctors face appeared in front of mine and he softly posed the question; “Why were you trying to kill yourself?” It was as if I was in some weird dream. I couldn’t tell what was real or if I was actually awake but as the word came out I realized this was actually happening. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself; I slowly pulled the word out, “I just don’t want to live my life anymore”. “Hmm…That sounds like you were trying to take your life, doesn’t it?” he shared with a deep and perplexed look. His kindness hurt. There was a strength he had which made me feel relief and comfort. “I just want the pain to stop”. “I have ruined my life, I can’t stop taking pills, and I have hurt so many people” He asked me to explain about the “hurting people” part as he ordered something made out of black chalk for me to drink that would neutralize the drug I had taken.
“My clients…there are these old people…I have a business… and I have lost their money. They trusted me and I betrayed them. I can’t stand myself for what I’ve done.” I continued to explain to him what a horrible mother I was and how many lies I had been living, all the doctors and hospitals and friends I had deceived to get drugs. I had let everyone down and hurt so many. He seemed to take what I was saying in and prompted me with questions I didn't expect or quite know how to answer. “How do you expect to pay all of those people back if you are not around?” “How can you become a good mother for your son or a good friend, if you take your life?” I explained again, “I wasn’t trying to take my life”, this time a little more strongly. “I just couldn’t stand the pain”. He explained that I “had come close” and suggested I ask myself those questions and see what I came up with. He gave the nurse orders for my treatment and told me he would be back later to check on me. The nurse came shortly with the chalk milk shake the doctor had ordered for me to help neutralize the chemicals in my system.
While the nurse helped administer this horrible chalky substance I was being forced to swallow he started asking me questions too. This was starting to get annoying because I felt like no one understood what I was trying to explain. “So... why were you trying to kill yourself?" he prompted so casually he might as well have asked what I had had for breakfast. I looked at Doug and he could see the frustration and embarrassment in my eyes. “Do I have to explain this again?!” I was getting angry now. “No, I was just wondering”, he smiled. This guy is a little odd, I thought to myself. Why would he act so nonchalant if he thought I just tried to kill myself? “I wasn’t trying to kill myself; I just can’t live my life the same way anymore”. “So why don’t you change it?” he suggested plainly as if surprised, I hadn’t thought of that simple possibility. “It’s not that easy”, I explained. “I can’t stop taking pain killers and my life is a mess beyond repair. Plus I’m just too tired.” He explained that God would help me if I asked for help and that I might be surprised at the results if I just gave it a chance. I felt a flicker of hope and my anger toward him just disappeared.
After I finished about half of the chalk milkshake, I convinced Doug to smuggle the cup to the bathroom and pour the rest out. I was much more awake and he agreed if I would just take a couple more sips. Soon the doctor was back and asked me how I was feeling. I told him much better and that I was ready to leave. He agreed as long as I promised to go directly back to the mental hospital and check myself in immediately. I was discharged with an “OD” diagnosis and the instructions, “return to emergency room if suicidal thoughts arise”. Doug and I got in his little green truck and drove back to the other parking lot. It was getting dark.
The nurse immediately recognized me as we walked back in the lobby and told me to take a seat while she got my paperwork together. It had gotten pretty busy in there by now and she told me it would be a “little while” before I would be able to get in. I agreed and Doug went to another building to find some vending machine food for us to have for dinner. I looked around at all the people in the room. I was grateful none of them had probably been there during my little “paramedic scene”.
My attention was caught by a man and woman who were sitting close by... He was a large, burly type of fellow with dark hair receding from a shiny balding head. He reminded me of “Lenny” from “Of Mice and Men” and was obviously a bit deranged. He kept rocking back and forth with the mantra “I don’t want to go in the green room…I don’t want to go into the green room”, almost in perfect rhythm. He was wearing a green t-shirt and jeans and sat close to this woman dressed professionally and I was sure she wasn’t his girlfriend. I later discovered that this was his “case worker” as I eavesdropped while they finished his paperwork. “What the hell is the green room” I wondered to myself, now alarmed. I leaned over to his case worker and asked. She explained that it was a temporary room you sat in for a few hours until they can locate a bed. I became frantic. Never mind the green room. I don’t want to be in any enclosed area alone with “Lenny”. Not that he seemed dangerous but thoughts of scenes from “One Flew over the Coo coos Nest” flashed through my mind and I started to have second thoughts about all of this. As I was contemplating my next move, the nurse appeared with “my paperwork” she held on a clip board in front of me. She leaned over as she explained what I would be signing. “This is where you put the names of anyone you want to be able to call and get information about you. This is where you put the names of anyone who you want to be able to visit. And this is where you initial and sign acknowledging that you are turning your rights to the State of Arizona”.
I took the clipboard from her and asked if I could think about it for a minute. “She smiled and agreed; “I’ll be right back. Let me know if you have any questions. Don’t go anywhere.” she directed as she glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. My attention started to waiver between the contract in front of me and “her” across the lobby. The words; “Don’t go anywhere” started to echo in my head and all of the sudden I felt claustrophobic. I wanted to run. Memories of escaping out of a juvenile facility when I was 15 came pouring in and that pounding rapid heartbeat began to happen. There had to be another way. In that instant, I felt a determination to find another way. There had to be some other possibility besides the “Green Room with Lenny.”
I sat the clipboard down on the seat next to me, glanced over toward the nurse to make sure she wasn’t looking and darted out the door. I found Doug by the snack machine just around the corner. “Let’s get the hell outa here,” he was surprised at my sudden burst of energy. “Are you sure”, he asked me, with a bit of a smile on his face. “Absolutely”, I exclaimed. He grabbed the granola bar and “Cheetos” from behind the plastic window of the snack machine, we ran out the door and sped away in the little green truck. I disappeared from that mental hospital and reappeared in a 12 step fellowship almost two weeks later. This time it took a magician.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Enemy Within
As I post my old journal entries, I am even suprised at the level of bold honesty found in these words of self reflection. Even though there is part of me that is terribly embarrassed, scared to expose such intimate parts of my past and still a bit ashamed of some of the things I have done, I know sharing these experiences are a necessary part of my continued healing. The risk of being honest about who I am and what I have done are worth the reward of possibly helping one other woman know she is not alone in her shame in similar experiences and feelings.
Even though the original journal entry was titled; The Ugly Side of Pretty, as I read this now almost four years later, I see more cleary than ever that there was enemy living inside that wanted to destroy me and any possible good in my life. This enemy inside me fed on each bad choice and destructive behavior and would have killed me had I not surrendered to God. I am so grateful I lived through these experiences and really believe that the only way I can keep the life I have today, is to give away what was so freely given to me; shared experience, strength and hope.
Much of my life was a death mission. Self sabotage and destructive behavior were normal to me. By the Grace of God, another way was layed at my feet. I was barely strong enough to get on this new path and hands were extended to me and I was lifted out of my misery. For a long time I depended on the strength, courage and example of others who had made it through this same wilderness, lost and then found.
I learned that it is possible to move on, get close to God, love yourself and help others. It is possible to live through the pain of facing yourself completely and in fact it is necessary for our souls survival. Daily prayer and service to others are what keep me on what the native Americans call the "good red road". There are times even today that I cringe at some of these memories and weep for the losses. The feelings pass, as I pray or just sit with myself, get interested in others so I can remain grateful to God that the enemy within didn't win. I don't ever want to forget what it took me so long to learn; God's Love is the only answer and I am not alone.
The Ugly Side of Pretty
Since I can remember, I just wanted to be beautiful. Not just pretty but absolutely gorgeous. I have gone to many extremes to get this. I have undergone high risk plastic surgeries, exercised excessively, dieted only to find my self satisfied temporarily with the results and let down from my unrealistic expectations to find myself left with me once again. I always identified with Cinderella. Not so much from the perspective of evil step sisters but from the aspect of time running out to make my prince love me and see how lovely I could be. If I could just be my best self for a minute and he could see me that way somehow a spell would be cast and he would be mine forever. He would go to any length to find me once I ran back to my cave before I turned into the pumpkin. He would carry my size 11 glass slipper until he found the big foot to fit it and hopefully it would be mine.
As I face this eating disorder and the reality that this is not just about food. It is about this image I have of myself that is not really me. One of the biggest challenges of this whole thing is that I have built my whole life’s work around this image. What you want me to be. Not that you really want me to be anything but that I expect that you must want me to be someway or something to make you love me. If you have an expectation of me, at least I have something to work with especially if it is an unrealistic expectation. Then I really have something to chew on. It is the endless cycle of lets see if she can meet the goal, jump through the hoop, be thin enough, have big enough breasts, a small enough nose, tan enough, accentuate the good, hide the bad and on and on and on. Oh how I have tired. How I have beat myself up. I try and measure up, never can, punish myself for failing, feel helpless and hopeless and then begin the insanity again. This monster the 12 step groups like to call the disease of addiction, the compulsive over eater, the alcoholic.
Christians call it Satan or the Devil, the accuser. Neal Donald Walsh says in Conversations with God: Words are the least accurate way of communication. Does it matter what we call it? Isn’t it more important who we find out is listening to it’s call? I have killed unborn life within heading it’s not so subtle commands and accusations: no one will want a fat, unmarried pregnant teenager. You have your whole life ahead of you to get any man you want. Don’t throw it all away for somebody who is going to hate you anyway. Your parents don’t want you. Look at how fat you’re already getting to be. You better hurry up an end it before you get any worse. And I did.
The same night of the day of my abortion, I was ready to go out again. Someone had invited me to a party and I remember trying to stuff myself in my jeans which I could barely peal on, never mind I was still swollen, bleeding and cramping. I remember I was at my friend Tamara’s house. She and her divorcee mom let me stay at their house while when I ran away from Utah once I found out I was pregnant. I remember the look of disgust on her face and the accusing tone in her voice; “Your actually going to go out tonight? Don’t you think you ought to stay in?" I could tell it wasn’t my rest she was concerned about. It was like she wanted to feel sorry for me but couldn’t because I wasn’t laying down and playing hurt. Why should I? I didn’t have time to stop and feel the pain. What good would that have done. I had fish to catch, don’t you know. I had just killed my baby and this had better be worth it. I had better get that gold at the end of the rainbow. I had to justify what I had done and I would spend the next 20 years trying to prove to myself and the world that I had made the right choice. I would get the prize at any cost. I was wrong. I lost. Now I wanted to die.
I can’t remember when I started throwing up on purpose. I know my first experiences with food obsession include stealing from the local corner market, stealing from my mother’s purse to by a health food bar at the health store. Whenever I got caught I always had some clever excuse like “I was hungry” When I came up with that one, the Arabic market store owners felt so sorry for the cotton haired 5 year old they simply took her to the back room where their family was eating and fed her. I told my mom that I had sold magazines from the garbage bins at the post office to old ladies to get enough money to buy the Tigers Milk bar she was too busy to get me as she sorted through all her bills from the PO box once a week. I could always manage to get what I wanted and I learned to be sneaky to do it. Sneaky became the theme of my life. I could figure out how to get a desired outcome for almost any situation, manipulating and controlling from behind the scenes while you weren’t looking or even if you were while maintaining the image of what you thought you could trust.
I became what I knew you thought I was so I could get my way. The bulimia was no different. I could eat what I want, when I wanted in the quantity I wanted and wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences such as weight gain because I could just throw up. It was so simple… so I thought. The thing about being sneaky is that you can’t fool all of the people all of the time. Most of the people you think you’re fooling actually know you are full of shit they just let you think you are so they have one up on you. It’s really a sick little deal. I wouldn’t listen to anyone. One Thanksgiving, my cousin Terry went into the bathroom after I had thrown up. My aunt confronted me about a week later and said that her daughter Terry had gone into the bathroom after me and had seen vomit on the toilet. I was kind of angry that she had the nerve to say that. Did she think I was stupid? Why didn’t they just say they heard me throwing up or had suspected I was throwing up? How dare they insult my ability to cover my tracks? I was always very careful about cleaning up after myself. I had such a fear that once someone found out about my secret I might not be able to do it anymore just because I would be so ashamed that someone actually knew and what they thought about me would be unthinkable.
