and probably don't give a shit about. But, I want to let some stuff out, and...it is my blog, so here goes:
- I won a spelling bee when I was 11 years old. I beat out all the "smart kids" because I could spell the word "onomatopoeia". I even knew what it meant. That was the crowning achievment of 5th grade for me.
- I lost my virginity when I was 12 years old. I don't know why I did it. I was just interested. It wasn't a good experience at all. He was older than me and I thought I was in love with him. All these years later, I still have a crush on the memory, despite the situation not being ideal.
- I fell in love at 14 years old and haven't found that kind of love in my life since...until I met the hotband in 1999.
- I was raped outside of a nightclub that I worked at when I was 19 years old. Two men held me down and the other sodomized me with a beer bottle. He cut me from the anus to the vaginal opening. I needed 27 stitches to close the wound. I went back to work the next night. Never felt like a victim about it. Still don't.
- I had my first baby at 20 years old with a guy that I was casually dating. He didn't want me to keep the baby. I got rid of HIM instead. That baby is now 23 years old, the light of my life and she's on her second child. I never regretted my decision.
- My father left us when I was seven years old. I practically packed his bags for him. I hated him. I was thrilled when he left because I knew that my family would be better off without him. I spent the rest of my life looking for a "daddy" figure in every man that walked in or out of my life.
- I married my first husband because he accepted the fact that I was a single mom. And, he was really good looking. There really wasn't much more to it.
- I was arrested four times in my life. Two were for assault and battery. One was for welfare fraud. The last time was over a clerical error. I am a convicted felon and I have no problem with letting people know that.
- My children know that I stabbed my ex-boyfriend in self-defense. I don't believe in hiding things from them. They know their mother is a little fucked in the head. I'm okay with that too.
- I dislike my mother. I love her, because she is my mother, but if we weren't related, I wouldn't choose to be her friend.
- People think I am a real bitch. I don't even have to say a word. It's just something that my face conveys. I do very little to change anyones perception of me. However, when you get to know me, I am actually very warm and loving. I don't give that side of me to a lot of people.
- I don't think I want to be a nurse anymore. I believe the passion has disappeared from my life when it comes to taking care of others.
- I watched a woman fall from 15 stories when I was 9 years old. She was raped and thrown off the roof of the building I lived in back in Queens, NY. The image of her head hitting the ground and the sound it made has stayed with me all these years. If I think about it long enough, I will cry. I never found out her name. I wish I knew her name.
- A babysitter of mine was murdered by an infamous serial killer back in the 1970's. It stole a big chunk of my innocence and made me feel afraid for a long time.
- I am hysterically afraid of roaches. I know they can't do anything to me, but they absolutely terrify me to the point where I cry. I do have a reason for this. I think I will make a post about it at another time.
- I have been in love with more than one person at one time. Sometimes up to three people at one time. No one person has ever fulfilled me completely. I feel empty inside about this most of the time.
- I cry in the shower sometimes for no reason.
- I am a cancer survivor. 8 years in remission.
- I have a secret that I will never share with anyone, even my husband.
- I had a two year relationship with a woman. It was probably the most spiritual thing I ever engaged in. She really understood me. I was never able to commit to her because I enjoyed the company of men too much. I hurt her terribly. I chalk it up to confusion...and college.
- I know certain family members have "discovered" my blog and think that I do not know they are reading it. I prefer to act like I am oblivious to that so it doesn't interfere with my ability to write here openly and honestly. Just want them to know that I am aware...and really don't give a shit.
- Most of the time, even when I am in a crowded room, I feel extremely alone.
- I was a self-mutilator for a long time. I never regretted doing it. I actually enjoyed the pain.
- I have a very deep love and admiration for my husband. I don't think he realizes how much I admire him. Sometimes, I wish I could be more like him. It makes me jealous sometimes.
- I am not a very good listener. I am usually preoccupied with my own thoughts. I sometimes feign great interest in what someone is saying, while in my mind, I am not listening to them at all.
- I give great hugs.
- I yearn to break free sometimes. Just pack my bags and run off somewhere to be alone. I love my husband, my children and my grandchild...but sometimes, I just want to go explore places on my own. The perfect gift for me would be a weekend away, alone. I am still waiting for someone to be selfless enough to give that to me.
- I have no respect for authority but try desperately to instill the opposite in my children.
- The best sex I ever had in my life was with the person who battered me and beat me within an inch of my life. It was intense, frightening and overwhelming. I sometimes think there is something desperately wrong with me for feeling that way.
- I have spent 40 years of my life trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I still have no clue...and time is running out.
- I love being bipolar. I feel it makes me more interesting. I don't like taking the pills that I take to make the symptoms subside. I feel they deaden the real me.
- I don't think I would know "normal" if I tripped over it.
- On more than one occassion, my blog has saved my life.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Why the HOLY HELL am I paying this guy?
My therapist said I was an angry person.
Really? No shit there.
I often wonder why I go to therapy. I mean, right now, it's against my will. It's part of my drug program requirement. Have to go to group drug counseling 5 days a week. Have to go to individual therapy. Have to go to at least one NA meeting a week. So, being as dutifully diligent as I am, I'm going.
However, I really don't see the need to have a therapist tell me something that I have known for the past 42 years of my life.
I AM an angry person by nature. I have a lot to be angry about. Sure, I have a lot of great things in my life too. I am not discounting any of that. But, I have had a hair-trigger since...well, as long as I can remember. He said that it started out with my father leaving my mother when I was just a few years old. I really don't think that's it. Actually, I was kind of happy when he left. He was an emotionally abusive dick. He used to get off on making my mother cry. He punched holes in walls all the time when he was pissed off. When he announced that he was leaving (finally) I remember feeling thrilled. At seven years old, I knew this would be the start of a new life. No more walking on eggshells around this douchebag that I called a father. And, I do mean "father" in the loosest term possible. He wasn't a father to my brother and I. Every birthday card I have from him is signed in my mothers handwriting. She was always compensating for him. And, while I knew this, I never let on to my mother. It made her feel good thinking she was doing something right by us.
As years went by, I was able to figure out for myself what a supreme reigning asshole he was. Eventually, my mother started agreeing with that theory and held nothing back. She told me every wonderful detail about the way he treated her. Too much for a nine year old to process, but I got the gist of it.
I thought I had buried all of that when we buried him. I was 19 when he died. I don't even remember crying. I basically just mourned the loss the way I had since I was little. He was never around anyway, so I didn't see much difference after he died.
