For Those Being Forced to Read This

OK, don't tell me. You're too busy with your own life to give a fuck what some crazy, drugged out woman has to say.

And you know, I can't say that I blame you. When I was in high school, I hated, hated being forced to read anything. A classic, as Mark Twain said, was something people talked about but never bothered to read. I went on the Internet, got the synopses, and breezed through the exams. I've always been a good bullshitter; if you learn nothing else from reading this book, that much should be pretty clear.

So allow me to explain my intentions. I want the reader to be uncomfortable with this book. I want people to see things within me that help them realize they're not alone in the universe, that someone else could capture in words that great, big, inexpressable something that's hidden inside. I want to strike empathy in those who've known pain like mine, and for those who haven't, I want them to realize that ultimately, nobody's exempt from this shit. And most of all, I want to create an instant classic, in the sense that people know from the moment they pick it up, if they keep reading, something is going to happen.

But I am realistic. Whether I see the glass as half full or half empty depends on if you just poured into it or just drank out of it. I know that it won't be easy to get published. I know that even if I do acheive overnight success, I still have a long, hard road to travel to get out of hell.

Understand that although I feel very powerful writing this, I am also very uneasy. When you're this close to death, even if you think that you could accept it, in my experience, you become overwhelmed with a sense of desparation unlike anything you have ever felt.

I am a twenty year-old woman, and I am dying. I may never finish this book. I have a terminal dis ease called addiction, and a lot of people are saying they don't think I'm going to make it.

I admit that I'm afraid. Not so much of death- that would be easy- but of perpetuating this agony indefinately, never finding a better way to live. Right now, I'm sitting in a treatment center and, having relapsed last night, I know for damn sure that I'm not done yet.

My heart is breaking. It would be so wonderful to be done, to have the will to change. I long for it, yearn for it, cry for it, but after years of waiting, it has not come.

I feel and I fear that this is my only hope. I know that posess admirable qualities, but I have nothing like a sense of self-worth. I hopelessly desire that freedom that is inherently human, and I pray that in my process of self-discovery, I may allow others to gain something, anything, by my experience and insight (or lack thereof.)

I'm sue that some of my readers are bored already. "What a fucking drama queen," or "This woman is lunatic; what does she really expect to teach me about myself?" Believe you me, I can empathize with your cynicism. And therefore, if you are being forced to read this, I will accomodate your plight.

So here's the deal. I just had this assignment in treatment to develop a timeline to tell my life story. I just presented it to the group today, and everyone was in a state of shock and alarm...but that's a different story.

"OK, so get on with is," demands the unimpressed reader. Just be patient.

Easy to say for the girl who says, "God, I want patience...RIGHT NOW!"

So here's what you do. Since this is an inward journey of self-discovery, realistically, I can only draw from my own experience, right?

And if the timeline tells my life story, the basics should all be in there, rig ht? If you're half the bullshitter I am, you can extrapolate any sort of emotion, literary device, criticism, reflection- whatever you need to make the grade.

Now remember, I haven't written this book yet- I'm just drawing on what I already know here. But I'm thinking, if you're reading this for school, you deserve a break. Life is hard enough without people cramming their own opinions and judgements down your throat. So I want you to relax- this part is almost over.

So here's all you have to do. Just read it. I'm not even asking that you keep an open mind; I'm not pretending I'm any kind of role model, and taking my words for advice could prove extremely dangerous.

So just read it. It's clever, it rhymes; you'll be done, if you're a slow reader, in twenty minutes or less.

After that, the choice is yours. You may feel at times as if I'm talking to you personally, but remember, I don't know you; chances are, it won't really affect me whether or not you read my book.

Just take this for what it's worth. I am a sick, desperate person doing the best possible thing I can think of to survive. I'm doing this for ME. But what you choose to take from it is up to you..

