here's a post that shows the true depths of my confusion.

when someone is overtaken by any kind of addiction, they become false. They might phrase that state differently. "my demon." "my worst side." "my evil twin." whatever you wanna call it, it's a false self, a false life, driven by something so removed from who we truly are. that's the definition of fake- living a life where i didn't hold the reins. repeatedly letting people do horrible things to me, and lying about all of it, so i could keep up a facade. when the justifications and rationalizations and suppressed feelings were exposed, the pain of the truth nearly killed me, a couple times over. but i chose that path, because i wanted to be honest. i wanted to be real.

and recovery is about being real. being honest, getting to the heart of the matter, being yourself. no more lies, no more stories to have to keep track of. no more incongruence between words and actions. there are many beautiful things about this process, but a lot of shitty parts too. . . and sometimes i think it's too awful to be worth it. alternately too painful, too boring, too neutered. . . it doesn't feel right. when i think of being "real", i remember moments of feeling electrified by life and my existence. listening to music, a first kiss or touch, certain textures, bright colors, rebellion, the beauty of nature, the shock of a beautiful voice. i guess i think life should be a rock and roll ride through the countryside that makes tears pop into your eyes every so often because you're fucking happy. and yeah bad shit happens, but you can navigate through. you will be ok because you're "really living." you're dealing with shit as it happens, and not hiding from it. and it becomes part of the journey.

true reality and life feels stifled and trapped, afraid and lost. but on the other hand, i don't think i've had a moment of true peace in my entire life without the aid of drugs and/or alcohol and/or sex. so how the hell would i know what is real? it is all perception? is it about appreciating the fucking "little things" in life, or is that just a distraction from how miserable i am?

my recovery from a lifetime of abuse, mental illness, and trauma is exhausting, even all these years later. i'm tearing apart the meaning of words like "real" in a fucking blog. i'm trying to live the best i can, but i feel so fragmented. i think it's because i did everything i was supposed to. i got a good job, a good man, a nice home. all things i wanted and still want. but i think i was so committed to leaving behind the old life that i lost some pieces of myself that were still pure and still me. thus why i feel so fucking fragmented. the battle in my brain is endless and makes me laugh sometimes.
leave/stay.

there's so much to live for/off yourself.

run away/work harder.

think about the difference you are making in the world/think about your fucking self and have fun.

don't go to work today/be reliable.

and my heart screams, be who you are. such a fucking useless cacophony that consumes me.
the truth is, one of the only times i know who i really am is at a punk show. i feel free, i feel excited, i feel happy. i feel appreciative of my life. i feel motivated, connected, and whole. and when the show is over, i ride that high for a while. and then comes the crash down to earth. yet in the past shows were a huge part of my life, so i wouldn't have to wait too long till the next high kicked in. now, i don't get much exposure to punk shows. albuquerque isn't really all that for shows. losing my music feels like an empty hole in my life.
i went to the punk rock bowling festival in las vegas this past weekend. i had such a good time, i felt everything i just described to you. afterwards, i didn't keep it going with any of those vices i used to. i just got tired and went to sleep. i almost felt robbed of the richness of my experience because i didn't annihilate myself (there's that lovely nihilistic brain talking again!). there was drinking, yes, but i kept it in check. i didn't want to get sick and ruin the whole weekend. i played the tape all the way through. i have been waiting for that weekend for so long- a little island of hope in my otherwise responsible and dutiful life. it was wonderful. it was so fun living so much sound again.

i saw rancid, one of my all time favorite bands. i remember hanging posters of tim and lars in my room in high school. they inspired me, they spoke to me and they made me feel like i would escape one day. they made me want to pursue a strange and exciting existence. every time i see them live it's a revelation, and i feel as passionate as i did 15 years ago listening to them in my bedroom all night, clinging to their voices for comfort when the walls would close in on me. in vegas, they looked exactly the same, their music was as beautiful as ever. i screamed and danced and jumped up and down. i felt the rush. and now i've crashed down to earth. physically i have a sore throat from a weekend of smoking, and i still haven't caught up on my sleep. mentally i feel alone and disconnected from everyone.
i kinda feel like my life has been a series of crashes. i don't feel like i belong on this earth, but i'm stuck here. i want to live, but i can't figure out how to live in this world. i still have that pit in my stomach that probably should have dissolved when i first hit the ground and popped outta my spaceship. maybe that feeling is always going to be present if i choose to live real. so do i accept it, or do i fight it? i'll let you know when i decide.

good therapy.

today i had a really awesome therapy session. i have been in therapy on and off since i was 18, and have cried three times in total.