I had an image to maintain so I took so many precautions not to get caught. I would turn on the bathtub water (it was louder than the sink), simultaneously flush the toilet while I threw up and washed the bottom of the toilet seat for any signs of food or color that could have splashed up from my hurling into the toilet water. Movie theaters were the trickiest. I always liked the big theaters with lots of toilets. I would pick the Handicapped stall because I could position myself in such a way that I couldn’t imagine anyone seeing my feet facing toward the toilet. No one would know I was leaning of the bowl throwing up my large bag of popcorn with extra butter, Raisonettes and Peppermint patty bites washed down with diet coke. The trick was trying to time those body sensor toilets that automatically flush when you stand up. The ritual of the obsession and compulsion to binge and purge was almost as exciting as the prospect of not have to experience the consequences of being able to eat my cake and throw it up too. My body started to disagree. I couldn’t trick my body anymore. I started to experience extreme abdominal pain. It got to the point that I would go from not having any urge to have to go to the bathroom to feeling like I would shit my pants in 2 minutes.
My bladder also started to weaken as I started to lose control of my ability to hold it as long as I could before. I started to have a raspy ness to my voice and a tickle in my throat almost all the time. I started to get sick more frequently. I noticed that the times I would get sick would be close to the times I was especially violent with myself during binge and purge episodes. At times I believe my body was just holding onto the food to live. It absolutely would not let it go. No matter how hard I tried. No matter how many times I stuck my finger down, even to the point of ulcerations on the back of my through, my body was going to keep it. I remember especially feeling like a failure those times. It was excruciating for me to realize that no matter what I did, my body was going to have to digest those calories and all I could do was wait. I could make it up in the morning.
Sometimes I would stand in front of the mirror and look at myself almost in disbelief. After hours of binging and purging not being able to get the food up my eyes would turn black and blue by morning.
Breaking blood vessels that had collapsed due to excessive pressure were now betraying me and leaving evidence of my self mutilation. Fluid would collect in my upper and lower eye lids to protect the tissue I had damaged and as I saw this damaged little girl wanting to be the pretty woman worthy of love there were moments I truly felt sorry for myself. Not in the rebellious self pity gained from a distorted sense of strength from being a victim but in a sweet kind of sadness. Like a friend watching someone they love hurt themselves needlessly yet being powerless to offer unwanted help. There was a realization, just a glance at a time, a slow admittance to myself; this was a battle and I was lucky to be alive. This dis-ease was beating me up but I was not yet beaten.
Cold cucumber slices and professional grade department store concealer were my friends. It was show time again and I was off to the gym. Extra cardio, drop set training, aerobics, pilates, whatever it would take, I would work it off. I had to cover my tracks. I couldn’t show any sign of the failure by weight gain. I could handle it. I had to be strong.
Now working out 5-7 times per week, sometimes three times a day, protein bars and shakes were the only thing I would put in my body on the days I felt especially fat. I considered myself healthy because I drank a lot of water and took supplements every night. Everyone told me I looked the best I ever had and I knew it was true. Some of my happiest time was turning around in the mirror when I could see my rib cage from my back and my shoulder bones sticking out. I had finally made it and I wasn’t going to let this go. I had reached my fighting weight and I would never be fat again. Never.
June 9, 2006
I have been free of bulimia since June 11, 2006.
Even though the original journal entry was titled; The Ugly Side of Pretty, as I read this now almost four years later, I see more cleary than ever that there was enemy living inside that wanted to destroy me and any possible good in my life. This enemy inside me fed on each bad choice and destructive behavior and would have killed me had I not surrendered to God. I am so grateful I lived through these experiences and really believe that the only way I can keep the life I have today, is to give away what was so freely given to me; shared experience, strength and hope.
Much of my life was a death mission. Self sabotage and destructive behavior were normal to me. By the Grace of God, another way was layed at my feet. I was barely strong enough to get on this new path and hands were extended to me and I was lifted out of my misery. For a long time I depended on the strength, courage and example of others who had made it through this same wilderness, lost and then found.
I learned that it is possible to move on, get close to God, love yourself and help others. It is possible to live through the pain of facing yourself completely and in fact it is necessary for our souls survival. Daily prayer and service to others are what keep me on what the native Americans call the "good red road". There are times even today that I cringe at some of these memories and weep for the losses. The feelings pass, as I pray or just sit with myself, get interested in others so I can remain grateful to God that the enemy within didn't win. I don't ever want to forget what it took me so long to learn; God's Love is the only answer and I am not alone.
The Ugly Side of Pretty
Since I can remember, I just wanted to be beautiful. Not just pretty but absolutely gorgeous. I have gone to many extremes to get this. I have undergone high risk plastic surgeries, exercised excessively, dieted only to find my self satisfied temporarily with the results and let down from my unrealistic expectations to find myself left with me once again. I always identified with Cinderella. Not so much from the perspective of evil step sisters but from the aspect of time running out to make my prince love me and see how lovely I could be. If I could just be my best self for a minute and he could see me that way somehow a spell would be cast and he would be mine forever. He would go to any length to find me once I ran back to my cave before I turned into the pumpkin. He would carry my size 11 glass slipper until he found the big foot to fit it and hopefully it would be mine.
As I face this eating disorder and the reality that this is not just about food. It is about this image I have of myself that is not really me. One of the biggest challenges of this whole thing is that I have built my whole life’s work around this image. What you want me to be. Not that you really want me to be anything but that I expect that you must want me to be someway or something to make you love me. If you have an expectation of me, at least I have something to work with especially if it is an unrealistic expectation. Then I really have something to chew on. It is the endless cycle of lets see if she can meet the goal, jump through the hoop, be thin enough, have big enough breasts, a small enough nose, tan enough, accentuate the good, hide the bad and on and on and on. Oh how I have tired. How I have beat myself up. I try and measure up, never can, punish myself for failing, feel helpless and hopeless and then begin the insanity again. This monster the 12 step groups like to call the disease of addiction, the compulsive over eater, the alcoholic.
Christians call it Satan or the Devil, the accuser. Neal Donald Walsh says in Conversations with God: Words are the least accurate way of communication. Does it matter what we call it? Isn’t it more important who we find out is listening to it’s call? I have killed unborn life within heading it’s not so subtle commands and accusations: no one will want a fat, unmarried pregnant teenager. You have your whole life ahead of you to get any man you want. Don’t throw it all away for somebody who is going to hate you anyway. Your parents don’t want you. Look at how fat you’re already getting to be. You better hurry up an end it before you get any worse. And I did.
The same night of the day of my abortion, I was ready to go out again. Someone had invited me to a party and I remember trying to stuff myself in my jeans which I could barely peal on, never mind I was still swollen, bleeding and cramping. I remember I was at my friend Tamara’s house. She and her divorcee mom let me stay at their house while when I ran away from Utah once I found out I was pregnant. I remember the look of disgust on her face and the accusing tone in her voice; “Your actually going to go out tonight? Don’t you think you ought to stay in?" I could tell it wasn’t my rest she was concerned about. It was like she wanted to feel sorry for me but couldn’t because I wasn’t laying down and playing hurt. Why should I? I didn’t have time to stop and feel the pain. What good would that have done. I had fish to catch, don’t you know. I had just killed my baby and this had better be worth it. I had better get that gold at the end of the rainbow. I had to justify what I had done and I would spend the next 20 years trying to prove to myself and the world that I had made the right choice. I would get the prize at any cost. I was wrong. I lost. Now I wanted to die.
I can’t remember when I started throwing up on purpose. I know my first experiences with food obsession include stealing from the local corner market, stealing from my mother’s purse to by a health food bar at the health store. Whenever I got caught I always had some clever excuse like “I was hungry” When I came up with that one, the Arabic market store owners felt so sorry for the cotton haired 5 year old they simply took her to the back room where their family was eating and fed her. I told my mom that I had sold magazines from the garbage bins at the post office to old ladies to get enough money to buy the Tigers Milk bar she was too busy to get me as she sorted through all her bills from the PO box once a week. I could always manage to get what I wanted and I learned to be sneaky to do it. Sneaky became the theme of my life. I could figure out how to get a desired outcome for almost any situation, manipulating and controlling from behind the scenes while you weren’t looking or even if you were while maintaining the image of what you thought you could trust.
I became what I knew you thought I was so I could get my way. The bulimia was no different. I could eat what I want, when I wanted in the quantity I wanted and wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences such as weight gain because I could just throw up. It was so simple… so I thought. The thing about being sneaky is that you can’t fool all of the people all of the time. Most of the people you think you’re fooling actually know you are full of shit they just let you think you are so they have one up on you. It’s really a sick little deal. I wouldn’t listen to anyone. One Thanksgiving, my cousin Terry went into the bathroom after I had thrown up. My aunt confronted me about a week later and said that her daughter Terry had gone into the bathroom after me and had seen vomit on the toilet. I was kind of angry that she had the nerve to say that. Did she think I was stupid? Why didn’t they just say they heard me throwing up or had suspected I was throwing up? How dare they insult my ability to cover my tracks? I was always very careful about cleaning up after myself. I had such a fear that once someone found out about my secret I might not be able to do it anymore just because I would be so ashamed that someone actually knew and what they thought about me would be unthinkable.
I had an image to maintain so I took so many precautions not to get caught. I would turn on the bathtub water (it was louder than the sink), simultaneously flush the toilet while I threw up and washed the bottom of the toilet seat for any signs of food or color that could have splashed up from my hurling into the toilet water. Movie theaters were the trickiest. I always liked the big theaters with lots of toilets. I would pick the Handicapped stall because I could position myself in such a way that I couldn’t imagine anyone seeing my feet facing toward the toilet. No one would know I was leaning of the bowl throwing up my large bag of popcorn with extra butter, Raisonettes and Peppermint patty bites washed down with diet coke. The trick was trying to time those body sensor toilets that automatically flush when you stand up. The ritual of the obsession and compulsion to binge and purge was almost as exciting as the prospect of not have to experience the consequences of being able to eat my cake and throw it up too. My body started to disagree. I couldn’t trick my body anymore. I started to experience extreme abdominal pain. It got to the point that I would go from not having any urge to have to go to the bathroom to feeling like I would shit my pants in 2 minutes.
My bladder also started to weaken as I started to lose control of my ability to hold it as long as I could before. I started to have a raspy ness to my voice and a tickle in my throat almost all the time. I started to get sick more frequently. I noticed that the times I would get sick would be close to the times I was especially violent with myself during binge and purge episodes. At times I believe my body was just holding onto the food to live. It absolutely would not let it go. No matter how hard I tried. No matter how many times I stuck my finger down, even to the point of ulcerations on the back of my through, my body was going to keep it. I remember especially feeling like a failure those times. It was excruciating for me to realize that no matter what I did, my body was going to have to digest those calories and all I could do was wait. I could make it up in the morning.
Sometimes I would stand in front of the mirror and look at myself almost in disbelief. After hours of binging and purging not being able to get the food up my eyes would turn black and blue by morning.
Breaking blood vessels that had collapsed due to excessive pressure were now betraying me and leaving evidence of my self mutilation. Fluid would collect in my upper and lower eye lids to protect the tissue I had damaged and as I saw this damaged little girl wanting to be the pretty woman worthy of love there were moments I truly felt sorry for myself. Not in the rebellious self pity gained from a distorted sense of strength from being a victim but in a sweet kind of sadness. Like a friend watching someone they love hurt themselves needlessly yet being powerless to offer unwanted help. There was a realization, just a glance at a time, a slow admittance to myself; this was a battle and I was lucky to be alive. This dis-ease was beating me up but I was not yet beaten.
Cold cucumber slices and professional grade department store concealer were my friends. It was show time again and I was off to the gym. Extra cardio, drop set training, aerobics, pilates, whatever it would take, I would work it off. I had to cover my tracks. I couldn’t show any sign of the failure by weight gain. I could handle it. I had to be strong.
Now working out 5-7 times per week, sometimes three times a day, protein bars and shakes were the only thing I would put in my body on the days I felt especially fat. I considered myself healthy because I drank a lot of water and took supplements every night. Everyone told me I looked the best I ever had and I knew it was true. Some of my happiest time was turning around in the mirror when I could see my rib cage from my back and my shoulder bones sticking out. I had finally made it and I wasn’t going to let this go. I had reached my fighting weight and I would never be fat again. Never.
June 9, 2006
I have been free of bulimia since June 11, 2006.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Daddy's Girl and Mama's Little Helper
There was a time I felt free. As a little girl I wandered the Redwoods in the little piece of heaven my father secured for us in Monterey, California called Jacks Peak. We had 9 acres of forest and my father built a house and a horse farm where we raised Arabians and German Shepherds. Kim Novak and Clint Eastwood were common names in my household and Ms. Novak was our neighbor up the road.