The Timeline

Born June 22, 1983,
A bright, beautiful baby, my first word was "bunny"
A walker and a talker from very early
I was called Pineapple Girl by my daddy

Mommy showered me with affection
The park, beach; real love, no question
Got our current house when I was two and a half
(Move out? Get a job? There's a laugh)

When my parents finally found a preschool I could like
I started Fairglade, chillin on my trike
And at three I met Amy
My first best friend, I felt so lucky

Then one day, my parents called me inside
An once they'd said what they said, I just cried
"You're gona have a new brother or sister"
(Forget about you- we're gonna have her)

Carolyn was born, and I did come to love her
But while I still stood a few heads above her
I terrorized the poor little kid
And God only knows I'm not proud that I did

My parents' marriage then fell into strife
They were fighting so bad that I feared for my life
I was always in the middle; I began to panic
My father detached and my mom became manic

Once I hit six, my mom taught me to read
And in so doing, she planted a seed
Books and writing became my all-great escape
Until came the drugs, and so sealed my fate

Dad started to teach me guitar at age seven,
I hated him for it; he said someday I'd thank him

Then at age eight, my depression hit home
I was geeky in school and I felt so alone
I invented a make-believe world of my own
Where twisted things in my mind were made known

In fourth grade I finally got a reprieve-
I got into Gifted, and would you believe
I wasn't the only smart kid on the planet
And when I was told by the teacher who ran it

I'd grow up to be a famous author,
I knew I had a gift, and wanted nothing more

I barely survived elementary school
But I was destined for greatness, and nobody's fool
I went to a special school called a magnet
Best humanities student in sixth grade- how about that?

I was writing and learning and best of all
I found real friends on whom I could call
Sure they were dorks individually,
But when they came together, they included me

But my depression had not gone away
I told Rebecca Rawlings, and to my dismay
She told her mom and told the teacher
Then her mom wouldn't let me talk to her

And in the group, since she was clearly the leader,
If she wouldn't talk to me, they wouldn't either

Luckily things cleared up before summer
When I came upon my tall, handsome drummer
Jake and I stayed together two and a half years
And I loved him so much that it brought me to tears

At twelve years old, I felt in my prime
Won a huge award for a poem that didn't rhyme
My grandfather even took me to London
(Yeah, I had my shit together back then)

At thirteen I smoked my first cigarette
Which of course was something I'd live to regret
I'd gotten drunk, sure, for the first time at ten
But I'd never thought much about drugs until then

At fourteen, the drugs first came into my path
I thought I was a hippie- hey, you do the math
Still taking honors, my grades slightly fell
Coz LSD gave me my first taste of hell

I gave it up to a guy I barely knew
But it was "OK" coz he was a virgin too
After two months of LSD I'd had enough
Got outpatient rehab, soon gave up the stuff

Stayed clean fourteen months- and wouldn't you laugh
I was an NA nazi and a half!
I preached sobriety to the burnout kids
Hung out with them while they flipped their lids

One night I opted to smoke pot again
And mostly, I'd say, it's been downhill since then

Within a few months I found ecstasy
And became a big fan of the house party
My friend Desi's mom bought her her own place
And there we were, taking off to outer space

I was still bummed about my ex Jose
Who'd knocked me up, then walked away
Of course I didn't have the kid
My mom said I'd be on welfare if I did

Til along came John while I was still clean
That didn't last though, you know what I mean
My dad said he looked like he came from a trailer
But blinded by love, I couldn't see til much later

He was twenty-four, I was sixteen-
He saw me as an equal- that's pretty obscene

I got fed up with high school, without a doubt
But I knew that my parents would not let me out
So I opted for the School for Advanced Studies
(or School for Adolescent Slackers, if you please)

I had plenty of friends, my frizz became curls,
Started driving cars, started dating girls

At seventeen, I became a full-blown stoner
And I'd fuck just about anyone with a boner

Still, in high school and college, I did more than pass
Sure I was slacking- I was still kicking ass
Hell, I conducted honor society meetings high
Since my grades were good, my parents turned a blind eye