But now, I have this therapist telling me that my "unprocessed" feelings about my father is what makes me so mad all the time. Hm. Could it be that I am just angry because of circumstances that piss me off? Can't a person be legitmately angry without it having stem from an unreconciled past?
He told me that I don't "get it". And he's right. I don't. When I feel enraged about something (see post below), I feel the anger is legtimate and sometimes, even appropriate. He said the fact that I wanted to get on a plane to Utah and slaughter the woman who put our house into foreclosure is not a healthy response.
Well, duh. It's not like I was going to do it. I just FELT that way at the moment. Surely I have some right to be angry about it.
So, I am doing my time in therapy like a good little angry addict. But, sometimes I really wonder what he intends on teaching me that I haven't already learned.
This should be enlightening, if nothing else.
Really? No shit there.
I often wonder why I go to therapy. I mean, right now, it's against my will. It's part of my drug program requirement. Have to go to group drug counseling 5 days a week. Have to go to individual therapy. Have to go to at least one NA meeting a week. So, being as dutifully diligent as I am, I'm going.
However, I really don't see the need to have a therapist tell me something that I have known for the past 42 years of my life.
I AM an angry person by nature. I have a lot to be angry about. Sure, I have a lot of great things in my life too. I am not discounting any of that. But, I have had a hair-trigger since...well, as long as I can remember. He said that it started out with my father leaving my mother when I was just a few years old. I really don't think that's it. Actually, I was kind of happy when he left. He was an emotionally abusive dick. He used to get off on making my mother cry. He punched holes in walls all the time when he was pissed off. When he announced that he was leaving (finally) I remember feeling thrilled. At seven years old, I knew this would be the start of a new life. No more walking on eggshells around this douchebag that I called a father. And, I do mean "father" in the loosest term possible. He wasn't a father to my brother and I. Every birthday card I have from him is signed in my mothers handwriting. She was always compensating for him. And, while I knew this, I never let on to my mother. It made her feel good thinking she was doing something right by us.
As years went by, I was able to figure out for myself what a supreme reigning asshole he was. Eventually, my mother started agreeing with that theory and held nothing back. She told me every wonderful detail about the way he treated her. Too much for a nine year old to process, but I got the gist of it.
I thought I had buried all of that when we buried him. I was 19 when he died. I don't even remember crying. I basically just mourned the loss the way I had since I was little. He was never around anyway, so I didn't see much difference after he died.
But now, I have this therapist telling me that my "unprocessed" feelings about my father is what makes me so mad all the time. Hm. Could it be that I am just angry because of circumstances that piss me off? Can't a person be legitmately angry without it having stem from an unreconciled past?
He told me that I don't "get it". And he's right. I don't. When I feel enraged about something (see post below), I feel the anger is legtimate and sometimes, even appropriate. He said the fact that I wanted to get on a plane to Utah and slaughter the woman who put our house into foreclosure is not a healthy response.
Well, duh. It's not like I was going to do it. I just FELT that way at the moment. Surely I have some right to be angry about it.
So, I am doing my time in therapy like a good little angry addict. But, sometimes I really wonder what he intends on teaching me that I haven't already learned.
This should be enlightening, if nothing else.
Friday, September 18, 2009
What the fuck is WRONG with people???
We've been living in the same house for nearly 3 years. We have a beautiful 3 bedroom, 3 bath house. A large great room and an equally large dining room with a spacious kitchen. It's on a large piece of corner property in very close proximity to my sons school.
I love my home. Loved it from the moment I saw it.
How we came to live here was really incredible. We were living in a substantially smaller house with a landlord who was an absolute monster. Hotband and I were kicking around the idea of moving out for awhile, but never had the funds to do so. One day, my husband was speaking to a friend of his who had recently moved from my hometown to Utah. He was griping that his house in our town was still vacant and how hard it was for him to manage two mortgages. Kidding around, my husband suggested that we move into his old house and pay the rent there...equivalent to what his mortgage payment was.
Imagine our surprise when he LOVED this idea! So, we moved into his home. Everyone is now happy. We have this enormous house in a great neighborhood. We are actually friends with our landlord! The mortgage is reasonable and we drew up papers to rent the house with the intent to eventually buy it from them.
Ideal situation. Worked beautifully...until today.
I get a knock on my front door. A young guy, maybe in his twenties, hands me some paperwork and informs me that my house, my beautiful home...is being foreclosed upon.
What? I mean...WHAT???
Apparently, my husbands "friend" went through a nasty divorce with his wife. Why? Because "friend" is a crack addict and she threw him out. Since the house is in HIS name, Mrs. Crack Addict happily took our rent checks and never mailed them into the mortgage company to further fuck with Mr. Crack Addict. Now, his credit is shot...which is what she wanted, and in the interim, we have gotten fucked as well. All our payments for the past six months have gone to whatever the fuck she used them for. She never told us that HE was now the owner of the home, so of course, we dutifully continued making our payment to her as we have every month for nearly three years.
Everyone has advised us NOT to make any more payments to Mrs. Crack Addict. That's obvious. Surely I am not going to support her with OUR money. So, I am setting up an escrow account with an attorney come Monday to make our rent payments to. You know, so we are showing good faith.
Who we are showing this "good faith" to, however, is unbeknownst to me.
I have twenty days to let the bank know what our intentions are with regard to the house. Do we intend to buy it or are we moving?
Well, shit. If I had known that I was going to have to buy this house outright from the bank, I would have stopped paying that rent a long time ago and parlayed it into our own mortgage. We aren't financially in a position to put a large downpayment on the house.
"Don't worry," people have said. "It takes anywhere from six months to a year for a foreclosure to go through. You can live there rent free in the meantime."
Right. Sound advice coming from a bunch of morons. I am so sick of listening to everyone try to find a silver lining in this mess.
We were not prepared for this. Caught us completely off guard. Blind sided us. I wrote the following message to Mr. Crack Addict on Facebook:
I know it isn't going to mean shit to him, but it made me feel better writing it. Moreover, I didn't use the words "douchebag", "asshat", "cocksucker" or "crackhead ball sucking dickwad".
I am proud of that.
Anyway, Mr. Crack Addict got my message on Facebook and called the hotband.
"Dude, I am SO sorry. I had nothing to do with this. This was all Mrs. Crack Addict. I trusted her to make the mortgage payments even though the house was in my name. I'll do whatever I can to make sure you guys get to stay in the house."
Really, fuckhead? Like what? Get us a mortgage? Find us a nice fat downpayment hiding under a rock? Really. What the hell do you think you are going to do for us at this point in time.