I remember my mother speaking of Ms. Novak one time and called her a “people hater”. Anxious to see what a “people hater” looked like, I remember sneaking up our hill to her property to try and catch a glimpse of her. I never was able to catch find her at her property the many times I tried. She was a famous movie star; I thought maybe she was just busy being famous and hating people. Once I caught a glimpse of her at a horse race we would frequent. “There she is”, my mom pointed her out. I had my chance to get up close. I remember slipping away from my parents and walking right up to her. I looked her square in the eyes, smiling at her to see if she would hate me too. Instead she just smiled back. If that’s what a people hater looked like I guessed it wasn’t so bad.
I loved my forest and dogs and horses. I spent hours alone climbing trees and speaking with the animals. I can remember feeling very connected back then. There were hours my father would leave “for business” during the day and I always was anxious for him to return. I had a hot pink big wheel which I would race down our steep driveway over the asphalt that wasn’t quite finished and whose bumpy surface always made riding on it an adventure. Up and down, up and down, I would fly on my big wheel all the way down our long driveway; push it back up and then ride down again. As my dad turned the curve on our land when he would arrived back to our property, I could hear the engine in his V-8 Chevy Camaro ahead of him and would wait with excited anticipation on that big wheel right in the middle of the driveway. “Hi Kitty Kee” he would greet me as he would peak out of his window as pulled up past me to park. I was always hopeful he would be happy to see me but that wasn’t always the case; not on the days he was feeling anxious.
I remember feeling confusion (although I couldn’t label it then) when instead of his normal greeting and sparkle in his eyes for which I was in such hopeful anticipation, it was as if I was an annoyance or he barely acknowledged me. I could never figure out what was wrong or right with me. Like most little girls, I loved my daddy. Once he came home I was his shadow. I followed him inside and would just sit anywhere near him for a little attention. I wanted to soak as much up of him before he would leave again and I never know how long he would be gone. When he was home it seemed as if the telephone receiver was glued to his ear. Once when I was sitting at the table eating cereal getting very frustrated at his long phone conversation, I remember interrupting him several times in futile attempts to steal some of his time. He kept ignoring me and I continued to persist; “Dad” “DA-AD” I need some more milk. Can you get me some more milk? It wasn’t the milk I needed it was him. It seemed like just when I would feel connected with him and safe again he would leave. I remembered questioning to myself; where did he have to go that was so important all the time? How come when he would come home I had to share him with people on the phone? If he wasn’t on the phone, he was in his room lying on his bed with his shot guns or sometimes in a bath tub full of water always in the dark, not wanting to be bothered. Sometimes he would sit in that water for hours.
I wasn’t having it today. I wanted more milk and that was more important than this phone call. The next thing I new I was bleeding. I had suffered a severe contusion to my forehead right above my eye. He had gotten so upset from my interrupting him that he grabbed the closest thing which happed to be a metal can opener and flung it in my directing in an off the handle approach to get me to shut up. It was like I was this annoying object he had to destroy in the moment to keep focused. The pain was not coming from my head but my heart. My heart had just been shattered. This man I looked up to so much had just hurt me so much I wouldn’t even realize to what extent until nearly 30 years later. He had just taught me a valuable lesson. It was okay for men to abuse me when I wanted there attention.
Mom was sad a lot. She would sing sometimes and the sun would be shining and other times the house became very quiet and melancholy. She always kept busy decorating or cleaning. Sometimes we would do craft projects together and I can remember feeling so connected to her when we were creating something special together. Sometimes she would dress me up in little dresses and girly outfits and take hours of photos of me on our land. I felt so pretty and special in those moments. I was so proud when she would shellac those pictures and send them as gifts to our other relatives. Sometimes when he would come home we would go for horseback rides on various trails on ours and adjoining land sometimes into dark. We would collect wild mushrooms to fry up later with breadcrumbs and garlic that were always so wonderful. Sometimes when we would ride we could catch glimpses of deer and other animals who shared the land with us. Those were my happiest memories.
Other times when my father was feeling especially agitated he would take his bow and arrow and shoot them at raccoons. Sometimes when he would shoot one, always aiming at their “ass” he would just watch as I stood there petrified as they would suffer and cry for what seemed like a lifetime to me. He would laugh. He got so much enjoyment out of making these poor helpless animals suffer I hated him and felt like part of me was suffering with those creatures. How could someone do that? I was so confused. Years later after my mother left him I would visit him on my great aunts farm and he would make me watch as he shot legs off of prairie dogs and let them run around until all the blood would drain from their bodies. I felt so helpless. I just wanted to run but he wouldn’t let me. Those poor little animals would just cry as they were being tortured. One time one ran up to us almost pleading for him to stop and when it looked at me I felt ashamed of myself for being a part of this. How could God let him do this? How could God make him my dad?
When mom got sad I felt helpless. Nothing I could say or do would make her better. Sometimes she was depressed for days. Sometimes he was gone for days. If he wasn’t home at night she would put me to bed and stayed with me until I fell asleep. I could feel her restlessness as she lay with me but these were the times she stayed near; when he was gone. “Kara”, “Kara”, come on, we have to go for a ride. She would awaken me just past midnight. “Get your sleeping bag; we need to go find your father.” As she fired up the two tone green Ford, she would make me a bed on the front seat and we were off on our mission to go get dad. We would drive from bar to bar and house to house looking for him. I would wait in the car while she went in. I would search her face as I saw her walking back to the truck with the shadows and streetlights holding her expressions. The worry in her eyes grew with each new location and finding him to no avail. Finally after hours she would give up, crying all the way home and then she would shut down as she turned off the ignition as we would arrive back to that driveway, defeated.
I didn’t find out where he had been until I turned 36 and asked my mother after all those years did she ever find out where he a had been? It turns out that he admitted to her years later that he was at his girlfriend’s house. Beth was years younger than my mother. Maybe 18 or 19 my mother was an old maid at 27. Used up. My mother used to vent her pain in poems. When I read what she had written, mostly poetry, it was very evident to me that she had a lot of anger toward him for demeaning her, especially her appearance. It was apparently the stronghold he had on her. She was his model. He was always taking pictures of her and I and I think she thought that was her main value. When other women started coming around she must have thought that he didn’t find her attractive anymore.
The women he cheated with were always beautiful. Once “Beth” came to our doorstep crying. She was looking for my father. She had an abortion and he wouldn’t come with her and she was distraught. I remember the kindness my mom showed to her even while I could feel my mother’s hidden pain as she listened to Beth’s story. This was all very confusing to me but I just stood there and watched, listened carefully and felt helpless again. As my mother wrote she could express her inner feelings. I don’t remember ever hearing her stand up for herself. Sometimes I would have to search to find mommy. She was hiding again. I could feel her pain in my heart. One time I found her alone in our neighbor’s horse barn so detached and hopeless. He was gone again. I started to get angry and wanted to make her better. I felt so bad for her. “I love you, mom” “I will be here for you”. She just looked at me and kept crying not saying a word. I remember hugging her and just knowing my love was never going to be enough.
Eventually, my mom left dad while he was away in Utah on a hunting trip. It was a dramatic and carefully planned event. She called the Prom King hero. He was her ex-boyfriend from high school who was the nice boy her parents always “liked”. He had been the prom king when she was the prom queen while she was a senior in highschool in Belleview, Nebraska, one of the many places they had been stationed during my grandfather’s service in the United States Air Force. This new man was coming to get us and he was going to be our new dad. My little brother was only just months old.
As she packed our things to prepare our final departure from my home in the woods, she put me on the phone with my dad who called long distance the night before we left. I was not to tell him we were going to leave she warned me as she handed me the phone. I remember feeling excited by the drama of our escape, and horribly guilty because I was going to betray him. I was scared and I missed him but she had decided she had had enough. This time when she fired up that Green Ford pickup with all our belongings in the back and my brand new baby brother, we weren’t looking for Dad anymore. We were going to try and find mom.
I remember my mother speaking of Ms. Novak one time and called her a “people hater”. Anxious to see what a “people hater” looked like, I remember sneaking up our hill to her property to try and catch a glimpse of her. I never was able to catch find her at her property the many times I tried. She was a famous movie star; I thought maybe she was just busy being famous and hating people. Once I caught a glimpse of her at a horse race we would frequent. “There she is”, my mom pointed her out. I had my chance to get up close. I remember slipping away from my parents and walking right up to her. I looked her square in the eyes, smiling at her to see if she would hate me too. Instead she just smiled back. If that’s what a people hater looked like I guessed it wasn’t so bad.
I loved my forest and dogs and horses. I spent hours alone climbing trees and speaking with the animals. I can remember feeling very connected back then. There were hours my father would leave “for business” during the day and I always was anxious for him to return. I had a hot pink big wheel which I would race down our steep driveway over the asphalt that wasn’t quite finished and whose bumpy surface always made riding on it an adventure. Up and down, up and down, I would fly on my big wheel all the way down our long driveway; push it back up and then ride down again. As my dad turned the curve on our land when he would arrived back to our property, I could hear the engine in his V-8 Chevy Camaro ahead of him and would wait with excited anticipation on that big wheel right in the middle of the driveway. “Hi Kitty Kee” he would greet me as he would peak out of his window as pulled up past me to park. I was always hopeful he would be happy to see me but that wasn’t always the case; not on the days he was feeling anxious.
I remember feeling confusion (although I couldn’t label it then) when instead of his normal greeting and sparkle in his eyes for which I was in such hopeful anticipation, it was as if I was an annoyance or he barely acknowledged me. I could never figure out what was wrong or right with me. Like most little girls, I loved my daddy. Once he came home I was his shadow. I followed him inside and would just sit anywhere near him for a little attention. I wanted to soak as much up of him before he would leave again and I never know how long he would be gone. When he was home it seemed as if the telephone receiver was glued to his ear. Once when I was sitting at the table eating cereal getting very frustrated at his long phone conversation, I remember interrupting him several times in futile attempts to steal some of his time. He kept ignoring me and I continued to persist; “Dad” “DA-AD” I need some more milk. Can you get me some more milk? It wasn’t the milk I needed it was him. It seemed like just when I would feel connected with him and safe again he would leave. I remembered questioning to myself; where did he have to go that was so important all the time? How come when he would come home I had to share him with people on the phone? If he wasn’t on the phone, he was in his room lying on his bed with his shot guns or sometimes in a bath tub full of water always in the dark, not wanting to be bothered. Sometimes he would sit in that water for hours.
I wasn’t having it today. I wanted more milk and that was more important than this phone call. The next thing I new I was bleeding. I had suffered a severe contusion to my forehead right above my eye. He had gotten so upset from my interrupting him that he grabbed the closest thing which happed to be a metal can opener and flung it in my directing in an off the handle approach to get me to shut up. It was like I was this annoying object he had to destroy in the moment to keep focused. The pain was not coming from my head but my heart. My heart had just been shattered. This man I looked up to so much had just hurt me so much I wouldn’t even realize to what extent until nearly 30 years later. He had just taught me a valuable lesson. It was okay for men to abuse me when I wanted there attention.
Mom was sad a lot. She would sing sometimes and the sun would be shining and other times the house became very quiet and melancholy. She always kept busy decorating or cleaning. Sometimes we would do craft projects together and I can remember feeling so connected to her when we were creating something special together. Sometimes she would dress me up in little dresses and girly outfits and take hours of photos of me on our land. I felt so pretty and special in those moments. I was so proud when she would shellac those pictures and send them as gifts to our other relatives. Sometimes when he would come home we would go for horseback rides on various trails on ours and adjoining land sometimes into dark. We would collect wild mushrooms to fry up later with breadcrumbs and garlic that were always so wonderful. Sometimes when we would ride we could catch glimpses of deer and other animals who shared the land with us. Those were my happiest memories.
Other times when my father was feeling especially agitated he would take his bow and arrow and shoot them at raccoons. Sometimes when he would shoot one, always aiming at their “ass” he would just watch as I stood there petrified as they would suffer and cry for what seemed like a lifetime to me. He would laugh. He got so much enjoyment out of making these poor helpless animals suffer I hated him and felt like part of me was suffering with those creatures. How could someone do that? I was so confused. Years later after my mother left him I would visit him on my great aunts farm and he would make me watch as he shot legs off of prairie dogs and let them run around until all the blood would drain from their bodies. I felt so helpless. I just wanted to run but he wouldn’t let me. Those poor little animals would just cry as they were being tortured. One time one ran up to us almost pleading for him to stop and when it looked at me I felt ashamed of myself for being a part of this. How could God let him do this? How could God make him my dad?