Til one fateful day February 2001
I freaked out in school, my smooth sailing was done
Now I was bipolar, in total isolation
Didn't attend prom, grad night, or graduation

My salvation, I knew, would come through knowledge
So when fall came, I made my way to New College
It's a school for hippies with genius IQs
Drugs everywhere, and nobody wears shoes

I basically found myself getting along
Til October 15, the day shit went wrong
I found out my boyfriend was thrown in the pen
My friend Craig got into heroin, and I'd never see him again

I was mourning and spazzing and all out of whack
And not a month later and BOOM! I found crack
My only real binge on that stuff was so awful
Sold my body to a man who then raped me- asshole!

Then I came upon Cleary, my first junkie buddy
"Painkillers are better than crack- that shit's ugly"
And when darling Ferny got out of the can
My car, his money; oh yeah, we ran

So I totally fucked up my first semester
But they decided to give me another chance- bad wager
I made a vain attempt at suicide
So much therapy after that, I nearly died

Found myself in a halfway house on Pompano Beach
And though recovery was within my reach
I opted to do things my way instead
Kept toking and hooked up with an old deadhead

Got kicked out of there soon enough and went home
Got my car back and was free to roam
My loverboy had some time, but he relapsed
Without a good program, the best of us snaps

So he gave me my wings, and boy how I flew!
I discovered the drug that makes you turn blue
Only problem with smack was I liked it too much
But not long after, an old friend got in touch

So I went to Utica to avoid a habit
Looked for junk up there, never did find it
Small-town life in upstate New York's worst ghetto
With gay nudist alcoholics- whoa!

Got out of there before two months had past
Found myself back in Miami at last
Killed time til I started school in January
I'm at Fuckin Idiot U now- that's scary

When I shot up again I knew I was in trouble
So I got my ass back to NA on the double
That lasted a month til I got fed up
Fifty sleeping pills washed down with wine in one gulp

Started hanging out with a buddy from the program
But he never worked those steps worth a damn
He was a junkie, and soon I became one
Tons of work, no payoff, and no fun

My parents then sent me back to rehab
Sure, I had a choice- it was that or the slab

Wasn't long before I was using worse than ever
But who, me? Give up heroin? Never!

So my parents decided to cut me a deal
They're sick of my shit, now it's time to get real
If I try the Refuge out for thirty days
I get my own apartment, I can keep my old ways

So here I am, waiting for time to be up
Yeah, maybe this place just might save me- GOOD LUCK!

So I guess you want to know how my story ends
But alas! I'm to dead yet, so we'll see, my friends

Hope you enjoyed...that's all folks!
See the pain for what it is, don't get lost in the jokes

(or else the joke's on you)

The Real Introduction

I love historical fiction. Always have, always will.

See, for about as long as I can remember, I've had this pain, this emptiness inside of me, and I don't know where it came from. When I discovered books, I was fascinated to learn that many before me had felt this way, in lifetimes before my own. This comforted me greatly; I was lonely, but I was not alone.

Now, I don't want the reader to think that my intention is to create a masterpiece of historical fiction. That isn't entirely the case. I do hope to create a masterpiece; I'm not sure what genre to form it in yet, but I'll leave that to the process.

As for the element of fiction, although all the events I'm about to describe are things that actually took place, these are merely my interpretations, the impressions of a jaded brain. I believe truth to be highly relative, and I try to take my perceptions at face value (the operative word here is try; I don't want to prove myself a hypocrite this early on.)

When I studied at New College, which I'll elaborate on later, I had planned to write a self-analysis as my senior thesis to meet the school's requirement for graduation. I formulated this plan two years ago, as a sophomore. Obviously, right now I'm in rehab, not at school; fate is fickle, and God laughs at our plans.