1) 2003-The first time I cried was when my therapist asked me to imagine my life in 5 years. I saw nothing except despair and misery. I literally visualized black. When I say cried, I mean teared up profusely, but would not let myself fully cry.
2) 2004- saying goodbye to above therapist. He changed my life, and I will always be grateful to that wonderful dude.
3) Today, 2012- I told my therapist something really awful that happened to me, in like 2002. I guess I'll tell you too. it was something i remembered after watching this adorable and lovely movie called neo ned. in this movie, the chick wets her bed after having a dream about the man who molested her.

That night I had taken my boyfriend to a party with me. I never knew what self he would show to people. He might be charming and goofy, he might be sullen and aloof, he might be angry and flip a table over. What a dreamboat, right?! Yikes. So anyway, we went to a party. I was working at the library at my university, and the guys I worked with had become my bros. The party was great. My ex and his friend Nomad went with me and for the most part behaved themselves. My library bros were like. . They are really nice but kind of scary! My guys were punks with boots and braces and spikes and alcoholism. And I was all, they are just a bunch of teddy bears. It's all good.
And it really was.
We walked over to the bus stop on Carson and 18th. I was living on the slopes then in a rundown piece of shit house, on a street where my neighbor fed his pit bull gun powder. The alcohol must have finally hit my ex for real, cause he suddenly flipped on me. He called me a bitch and a whore, blah blah, lifetime movie, blah blah. This was all in front of like 20 people. Poor Nomad, who died of a heroin OD a couple years ago, didn't know what to do. He tried to calm my ex down, but I coulda told him there was no calming him down once he got started.
So we got on the bus- they sat in the back and I sat in the front. I wanted to be close to the bus driver, who looked kinda gnarly and maybe would try to help me if something went down. My ex screamed at me from the back of the bus. I had tears pouring down my face, but I stared calmly ahead of me. trying to disassociate, instead connecting even deeper to the terror i was feeling.
And then we got off the bus, and started walking home. it was a winding road that seemed endless, as I walked as fast as possible, desperate to get home. My boyfriend screamed at me while I raced forward. Across the street, a young black man called out to me. "Are you ok? Do you need help?"
"I'm ok" I choked out. My entire body was shaking from fear. My boyfriend really showed off his stellar personhood then, and began taunting me to "go fuck that n*"(I'm not typing it out, you know what i mean) and other equally sick shit.
we got home and for some reason we had a red bulb in our porch light. everything i remember is hazed in red. he said he was going to leave, he was sick of this, sick of me, etc. i can see his face, tinged with red like the anger that made him such a monster.
and i BEGGED him to stay. red like a valentine. red like lipstick all over my face.
thinking of that broken girl still kills me inside. i cried myself to sleep that night on the couch. when i woke up, i had pissed myself.
secondary enuresis, brought on by trauma, but i call it one of the most fucking brutal reality checks of my life. it was like a punch in the face, trying to wake me up from my nightmare.
i chose to soldier on, but the bruise remained for years, and i never forgot it.

so today i told my therapist about it, and i cried. and i said how awful it was that it happened to me, and how sad i feel for the person i was (and still am). and i breathed a little easier today.

vegas can wait

i saw x tonight in santa fe. it was one of the best shows i have ever been to- i haven't felt like that at a show in a LONG time. i bounced around and danced and sang like i used to, i shoved and pushed and fought my way to the front, got kissed by billy zoom, and shared some smiles with exene. it was an amazing night, and my knees are all bruised to show for it.