When mom got sad I felt helpless. Nothing I could say or do would make her better. Sometimes she was depressed for days. Sometimes he was gone for days. If he wasn’t home at night she would put me to bed and stayed with me until I fell asleep. I could feel her restlessness as she lay with me but these were the times she stayed near; when he was gone. “Kara”, “Kara”, come on, we have to go for a ride. She would awaken me just past midnight. “Get your sleeping bag; we need to go find your father.” As she fired up the two tone green Ford, she would make me a bed on the front seat and we were off on our mission to go get dad. We would drive from bar to bar and house to house looking for him. I would wait in the car while she went in. I would search her face as I saw her walking back to the truck with the shadows and streetlights holding her expressions. The worry in her eyes grew with each new location and finding him to no avail. Finally after hours she would give up, crying all the way home and then she would shut down as she turned off the ignition as we would arrive back to that driveway, defeated.
I didn’t find out where he had been until I turned 36 and asked my mother after all those years did she ever find out where he a had been? It turns out that he admitted to her years later that he was at his girlfriend’s house. Beth was years younger than my mother. Maybe 18 or 19 my mother was an old maid at 27. Used up. My mother used to vent her pain in poems. When I read what she had written, mostly poetry, it was very evident to me that she had a lot of anger toward him for demeaning her, especially her appearance. It was apparently the stronghold he had on her. She was his model. He was always taking pictures of her and I and I think she thought that was her main value. When other women started coming around she must have thought that he didn’t find her attractive anymore.
The women he cheated with were always beautiful. Once “Beth” came to our doorstep crying. She was looking for my father. She had an abortion and he wouldn’t come with her and she was distraught. I remember the kindness my mom showed to her even while I could feel my mother’s hidden pain as she listened to Beth’s story. This was all very confusing to me but I just stood there and watched, listened carefully and felt helpless again. As my mother wrote she could express her inner feelings. I don’t remember ever hearing her stand up for herself. Sometimes I would have to search to find mommy. She was hiding again. I could feel her pain in my heart. One time I found her alone in our neighbor’s horse barn so detached and hopeless. He was gone again. I started to get angry and wanted to make her better. I felt so bad for her. “I love you, mom” “I will be here for you”. She just looked at me and kept crying not saying a word. I remember hugging her and just knowing my love was never going to be enough.
Eventually, my mom left dad while he was away in Utah on a hunting trip. It was a dramatic and carefully planned event. She called the Prom King hero. He was her ex-boyfriend from high school who was the nice boy her parents always “liked”. He had been the prom king when she was the prom queen while she was a senior in highschool in Belleview, Nebraska, one of the many places they had been stationed during my grandfather’s service in the United States Air Force. This new man was coming to get us and he was going to be our new dad. My little brother was only just months old.
As she packed our things to prepare our final departure from my home in the woods, she put me on the phone with my dad who called long distance the night before we left. I was not to tell him we were going to leave she warned me as she handed me the phone. I remember feeling excited by the drama of our escape, and horribly guilty because I was going to betray him. I was scared and I missed him but she had decided she had had enough. This time when she fired up that Green Ford pickup with all our belongings in the back and my brand new baby brother, we weren’t looking for Dad anymore. We were going to try and find mom.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Where's the garbage man?
This morning I checked my e-mail and received an invitation from the Gilbert Tea Party to stand in opposition to a tax increase for the Town of Gilbert, Arizona. The sender of the e-mail indicated that the "opposition" would be there with full force (meaning the Gilbert employees) and urged that we come (and support our side) to prevent a sales tax increase or use tax from being passed by City Council to offset it's current budget deficit.
I was at the December 7, 2009 last week and arrived almost an hour before the meeting started. It was my first experience at a city counsel meeting although I had read minutes from other municipalities. It was rainy and cold that day as I walked into 50 Civic Center. I didn't realize the meeting was upstairs and was surprised to not see anyone else as the e-mail I received indicated that they wanted us there by 4pm. I sat in the waiting area and watched people pay their utility bills and perused the counters noticing the job postings still open for new city employees. After about 20 minutes, it occurred to me I might be in the wrong place as I saw a couple of people walk up the stairs to the 2ND floor where I guessed the meeting was probably going to be held. I confirmed this with one of the desk clerks and proceeded upstairs. As I walked into the meeting room, I noticed 6 tables forming an enclosed square and two groups of 12-18 chairs in 3 separate area in the room.
There was only one other person in the room when I arrived and I gravitated toward her. We said "hello" and I chose a chair and sat directly in front of her. I had brought my new video recorder and note book, as I am now chronicling my adventures as a new PC. I glanced around the room and noticed copies of the Steering Committees agenda and minutes from the last meeting in front of each place setting. The woman behind me, was busy with her highlighter and many copies of the agenda and preliminary budget proposals. I guessed she was a lawyer or lobbyist or someone important because she barely spoke to me. She finally acknowledged me when I took one of the committee members packets and began to review it. She indicated there were extra copies by the door if I wanted one but I might not want to read it once I saw what it contained. I put the packet back on its place setting and walked up to the front and captured my own copy and came back to my seat. I sat back down and began to desipher the anachronisms and various terms I have never heard before.
I examined and studied the input from the various committees which had been formed to get a broader view and perspective from different points of view. There were all kinds of proposals such as adding a use fee to the dog park, cutting the budget for fire and police uniforms, transferring land for a new fire station, a .25 increase in sales tax, a 5% pay cut for employees, a new use tax, out of city rental tax for investors of multiple rental income properties located in Gilbert, and an annual fire safety inspection fee for all businesses with store fronts.
As the meeting time grew near, council and committee members filtered in, town employees arrived as well as the republican representatives for LD22 of which I am now affiliated as a Precinct Committeeman for the Calistoga Precinct. As the republicans arrived I began to recognize some familiar faces with whom I have recently become acquainted during my participation in the Republican Precinct Committee Meetings.
I noticed several people standing near the entrance to the room, signing in and filling out their names on some small slips of paper. I stood from my chair (where I was spying on the lady behind me, trying to figure out who she was and what she was doing) and walked over to the group completing the forms. I asked the precinct secretary what the forms were and he explained that they were requests to speak for 2 minutes during the meeting. I told him, I had no idea what I would say and he said I could fill one out and then "defer" the time to him. I agreed and filled in my name.
He sat down in a chair in the front row in a group of chairs opposite to where I had been sitting. In the meantime, the "other side" was filling in and others were arriving with banners and posters. "No new taxes" read one. A graph showing the Gilbert employee salaries compared to other municipalities and private industry was clenched by another. The tea party people seemed to all make there way to the third grouping of chairs while others just hung out on the fringes.
It occurred to me, that we were all on "sides". Once side was the "bad selfish City employees, another were the staunch suited republicans while the tea party people sat together waiting to read their carefully edited dialogues. Once the big square tables were filled with all the decision makers, the chair person began the meeting. I found myself missing the Serenity Prayer. Where was God being put in all of this?
I sat fascinated as I watched the dynamics of the meeting with the garbage collector and city clerk waiting patiently for their time to speak. Eyes rolled on all sides as the meeting progressed and items from the various committees were reviewed, motions made, seconded and approved for further review and ultimate approval or disapproval in the upcoming meetings.
I felt bad for the City employees as I saw a Garbage collector still in uniform and a city clerk "texting" her children what to make for dinner. The chief of police sat near the tea party mom with the "no new tax" banner who waited almost 3 hours to read her sentiments on Gilbert citizens being penalized by no fault of their own. I felt bad for these people as I realized that someone was going to be the fall guy and it was all political. Who took the fall was going to be the ones making the least amount of noise and the voices in the middle control who gets to speak. Isn't this what is happening in Washington also?
When the topic of sales tax increases was given the floor for citizen voice, my name was called. To the surprise of my party affiliates, I spoke in opposition to both a tax increase and salary cut for Gilbert employees.
I shared about my experience as a small business owner whose income is solely derived from commission. If I am not making money, I invent a creative service based on the shifting demands in the marketplace. When I filed bankruptcy almost 10 years ago, no one bailed me. I had to change the way I was running my business and life. We are conditioned to respond to incentives, its just the way it works. What we place as our priorities and how we view ourselves in the context of the world dictates our behavior. Our behavior always is reinforced by our view and visa-versa. We must change our point of view to make lasting changes. Sometimes behavior modification is what it takes to get the ball rolling which is why changing some aspects of our system may be critical. I do know that when their is competition without cooperation there is oppression. When there is oppression, there is sabotage. If the Gilbert employees view themselves as oppressed and the Gilbert businesses feel overly burdened, we may find ourselves in further decline. We need to mix it up and think outside of the box of square tables and not sway from some spiritual benchmarks like humility instead of pride.
Instead, if we are to find a solution to the core issues surrounding the crisis we now find our selves in, we must examine our hearts and priorities and get back to a spirit of fellowship and being a good steward with each other and our resources. If we don't we are bound to repeat the same pattern of self defeating behavior that has us in a state of insanity where we keep doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.
After, I sent my reply back to the sender, I prayed to God for a scripture to associate with this issue and this is the one I was given;
Romans 12
I URGE you brother by the mercies of God to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship.
2 And do not be conformed to this world but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what the will of God is, that which is good and acceptable and perfect.
3 For through the grace given to me I say to every man among you not to think more highly of himself that he ought to think; but to think so as to have sound judgment, as God has allotted to each a measure of faith.
4 For just as we have many members in one body and all members do not have the same function,
5 so we, who are many, are the one body of Christ, and individually members one of another
6 And since we have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let each exercise them accordingly: if prophesy, according to the proportion of his faith;
7 if service, in his serving; or if he teaches, in his teaching;
8 or he who exhorts, in his exhortation; he who gives, with liberality's; he who leads, with diligence; he who shows mercy, with cheerfulness.
9 Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil; cling to what is good.
10 Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor;
11 not lagging behind in diligence, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord
12 rejoicing in hope, persevering in tribulation, devoted to prayer
13 contributing to the needs of the saints, practicing hospitality.
14 Bless those who persecute you, bless and curse not.
15 Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.
16 Be of the same mind toward one another; do not be haughty in mind, but associate with the lowly. Do not be wise in your own estimation.
17 Never pay back evil for evil to anyone. Respect what is right in the sight of all men.
18 If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men.
19 Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, VENGEANCE IS MINE, I WILL REPAY, SAYS THE LORD
19
20 "BUT IF YOUR ENEMY IS HUNGRY, FEED HIM, AND IF HE IS THIRSTY, GIVE HIM A DRINK ; FOR IN SO DOING YOU WILL HEAP BURNING COALS UPON HIS HEAD."
21 Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.