I've decided nonetheless that although I've allowed many of my less brilliant ideas to come to fruit and the results were typically disasterous, this self-anaysis concept really does have potential. What would Jesus do? What would any reasonable person do if they woke up one morning in my position?

For right now, I just want to lay out a few disclaimers. First, as I've already explained, this is not intended to be a book of cut-and-dry facts; these are my interpretations of the facts. On the other hand, I'm not trying to tell a fairy tale here; this book is based on the truth.

Secondly, I make no apologies to anyone. I'm not going to make any identifications of real persons outside of my descriptions of their characters. All names are changed, but the people themselves are the same. Anonymity, I believe, is a very important spiritual principle, but the message itself should remain unchanged.

Third, I want to explain that this book intends to be offensive. If this bothers you, which maybe it should, feel free to refer to the first section and do as you wish. Remember, I'm not writing this to stroke your ego, build your self-esteem, or impress virgin ears. I'm trying to save my life.

Finally, as a lawyer's daughter, I have to say that this is my life, and I am writing for the sake of catharsis; I do not condemn nor condone any of the actions described herein. As I see it, if you were born an iconoclast, rebellion is already in your nature, regardless of what I say- just don't hold me responsible when the shit hits the fan.

And now, without further delay...

One More Thing

Almost forgot. Those of you who've done drugs know about this kind of forgetfulness...

Since I'm in rehab right now, I can't cite all the evidence I want to. By evidence, of course, I mean past writings, photographs- anything pertaining to my story as I'm telling it. While I'm here, I have only my pen, my paper, and my memory. If I go back and add shit later, I'll try to indicate it, but at this point, the editing process for an entire book is beyond me.

I intend for this project, if I survive, to last a minimum of a year. I also plan to work on it daily, to the best of my ability. I do not, however, want to create something so voluminous that it is unapproachable. So, naturally, I'm going to have to take this one day (or one page) at a time.

Also, I want to explain a little bit about the fourth and fifth steps. For those unfamiliar with the twelve-step process, they read:

4- We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
5- We admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

These are part of the action required in the process of recovery. Although I do not expect them to make complete sense out of context (I'll elaborate on the remaining steps later), I want the reader to understand their relevance to my goals for this project.

Some of the principles in these steps are self-evident. To avoid redundancy, I will try to explain, to the best of my ability, those that are not.

To begin with, there is no set way of working the twelve steps. It is suggested that they be worked in order; that is not the purpose of this book. It is also suggested that the steps be worked with the guidance of a sponsor- another person in recovery who serves as a mentor of sorts. I did not have a sponsor when I began writing this book. I'm doing things my way, damnit.

Self-exploration tends to evoke deep, often painful emotion. I do not know if I am fully prepared to face the consequences of working these steps on my own. Therefore, I proclaim that the fourth and fifth steps are guidelines to this book, but they are not meant to define it.

To explain a bit more about twelve-step programs, there are also twelve traditions, guidelines to provide for the solidarity of the fellowships. Using Narcotics Anonymous for this example, the tenth tradition states:

Narcotics Anonymous has no opinion on outside issues, hence the NA name ought never be drawn into public controversy.

I do not represent the opinions of any twelve-step program. This account is entirely my own. at has and has not worked for me will not necessarily be the case for anyone else.

To say a little of step four, it basically states that we take a good, hard look at ourselves and are willing to accept what we find. If we have reservations about working this step, those things we keep hidden are bound to haunt us later.

Step five is about getting real. It is often said in the rooms that we are only as sick as our secrets. There are no guidelines as to who the listener to the moral inventory has to be. I am choosing to share mine with whoever desires to read this book.

I have never worked all twelve steps, but I've seen miracles happen in the lives of those who have. I have often heard it said that the twelve steps can work for anyone; anyone can benefit from them.

But again, this is not my fourth and fifth step work. These steps are a tool for me to proceed in this endeavour- nothing more, nothing less.

And I think with that, I'm ready to begin.

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