Parenting – The Reprobate's Guide to Pancakes

Heart, Mind and Hammer

My parents taught me to love, to question, to challenge. These three lessons helped me to rebound from the thousands of others that came later. Whatever damage they did to me, they gave me this, a heart, a mind and a hammer, without which I would surely be lesser.

When I was eight or so, I filled my pockets with gum from the counter of the local Soda Shop. I don’t recall caring much for that gum. It lost its flavor too fast to keep me interested. It is worth noting that this is one of my brother’s favorite stories to tell to my new friends, simply because it is so demonstrative of my personality. When I came home, I dumped the gum out on the counter with pride and declared that the people running that shop were idiots. This was my proof! Evidenced in the fists full of gum, those people didn’t know what they were doing. There was a sign that read “10 Cents” and nary a soul watching the goods. My eight year old self probably didn’t say ‘nary’, but that was only because someone had neglected to introduce her to such a fine word. Regardless, I had taught them a lesson, and a harsh one, those stupid, stupid people. This was the first moment I can recall challenging the inane. I was a winner! I was smarter, I was triumphant, I was the champion of common sense and I had slapped them with the consequence of their naivety. What in the world did they think they were doing, expecting people to honor their little defenseless sign? Didn’t they know that people are sheisty and untrustworthy by nature? Not me, other people. I stole out of obligation. I’m a gem. My mom, however, being a mom, didn’t give me an attagirl as I had expected. Instead she demanded I take every piece back immediately, which I promptly did not do. Instead, I pretended to walk back downtown, all the while chewing every last disgusting spoil of my victory. There wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to go ingratiate myself to the same people who had just let me rob them blind. If I told you I did this yesterday, I doubt you would be surprised. If I told you they still have the same gum and the same little sign (only with a higher price), would you understand my position?

From a young age, I was well aware of things that most kids weren’t exposed to, or at least not with intention. I knew that blind trust was a request for injury, that nobody had every answer and that those same nobodies were doing a lot of not saying the things they were thinking while saying many more things they didn’t actually believe. I knew that my best friend’s father was a child molester and that the machinations of the adult world allowed him to continue to unleash his evil on helpless beings. I knew my best friend was one of those beings and that no matter how many toys I gave her, no matter the songs we danced to or the hours we spent climbing trees, pretending to be children who didn’t both know what we did, she would step back in the door each evening to find that monster. I knew he was scared of my mom and I never had to fear for myself, but my friend, my friend. I knew, when he sent the toys home, when he barred me from the house, then the yard, when he stopped her from coming to church, that he was closing in. That the manicured lawn across there street was the place where nightmares began by turning little hearts in prisons full of secrets no babe could tell, not even to their best friend. I knew evil looked like an architect. Question.

I watched the monster drunkenly dance with my childhood friends, atop his beer stained rug in the dining room of what was once a distinguished manor. He held their hands as he two stepped, greater than six feet, they maybe four and I sunk back into the recesses of the room and myself, wondering how this could be and how they could not see. I thought of the dungeon and the skeleton keys, the rats and the open mouthed lions that waited like omens at the threshold. I thought of my friend and how she quite literally fell to her deafness as a baby and the weighted look she always wore and how unfair. Unfair for her to live, unfair for me to know and be so impotent. Her mother stood aside at all times, letting the monster prowl and groom at will and I hated her and her blank face. Love.

I told our mutual friends about him. I told them in the most diplomatic way that any eight year old could. I told them what I had known for so long but had not uttered. I told them so that they wouldn’t be devoured, so that they wouldn’t dance or look at him stupidly like he wasn’t the scaly, slimy, slithering horned monster that he was. We were never friends again. Challenge.

Sometimes people don’t want to know the truth. Sometimes they don’t want to know that their gum is easily stolen or that their architect is Satan or that they’ve delivered themselves over to the world as a meal, or worse, have been delivered by someone they love. Sometimes people glance your way, share themselves utterly with a look and retreat as fast, because they know there is nothing you can do to save them. Sometimes you can’t save them, sometimes I can’t, sometimes I cry at night. For my friend who isn’t a little girl anymore, I cry and I question. For all the little girls, which I never was but saw, I love. For all the institutions and rules and states which defy sense, I challenge. And if there’s a super power I’ve been given, it’s this.

Thank you Mom & Dad

Eyes in the Embers

Take a deep breath and repeat after me, “It’s all just shit and I will survive.”

Nobody was there to tell me that the first time I lost it all. To be clear, I’ve lost it all five times and each time, I had less items, yet more to lose. I promise, it gets easier.

The first time is always the worst. I woke up with fists being pounded into my face and I knew that I had to let go of all of it. In that moment I gave up my relationship, my home, my job, the supplier for my dope habit, all means of financial support, the illusion that I was a functioning drug addict, many of my possessions and my good credit score.