Here is the e-mail I replied to today;
---- Denna Ray <http://us.mc656.mail.yahoo.com/mc/compose?to=denna_10@cox.net> wrote: > > > Dear Friends,> > > > Your attendance at the Gilbert Town Council meeting on Tuesday is vitally> important. Please speak out! > > > >
TUESDAY, 12/15, 7 PM> > 50 E. CIVIC CENTER DR.> > GILBERT, AZ >
> > > The opposition has promised that they will be at this meeting "en masse," to> fight salary and benefits cuts. > > > > We MUST be there en masse to state ONE THING to the Council: NO MORE TAXES> OF ANY KIND. > > > > Gilbert residents and business people who wish to speak should complete the> Citizen Communication form at the entrance to the auditorium asking to speak> regarding The Budget. > > > > Speak to the issue of "Please do not pass any kind of tax increase. "> Provide a brief (1-2 minutes) true, personal story, such as: 1) I've taken> a 50% salary cut, 2) a friend of mine declared bankruptcy, 3) my neighbor> lost his job and had to move to Apache Junction, 4) I just got a pink slip> today, 5) My business this year is 75% less than it was a year ago. 6) My> business costs have risen 30%, but I can't pass this off to my customers> because of the economy right now. 7) My neighbor with 2 toddlers couldn't> find work as an electrician, so he joined the Army and is a combat medic in> Afghanistan. This is the HARSH REALITY of the private sector that we live> in. All of the above stories are TRUE. > > > > Emphasize that we are ALL in a recession, not just the Town of Gilbert. We> as families cannot spend more than we take in. Our businesses cannot do> that either. The Town isn't any different. Gilbert is a great place to> live because it is a place with lots of good, law-abiding families. We> define our quality of life for ourselves. Having a JOB is more important> than recreation programs, special events, and building more parks and> projects that must be maintained. We have hundreds of HOA's that have> beautiful green areas. The homeowners pay for those willingly. The Town> needs to get its finances in order! > > > > If you are a Gilbert resident who does NOT wish to speak, please complete> the Citizen Communication form at the entrance to the auditorium and note:> "I do not wish to speak, but I want you to know that I am opposed to any> taxes of any kind." > > > > PLEASE BE AT THIS VERY IMPORTANT MEETING. STAND FIRM AGAINST THE SLOW> EROSION OF OUR INCOME. LET'S ALL STAND TOGETHER IN DEFENSE OF OUR LIBERTY.> > > > > Anita Christy> > > > > > >
My reply;
Anita,I was at the last meeting and did speak. I am in agreement that I do not want an additional sales tax or use rate increase in Gilbert. I'm not sure I agree with the salary cuts either. Why don't we come up with a third alternative rather than an immediate cut to their salaries? The truth is that unless we incentive the market place both in government and private industries such as health care, there will be no change. I think that the employees who do not want cuts to their salaries should not be viewed as opposition but rather additional recipients of the consequences of waste and corruption in the current challenging economic times. The real "opposition" are the greedy criminal corrupt bankers currently in control of our country who have systematically eroded our liberty by strategically placing powers in control of legislation and "rules". The words capitalism and free market are no long synonymous. Why don't we use Gilbert as an example to think outside of the box and utilize these employees as resources to find the savings in their own departments and invent incentives in the process? A "pay cut" will only breed hostility and resentment and additional waste because of it? A furlough our other cut would only be a temporary solution anyway. It does nothing to solve the long term issue; tax payer’s lack of accountability for their own government. We should challenge government employees to find savings and waste within their own departments.
As citizens who patronize Gilbert businesses we should broaden the tax base not by raising the tax rate but by increasing the volume of sales revenue for our small businesses through creative means. I am excited to see your response to my input.
Kara Holt
480-299-7236
UPDATE:
In the midst of writing this blog post, I had to run an errand. I took my son's old school books back to the public district school he was attending in our neighborhood, prior to my election to home school. As I pulled out of the school parking lot and on my way home, I spotted a For Sale sign which caught my eye and I decided to stop. In a synchronised circumstance, a City of Gilbert garbage collector happened to cross my path at the same time. I felt prompted to stop (in the middle of the street) and went up to his truck. As I peered up toward his garbage collector window, he proceeded to roll down the window and smiled at me with anticipation. I explained that I was against the 5% salary cut being proposed for his salary and gave him a homework assignment. I asked that when he went home tonight that he make a list and check it twice. From his vantage point, what is the waste he sees in the government bureaucracy in his department and how could it be eliminated? What ideas does he have on how to save or make the City money? I asked that he bring the list to the meeting tomorrow night. He smiled and thanked me and said he would. His name is Robert and I hope I will see him there tomorrow evening. I will keep you posted.
PS How ironic that a garbage collector could be the best one to ask how to eliminate waste!
I was at the December 7, 2009 last week and arrived almost an hour before the meeting started. It was my first experience at a city counsel meeting although I had read minutes from other municipalities. It was rainy and cold that day as I walked into 50 Civic Center. I didn't realize the meeting was upstairs and was surprised to not see anyone else as the e-mail I received indicated that they wanted us there by 4pm. I sat in the waiting area and watched people pay their utility bills and perused the counters noticing the job postings still open for new city employees. After about 20 minutes, it occurred to me I might be in the wrong place as I saw a couple of people walk up the stairs to the 2ND floor where I guessed the meeting was probably going to be held. I confirmed this with one of the desk clerks and proceeded upstairs. As I walked into the meeting room, I noticed 6 tables forming an enclosed square and two groups of 12-18 chairs in 3 separate area in the room.
There was only one other person in the room when I arrived and I gravitated toward her. We said "hello" and I chose a chair and sat directly in front of her. I had brought my new video recorder and note book, as I am now chronicling my adventures as a new PC. I glanced around the room and noticed copies of the Steering Committees agenda and minutes from the last meeting in front of each place setting. The woman behind me, was busy with her highlighter and many copies of the agenda and preliminary budget proposals. I guessed she was a lawyer or lobbyist or someone important because she barely spoke to me. She finally acknowledged me when I took one of the committee members packets and began to review it. She indicated there were extra copies by the door if I wanted one but I might not want to read it once I saw what it contained. I put the packet back on its place setting and walked up to the front and captured my own copy and came back to my seat. I sat back down and began to desipher the anachronisms and various terms I have never heard before.
I examined and studied the input from the various committees which had been formed to get a broader view and perspective from different points of view. There were all kinds of proposals such as adding a use fee to the dog park, cutting the budget for fire and police uniforms, transferring land for a new fire station, a .25 increase in sales tax, a 5% pay cut for employees, a new use tax, out of city rental tax for investors of multiple rental income properties located in Gilbert, and an annual fire safety inspection fee for all businesses with store fronts.
As the meeting time grew near, council and committee members filtered in, town employees arrived as well as the republican representatives for LD22 of which I am now affiliated as a Precinct Committeeman for the Calistoga Precinct. As the republicans arrived I began to recognize some familiar faces with whom I have recently become acquainted during my participation in the Republican Precinct Committee Meetings.
I noticed several people standing near the entrance to the room, signing in and filling out their names on some small slips of paper. I stood from my chair (where I was spying on the lady behind me, trying to figure out who she was and what she was doing) and walked over to the group completing the forms. I asked the precinct secretary what the forms were and he explained that they were requests to speak for 2 minutes during the meeting. I told him, I had no idea what I would say and he said I could fill one out and then "defer" the time to him. I agreed and filled in my name.
He sat down in a chair in the front row in a group of chairs opposite to where I had been sitting. In the meantime, the "other side" was filling in and others were arriving with banners and posters. "No new taxes" read one. A graph showing the Gilbert employee salaries compared to other municipalities and private industry was clenched by another. The tea party people seemed to all make there way to the third grouping of chairs while others just hung out on the fringes.
It occurred to me, that we were all on "sides". Once side was the "bad selfish City employees, another were the staunch suited republicans while the tea party people sat together waiting to read their carefully edited dialogues. Once the big square tables were filled with all the decision makers, the chair person began the meeting. I found myself missing the Serenity Prayer. Where was God being put in all of this?
I sat fascinated as I watched the dynamics of the meeting with the garbage collector and city clerk waiting patiently for their time to speak. Eyes rolled on all sides as the meeting progressed and items from the various committees were reviewed, motions made, seconded and approved for further review and ultimate approval or disapproval in the upcoming meetings.
I felt bad for the City employees as I saw a Garbage collector still in uniform and a city clerk "texting" her children what to make for dinner. The chief of police sat near the tea party mom with the "no new tax" banner who waited almost 3 hours to read her sentiments on Gilbert citizens being penalized by no fault of their own. I felt bad for these people as I realized that someone was going to be the fall guy and it was all political. Who took the fall was going to be the ones making the least amount of noise and the voices in the middle control who gets to speak. Isn't this what is happening in Washington also?
When the topic of sales tax increases was given the floor for citizen voice, my name was called. To the surprise of my party affiliates, I spoke in opposition to both a tax increase and salary cut for Gilbert employees.
I shared about my experience as a small business owner whose income is solely derived from commission. If I am not making money, I invent a creative service based on the shifting demands in the marketplace. When I filed bankruptcy almost 10 years ago, no one bailed me. I had to change the way I was running my business and life. We are conditioned to respond to incentives, its just the way it works. What we place as our priorities and how we view ourselves in the context of the world dictates our behavior. Our behavior always is reinforced by our view and visa-versa. We must change our point of view to make lasting changes. Sometimes behavior modification is what it takes to get the ball rolling which is why changing some aspects of our system may be critical. I do know that when their is competition without cooperation there is oppression. When there is oppression, there is sabotage. If the Gilbert employees view themselves as oppressed and the Gilbert businesses feel overly burdened, we may find ourselves in further decline. We need to mix it up and think outside of the box of square tables and not sway from some spiritual benchmarks like humility instead of pride.
Instead, if we are to find a solution to the core issues surrounding the crisis we now find our selves in, we must examine our hearts and priorities and get back to a spirit of fellowship and being a good steward with each other and our resources. If we don't we are bound to repeat the same pattern of self defeating behavior that has us in a state of insanity where we keep doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.
After, I sent my reply back to the sender, I prayed to God for a scripture to associate with this issue and this is the one I was given;
Romans 12
I URGE you brother by the mercies of God to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship.
2 And do not be conformed to this world but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what the will of God is, that which is good and acceptable and perfect.
3 For through the grace given to me I say to every man among you not to think more highly of himself that he ought to think; but to think so as to have sound judgment, as God has allotted to each a measure of faith.
4 For just as we have many members in one body and all members do not have the same function,
5 so we, who are many, are the one body of Christ, and individually members one of another
6 And since we have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let each exercise them accordingly: if prophesy, according to the proportion of his faith;
7 if service, in his serving; or if he teaches, in his teaching;
8 or he who exhorts, in his exhortation; he who gives, with liberality's; he who leads, with diligence; he who shows mercy, with cheerfulness.
9 Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil; cling to what is good.
10 Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor;
11 not lagging behind in diligence, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord
12 rejoicing in hope, persevering in tribulation, devoted to prayer
13 contributing to the needs of the saints, practicing hospitality.
14 Bless those who persecute you, bless and curse not.
15 Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.
16 Be of the same mind toward one another; do not be haughty in mind, but associate with the lowly. Do not be wise in your own estimation.
17 Never pay back evil for evil to anyone. Respect what is right in the sight of all men.
18 If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men.
19 Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, VENGEANCE IS MINE, I WILL REPAY, SAYS THE LORD
19
20 "BUT IF YOUR ENEMY IS HUNGRY, FEED HIM, AND IF HE IS THIRSTY, GIVE HIM A DRINK ; FOR IN SO DOING YOU WILL HEAP BURNING COALS UPON HIS HEAD."
21 Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.
Here is the e-mail I replied to today;
---- Denna Ray <http://us.mc656.mail.yahoo.com/mc/compose?to=denna_10@cox.net> wrote: > > > Dear Friends,> > > > Your attendance at the Gilbert Town Council meeting on Tuesday is vitally> important. Please speak out! > > > >
TUESDAY, 12/15, 7 PM> > 50 E. CIVIC CENTER DR.> > GILBERT, AZ >
> > > The opposition has promised that they will be at this meeting "en masse," to> fight salary and benefits cuts. > > > > We MUST be there en masse to state ONE THING to the Council: NO MORE TAXES> OF ANY KIND. > > > > Gilbert residents and business people who wish to speak should complete the> Citizen Communication form at the entrance to the auditorium asking to speak> regarding The Budget. > > > > Speak to the issue of "Please do not pass any kind of tax increase. "> Provide a brief (1-2 minutes) true, personal story, such as: 1) I've taken> a 50% salary cut, 2) a friend of mine declared bankruptcy, 3) my neighbor> lost his job and had to move to Apache Junction, 4) I just got a pink slip> today, 5) My business this year is 75% less than it was a year ago. 6) My> business costs have risen 30%, but I can't pass this off to my customers> because of the economy right now. 7) My neighbor with 2 toddlers couldn't> find work as an electrician, so he joined the Army and is a combat medic in> Afghanistan. This is the HARSH REALITY of the private sector that we live> in. All of the above stories are TRUE. > > > > Emphasize that we are ALL in a recession, not just the Town of Gilbert. We> as families cannot spend more than we take in. Our businesses cannot do> that either. The Town isn't any different. Gilbert is a great place to> live because it is a place with lots of good, law-abiding families. We> define our quality of life for ourselves. Having a JOB is more important> than recreation programs, special events, and building more parks and> projects that must be maintained. We have hundreds of HOA's that have> beautiful green areas. The homeowners pay for those willingly. The Town> needs to get its finances in order! > > > > If you are a Gilbert resident who does NOT wish to speak, please complete> the Citizen Communication form at the entrance to the auditorium and note:> "I do not wish to speak, but I want you to know that I am opposed to any> taxes of any kind." > > > > PLEASE BE AT THIS VERY IMPORTANT MEETING. STAND FIRM AGAINST THE SLOW> EROSION OF OUR INCOME. LET'S ALL STAND TOGETHER IN DEFENSE OF OUR LIBERTY.> > > > > Anita Christy> > > > > > >
My reply;
Anita,I was at the last meeting and did speak. I am in agreement that I do not want an additional sales tax or use rate increase in Gilbert. I'm not sure I agree with the salary cuts either. Why don't we come up with a third alternative rather than an immediate cut to their salaries? The truth is that unless we incentive the market place both in government and private industries such as health care, there will be no change. I think that the employees who do not want cuts to their salaries should not be viewed as opposition but rather additional recipients of the consequences of waste and corruption in the current challenging economic times. The real "opposition" are the greedy criminal corrupt bankers currently in control of our country who have systematically eroded our liberty by strategically placing powers in control of legislation and "rules". The words capitalism and free market are no long synonymous. Why don't we use Gilbert as an example to think outside of the box and utilize these employees as resources to find the savings in their own departments and invent incentives in the process? A "pay cut" will only breed hostility and resentment and additional waste because of it? A furlough our other cut would only be a temporary solution anyway. It does nothing to solve the long term issue; tax payer’s lack of accountability for their own government. We should challenge government employees to find savings and waste within their own departments.