My husband convinced him to write us a "recommendation" letter for the bank, stating that we have been good tenants and have always paid our rent on time for the past three years. Yes, thank you for that. That and a piece of toilet paper will wipe my fat ass.
Douchebag.
I am so glad there are NO PILLS in this house right now...because MAN, would I love to do some and just go away for awhile. This is the time I miss doing drugs the most...when shit like this comes up. Instead, I have to put myself into "pitbull" mode and just start barking up every tree and see what comes down. I am really trying NOT to freak out. My mother is a real estate agent and knows the ins and outs of a short sale on foreclosure homes. My father is a mortgage banker and is going to do what he can to get us in a more eligable ready position to take on a mortgage. It's going to be a bitch because I am not working. We can't count any income from me at all. However, I have good credit. My husband on the other hand makes an excellent salary...but his credit sucks ass. And it's not as if the banks are handing out loans with this shitty economy. Short of me sucking some banker dick, I don't see how we are going to pull this off.
I am hoping Dad can pull a miracle out of his hat.
I am hitting an NA meeting first thing in the morning. 7am...just to be able to get all this off my chest. I gotta release some of this steam I have building up.
I hope I am never in Utah. I would feel compelled to fuck up some Crack Addict ass.
I love my home. Loved it from the moment I saw it.
How we came to live here was really incredible. We were living in a substantially smaller house with a landlord who was an absolute monster. Hotband and I were kicking around the idea of moving out for awhile, but never had the funds to do so. One day, my husband was speaking to a friend of his who had recently moved from my hometown to Utah. He was griping that his house in our town was still vacant and how hard it was for him to manage two mortgages. Kidding around, my husband suggested that we move into his old house and pay the rent there...equivalent to what his mortgage payment was.
Imagine our surprise when he LOVED this idea! So, we moved into his home. Everyone is now happy. We have this enormous house in a great neighborhood. We are actually friends with our landlord! The mortgage is reasonable and we drew up papers to rent the house with the intent to eventually buy it from them.
Ideal situation. Worked beautifully...until today.
I get a knock on my front door. A young guy, maybe in his twenties, hands me some paperwork and informs me that my house, my beautiful home...is being foreclosed upon.
What? I mean...WHAT???
Apparently, my husbands "friend" went through a nasty divorce with his wife. Why? Because "friend" is a crack addict and she threw him out. Since the house is in HIS name, Mrs. Crack Addict happily took our rent checks and never mailed them into the mortgage company to further fuck with Mr. Crack Addict. Now, his credit is shot...which is what she wanted, and in the interim, we have gotten fucked as well. All our payments for the past six months have gone to whatever the fuck she used them for. She never told us that HE was now the owner of the home, so of course, we dutifully continued making our payment to her as we have every month for nearly three years.
Everyone has advised us NOT to make any more payments to Mrs. Crack Addict. That's obvious. Surely I am not going to support her with OUR money. So, I am setting up an escrow account with an attorney come Monday to make our rent payments to. You know, so we are showing good faith.
Who we are showing this "good faith" to, however, is unbeknownst to me.
I have twenty days to let the bank know what our intentions are with regard to the house. Do we intend to buy it or are we moving?
Well, shit. If I had known that I was going to have to buy this house outright from the bank, I would have stopped paying that rent a long time ago and parlayed it into our own mortgage. We aren't financially in a position to put a large downpayment on the house.
"Don't worry," people have said. "It takes anywhere from six months to a year for a foreclosure to go through. You can live there rent free in the meantime."
Right. Sound advice coming from a bunch of morons. I am so sick of listening to everyone try to find a silver lining in this mess.
We were not prepared for this. Caught us completely off guard. Blind sided us. I wrote the following message to Mr. Crack Addict on Facebook:
You’re a real piece of work, (Insert Crack Addicts Name Here).
When exactly were you going to let us know that you were letting the house fall into foreclosure? We are going to be evicted out of here by the bank. We pay our rent religiously every month. Where has it been going, because it sure as hell hasn't made it to the bank.
We have CHILDREN, (Insert name here). A family to take care of. How could you be so insensitive to another family who has only supported you and your ex wife in friendship and kindness? Tell me, how do you sleep at night???
CP.
I know it isn't going to mean shit to him, but it made me feel better writing it. Moreover, I didn't use the words "douchebag", "asshat", "cocksucker" or "crackhead ball sucking dickwad".
I am proud of that.
Anyway, Mr. Crack Addict got my message on Facebook and called the hotband.
"Dude, I am SO sorry. I had nothing to do with this. This was all Mrs. Crack Addict. I trusted her to make the mortgage payments even though the house was in my name. I'll do whatever I can to make sure you guys get to stay in the house."
Really, fuckhead? Like what? Get us a mortgage? Find us a nice fat downpayment hiding under a rock? Really. What the hell do you think you are going to do for us at this point in time.
My husband convinced him to write us a "recommendation" letter for the bank, stating that we have been good tenants and have always paid our rent on time for the past three years. Yes, thank you for that. That and a piece of toilet paper will wipe my fat ass.
Douchebag.
I am so glad there are NO PILLS in this house right now...because MAN, would I love to do some and just go away for awhile. This is the time I miss doing drugs the most...when shit like this comes up. Instead, I have to put myself into "pitbull" mode and just start barking up every tree and see what comes down. I am really trying NOT to freak out. My mother is a real estate agent and knows the ins and outs of a short sale on foreclosure homes. My father is a mortgage banker and is going to do what he can to get us in a more eligable ready position to take on a mortgage. It's going to be a bitch because I am not working. We can't count any income from me at all. However, I have good credit. My husband on the other hand makes an excellent salary...but his credit sucks ass. And it's not as if the banks are handing out loans with this shitty economy. Short of me sucking some banker dick, I don't see how we are going to pull this off.
I am hoping Dad can pull a miracle out of his hat.
I am hitting an NA meeting first thing in the morning. 7am...just to be able to get all this off my chest. I gotta release some of this steam I have building up.
I hope I am never in Utah. I would feel compelled to fuck up some Crack Addict ass.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Time to move on...
Well, it finally arrived.
My daughter, her husband and my grandaughter moved into their own place. Oddly enough, I am not nearly as relieved as I thought I would be. Matter of fact, I wish I could bring them back here. The house is so fucking quiet without them. Even when they annoyed me (which was quite often) it was still nicer to have them here.
Last night was the first night that I spent alone in my own house in a LONG time. My husband is in California working. My son spent the night at his fathers. My daughter was spending her second night in her new apartment with her own little family.
And the house was so empty.
