What to do when Naked

I will break this segment up in two phases:

Fighting with spouse…do’s and don’ts

What to do when naked?

Word has it on the ‘street’…Kaitlin Adderley, firmly believed that by taking her clothes off…piece by thong piece…she would show the world…and her boyfriend, just what they are missing!

According to a probable cause statement, Adderley was dressed when police arrived, but she made a statement to officers saying she had taken her clothes off during an argument with her boyfriend.

You knew what this was
I don’t want you anymore
I warned you before, I warned you before
Well I coulda sworn I told you I was mean

First and loathing-ly, I admit to having pulled some ‘stunts’…when semi single.

“Let me out of this car now!”

“I don’t care that we are in the middle of traffic hour, we are both menstruating or that we are driving in the galaxy of bad drivers (Mass-holes!)

Back beyond our first ‘date’. I say, first date, because everyone knows…

a lesbian’s second date requires moving in together.

Way back when my wife and I called arguments..discussions. Just to make life a little less like our parents.

Way back when, I felt she did not need another pair of…Croc’s from the Croc factory…to add to her,  Imelda Marcos , collection.

One thing led to another, potty mouths, potty words, bringing up dysfunctional past behaviors and correlating it with current days…shit! On and on, it went. Until I found myself walking down route 128…north out of Boston!

I learned terribly quickly that as much as I found myself fighting like my passive-aggressive mother…I can always change.

Alright so poor, Kaitlin, got busted! But busted naked! This trans-formative way of ‘fighting’ with significant others…encouraged me to look into,

How do we use our naked-ness…to get our way?

Most popular?

Well we know where we’re going
But we don’t know where we’ve been
And we know what we’re knowing
But we can’t say what we’ve seen
And we’re not little children
And we know what we want
And the future is certain
Give us time to work it out

Texting naked! Encouraging someone on the other end to loose track of reality and…put one out! Right there in the damn car!

There were a sundry of other misdemeanors…

-plain old driving naked

-going to church naked

-home burglary…while naked

On and on…again!

In all honesty, this one brought me back. Naked! Naked! What have I done…nude? And, why?

In college, when my parent’s with minus function, had thought it a good idea to move from the city to the country.

Pissed off! Newly egocentric! Longing for tarred roads! I thought it a good idea to…iron…naked!

B strong! B brave! B humble! B badass!

That is right. In my fragile mind and blooming body, an ‘all body’ tan, was needed. Not only a physique without tan lines but clothes…freshly ironed, pressed and clean scented.

One thing led to another down a dirt and sodden road…Canterbury; I soon learned that ‘vehicles’ travel with a certain carcinogenic noise. And, everyone else (employees of my mother who live nearby) travel by horse. Horses are nice and quiet and generally do not alert naked college students doing their ironing on the back deck…of their approach.

Cycle of Abuse: 15 in 1982

I have read many, many, despondent writers, poets, etc.  Persons who, now in adulthood, have come through some depressing, harrowing, childhood situations.  On occasion, I have run across documentaries, news item, etc.  About pre-teen, teen, and young adult suicide.  All due to having lived at the violent hands and words of parents that outwardly appeared ‘normal.’  That inwardly, were the devil’s hand puppets.

Back in or around the early 80’s: Our house had burned down.  Down to the ground.  Standing stoic were the scant charred…2 by 4’s, abandoned ashen table ware and counters.  For all intensive purposes, my fifteen year old eyes witnessed nothing but a shell.

As I have said before, some memories blare at me such like the horn of an irritated driver.  Loud, clear, vibrant.  Other memories, due to my need to persevere, are faded and clouded.  Such like a watercolor painting you once adored but can, now, barely remember.

My siblings had long since been kicked out of the house.  It seemed to be a rite of passage.

You’re eighteen.  You did something to piss me off.  You are now no longer allowed on the land of misfits.”

Generally speaking, both, Bud and Sybil,  were conversatinally gone…Way before being physically excommunicated.  My sister enjoyed the company of questionable boyfriends.  A habit I firmly believe was thrown upon her by my father’s physical abuse.  And, my mother’s lack of emotional attachment.