As citizens who patronize Gilbert businesses we should broaden the tax base not by raising the tax rate but by increasing the volume of sales revenue for our small businesses through creative means. I am excited to see your response to my input.
Kara Holt
480-299-7236
UPDATE:
In the midst of writing this blog post, I had to run an errand. I took my son's old school books back to the public district school he was attending in our neighborhood, prior to my election to home school. As I pulled out of the school parking lot and on my way home, I spotted a For Sale sign which caught my eye and I decided to stop. In a synchronised circumstance, a City of Gilbert garbage collector happened to cross my path at the same time. I felt prompted to stop (in the middle of the street) and went up to his truck. As I peered up toward his garbage collector window, he proceeded to roll down the window and smiled at me with anticipation. I explained that I was against the 5% salary cut being proposed for his salary and gave him a homework assignment. I asked that when he went home tonight that he make a list and check it twice. From his vantage point, what is the waste he sees in the government bureaucracy in his department and how could it be eliminated? What ideas does he have on how to save or make the City money? I asked that he bring the list to the meeting tomorrow night. He smiled and thanked me and said he would. His name is Robert and I hope I will see him there tomorrow evening. I will keep you posted.
PS How ironic that a garbage collector could be the best one to ask how to eliminate waste!
Friday, December 11, 2009
Angel Unaware (Luke 23:34)
I had never seen anyone die before. She lay before me like a torn up rag doll. Her fingers were purple and black as this “organ” called skin began to deteriorate. She was such a beautiful girl.
I didn’t realize that dying was such a process. I thought when you died, you just gave up your last breath and that was it. I met Pamela in front of the meeting hall I went to. Sometimes she sat alone but most of the time, there was somebody talking to her, usually a guy. She was so thin and her hands would shake when she lifted her cigarette to her petite pouty lips. Pamela had blonde hair and big blue eyes that would search your soul when she would look at you. There was a feeling that she was hoping someone could save her. She was giving up. Occasionally, her eyes would begin to get a little less dull, but most of the time they were glazed over from the opiates she was ingesting on a daily basis. We met in a meeting. She asked me to be her sponsor and I agreed although I was so new, I still felt inadequate. Her drug off choice had been the same as mine. Pain killers.
When I asked her how long she had been clean, she lied and told me 3 days. Having gotten clean from narcotic opiate painkillers myself, I knew there would be no way to be clean from those pills and be standing there so calmly. When I got clean, almost 23 months before, I had been a complete mess for at least two weeks in withdrawal, feeling like I was going to crawl out of my skin. Even though I knew she was not being honest with me, I agreed to sponsor her and told her to call me everyday. I heard from her occasionally but mostly I would catch her at a meeting.
It was obvious she was still using but at least she was calling other people in the fellowship and she was going to the meetings on a pretty regular basis, even if she couldn’t stay awake in them. I remembered that semi-conscious state all too well. I use to take so many pills; I couldn’t keep my head up. I understood wanting to be numb all the time. Pamela was one of the first people I ever admitted I had an eating disorder to. She confided in me that she couldn’t stop taking laxatives and throwing up. “Kara, I did it again. I told myself I wasn’t going to but I did. I tried to hide it from my mom, because she says if I don’t stop she’s going to take me to the hospital and I don’t want to go there again.” “I can’t stop”. My heart started to beat faster. She had this problem too. I told her I understood that I had struggled with it also. “Don’t worry about that right now”, I told her. “Just focus on staying clean. We can work on the other problem once you get off drugs.” One thing at a time. Don’t try and put yourself under too much pressure to stop all these behaviors at once.” These were the things I was telling myself so I just naturally rationalized her behavior the same way. I had no idea the deadly nature of bulimia and anorexia. I thought the only way it could become fatal is if you literally starved yourself to death. “I feel so ashamed”, she would share with me as she would sob on the other end of the phone as I would just hold the phone trying to think of something to say to console her.
It came to me to read her a page from my “Just Today” daily meditation book by Iyanla Vanzant, which often inspired me. I randomly opened up the page and it was about forgiveness. It was about our angels praying to our father in heaven “Father forgive them for they no not what they do”. It repeated over and over and Pamela began to chime in. Father forgive them, father forgive me for I know not what I do. She was laughing and crying all at the same time. She had found a little bit of relief in what we read. I heard just a hint of hope in her voice as I hung up with her that last time. Just days before, I had seen her standing in front of the building where our meetings had been held. Her mood could vacillate from lethargy to laughter back to anguish within the hour. This time when I looked in her eyes, it came to me to ask about her children. He is telling them lies about me. I’m afraid they will never forgive me. I feel so worthless. I felt a chill as I told her I knew God loved her and had great plans for her. The look she gave me at that moment sent chills up my spine. Not the kind of “God Bumps” we would often get when we felt the spirit or energy of truth or love but a deep dark kind of chill, the kind I used to feel in that house on Hickey. I realize now, that is the chill of death.
When the soul begins to disown the body, there is a coldness that begins to set it and if the spirit doesn’t come into acceptance that they must move on it’s almost as though the soul tries to occupy a space that isn’t theirs anymore. It was like looking into a black hole when I looked in her eyes that last time. I walked with her to the Mexican food place around the corner and watched her as she struggled to eat a few bites of her burrito. She was barely cognizant and stumbled as we walked back to the meeting. After we sat down, she nodded out and we had to have someone drive her home. That was the last time I saw her.
Halloween night, my son and I were shopping for a last minute costume at the mall. I had left my phone in the car and when I checked it, I had missed 9 calls, three from Pamela. I called her back and no answer. I had her mom’s number so I called her. As I waited for an answer, my heart was beating faster and faster. I had this feeling something was terribly wrong. “We are at the hospital, Kara”, her mom told me when she finally answered the phone. “Pamela got really sick and I rushed her to Scottsdale Memorial and now she is in a coma and the Dr’s don’t think she is going to come out of it. They’ve go tubes sticking in her all over the place.” “I’ll be right there, I assured her. I took my son to his fathers and called Donny, my boyfriend at the time. Donny knew Pamela also and had spoken to her once when she tried to slit her wrists. I remember feeling so jealous that he had given her any attention and ignored her for some time hoping she would just go away. She was so pretty and I was sure Donny was interested in her. When she asked me to be her sponsor, I figured that was God’s sick sense of humor to get me over myself. Donny met me at my house and we were off to go see her.
Pamela lay lifeless as we entered her room. Her mother just sat there watching her and seemed relieved we had come. The silence in the room was deafening and it was obvious she felt comforted by our being there. Can she hear us, I asked? I don’t know, her mom replied as if she had wondered the same thing. They say just because someone can’t speak or acknowledge you doesn’t mean they don’t know what’s going on or can’t hear you. I pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed from where Pam’s mom sat and just gazed at her. There were machines breathing for her but her heart had still beat on its own. There was a breathing tube and mask, multiple IV’s and other monitors attached to her fragile little body. She almost looked like a skeleton and yet was still so beautiful. What happened, did she overdose?
Actually, it wasn’t the Vicodan that made her sick, it was her bulimia. I froze. What? They are finishing the tests, but what they are saying is that she has damaged the lining of her stomach so badly with how she has abused laxatives and forcing her self to vomit that the stomach acid has actually eaten a hole through the lining and has gone into her blood stream. It is causing all her organs to shut down. The fingers on her left hand were almost completely purple and you could see it starting on her index finger on her right hand. Is there any chance she could come out of it? They don’t think so… less than 20%. As I listened to her mom tell me that it wasn’t the drugs that were killing her, but the eating disorder a million thoughts went through my head. How could I have been so stupid?! Here I was the one she picked to help her and I had encouraged her not to worry about throwing up. Why would I? I was doing it too. It wasn’t so bad in my mind, I didn’t think it could kill you. I could understand how anorexia could kill you, you would starve to death. I wasn’t starving myself, I was just controlling my calorie intake. I didn’t throw up everything, just what I wanted to…so I thought. Suddenly I felt so guilty for all the jealous thoughts I had toward her.
Here she was dying and it was probably because I was so selfish. If I had only reached out to her sooner or would have been more available to her instead of avoiding her calls when I was with Donny, she might not be in this condition. How could I have missed those last calls?! My voice mail was full so she couldn’t even leave a message. I knew I had failed her and now it was too late. There seemed nothing I could do to make this right.
I couldn’t even cry. My heart felt like ice. That would happen sometimes with really intensely emotional situations, I felt frozen and numb, except for the guilt. Pam’s mom and I sat a spoke for about an hour. We discussed the last couple of weeks and shared our last memories of the time we had spent with her. I asked her mother what had happed to Pam that made her so hopeless. Well it was her father, she explained. She never felt like he loved her. He would come home drunk and wake her up and yell at her, beat on her door, stuff like that. Once Pam walked in while he was raping me and I think that really affected her. I sat there beginning to feel really sad.
I just listened as she told me story after story of a little girl who was so traumatized no wonder she couldn’t comprehend a life worth living. When Pam was a little girl, maybe five or six, she had to wear special shoes. They were made out of wood and very expensive. Pam forgot them outside once and it rained. Well, they got wet and were ruined and for that Pam’s father killed her cat right in front of her. I don’t thing she could ever get over that. As I sat there, I began to feel this rage inside of me. How could someone do that?! How come Pam’s mom didn’t leave. I wanted to blame her and get her to admit her part but I just listened and tried not to let my anger show. Would you mind staying here while I go to get her brother, he’s flying in at 9 and I need to go to the airport, we should be back no later that 9:30? Sure, I agreed. Donny got back with some coffee from the cafeteria and I told him we needed to stay until her mom got back. Wow, her brother is coming in to say goodbye to his little sister. The sound of the heart, blood pressure and oxygen monitors were hypnotic.
I got a bible and started to read. I read psalms, through the valley of death I shall not fear. I only wanted to read the bible which was odd because I was at a place in my opinion of organized religion that made me questions everything about dogmatic, legalistic, fear based religion, namely Christianity, but I felt like that’s what Pam and her mom would want so I just read. I read psalms 23:4 "Yea though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me." She really was walking through the valley of death and I was with her. In my mind I pictured this hallway with all the rooms of Pamela’s life. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be unable to talk or respond in anyway but I had the feeling she could hear me. I knew in my heart she was glad I was there but I also felt like she wanted to go. She wanted out of this body she had abused and loathed for so long. I could relate. It was only a little more than a year before that I came close myself.
I didn’t see any way out and yet I hated my life and what I’d become, I felt so hopeless. This could have very easily been me but Pam had crossed the line. She wasn’t coming back; it was just a matter of time. I kept getting the feeling that she felt trapped. She just wanted to go. I’m sure she was aware that the doctors had said that even if she did come out of it, one or both of her hands would have to be cut off as a result of the loss of circulation. She would be incapacitated.