It concerns me being alone. Usually when I am alone, I get into trouble. That's when my addiction really gets the best of me. But, I babied myself last night. Curled up on the couch with some girl scout cookies and watched multiple episodes of "Nurse Jackie". (Which, if you aren't watching it on Showtime, you are really missing a phenomenal show. It's about a drug addicted nurse...so I can relate!)
There's another part of me that enjoys being alone. I left my parents home at 17 years old and never looked back. I've been on my own for a long time. Even in my previous marriages, I felt like I was on my own. I have always been independant so feeling a bit off kilter by being alone threw me a little. I guess I am going to have to get used to it. Hubby will be in California for the next year so I am going to have to suck it up and deal.
In the meantime, I am literally aching for my daughter and grandaughter. I miss the baby crying in the middle of the night. Sure, it woke me up, but there was also a sense of calm knowing she was under my roof. It was my job to protect them. Now they're on their own...and I worry about them. My son in law and my daughter have been here for the past two and a half years. Then, the baby came along. She has been here for the full 11 months of her life. My daughter told me that when she brought the baby to the new house, she started crying because she didn't know where she was. That broke my heart.
So, this is a new chapter in my life. The moving on of my children. I don't know if I am ready for it, but I am usually up for any challenge. Guess I am just going to have to face this with a modicum of grace.
There is a secret part of me that hopes things don't work out in their new place so they come back "home" to me. But, a bigger part of me wants them to succeed. There is another baby on the way in January, so they have to make this work.
And I, the ever doting mother, will make sure I am there for them no matter what.
Sober and present, able to catch them if they fall.
My daughter, her husband and my grandaughter moved into their own place. Oddly enough, I am not nearly as relieved as I thought I would be. Matter of fact, I wish I could bring them back here. The house is so fucking quiet without them. Even when they annoyed me (which was quite often) it was still nicer to have them here.
Last night was the first night that I spent alone in my own house in a LONG time. My husband is in California working. My son spent the night at his fathers. My daughter was spending her second night in her new apartment with her own little family.
And the house was so empty.
It concerns me being alone. Usually when I am alone, I get into trouble. That's when my addiction really gets the best of me. But, I babied myself last night. Curled up on the couch with some girl scout cookies and watched multiple episodes of "Nurse Jackie". (Which, if you aren't watching it on Showtime, you are really missing a phenomenal show. It's about a drug addicted nurse...so I can relate!)
There's another part of me that enjoys being alone. I left my parents home at 17 years old and never looked back. I've been on my own for a long time. Even in my previous marriages, I felt like I was on my own. I have always been independant so feeling a bit off kilter by being alone threw me a little. I guess I am going to have to get used to it. Hubby will be in California for the next year so I am going to have to suck it up and deal.
In the meantime, I am literally aching for my daughter and grandaughter. I miss the baby crying in the middle of the night. Sure, it woke me up, but there was also a sense of calm knowing she was under my roof. It was my job to protect them. Now they're on their own...and I worry about them. My son in law and my daughter have been here for the past two and a half years. Then, the baby came along. She has been here for the full 11 months of her life. My daughter told me that when she brought the baby to the new house, she started crying because she didn't know where she was. That broke my heart.
So, this is a new chapter in my life. The moving on of my children. I don't know if I am ready for it, but I am usually up for any challenge. Guess I am just going to have to face this with a modicum of grace.
There is a secret part of me that hopes things don't work out in their new place so they come back "home" to me. But, a bigger part of me wants them to succeed. There is another baby on the way in January, so they have to make this work.
And I, the ever doting mother, will make sure I am there for them no matter what.
Sober and present, able to catch them if they fall.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Tonight...
I am struggling tonight.
Tonight, I am arm wrestling with my addiction. My cravings for my drug of choice have gotten the best of me and I feel like I can fall off my proverbial wagon tonight. There are no drugs around me, but they are only a phonecall away if my desire takes over. That scares me.
I have learned that much in rehab. The drugs? They're everywhere. People in my rehab are using, actively. I have so much on the line if I use again...my family, my career and of course, my life. I don't think I will forgive myself easily if it should happen again. No dusting myself off. No turning it around.
God, it would be so easy tonight.
No one would know. Only me...and I've cheated myself out of sobriety before. I can do it again. I would only have to face myself in the morning, right? No one else. It could be my own little secret. I mean, it's okay to have secrets, right?
No Narcotics Anonymous meetings at 1am. I am safe from having to answer to anyone for now. Husbands not home. Kids are in bed. Everything is quiet. Perfect time to use. It would just be me...and my pills.
I am going to do what I can to stave off these cravings. It's supposed to get easier, but it hasn't. Since my relapse a few weeks ago, it's been hard to think of anything else. It felt really good to surrender after months of sobriety. I know it should have made me feel horrible, and perhaps, it did on some level. For right now, all I can think about is the peaceful high.
So I'm here, writing it down, making myself accountable. I will probably read this post several times during the course of the night and remind myself of all the reasons that I shouldn't use. My husband. My children. My grandaughter. My grandchild who is on the way. My faltered career. My parents.
Most of all...myself.
It's hard to be in a room full of addicts, especially those who are still actively using. I struggle with that at my rehab meetings. Nine hours a week, I am with these people, listening to them and sometimes, learning from them. But I am learning the bad things...like where to score and how to beat the drug tests. Things that I shouldn't know. I try to turn a deaf ear to it; make believe that it doesn't exist, yet I find myself drawn to the conversations, you know, just in case I change my mind about this whole sobriety thing.
Do I really want this as badly as I thought I did? I don't know.
It's going to take me some time to work that out in my own head. It's so much easier to fail. You have to be really strong to succeed in recovery. Really strong. And I just don't know if I have it in me.
You can't talk about failure in NA. They don't want to hear it. There is no room for error with these people. Some of them are years into their sobriety and have long since forgotten the battle they waged early on in their addiction. It's lost on them now. All they want to hear about is your success. I don't talk about my cravings in NA. And, in rehab? I can't talk about it there either. Everything I say/do gets reported to the nursing board. While I'm there, I have to be perfect. I have to be the shining example of an addict in full out recovery.
I play the part very well.
I'm three weeks into my 12 week program with mandated intensive outpatient therapy. Three lousy weeks. My husband says, "you're a quarter of the way done!" Yahoo. It's been the hardest time of my life. He doesn't get it. He thinks this is easy for me because I am not using and I am minding my p's and q's. I hesitate to tell him how hard this is for me because I don't want him to think I am going to fail...again.
This is a hard, long road to walk alone.