The second time I gave up an apartment that I had meticulously painted and designed, any semblance of self-sufficiency and my recently acquired sobriety.

The third time I gave up my record as a good tenant, my granny’s bible, furniture my mother had beautiful upholstered, hand-made Christmas stockings, medical equipment from my daughter’s time in the NICU and both of my children.

The fourth time, I gave up my freedom. I gave up all management of my life and entered a rehab facility.

The fifth time, I gave up the father to my children and the man I had prayed, wept and fought for. He left with a demon on his back and I left with my children, my faith and all of the ‘stuff’ that meant nothing to me.

It is astounding how we can adjust to continually deteriorating conditions. At one point in my life, I was a princess. I wore gold wedding bands as toe-rings, spent far too much on lottery tickets, ate take-out nightly and had pills hidden throughout the house. And then, as if suddenly, I was living in an 8 x 5 ramshackle shed, woken up by competing roosters each morning, shitting with the chickens and selling dope to Richie Rich.

The more of our space we fill with things and people, the less room we have for God. Others might fill their space with gadgets, nights at the club, PTA meetings or a career. I had chosen to fill my space with dope and dope seekers. When I went to rehab in 2011, every creature comfort was taken from me. Phone calls and interaction with family were eliminated, there was no TV in my room or friend to complain to. I had no cigarettes, chocolate chunk brownies, internet news, video games or Facebook. I was given a single room which contained myself, my two children and a few necessary possessions. Outside of my room existed an institution of women who had been abused, neglected, forgotten and discarded, each of whom would have rather run me down with a dump truck than see me succeed.

It hurt at first, the separation from my things, from my enablers and cheerleaders. And then, as if suddenly, I learned to do without. And in the without I found God waiting.

It’s all dust. All of it but the people.

Until 2017 I worked in a jewelry store. Can you imagine how difficult it was to sell luxury items when you have no attachment to ‘stuff’? Everything in me wanted to scream out, “Go love someone! Save your money!” My coworkers would get emotional about particular items, feel a sentimental attachment, but all I saw was glass. The love, the memories, they didn’t exist in a ring or brooch. They couldn’t live or die in metal and stone. Memories, feelings, joy and attachment exist in the perfect preservation of our hearts, but when we turn our joy over to things, it is given an expiration date. All will fall.

I amended this piece, as it was written well before I lost it all for the fifth time. I suppose I held on to it, knowing I was likely on the precipice of another. It is all dust. The home, the sconces, the albums and letters. I’d gladly pitch it all into a fire for the people I’ve lost, if only it worked that way.

Healthy Steps to Loving a Junkie

If you are reading this, there is a very good chance that you either know someone who is addicted to opioids or you yourself are addicted. I’m not just guessing. The numbers are on my side. Warning: Boring statistics ahead.

The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services estimates there were more than 12.5 million Americans abusing prescription opioids in 2015. That figure doesn’t include the estimated 828,000 heroin users in our country. Since that time, opioid abuse has risen dramatically. In 2017, an average of 90 Americans have died each day from opioid abuse, and the numbers don’t appear to be lessening. I dare you to go compare deaths by guns with deaths by drug abuse. I won’t do all of the work for you.

I’m not a fan of statistics. They make stories dry and dull, but in this case I need them to prove a point. You aren’t alone. And if it isn’t opioids, it’s methamphetamine. And if it isn’t meth, it’s alcohol. And if it isn’t alcohol, well, you can fill in the blank. I am pretty sure I even saw someone overdose on God once.

I’ve met countless parents who have recounted their stories of having children addicted to drugs, incapable of making sound decisions. These stories always consist of theft, jail, poor health, small children caught in the mix and often they end in prison or death. In support circles, the saying is “Prison, death and institutions.” Those are the three inevitable ends for someone who doesn’t recover from drug addiction. Just imagine those choices. Which would you pick? A person addicted to substances knows, at some point in their journey, that one of those three choices is guaranteed for them, but the disease is so strong that it overcomes all logic. A person addicted to substances cannot be expected to suddenly wake up and make healthy choices. This is why it is incumbent upon their family and friends to get honest, get serious and get severe. Is that what most families choose to do? Hell no.

How many times have I told a parent to completely cut their child off financially? Almost as many times as I’ve seen a parent secretly wish to kill me, steal my skin and use it to hide their child from the consequences of life. That would be a very poor decision, for any of you who might try. Life’s consequences are particularly fond of my scent. I get it. I don’t want my children to hurt anymore than other parents, despite what they tell you. But it is surprisingly hard to get people to understand that by perpetually protecting someone from the consequences of their actions, you have set them up for a tremendous fall.

Stop enabling people to self destruct. If someone is exhibiting clearly destructive behavior and your attempts to rationalize with them or provide help have been fruitless, STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE.