As I finished reading one scripture, I felt compelled to read another. I felt this urgency to give her as much as I could. Her spirit seemed to be eating it up. I read Corinthians I 13: 1-13 about Love. I prayed over her and reminded her that she was forgiven, that she would soon get to go and for her to forgive herself, that her children would be okay. I watched as her chest rose and declined rhythmically to the beat of the breathing machine. The monitors chimed in reporting her heart beat, blood pressure and oxygen levels. I kept watching the clock.
Soon her mother and brother would be here from the airport. I wondered what her brother might say to her. I didn’t remember her mentioning him but she didn’t reveal a lot about her family. She was so out of it most of the time; it was hard to have any type of a lengthy conversation with her. She hadn’t been close with many people since she came into our twelve step fellowship. Unfortunately, she found a couple people who just wanted to use her. Jake was one that was still using himself. Wendy and Jake would “hang out”occasionally. She would disappear with him during our after meetings. It is so sad how we seem to be attracted to what is bad for us. Once, early in recovery, I had a dream about a snake and a lizard. I bought my son a lizard for his kindergarten graduation. It lived in his room in a glass cage with a screened lid. In this dream I walked into his room only to this lizard tattered and torn, and missing one of its legs. The screened lid had become dismantled and the snake managed to get into the cage and attack the lizard.
As I watched the snake in its attempt to devour its prey, I acted quickly by reaching my hand into the cage and removing the lizards body from the grip of the snakes mouth. I through the snake away, put the lizard back down in its cage and secured the lid. I saw that even though it was missing one of its limbs and appeared pretty mangled, it was still alive so I left the room. I got this feeling of death. The same feeling I was feeling right now with Pamela. She was in deaths grip. There was nothing I could do but watch. I couldn’t reach in and save her no matter how much I wanted to. I was learning about the truly deadly nature of this “disease”. My dream ended when I walked back into my son’s room only to find the lizard crawling up toward a tear in the screen not big enough for the snakes head to fit through but large enough for the lizard’s body. I was dismayed as I watched the lizard crawl up toward this hole trying to find the snake again. I was angry. I had saved the lizard and it barely survived. I made sure it was safe from the snake and I couldn’t understand why it was seeking the very thing that would kill it.
What was the appeal of the snake? It was like the lizard was hypnotized and entranced by the illusion of freedom the snake offered even if it meant death. The lizard was willing to die just to escape its cage. Maybe that is why as recovering addicts, we seek a spiritual awakening. I didn’t know that the prison of my life could be transformed by God only if I had the willingness and faith to wait. Our diseased thinking tells us there is no other way out. The idea of death becomes more appealing than feeling trapped in our lives. At one point, I saw freedom in drugs. They freed me from the prison of my emotions that contained me with so much anxiety and suffering; but only temporarily and less effectively as my disease progressed. Without the tools I have been taught in the 12 step fellowship, I would have never known there was another way. As I sit and watch Pamela, I realize that she had sought the snake one too many times and this time would be her last, it was just a matter of time. As I continued to read scripture, I kept glancing at the clock on the wall. It was 9:25 and soon her brother would be here. I put the bible down and just started talking to Pam. “Everything is going to be okay” I told her. “You will be free soon”. Suddenly the monitors started making noise. I looked at Donny a little startled. What’s wrong with those things, how come they’re starting to make so much noise?
Soon one of the nurses appeared at the door and then another. Her vitals are starting to go down. I watched the nurses face as she studied the numbers on the monitors. We had been schooled earlier by Pam’s mom, what the different numbers meant. Her oxygen level, heart rate and blood pressure needed to stay at certain levels for Pam to be alive. The beeps and colors of the digital numbers on the monitors became part of Pamela. The tube stuck in her throat pumping oxygen into her lungs was like my hand in the lizards cage trying to save it, only a temporary solution. As the deep black purple color spread through the rest of her fingers and hands, and the crevices on her face deepened even in only a couple of hours, it was very apparent to me she was not improving. It was just a matter of time before her body would completely give up. My idea of death was transforming as I watched her deteriorate. This death was a process not an event and we were part of it. I felt so honored to be there. In my heart, I knew she was glad I was there too, although I felt like I had failed her. This was the most time I had ever spent with her.
I had gotten to know her better now as she finally surrendered than all the times before. “She is starting to go”, one of the nurses admitted. At that instant, I felt this surge of energy through my entire body. “Not yet”, I said. Her brother isn’t here yet. I looked at the clock; it was exactly 9:30pm. Inside I knew that Pamela had waited until now to go. She had heard us talking. She had heard that her brother would be here by 9:30pm and now she wanted to go. I felt her urgency to leave. “Pam, you can’t go yet. Your brother isn’t here yet, he is flying here to say good bye to you. Just hold on a little bit longer.” As I said that her heart rate went back up but her oxygen levels were still too low. Her blood pressure was still dropping as I examined the monitors. “Pam, you’re going to need to get your oxygen level up… and your blood pressure.” They started to rise. “Up, up, up, get them up” There was this “life coach” inside of me that started to do her job. “You can do it. You can stay alive just a little bit longer” By now there were several nurses standing in the room and by the door. “I have never seen anything like this before”, “This is amazing”, another sighed as they all watched the monitors respond to us. Pam and I were connected at a very deep level.
I could feel her. I could feel her wanting to leave, but I felt her willingness to follow the lead of the spirit within me that was coaching her. It was all she could do to hold on. “I’m so proud of you, Pam. You are doing it! You are choosing life, right now!” I knew in my heart, that she got it. She finally got to experience herself choosing to live, even if it would only be a short time longer. I could feel her laughter in tears as she responded to my report of her vitals. This went on for about 45 minutes. I was exhilarated and exhausted.
By now, most of the staff on that floor had visited the doorway to witness this amazing testimony of life and connection. Her vitals were responding in direct proportion to my words. When her oxygen levels, heart rate and blood pressure would get too low, I would coach them up and they were responding. She was giving me a gift too. It was almost as if she was saying; I know I didn’t really give you a chance to help me before but I want you to know how much I appreciate you believing in me. I will do this for you, so you won’t feel so disappointed. I knew that Pam could hear me. It wasn’t my voice she heard. It was my heart. With each word I spoke, my heart was what connected with her. It was the intention of my heart filled with the Holy Spirit that was communicating with her and it was undeniable. Finally, around 10:15 pm her brother and mother walked into the room obviously rushing to get back. I’m sorry we’re late she explained. Everything had been delayed. The plane, the traffic… “We got here as soon as we could”. “Why are there so many people in here”? Then they told her. This has been the most amazing thing we have ever seen. This woman has helped Pam to stay alive.
They explained briefly about Pam’s vitals and what had happened. I looked at Pam’s mother and brother; “It would be really good for you to say anything you want to say to her now. She wants to leave but waited for you”. Tears immediately flooded both of their eyes, I looked at Pam and said “Goodbye and good job, I’ll see you again someday.” Donny and I stepped out of the room as Pam’s brother pulled out the letter he had written to her on the plane ride there. We stood outside the room while they said their last goodbyes. I heard Pam’s mom comfort her; “Go with Jesus, honey. Just go with Jesus” Then the nurse turned off the oxygen machine, the monitors chimed their last beeps, slowing down to one constant and soon she was gone.
At the funeral, there was a picture of Pamela, her children and her dogs. She had been a cheerleader and honor roll student. She had such a beautiful smile but there was sadness in her eyes you could notice if you looked closely. Everyone loved her. They played the song “Wind beneath my wings” and I finally cried. As we left the memorial service, her brother gave me a hug. “Thank you so much for what you did. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t been able to tell her I loved her while she was still alive. I really needed to read her what I wrote in that letter. I cannot express how much I appreciate that.” I told him; "It was God and your welcome". It was just as much a gift to me.
She truly was an angel… unaware.
I didn’t realize that dying was such a process. I thought when you died, you just gave up your last breath and that was it. I met Pamela in front of the meeting hall I went to. Sometimes she sat alone but most of the time, there was somebody talking to her, usually a guy. She was so thin and her hands would shake when she lifted her cigarette to her petite pouty lips. Pamela had blonde hair and big blue eyes that would search your soul when she would look at you. There was a feeling that she was hoping someone could save her. She was giving up. Occasionally, her eyes would begin to get a little less dull, but most of the time they were glazed over from the opiates she was ingesting on a daily basis. We met in a meeting. She asked me to be her sponsor and I agreed although I was so new, I still felt inadequate. Her drug off choice had been the same as mine. Pain killers.
When I asked her how long she had been clean, she lied and told me 3 days. Having gotten clean from narcotic opiate painkillers myself, I knew there would be no way to be clean from those pills and be standing there so calmly. When I got clean, almost 23 months before, I had been a complete mess for at least two weeks in withdrawal, feeling like I was going to crawl out of my skin. Even though I knew she was not being honest with me, I agreed to sponsor her and told her to call me everyday. I heard from her occasionally but mostly I would catch her at a meeting.
It was obvious she was still using but at least she was calling other people in the fellowship and she was going to the meetings on a pretty regular basis, even if she couldn’t stay awake in them. I remembered that semi-conscious state all too well. I use to take so many pills; I couldn’t keep my head up. I understood wanting to be numb all the time. Pamela was one of the first people I ever admitted I had an eating disorder to. She confided in me that she couldn’t stop taking laxatives and throwing up. “Kara, I did it again. I told myself I wasn’t going to but I did. I tried to hide it from my mom, because she says if I don’t stop she’s going to take me to the hospital and I don’t want to go there again.” “I can’t stop”. My heart started to beat faster. She had this problem too. I told her I understood that I had struggled with it also. “Don’t worry about that right now”, I told her. “Just focus on staying clean. We can work on the other problem once you get off drugs.” One thing at a time. Don’t try and put yourself under too much pressure to stop all these behaviors at once.” These were the things I was telling myself so I just naturally rationalized her behavior the same way. I had no idea the deadly nature of bulimia and anorexia. I thought the only way it could become fatal is if you literally starved yourself to death. “I feel so ashamed”, she would share with me as she would sob on the other end of the phone as I would just hold the phone trying to think of something to say to console her.
It came to me to read her a page from my “Just Today” daily meditation book by Iyanla Vanzant, which often inspired me. I randomly opened up the page and it was about forgiveness. It was about our angels praying to our father in heaven “Father forgive them for they no not what they do”. It repeated over and over and Pamela began to chime in. Father forgive them, father forgive me for I know not what I do. She was laughing and crying all at the same time. She had found a little bit of relief in what we read. I heard just a hint of hope in her voice as I hung up with her that last time. Just days before, I had seen her standing in front of the building where our meetings had been held. Her mood could vacillate from lethargy to laughter back to anguish within the hour. This time when I looked in her eyes, it came to me to ask about her children. He is telling them lies about me. I’m afraid they will never forgive me. I feel so worthless. I felt a chill as I told her I knew God loved her and had great plans for her. The look she gave me at that moment sent chills up my spine. Not the kind of “God Bumps” we would often get when we felt the spirit or energy of truth or love but a deep dark kind of chill, the kind I used to feel in that house on Hickey. I realize now, that is the chill of death.
When the soul begins to disown the body, there is a coldness that begins to set it and if the spirit doesn’t come into acceptance that they must move on it’s almost as though the soul tries to occupy a space that isn’t theirs anymore. It was like looking into a black hole when I looked in her eyes that last time. I walked with her to the Mexican food place around the corner and watched her as she struggled to eat a few bites of her burrito. She was barely cognizant and stumbled as we walked back to the meeting. After we sat down, she nodded out and we had to have someone drive her home. That was the last time I saw her.
Halloween night, my son and I were shopping for a last minute costume at the mall. I had left my phone in the car and when I checked it, I had missed 9 calls, three from Pamela. I called her back and no answer. I had her mom’s number so I called her. As I waited for an answer, my heart was beating faster and faster. I had this feeling something was terribly wrong. “We are at the hospital, Kara”, her mom told me when she finally answered the phone. “Pamela got really sick and I rushed her to Scottsdale Memorial and now she is in a coma and the Dr’s don’t think she is going to come out of it. They’ve go tubes sticking in her all over the place.” “I’ll be right there, I assured her. I took my son to his fathers and called Donny, my boyfriend at the time. Donny knew Pamela also and had spoken to her once when she tried to slit her wrists. I remember feeling so jealous that he had given her any attention and ignored her for some time hoping she would just go away. She was so pretty and I was sure Donny was interested in her. When she asked me to be her sponsor, I figured that was God’s sick sense of humor to get me over myself. Donny met me at my house and we were off to go see her.