When I had cancer, I was able to talk freely about it. It was a disease that people understood. It was tangible to them. They could understand the gravity of the situation. They knew I was up against some insurmountable odds. But, they also knew that treatment could help. They got online. They read about my disease. They gave me tips, told me about alternative therapies, held my hair for me when I was vomiting from my chemotherapy. People were there.
No one supports the drug addict although it is a disease. The addict is shunned.
So, I remain alone in this battle. I can't talk to my husband about it. I can't talk to my kids. They think Mommy is doing so well. My son doesn't know about my disease, but he was acutely aware that something kept mom in bed for the past year. My daughter does know and is extremely proud of my accomplishments thus far. She doesn't know about my little relapse. Four pills. One time. Should I call it a relapse? Probably not. It was a transgression. A slip up. A full blown relapse would have meant what it used to mean. 8 pills in one swallow followed up by 4 or more as the day progressed. And it would be a few days, not one day.
I already worked this out in my head. It was a slip up. I faltered, but I didn't fall.
I find that I am making excuses for myself...reasons to use again. Headaches. Backaches. Knee pain. Whatever it takes. But it's all phantom pain. It doesn't exist. I can think myself into pain situations if I allow it.
I haven't. But I think I might.
One pill right now would be one too many. Somehow, I have to hold my hands up and pray for the strength to stay away from it all. I haven't been able to put my trust in God. I've prayed, but my prayers go unanswered. These drugs make everything so much less important than they should be.
My name is CP. I am an addict. But I am learning not to be. Slowly.
Tonight, I am arm wrestling with my addiction. My cravings for my drug of choice have gotten the best of me and I feel like I can fall off my proverbial wagon tonight. There are no drugs around me, but they are only a phonecall away if my desire takes over. That scares me.
I have learned that much in rehab. The drugs? They're everywhere. People in my rehab are using, actively. I have so much on the line if I use again...my family, my career and of course, my life. I don't think I will forgive myself easily if it should happen again. No dusting myself off. No turning it around.
God, it would be so easy tonight.
No one would know. Only me...and I've cheated myself out of sobriety before. I can do it again. I would only have to face myself in the morning, right? No one else. It could be my own little secret. I mean, it's okay to have secrets, right?
No Narcotics Anonymous meetings at 1am. I am safe from having to answer to anyone for now. Husbands not home. Kids are in bed. Everything is quiet. Perfect time to use. It would just be me...and my pills.
I am going to do what I can to stave off these cravings. It's supposed to get easier, but it hasn't. Since my relapse a few weeks ago, it's been hard to think of anything else. It felt really good to surrender after months of sobriety. I know it should have made me feel horrible, and perhaps, it did on some level. For right now, all I can think about is the peaceful high.
So I'm here, writing it down, making myself accountable. I will probably read this post several times during the course of the night and remind myself of all the reasons that I shouldn't use. My husband. My children. My grandaughter. My grandchild who is on the way. My faltered career. My parents.
Most of all...myself.
It's hard to be in a room full of addicts, especially those who are still actively using. I struggle with that at my rehab meetings. Nine hours a week, I am with these people, listening to them and sometimes, learning from them. But I am learning the bad things...like where to score and how to beat the drug tests. Things that I shouldn't know. I try to turn a deaf ear to it; make believe that it doesn't exist, yet I find myself drawn to the conversations, you know, just in case I change my mind about this whole sobriety thing.
Do I really want this as badly as I thought I did? I don't know.
It's going to take me some time to work that out in my own head. It's so much easier to fail. You have to be really strong to succeed in recovery. Really strong. And I just don't know if I have it in me.
You can't talk about failure in NA. They don't want to hear it. There is no room for error with these people. Some of them are years into their sobriety and have long since forgotten the battle they waged early on in their addiction. It's lost on them now. All they want to hear about is your success. I don't talk about my cravings in NA. And, in rehab? I can't talk about it there either. Everything I say/do gets reported to the nursing board. While I'm there, I have to be perfect. I have to be the shining example of an addict in full out recovery.
I play the part very well.
I'm three weeks into my 12 week program with mandated intensive outpatient therapy. Three lousy weeks. My husband says, "you're a quarter of the way done!" Yahoo. It's been the hardest time of my life. He doesn't get it. He thinks this is easy for me because I am not using and I am minding my p's and q's. I hesitate to tell him how hard this is for me because I don't want him to think I am going to fail...again.
This is a hard, long road to walk alone.
When I had cancer, I was able to talk freely about it. It was a disease that people understood. It was tangible to them. They could understand the gravity of the situation. They knew I was up against some insurmountable odds. But, they also knew that treatment could help. They got online. They read about my disease. They gave me tips, told me about alternative therapies, held my hair for me when I was vomiting from my chemotherapy. People were there.
No one supports the drug addict although it is a disease. The addict is shunned.
So, I remain alone in this battle. I can't talk to my husband about it. I can't talk to my kids. They think Mommy is doing so well. My son doesn't know about my disease, but he was acutely aware that something kept mom in bed for the past year. My daughter does know and is extremely proud of my accomplishments thus far. She doesn't know about my little relapse. Four pills. One time. Should I call it a relapse? Probably not. It was a transgression. A slip up. A full blown relapse would have meant what it used to mean. 8 pills in one swallow followed up by 4 or more as the day progressed. And it would be a few days, not one day.
I already worked this out in my head. It was a slip up. I faltered, but I didn't fall.
I find that I am making excuses for myself...reasons to use again. Headaches. Backaches. Knee pain. Whatever it takes. But it's all phantom pain. It doesn't exist. I can think myself into pain situations if I allow it.
I haven't. But I think I might.
One pill right now would be one too many. Somehow, I have to hold my hands up and pray for the strength to stay away from it all. I haven't been able to put my trust in God. I've prayed, but my prayers go unanswered. These drugs make everything so much less important than they should be.
My name is CP. I am an addict. But I am learning not to be. Slowly.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Where were you...
on September 11th, 2001?
Perhaps you were home, getting ready for work. Maybe taking the kids to school? Or, like me, were you already at work?
I think there are very few people in the United States that cannot remember where they were on that fateful day. Some of you were actually in New York City when the atrocity took place. Others, like myself, call New York City home despite living 1200 miles away. I grew up in New York City, born and raised in Queens and Manhattan. I lived on 14th street and Riverside Drive, right across the street from the park. It was an amazing place to live, rich with culture and excitement.
When I was just 8 years old, my biological father, Stephen, took me to the World Trade Center, shortly after they were erected. He had an office there. I helped him paint the walls of his office at the stock brokerage firm where he worked. And while I made more of a mess than I did help, it was a memory that was locked in time and preserved within the walls of the Trade Center. It was always a part of me, long after my father was killed in a car accident. It was a place I could return to that made me remember that innocent time of my childhood.