The fact is, some things are beyond us. Some things must play themselves out to their inevitable conclusion. If a train is baring down on your child, jumping in front of the train will in no way help anyone. It won’t stop the train and both of you will perish. If you are lucky enough to shove your child out of the way of danger, they are now even more confident that they can stand in the way of a train and not die. Continue this cycle and their confidence in their immunity to consequences will increase. When a train is baring down on your child, let them feel the fear of impending pain, because in this fear is hope. They SHOULD be scared. They should be scared, motivated and aware that their survival is dependent upon their own actions.

I didn’t stop until I could taste the tracks and sometimes this is what it takes. If you are in this position, I am glad for you. Crisis is an opportunity for healing! If you haven’t hit a crisis yet, step out of the way and it will come.

My recommendation, based on experience as both an enabler and a junkie, is to let people self destruct. Stop providing money, legal help, housing, medical care, transportation and employment to someone who is incapable of treating you and the assistance you’ve provided with respect and maturity. Stop abetting their illness by ignoring the symptoms and dismissing their decline. Don’t place blame for their situation on their employers, spouses, probation officers, lawyers, neighbors, etc., Don’t allow them into your home. Don’t allow manipulation, guilt or fear to making you a willing party in their disease. When you support a junkie’s lifestyle, even if out of love and loyalty, you support their death.

Loving an addict is hard. Addicts will take advantage of the people who love them most. They are capable of manipulating your genuine concern into a means to support their ‘habit’. It’s not a habit, by the way. It’s a monster and you don’t fight monsters with delicate pleading or passive agreement. You fight monsters with strategy, cunning and an end-goal that you never lose sight of.

The goal is and will always be, in these cases, to save a life. You cannot concern yourself with their job, home, school prospects, spouses, or diva demands. If they die, all of that is gone. Remind yourself of this constantly.

If you find yourself in the fortunate position to be of help to an addict in crisis, there are a few things you can do to lend to their success.

1. Be prepared for the swing. An addict who has just missed a fatal impact with a train is thrilled at the prospect of going to treatment. They will tell you how badly they want sobriety and how much they want to change their life. They will apologize for their treatment of you, of others. They will say everything that might give you hope that you have reached the promise land of recovery. Do not, for even one moment, let your guard down. I went to detox somewhere in the range of ten times and each time I was thrilled to be there. Guess how many times I went back to my dope fiend lifestyle? One less time, because a few people in my life did exactly as I am recommending to you now. If you take the right measures, you have a shot at helping them. It may take a few times as we junkies, by nature, are incredibly willful and arrogant.

2. After a couple of days, they will convince you that they are doing great. They will convince you that they are doing SO great that there is absolutely no need for them to remain in detox or proceed to a rehabilitation center. You will be so excited to see in them the person that you once knew, the person who wasn’t a manipulative pariah, that you can easily be swayed by this act. Don’t be. Don’t fall prey to the game.

3a. Negotiations. This is by far my favorite part of the ‘junkie writes the rules’ act. An addict is keenly aware of your desire to help them, to see them recover and thrive. They also know that you would love nothing more than to welcome them back into your life and your home. They will capitalize on this. They will make a very persuasive argument about how they can become healthy at home—-your home usually. Usually these moments consist of statements like “All I need is to get a job and..” or “This time is different. I promise I’m going to do A, B & C as soon as I get home.” When you hear these statements from someone with less time in recovery than it takes a pancake to cool, ignore everything they are saying. Smile, nod and tell them that you aren’t playing their games anymore.

3b. When their amiable act doesn’t work, they may resort to three year old tactics. Prepare for fits, tantrums, anger, vile accusations and unreasonable demands. Some people even become violent. An alternative to the angry approach is the sad, fearful approach where they break you with their tears. Either way, become a stone. Stand up and walk out, or if you are on the phone, hang up. End their reign as the puppeteer of your emotions.

3c. Demands are a last ditch effort for addicts to regain control. This most usually manifests in threats of suicide. If that happens, you must remember that they were ALREADY committing suicide, albeit slowly. Most addicts and alcoholics do not actually wish to die. They are far more committed to removing pain than to exiting life. Frankly, it is irrelevant. This is one of those things that is beyond your control and submitting to the demands of their disease will not guarantee you more time with them. It may actually do the opposite, hastening their death.

4. If you make it past #3, you are truly experiencing a miracle. This is not the time to offer financial support, though. If you survive to this point, offer emotional support. Assist them in finding a good rehabilitation program. Remind them that you are willing to restore your relationship with them. This is the best support you can give. The rest is between them and God.