Pamela lay lifeless as we entered her room. Her mother just sat there watching her and seemed relieved we had come. The silence in the room was deafening and it was obvious she felt comforted by our being there. Can she hear us, I asked? I don’t know, her mom replied as if she had wondered the same thing. They say just because someone can’t speak or acknowledge you doesn’t mean they don’t know what’s going on or can’t hear you. I pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed from where Pam’s mom sat and just gazed at her. There were machines breathing for her but her heart had still beat on its own. There was a breathing tube and mask, multiple IV’s and other monitors attached to her fragile little body. She almost looked like a skeleton and yet was still so beautiful. What happened, did she overdose?
Actually, it wasn’t the Vicodan that made her sick, it was her bulimia. I froze. What? They are finishing the tests, but what they are saying is that she has damaged the lining of her stomach so badly with how she has abused laxatives and forcing her self to vomit that the stomach acid has actually eaten a hole through the lining and has gone into her blood stream. It is causing all her organs to shut down. The fingers on her left hand were almost completely purple and you could see it starting on her index finger on her right hand. Is there any chance she could come out of it? They don’t think so… less than 20%. As I listened to her mom tell me that it wasn’t the drugs that were killing her, but the eating disorder a million thoughts went through my head. How could I have been so stupid?! Here I was the one she picked to help her and I had encouraged her not to worry about throwing up. Why would I? I was doing it too. It wasn’t so bad in my mind, I didn’t think it could kill you. I could understand how anorexia could kill you, you would starve to death. I wasn’t starving myself, I was just controlling my calorie intake. I didn’t throw up everything, just what I wanted to…so I thought. Suddenly I felt so guilty for all the jealous thoughts I had toward her.
Here she was dying and it was probably because I was so selfish. If I had only reached out to her sooner or would have been more available to her instead of avoiding her calls when I was with Donny, she might not be in this condition. How could I have missed those last calls?! My voice mail was full so she couldn’t even leave a message. I knew I had failed her and now it was too late. There seemed nothing I could do to make this right.
I couldn’t even cry. My heart felt like ice. That would happen sometimes with really intensely emotional situations, I felt frozen and numb, except for the guilt. Pam’s mom and I sat a spoke for about an hour. We discussed the last couple of weeks and shared our last memories of the time we had spent with her. I asked her mother what had happed to Pam that made her so hopeless. Well it was her father, she explained. She never felt like he loved her. He would come home drunk and wake her up and yell at her, beat on her door, stuff like that. Once Pam walked in while he was raping me and I think that really affected her. I sat there beginning to feel really sad.
I just listened as she told me story after story of a little girl who was so traumatized no wonder she couldn’t comprehend a life worth living. When Pam was a little girl, maybe five or six, she had to wear special shoes. They were made out of wood and very expensive. Pam forgot them outside once and it rained. Well, they got wet and were ruined and for that Pam’s father killed her cat right in front of her. I don’t thing she could ever get over that. As I sat there, I began to feel this rage inside of me. How could someone do that?! How come Pam’s mom didn’t leave. I wanted to blame her and get her to admit her part but I just listened and tried not to let my anger show. Would you mind staying here while I go to get her brother, he’s flying in at 9 and I need to go to the airport, we should be back no later that 9:30? Sure, I agreed. Donny got back with some coffee from the cafeteria and I told him we needed to stay until her mom got back. Wow, her brother is coming in to say goodbye to his little sister. The sound of the heart, blood pressure and oxygen monitors were hypnotic.
I got a bible and started to read. I read psalms, through the valley of death I shall not fear. I only wanted to read the bible which was odd because I was at a place in my opinion of organized religion that made me questions everything about dogmatic, legalistic, fear based religion, namely Christianity, but I felt like that’s what Pam and her mom would want so I just read. I read psalms 23:4 "Yea though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me." She really was walking through the valley of death and I was with her. In my mind I pictured this hallway with all the rooms of Pamela’s life. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be unable to talk or respond in anyway but I had the feeling she could hear me. I knew in my heart she was glad I was there but I also felt like she wanted to go. She wanted out of this body she had abused and loathed for so long. I could relate. It was only a little more than a year before that I came close myself.
I didn’t see any way out and yet I hated my life and what I’d become, I felt so hopeless. This could have very easily been me but Pam had crossed the line. She wasn’t coming back; it was just a matter of time. I kept getting the feeling that she felt trapped. She just wanted to go. I’m sure she was aware that the doctors had said that even if she did come out of it, one or both of her hands would have to be cut off as a result of the loss of circulation. She would be incapacitated.
As I finished reading one scripture, I felt compelled to read another. I felt this urgency to give her as much as I could. Her spirit seemed to be eating it up. I read Corinthians I 13: 1-13 about Love. I prayed over her and reminded her that she was forgiven, that she would soon get to go and for her to forgive herself, that her children would be okay. I watched as her chest rose and declined rhythmically to the beat of the breathing machine. The monitors chimed in reporting her heart beat, blood pressure and oxygen levels. I kept watching the clock.
Soon her mother and brother would be here from the airport. I wondered what her brother might say to her. I didn’t remember her mentioning him but she didn’t reveal a lot about her family. She was so out of it most of the time; it was hard to have any type of a lengthy conversation with her. She hadn’t been close with many people since she came into our twelve step fellowship. Unfortunately, she found a couple people who just wanted to use her. Jake was one that was still using himself. Wendy and Jake would “hang out”occasionally. She would disappear with him during our after meetings. It is so sad how we seem to be attracted to what is bad for us. Once, early in recovery, I had a dream about a snake and a lizard. I bought my son a lizard for his kindergarten graduation. It lived in his room in a glass cage with a screened lid. In this dream I walked into his room only to this lizard tattered and torn, and missing one of its legs. The screened lid had become dismantled and the snake managed to get into the cage and attack the lizard.
As I watched the snake in its attempt to devour its prey, I acted quickly by reaching my hand into the cage and removing the lizards body from the grip of the snakes mouth. I through the snake away, put the lizard back down in its cage and secured the lid. I saw that even though it was missing one of its limbs and appeared pretty mangled, it was still alive so I left the room. I got this feeling of death. The same feeling I was feeling right now with Pamela. She was in deaths grip. There was nothing I could do but watch. I couldn’t reach in and save her no matter how much I wanted to. I was learning about the truly deadly nature of this “disease”. My dream ended when I walked back into my son’s room only to find the lizard crawling up toward a tear in the screen not big enough for the snakes head to fit through but large enough for the lizard’s body. I was dismayed as I watched the lizard crawl up toward this hole trying to find the snake again. I was angry. I had saved the lizard and it barely survived. I made sure it was safe from the snake and I couldn’t understand why it was seeking the very thing that would kill it.
What was the appeal of the snake? It was like the lizard was hypnotized and entranced by the illusion of freedom the snake offered even if it meant death. The lizard was willing to die just to escape its cage. Maybe that is why as recovering addicts, we seek a spiritual awakening. I didn’t know that the prison of my life could be transformed by God only if I had the willingness and faith to wait. Our diseased thinking tells us there is no other way out. The idea of death becomes more appealing than feeling trapped in our lives. At one point, I saw freedom in drugs. They freed me from the prison of my emotions that contained me with so much anxiety and suffering; but only temporarily and less effectively as my disease progressed. Without the tools I have been taught in the 12 step fellowship, I would have never known there was another way. As I sit and watch Pamela, I realize that she had sought the snake one too many times and this time would be her last, it was just a matter of time. As I continued to read scripture, I kept glancing at the clock on the wall. It was 9:25 and soon her brother would be here. I put the bible down and just started talking to Pam. “Everything is going to be okay” I told her. “You will be free soon”. Suddenly the monitors started making noise. I looked at Donny a little startled. What’s wrong with those things, how come they’re starting to make so much noise?
Soon one of the nurses appeared at the door and then another. Her vitals are starting to go down. I watched the nurses face as she studied the numbers on the monitors. We had been schooled earlier by Pam’s mom, what the different numbers meant. Her oxygen level, heart rate and blood pressure needed to stay at certain levels for Pam to be alive. The beeps and colors of the digital numbers on the monitors became part of Pamela. The tube stuck in her throat pumping oxygen into her lungs was like my hand in the lizards cage trying to save it, only a temporary solution. As the deep black purple color spread through the rest of her fingers and hands, and the crevices on her face deepened even in only a couple of hours, it was very apparent to me she was not improving. It was just a matter of time before her body would completely give up. My idea of death was transforming as I watched her deteriorate. This death was a process not an event and we were part of it. I felt so honored to be there. In my heart, I knew she was glad I was there too, although I felt like I had failed her. This was the most time I had ever spent with her.
I had gotten to know her better now as she finally surrendered than all the times before. “She is starting to go”, one of the nurses admitted. At that instant, I felt this surge of energy through my entire body. “Not yet”, I said. Her brother isn’t here yet. I looked at the clock; it was exactly 9:30pm. Inside I knew that Pamela had waited until now to go. She had heard us talking. She had heard that her brother would be here by 9:30pm and now she wanted to go. I felt her urgency to leave. “Pam, you can’t go yet. Your brother isn’t here yet, he is flying here to say good bye to you. Just hold on a little bit longer.” As I said that her heart rate went back up but her oxygen levels were still too low. Her blood pressure was still dropping as I examined the monitors. “Pam, you’re going to need to get your oxygen level up… and your blood pressure.” They started to rise. “Up, up, up, get them up” There was this “life coach” inside of me that started to do her job. “You can do it. You can stay alive just a little bit longer” By now there were several nurses standing in the room and by the door. “I have never seen anything like this before”, “This is amazing”, another sighed as they all watched the monitors respond to us. Pam and I were connected at a very deep level.
I could feel her. I could feel her wanting to leave, but I felt her willingness to follow the lead of the spirit within me that was coaching her. It was all she could do to hold on. “I’m so proud of you, Pam. You are doing it! You are choosing life, right now!” I knew in my heart, that she got it. She finally got to experience herself choosing to live, even if it would only be a short time longer. I could feel her laughter in tears as she responded to my report of her vitals. This went on for about 45 minutes. I was exhilarated and exhausted.
By now, most of the staff on that floor had visited the doorway to witness this amazing testimony of life and connection. Her vitals were responding in direct proportion to my words. When her oxygen levels, heart rate and blood pressure would get too low, I would coach them up and they were responding. She was giving me a gift too. It was almost as if she was saying; I know I didn’t really give you a chance to help me before but I want you to know how much I appreciate you believing in me. I will do this for you, so you won’t feel so disappointed. I knew that Pam could hear me. It wasn’t my voice she heard. It was my heart. With each word I spoke, my heart was what connected with her. It was the intention of my heart filled with the Holy Spirit that was communicating with her and it was undeniable. Finally, around 10:15 pm her brother and mother walked into the room obviously rushing to get back. I’m sorry we’re late she explained. Everything had been delayed. The plane, the traffic… “We got here as soon as we could”. “Why are there so many people in here”? Then they told her. This has been the most amazing thing we have ever seen. This woman has helped Pam to stay alive.
They explained briefly about Pam’s vitals and what had happened. I looked at Pam’s mother and brother; “It would be really good for you to say anything you want to say to her now. She wants to leave but waited for you”. Tears immediately flooded both of their eyes, I looked at Pam and said “Goodbye and good job, I’ll see you again someday.” Donny and I stepped out of the room as Pam’s brother pulled out the letter he had written to her on the plane ride there. We stood outside the room while they said their last goodbyes. I heard Pam’s mom comfort her; “Go with Jesus, honey. Just go with Jesus” Then the nurse turned off the oxygen machine, the monitors chimed their last beeps, slowing down to one constant and soon she was gone.
At the funeral, there was a picture of Pamela, her children and her dogs. She had been a cheerleader and honor roll student. She had such a beautiful smile but there was sadness in her eyes you could notice if you looked closely. Everyone loved her. They played the song “Wind beneath my wings” and I finally cried. As we left the memorial service, her brother gave me a hug. “Thank you so much for what you did. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t been able to tell her I loved her while she was still alive. I really needed to read her what I wrote in that letter. I cannot express how much I appreciate that.” I told him; "It was God and your welcome". It was just as much a gift to me.
She truly was an angel… unaware.
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