That place is gone forever.
I remember getting up and having the hotband drive me to work that morning. I worked in Downtown Tampa at the time. I was in the middle of a surgery when my husband called the office where I worked. He said it was urgent. My heart pounded rapidly, thinking there was something wrong with the kids.
"Babe," he said. "I'm at Best Buy. Something terrible has happened."
"What? What happened? Are the kids okay?"
"The kids are fine. The Twin Towers are under attack. Airplanes. They used airplanes to crash into the building. The north tower, I think."
"Oh my God, honey," he said. "Another plane went into the second building. Babe, we are being attacked. Someone is attacking New York!"
I held my breath. My parents. My brother. My aunts and uncles. They all live in close proximity to the city. My uncle was on 2nd avenue with a view of the Towers from his window. Are they safe? My mind was racing.
"The tower, babe," he continued. "It collapsed! It's laying in a heap on the ground. Baby, people are throwing themselves out of windows from the 74th floor!"
Time stood still. How could that building collapse? I didn't understand. Even if a plane crashed into it, how could that mighty structure fall to the ground? I was confused, shaken. People choosing to fall to their death rather than succumbing to the blazing fires. I was sickened.
"Come back, baby," I pleaded. "Come back to my office. Please!"
I ran into the surgical room and told the Doctor what was going on. He instructed us to turn on the television that was in the room. We turned it on just in time to see the second tower collapsing. I turned pale, ran into the bathroom and threw my guts up. This is when we started hearing about the other planes. Flight 93 that crashed into a field somewhere up North...the other plane that rammed into the Pentagon. The details were sketchy at the time, but one thing was for sure.
This was no coincidence. We were at war. We were under attack.
For the next 72 hours, I was glued to the telvision set. I couldn't reach my family in New York. Phone lines were down or busy due to a heavy congestion of calls. I cried so much in those 72 hours. I remember the husband and I fell asleep in front of the television, waking up only moments later to be met with those horrific photos and live film of the airplanes hitting the towers. No one knew what the death toll was at that point, but it was believed to be in the thousands. The buildings were too volatile to start a rescue mission. At this point, it would be a recovery mission. Every time another person was found, it made CNN. We would rejoice, another life spared. I still couldn't reach my family. They were still unaccounted for.
The devastation reached my home in Florida and was brought right to my front door. It was now inside my home and there was nothing I could do about it. Helpless. That was the feeling that loomed in my heart and mind. I was helpless to do anything about this. We waited for our President to decide what would be done in retaliation, to find out who was responsible for this heinous crime. We looked to Mayor Giuliani to guide us through this tragic event. What do we do? Where do we begin?
It took a years time, perhaps longer for the wreckage to be cleared. My husband and I went to Ground Zero and paid our respects to those who were lost on that fateful day. I cried, heavily and mourned the loss of all the lost souls in the buildings, on the planes and for all the families who had been destroyed. I loved the fact that everywhere you looked, there were American flags being raised. People had them on the cars, on the houses, in the windows of their stores. It said "We will never forget" and it made my heart swell with pride. We were rebounding in the face of tragedy. We were coming together as one. One community, no more racial lines or distinctions. We were all Americans going through this together.
It is eight years later.
The flags are gone. 9/11 is just another day for most people now. Sure, it's sad in retrospect, but what can we do? Life has to go on. We have work, school and the rigors of daily life to distract us. Sure, we think about the day and recall it, perhaps even reflect upon it. Some don't remember it at all. Just another day.
It begs the question, are we alright now? Have we healed? Are we safer now, or simply biding our time until the next attack? Are we still holding our breath with wonder or has time resolved it for us?
In my heart, in my head, there will never be enough healing. The people responsible for this transgression have yet to be caught. Instead, we have taken out our aggression and frustration on another country. We are engaged in a pointless and senseless war, bringing more frustration to the American people and more devastation to a country that didn't ask for our help. We needed to lash out at someone and Iraq was just as good a place as any. We felt good about it at first. Yes, retribution for the crimes committed upon us. But now, do we still feel so good about it? Why are we still there? Saddam Hussein is dead and our children are still overseas, fighting a battle that was won a long time ago.
We are still losing children in the name of September 11th, 2001.
This is why the memory cannot fade. We are not finished yet. It won't be over until our men and women come home. The point has been made. We will not tolerate terrorism in any form ever again. This is the last time these acts will be perpetrated upon us. There will be no more retaliation or retribution. We are Americans and we are tired of the battle. Weary, in fact.
In essence, we are over it.
Still, I imagine that there isn't a soul alive who cannot remember where they were and what they were doing on that fateful Tuesday morning. I recall it as clearly as I recall the birth of my two children. I cannot forget. I won't forget. We can't forget. Not ever.
I ask each of you to take the time to reflect upon that day and know that those people did not die in vain. The flags have gone away. The memories must survive. They were heros, all of them...the survivors as well as the victims.
They don't deserve to be forgotten. Ever.
Perhaps you were home, getting ready for work. Maybe taking the kids to school? Or, like me, were you already at work?
I think there are very few people in the United States that cannot remember where they were on that fateful day. Some of you were actually in New York City when the atrocity took place. Others, like myself, call New York City home despite living 1200 miles away. I grew up in New York City, born and raised in Queens and Manhattan. I lived on 14th street and Riverside Drive, right across the street from the park. It was an amazing place to live, rich with culture and excitement.
When I was just 8 years old, my biological father, Stephen, took me to the World Trade Center, shortly after they were erected. He had an office there. I helped him paint the walls of his office at the stock brokerage firm where he worked. And while I made more of a mess than I did help, it was a memory that was locked in time and preserved within the walls of the Trade Center. It was always a part of me, long after my father was killed in a car accident. It was a place I could return to that made me remember that innocent time of my childhood.
That place is gone forever.
I remember getting up and having the hotband drive me to work that morning. I worked in Downtown Tampa at the time. I was in the middle of a surgery when my husband called the office where I worked. He said it was urgent. My heart pounded rapidly, thinking there was something wrong with the kids.
"Babe," he said. "I'm at Best Buy. Something terrible has happened."
"What? What happened? Are the kids okay?"
"The kids are fine. The Twin Towers are under attack. Airplanes. They used airplanes to crash into the building. The north tower, I think."
"Oh my God, honey," he said. "Another plane went into the second building. Babe, we are being attacked. Someone is attacking New York!"