I highly, highly recommend an inpatient program that is at least six months long, preferably longer. Detoxification can take months to complete and many symptoms caused by years of poor nutrition and drug use can even remain for years. Sadly, most detox facilities allow a patient to stay 5-7 days, which is often a very crucial period where someone may easily slip back into drug abuse. Many rehabilitation facilities are as short as 30 days. At 30 days, I was just remembering how it felt to have awareness of my limbs. That is not even close to an exaggeration. I was far from capable of returning to society as a productive member.

There is no exact science to recovery. If physicians, counselors and politicians had the answer, we wouldn’t be plagued by drug abuse. I don’t pretend to have every answer either and there is no guarantee that your best efforts will bring a positive outcome —but it’s worth a shot.

There is love in resistance. There is love in the word ‘no’. There is love in stepping back and allowing God to take over. There is love in admitting your limitations. There is love in saying the things that hurt the most. There is love in the truth.

This is a very painful place to be for anyone, most especially a parent. Your fears and your worries are legitimate and you most assuredly aren’t alone. Millions of other people are feeling exactly as you do right now, holding it all inside and praying that God will provide a way out. Millions of people are staying awake at night in fear that this will be the night that they receive that dreaded call. Millions of people are sinking into a depression and feel helpless to fight against it. Do not lose hope, above all else. I am a living miracle, a person who beat all odds. I am the success story you never hear of. I am the person that broke a needle off in her neck and considered suicide her only way out. I am the person that destroyed every relationship, ruined every opportunity, lost her children, her joy, her faith and all hope of recovery. But it is because of people like you, people who loved me despite my disease, that I am able to write this for you today.

If any of you need someone to speak to, please reach out to me. I am happy to share my experience and advice or just listen, without judgment or condemnation. Send a message through the contact form on the website.

Words for Not Raising the Unabomber

In our house, we allow freedom of expression through language. Why? Because it’s far superior to driving your car into a crowd of people.

You big dummies.

That's really fun to say. We should all say it more.

In our house, we call our children the following : Monster, turd, war-monger, heathen, creature, butthead, goober-monkey, goober, hellion, manipulator, diva, banana-butt, butter-brain, insane, lunatic, fruit-loop, ridiculous, absurd, dummy, ding-bat, stank-butt, stank-head, dingleberry, big-hungry, whiner, wimpy, princess, princess banana blanket, lead-foot, peanut, skinny-minnie, two-ton-a-balogna, Ona-balogna, Carmalena, Carmeanie, Nemrac, Carmen the Mar-man, Carmen the butt, elephant butt, big-foot, pea-head, shrimp-fried buttface, eight-pound water head, tiny tyrant, donkey-brain, booger butt and whatever other endearing terms may come to mind. They enjoy it almost as much as we do.

In our house our children can use what society stupidly considers foul language: Fuck, shit, damn, hell, ass, crap and other arrangements of letters that have never hurt another human or their property.

In our house, we allow freedom of expression through language. Why? Because it's far superior to driving your car into a crowd of people.

We use language to love, to express something in a creative way or to release frustration. We use language to avoid physical confrontation. We've instilled in our children that society isn't so forgiving or accepting and they should always consider their circumstances when choosing their words, which is a bullshit reality they have to work around.

We also put an emphasis on intention. An appropriate response to breaking your ridiculously overpriced but equally necessary iPad is to scream "shit!". But, if dad takes the last piece of cheesecake and the kids put on their cheer outfits and chant "Daddy is an asshole! Kill him," we are going to address the need for respect, and how to make a catchier slogan. You might be surprised at how quickly children come to understand this, yet how incredibly inept adults are with the concept. Just a moment ago, Fiona said, "I want cotton candy, damn it." Whenever you want cotton candy, you want it, damn it. Yet she's never once demeaned me personally with the intent to harm. Why? She likes having an ipad, cotton candy and being able to say damn it when she wants cotton candy. Are you starting to see how this works?

Although I put an emphasis on respect in our home, I remind our kids endlessly that the rest of the world isn't so considerate. They can and must expect people to say things to them with the intention to offend. I will tell you the same thing I tell them. If you find offense in a word, you own it. No person can offend you with language unless you allow it. You alone get to decide what will hurt you emotionally, so don't be a baby.

You can be offensive without bad language and I'm sure that as that idiot drove his car into a crowd today in Virginia, he didn't say a word. His actions were thorough enough to express his intent. True hate doesn't require language, it has better tools for destruction. Our society is so hung up on the things that cause no harm to others. No, your feelings don't count. As a society, nitpicking over language has become a tool to align one group as a victim and another as an aggressor, or as a tool to distract the left hand from what the right is destroying.

Maybe, had we a culture that embraced free-speech and expression of ideas, regardless of how reprehensible they may be, we would have less people mowed down in the street and more blog posts to hate on. Think about that the next time you try to silence someone. In the meantime, I'll be here raising foul-mouthed not Ted Bundy.

You are free to call me anything you would like. In fact, there is a comment section below where I welcome it, asshole.