My brother had his friends.  He partied.  He defied.  He had tired of protecting his mother.  And, at one point or another, during a physical altercation with my father.  There had been threats of guns and severe violence.  Best guess would be that was the point of no return.

After our house became a  photo source for neighbors.  After the smoke cleared, clothes of creosote were tossed and generations of knick knacks were tossed into the trash.  After the chaos of destruction became nothing more than local gossip…I was assigned the task of cleaning pennies, dimes, nickels and quarters.

In other words, our small but precious gallon jug of empty Riunite…that had been filled to the max with change; had succumbed to being spare change among broken glass.  And, it had been my assigned duty to clean each and every piece of  current currency…metal.  imageedit_8_8297636672

“Scrub it clean!  Here’s the toothbrush!  Now get at it.”

Had been the order barked out by both my father and my mother.

Sitting there between the lilac bushes and partially singed grass,  a stool, a toothbrush and pounds of  spare change… lay an endless fall.

With September sun beaming down.  I can still recall how sweat would douse the corners of my mouth and then, splash upon the tainted dime or penny.

My depression ran deep.  And, I had been fully aware of it.  Not knowing at the time about my father’s thirst for killing or psychosis.  Not being fully aware of the how and why of my mother’s terminal sadness.  Not being aware of much.  I knew that life in the Bowley household was not like the pretty white houses with laughter…that dotted the rest of the street.

My brother had since joined the Air Force.  And, my sister had married.  Still there had not been much connection between us.  It seems to me, that had been a scenario my parent had derived.  Either consciously or not.

Indeed, I had been my father’s favorite.  Which meant sports, sports and more sports.  Which meant teaching CCD, being active in youth group and singing in the church folk group.  Which meant I received far more than my share of…

“You can do better than that!  Are you stupid?  I don’t give a flying fuck what other parents do!”imageedit_4_3845432106

Either way, I was a lost budding young adult woman.  In a lost land.  With a bit of house insurance money left over.  My mother begged my father to take her to visit her favorite child, Bud!  Bud, my half-brother, had begun the pursuit of his second marriage in two years.  He had, also been affluent in the use of cocaine.  He had joined the Air-force!

Bud had been stationed in Florida.  And, my parents believed they deserved a break.  A break from the hustle and bustle of rebuilding life after a house fire.

Therefore, it was only reasonable that I should remain behind.  Only reasonable to think my best friend, Michael and, most importantly, his mother, would take me in.

This is where Black Beauties, booze, bad behavior and LSD come into play.  I had indulged at a very young age in Yukon Jack.  But my current course of plaid catholic school skirts, smoke and dope and sex…was in over drive.

Mimi, Michael’s mother, had seen this.  She had known what was about to come.  My intention had been death by over indulgence.  Dropping blotter, smoking weed, playing both sides of addiction against each other.

Mimi in her own hippie way, felt the only need for a deep, profound, change in my behavior…Would be therapy!

It had worked.  I met a wonderful woman named, Eileen.  We met once a week on the second floor above S n W sports.  Her office was filled with Buddha, warm thoughts and reflective flowing waters from an over sized fish tank.

My renewal was instant.  The remorse, guilt and shame that was felt became something talked about in open conversation.  I had not started the house fire.  But my intention on that fateful weekend…was to stay home.

Could I have stopped it?imageedit_11_5911877311

A kind woman in pastel flowing skirt…told me…

“No!”

My relief and new-found comfort within my own skin…Quickly dissipated.  For as soon as my parents returned.  And, even with Mimi’s glowing recommendation.  It was apparent that I would not longer be allowed to see Eileen.

My father ranted and raved over and over again…

“No daughter of mine is going to see a shrink…”

And, my mother…

“You heard your father!”

Funny, I was conceived in the tunnels underneath the New Hampshire State Hospital.  Or, that my father was once deemed insane.  And, my mother a manic-depressive with suicidal tendencies.  Yet, snipping possible self harm in the buttocks, while I was still young.  Seemed out of the question.