I held my breath. My parents. My brother. My aunts and uncles. They all live in close proximity to the city. My uncle was on 2nd avenue with a view of the Towers from his window. Are they safe? My mind was racing.
"The tower, babe," he continued. "It collapsed! It's laying in a heap on the ground. Baby, people are throwing themselves out of windows from the 74th floor!"
Time stood still. How could that building collapse? I didn't understand. Even if a plane crashed into it, how could that mighty structure fall to the ground? I was confused, shaken. People choosing to fall to their death rather than succumbing to the blazing fires. I was sickened.
"Come back, baby," I pleaded. "Come back to my office. Please!"
I ran into the surgical room and told the Doctor what was going on. He instructed us to turn on the television that was in the room. We turned it on just in time to see the second tower collapsing. I turned pale, ran into the bathroom and threw my guts up. This is when we started hearing about the other planes. Flight 93 that crashed into a field somewhere up North...the other plane that rammed into the Pentagon. The details were sketchy at the time, but one thing was for sure.
This was no coincidence. We were at war. We were under attack.
For the next 72 hours, I was glued to the telvision set. I couldn't reach my family in New York. Phone lines were down or busy due to a heavy congestion of calls. I cried so much in those 72 hours. I remember the husband and I fell asleep in front of the television, waking up only moments later to be met with those horrific photos and live film of the airplanes hitting the towers. No one knew what the death toll was at that point, but it was believed to be in the thousands. The buildings were too volatile to start a rescue mission. At this point, it would be a recovery mission. Every time another person was found, it made CNN. We would rejoice, another life spared. I still couldn't reach my family. They were still unaccounted for.
The devastation reached my home in Florida and was brought right to my front door. It was now inside my home and there was nothing I could do about it. Helpless. That was the feeling that loomed in my heart and mind. I was helpless to do anything about this. We waited for our President to decide what would be done in retaliation, to find out who was responsible for this heinous crime. We looked to Mayor Giuliani to guide us through this tragic event. What do we do? Where do we begin?
It took a years time, perhaps longer for the wreckage to be cleared. My husband and I went to Ground Zero and paid our respects to those who were lost on that fateful day. I cried, heavily and mourned the loss of all the lost souls in the buildings, on the planes and for all the families who had been destroyed. I loved the fact that everywhere you looked, there were American flags being raised. People had them on the cars, on the houses, in the windows of their stores. It said "We will never forget" and it made my heart swell with pride. We were rebounding in the face of tragedy. We were coming together as one. One community, no more racial lines or distinctions. We were all Americans going through this together.
It is eight years later.
The flags are gone. 9/11 is just another day for most people now. Sure, it's sad in retrospect, but what can we do? Life has to go on. We have work, school and the rigors of daily life to distract us. Sure, we think about the day and recall it, perhaps even reflect upon it. Some don't remember it at all. Just another day.
It begs the question, are we alright now? Have we healed? Are we safer now, or simply biding our time until the next attack? Are we still holding our breath with wonder or has time resolved it for us?
In my heart, in my head, there will never be enough healing. The people responsible for this transgression have yet to be caught. Instead, we have taken out our aggression and frustration on another country. We are engaged in a pointless and senseless war, bringing more frustration to the American people and more devastation to a country that didn't ask for our help. We needed to lash out at someone and Iraq was just as good a place as any. We felt good about it at first. Yes, retribution for the crimes committed upon us. But now, do we still feel so good about it? Why are we still there? Saddam Hussein is dead and our children are still overseas, fighting a battle that was won a long time ago.
We are still losing children in the name of September 11th, 2001.
This is why the memory cannot fade. We are not finished yet. It won't be over until our men and women come home. The point has been made. We will not tolerate terrorism in any form ever again. This is the last time these acts will be perpetrated upon us. There will be no more retaliation or retribution. We are Americans and we are tired of the battle. Weary, in fact.
In essence, we are over it.
Still, I imagine that there isn't a soul alive who cannot remember where they were and what they were doing on that fateful Tuesday morning. I recall it as clearly as I recall the birth of my two children. I cannot forget. I won't forget. We can't forget. Not ever.
I ask each of you to take the time to reflect upon that day and know that those people did not die in vain. The flags have gone away. The memories must survive. They were heros, all of them...the survivors as well as the victims.
They don't deserve to be forgotten. Ever.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Changes in the air...
There's something going on in the world today. Something bad.
I have found that, as of late, people are losing a lot of respect for one another. Perhaps this was always the case, but for me, it is far more prevailent now. What were once courteous situations are turning into tirades and I find that it is affecting my mood.
There's definately something in the air.
Yesterday, at my group therapy session (a pretty way of saying "yesterday, when I was in a room full of addicts..."), there was conversation about how each one of us became addicted to our drug of choice. I told my story and discussed my addiction to percocet. Another nurse in the room began to question my story...explaining that just because I took some pills home from my job, that I was not to consider myself an addict. After all, she continued, nurses bring things home in their pockets accidentally all the time. Ah, I said...the key word there being "accidentally". I didn't do this by accident. It was very pre-meditated and done quite purposefully. Just because I chose to turn myself in instead of getting caught doesn't make what I did any less a crime...or make me less of an addict.
Basically, I feel like I am always defending my position to this woman.
Finally, I blew up.
"Are you going to challenge me EVERY time I speak?"
"Huh," she replied.
"I said, are you going to challenge everything I say everytime I speak. Let me know now...so I can gear up for battle every Tuesday."
"I wasn't challenging you. I was asking you a question."
"Yes, but you only seem to ask questions when it is me who is talking. I haven't seen you question anyone else about their meds, their motives or their means. It seems to me you have taken an unnatural interest in me."
"Well obviously," she says, "I must be a stupid fucking asshole, because I don't get what you say most of the time. I need things repeated to me."
"Now THERE is something we can both agree on," I said, quite flippantly. Then, I realized that I was being just as malevolent as she was being. Nope. Not going to go there. This is supposed to be a safe haven; a place where I can focus on staying clean. Stressors and arguments are triggers for use and frankly, I am not ready to walk that road again so soon after a relapse.
And it dawned on me that I allowed someone else's bullshit to take over my day. I walked around pissy and angry for the remainder. People who were just trying to do their job got the wrath of CP all day long. No one was safe. I even got bitchy with my kids.
I realized that I was contributing to the not so nice attitude that seems to be going on in the world lately.
I think it has to do with everyone being so on edge with the uncertainty of this economy and the new administration. People are trapped in their own heads and there is no room for anyone or anything else. The first thing we tend to forget are our manners and civility. And it's understandable. These are very precarious times. People are walking around scared and confused. Where's my next dollar coming from? Will we be able to keep our roof over our head for another month? How am I going to possibly afford college for little Suzy someday?