Looking back on my vivid with gray strands of depression, as a child and teen.  I think how fortunate I am to have survived.  To be able to function.

Course, there is much more to my parent’s love story.  Much more to the dysfunction.  Starting a few years before my birth and flourishing years after…My disowning the ‘family.’imageedit_14_9427699938

 

 

a Sober Groundhog

In rural New Hampshire, as in rural, North Carolina, the days can collect themselves at your weaknesses.  There is no sightly or unsightly difference between one day to next.  I suppose I took other states hostage…during my addictive haze!  Ohio, Maine, Tennessee, Georgia, Florida, pretty much the southeast coastline…and a few places in between.

However, for aesthics purposes, I will attend to the states of my mind, New Hampshire and North Carolina.

The days in mid winter are long though short.  Almost as if, what little light you see, you want to capture in a Bell Jar and hang on to for dear life.

To a deeply satisfied with self, addict.  Days, night, hours and seconds, are all relative.  A sort despondence occurs.  Like the final break to a bough that seemed strong enough to hold back the stormy weather.

My days were never different.  Dusky, dirty, impoverished, self seeking and evermore…uncertain.

An existentialist would say that, to truly know oneself you must hit rock bottom.  Without rock bottom there is no growth.  No knowledge of your inner most virtues.

 

I have hit, hopefully, my only needed twice…rock bottoms, in two states.  The days not much unlike each other.  Bright and sunny and full of hope, to someone else.  My more recent rock bottom found me entombed by my will run riot.  Incarcerated by four walls, two big bay windows and a bed.  The whole in my soul had ridden it’s high horse for a full year of anti social behavior.  Indeed, I had known sobriety.  I grasped it in my sweaty hands…five years prior.  I also let it go…as if it no longer wished to be caged.  I let it go driving down the highway with a tall boy between my legs, motorcycle weekend on the horizon, in a Scooby Do mini van…looking to get laid at a bar in Haverhill, Mass.

Had I a death-wish?  Honestly?  Every alcoholic, addict, abuser, I know…has a death-wish.  We believe ourselves to be like a cat.  Fighting it out until our last life, the 9th, is used up.  After relapse, when I begun my descent into madness and mayhem; I averaged a gallon of cheap Vodka and a case of beer per day.  Course, the bouts with blotter had to be put aside.  The pills?  Too obvious to those who watched my behavior like hawks.  Booze had strictly been my downfall.  Though, when offered, I did not turn down the occassional chance to do illegal drugs.

It’s all relative!

This different day set in rural New Hampshire.  Started out with neither a bang, toke or pop.  The night before I had been dragged kickin’ and screamin’ to a local AA meeting.  Course my captors had us leaving for our destination way too early.  Therefore, I had the misfortune of stopping by Home Depot after eating a, this is a bad idea, large greasy fry from Burger King.

Today, I cannot stand overhead lights.  Matter of fact, if it doesn’t fit in a lamp…it doesn’t come into my house.

I walked that 1,000 mile journey to the 24 hour chip.  Claps, not judgement, all around.  I who had been so tough as bitten nails, found myself weak in the knees.  Scared of having to deal with the shit storm I had brought about.

That meeting could have happened last night.  With vivid detail, I can list who was there, what hung on the wall, the speaker and the kind of donuts being handed out.

After all the well wishes from past friends with sobriety…I laid myself down for a long winter’s nap.

I don’t cry.  Given my family history…tears were for those of lesser value.  The kinds of people who get picked on.  And, that was not for me.

I cried that night.  Thoughts rambling around, mixed with Dead tunes and burning incense.

One thought:

“Once you say out loud you are an addict.  That is it!  You are banned for life from enjoying a drug or a drink…ever again.”

I hold no one responsible for my illness.  And, yes, there had been lovers than neccessary.  As well as, a wife and children.

Awake and awakening…that morning, I saw part and parcel, the same shit different day.  I had dragged my partner from North Carolina to New Hampshire…promising…change.

Neither one of us found change.  You cannot always rebuild a love that has been hit with a shit stick.  Lesson learned!

“Once I used to believe
I was such a great romancer
Then I came home to a woman
That I could not recognize
When I pressed her for a reason
She refused to even answer
It was then I felt the stranger
Kick me right between the eyes”

Thing is, the woman I did not recognize had not been my wife.  It had been me!  Some serious decisions needed to be made.  A complete life change and the slightest misgiving that…I would have to take care of myself…for once.

The first week in February is tough, up north.  People are generous with their disdain for continued windchill factors.  The ice on the windowpane never melts.  And, the air seems stiff with indifference.

I believe my sobriety date is in and around Groundhog day!  I cannot be absolutely sure.  I could ask my ex wife.  However, after that fateful day…we did not do much intellectual chatter.

And, though, the room spun, the shakes made my insides feel like roadkill, I opened my eyes to ‘same kind of day, but slightly different’.

I stayed locked up in that room for a week.  The detox that time around had been much more physical and far more, mentally grueling.  My legs bare and barely movable, made it to the bathroom, the kitchen and back to the bed.  The sheets were laden with sweat and tears.

Different?  Just a tiny, fragment of an inch!

Oscar Wilde once said,

‘No good deed goes unpunished!’

Certainly he was right.  Yet, the morning seemed lighter.  Easier to take.  The bedroom mirror was not my enemy.  It had been an example of what good could come…if I work for it.

I suppose, with deep philosophical thought, it simply could have been that…I changed the prescription to my spiritual glasses.  Fortunate was I to know there had been a way out.  I know for a fact that those different days.  Days that do not come very often.  Those times when something is left of center…are a precept.  A saturating desire to believe in something greater than I.

15 years later, I still struggle.  But I struggle with life on life’s terms.  As do…most adults.

Help come with Faith

Truth B Told

Franz Kafka

Franz Kafka (1991)“Alas,” said the mouse, “the whole world is growing smaller every day. At the beginning it was so big that I was afraid, I kept running and running, and I was glad when I saw walls far away to the right and left, but these long walls have narrowed so quickly that I am in the last chamber already, and there in the corner stands the trap that I must run into.”
“You only need to change your direction,” said the cat, and ate it up.”
― Franz Kafka

English: There is nothing here but the kitchen...
English: There is nothing here but the kitchen sink (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Alex Sink (vying for Florida’s 13th congressional seat) has given a devastating almost blow to Boehner!  Gee, do you think it was paid for by the republicans or democrats?

donkey
donkey (Photo credit: All Suggestions Welcome)

Can Alex Baldwin really be that much of an ass?

Alec is excused from Homophobia Rehab class today due to the following reasons:

Americans still want to believe that the Grinch will steal Christmas and that stupid is as stupid does!

“Evil is whatever distracts.” ― Franz Kafka

 772 manatees have died this year – a record number of deaths and a gigantic toll for an animal whose total population is estimated around 5,000 animals.

They are victims of a perfect and deadly storm – habitat loss, pollution, boat collisions and to make matters worse many manatees have died from the two unusual algal blooms, one on each coast!

Well, Elvis is dead and the manatees and most of the uninsured Obamacrat’s don’t feel so good themselves!

Let your friends know.

editorial via the randomwordbyruth:

Isn’t what we want is a little truth in our Fruity Pebbles?  What gives?  I spent a weekend on the healthcare.org website or whatever alias it goes by now.  72 hours spent digging through the rubbish of my medical past only to be told the list of my physical shortcomings and my financial non status had indeed been what I suspected all along=

Not ready for prime-time!  Too much too little too soon.  So here I sit with my lack of one kidney in one hand and my perishable checking account in the other…wondering what qualifies for shit on a ballot civil servant nowadays and would I qualify for that?

“All knowledge, the totality of all questions and answers, is contained in the dog.”  ― Franz Kafka,
“All knowledge, the totality of all questions and answers, is contained in the dog.”
― Franz Kafka,