We're all preoccupied.
So, with that in mind, I am pledging to be part of the solution as opposed to the problem. I am going to wear a smile on my face every single day that I stay in recovery. I am going to say hello to strangers, even if they snub me. I will be a little kinder to the kid in the McDonalds drive thru. I will remember the basics of "please" and "thank you".
Hell, I might even start calling my mother more than once a week. Oy.
The change is gonna do me good.
I have found that, as of late, people are losing a lot of respect for one another. Perhaps this was always the case, but for me, it is far more prevailent now. What were once courteous situations are turning into tirades and I find that it is affecting my mood.
There's definately something in the air.
Yesterday, at my group therapy session (a pretty way of saying "yesterday, when I was in a room full of addicts..."), there was conversation about how each one of us became addicted to our drug of choice. I told my story and discussed my addiction to percocet. Another nurse in the room began to question my story...explaining that just because I took some pills home from my job, that I was not to consider myself an addict. After all, she continued, nurses bring things home in their pockets accidentally all the time. Ah, I said...the key word there being "accidentally". I didn't do this by accident. It was very pre-meditated and done quite purposefully. Just because I chose to turn myself in instead of getting caught doesn't make what I did any less a crime...or make me less of an addict.
Basically, I feel like I am always defending my position to this woman.
Finally, I blew up.
"Are you going to challenge me EVERY time I speak?"
"Huh," she replied.
"I said, are you going to challenge everything I say everytime I speak. Let me know now...so I can gear up for battle every Tuesday."
"I wasn't challenging you. I was asking you a question."
"Yes, but you only seem to ask questions when it is me who is talking. I haven't seen you question anyone else about their meds, their motives or their means. It seems to me you have taken an unnatural interest in me."
"Well obviously," she says, "I must be a stupid fucking asshole, because I don't get what you say most of the time. I need things repeated to me."
"Now THERE is something we can both agree on," I said, quite flippantly. Then, I realized that I was being just as malevolent as she was being. Nope. Not going to go there. This is supposed to be a safe haven; a place where I can focus on staying clean. Stressors and arguments are triggers for use and frankly, I am not ready to walk that road again so soon after a relapse.
And it dawned on me that I allowed someone else's bullshit to take over my day. I walked around pissy and angry for the remainder. People who were just trying to do their job got the wrath of CP all day long. No one was safe. I even got bitchy with my kids.
I realized that I was contributing to the not so nice attitude that seems to be going on in the world lately.
I think it has to do with everyone being so on edge with the uncertainty of this economy and the new administration. People are trapped in their own heads and there is no room for anyone or anything else. The first thing we tend to forget are our manners and civility. And it's understandable. These are very precarious times. People are walking around scared and confused. Where's my next dollar coming from? Will we be able to keep our roof over our head for another month? How am I going to possibly afford college for little Suzy someday?
We're all preoccupied.
So, with that in mind, I am pledging to be part of the solution as opposed to the problem. I am going to wear a smile on my face every single day that I stay in recovery. I am going to say hello to strangers, even if they snub me. I will be a little kinder to the kid in the McDonalds drive thru. I will remember the basics of "please" and "thank you".
Hell, I might even start calling my mother more than once a week. Oy.
The change is gonna do me good.
Friday, September 04, 2009
Relapse...and rehab.
Well, the mighty are bound to fall. After 124 days of sobriety, I relapsed. It wasn't a big deal, nor am I going to make a big deal out of it. One time, one dose. Not a four day long binge or something terrible. All I can choose to do is dust myself off and start over again. So, August 25th is the new date. 11 days clean. Damn. Oh well. I am taking what I learned in those 124 days and applying it to this go round. I know what triggered me...the stress of the unknown just prior to checking into rehab got to me. The questions that the counselor was asking me at the intake were very personal and pushed a lot of unresolved shit up into the forefront of my being. Trigger.
It's been two weeks that I have been in Intensive Out Patient (IOP) rehabilitation. I have to say, it's been a very depressing two weeks. I think, in some aspect, the therapy is doing me more harm than good. I am in there with a group of people, most who don't want to get clean, all talking about how they can beat their drug tests and where they can score from. Me personally, I don't want to be around actively using addicts. But, I am stuck in this program for the next 10 weeks. Nursing board requires that I finish it, if I ever want my license back.
The more I have been reading about nurses who get their license suspended from drug addiction, the more I realize that I will probably never work as a nurse again. After the 12 weeks of outpatient therapy, they drastically limit the places where you can and cannot work. If you work in a hospital or long term care facility, you cannot dispense narcotics. You must have another nurse dispense your drugs. Now tell me, what facility is going to hire you as a nurse if you are unable to dispense narcotics and must ask someone else to do your work for you constantly? Makes no sense. Plus, you have to disclose the problem that you had. Basically, you need to tell your new employer that your license was called under question and suspended for drug use. They must sign off on forms with regard to your performance every few weeks or so.
Unless you have a REALLY understanding new boss, this probably isn't going to fly.
So, I am coming to terms with the fact that this might be all for naught. However, I am going to learn what I can along the way and take my lumps like a big girl.
It's all I can do for now.
It's been two weeks that I have been in Intensive Out Patient (IOP) rehabilitation. I have to say, it's been a very depressing two weeks. I think, in some aspect, the therapy is doing me more harm than good. I am in there with a group of people, most who don't want to get clean, all talking about how they can beat their drug tests and where they can score from. Me personally, I don't want to be around actively using addicts. But, I am stuck in this program for the next 10 weeks. Nursing board requires that I finish it, if I ever want my license back.
The more I have been reading about nurses who get their license suspended from drug addiction, the more I realize that I will probably never work as a nurse again. After the 12 weeks of outpatient therapy, they drastically limit the places where you can and cannot work. If you work in a hospital or long term care facility, you cannot dispense narcotics. You must have another nurse dispense your drugs. Now tell me, what facility is going to hire you as a nurse if you are unable to dispense narcotics and must ask someone else to do your work for you constantly? Makes no sense. Plus, you have to disclose the problem that you had. Basically, you need to tell your new employer that your license was called under question and suspended for drug use. They must sign off on forms with regard to your performance every few weeks or so.
Unless you have a REALLY understanding new boss, this probably isn't going to fly.
So, I am coming to terms with the fact that this might be all for naught. However, I am going to learn what I can along the way and take my lumps like a big girl.
It's all I can do for now.
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