lost

you can lose alot of things. people, time, material possesions, yourself. the last one is the one i’ve been dealing with my whole life. and now i think it’s gotten worse. obviously writing is cathartic for me. i value my writing as a way to grasp reality and hold onto memories, dreams, feelings. it helps me cope with the bullshit that is life. i was sitting here, at my mom’s house today, and a thought occured to me. i have no idea where my journals are. years of my life, written in page after page of steno notebooks, lost in my travels due to my nomadic addict lifestyle. it could be at my dedham house, could be at my revere house (i’ve got belonging rotting at both locations) i may never see them again. nice, really fucking nice. the one thing i have in my life that’s constant. the one thing i hold onto. and now it’s gone too. fuck me.

feelings that don’t get administered IV

now, let me preface this by saying i am not sober. i am taking benzo’s and drinking, but i’m doing my best not to pick up the needle. i am staying at my house while jesse’s doing a bid for Mass DOC. I haven’t gotten the letter yet w/ the bid, but i’m guessing 6m, 3 to serve.

the point of this entry is that, even if the few days it’s been since i stopped shooting up, i have all these feelings coming to me that are really incredible. and i’m acting in a way that makes me feel really good.  it’s little things, but they have such a profound effect on me.  take my brother for example:  aaron and i, if you’ve ever read my blog, grew up very close, but grew apart as i got into heroin and he joined the army. he married a super controlling girl, who doesn’t let us speak. today is his daughter’s first birthday. (little aquarian princess, just like me) i have never met her. but in the past two weeks since i’ve been home, he’s been sending me emails on myspace. it’s the first time we’ve talked in years. and he still loves me and can’t wait to see me and introduce me to my niece. those words are like a gift straight from god to me. fact. and my other brother, TJ, who is seventeen and straight edge (i’m sure my junkbox status since his childhood has something to do with that decision) but since i’ve been home, we chill together, watch movies, talk about growing up. he even takes advice from me, maybe even respects me a little. this from a kid i robbed of all his dvd’s to buy dope, four years ago. he was 13. even after all the scumbag moves i’ve pulled, all the letters i had to send from jail on his birthday. he still loves me. that’s amazing in itself.

but i think the most amazing thing of all is the turnaround i’ve seen in my mom. when i first asked her to come home because *yet again* my life was unmanageable, she said no. i think her exact words were “kaia, we don’t need your poisonous life or your drama here.” so i lived on the streets for a quick minute. but when i called her and told her my hustle was up and i had nowhere to go, nothing to do, she drove and hour and a half to lynn to bring me home, and since i’ve been here, our relationship has been different somehow.   i guess part of it is a change in me. i no longer feel entitled, like she owes me. i want to earn my keep.  any of the last times i moved home, i’d sit in my room, doing drugs, eating their food, and not even doing my own laundry. like i was still a teenager and i had zero responsibility. that’s not how it is this time. i want her to know how much i appreciate a warm place to sleep. (being homeless in january will do that to you)  so every morning i wake up and i clean the house, do the dishes and the laundry. she works mad overtime cuz my dad is unemployed, and he IS lazy and lays in bed all day. so i try to pick up the slack. and the change in her is amazing. she doesn’t always sigh and comment on how the house is trashed, how there’s too much work and too little mom to go around. it brings a smile to my face to just be able to take that pressure off of her. i love her so much, and i can never take away the pain i caused. but i can do something today to make her life a little nicer.

and doing these things and just being here really seems to make my family happy. we’ve been estranged for so long, this time is a gift to me.  i do believe that everything happens for a reason, and if  i can find a silver lining in the chaos, it is my awesome family.

today my stepbrothers son, levi, (he’s 4) came over today, and we met for the first time.  we played outside, watched spongebob, colored and played games for hours.  just the fact that i was allowed in the house at the same time was amazing, and the fact that i was able to devote that much time to him was really nice. he’s an awesome little boy, and he really liked me. it made me feel good in a way i don’t feel very often. like i am a good person, a good aunty, good sister, good daughter. it was nice.

and to top it all off, my mom told me today aaron may be coming down to visit with his beautiful little girl, and i’ll finally get to meet her, a year into her life. i am more excited about that concept than anything in years. it’s been over two years since i’ve seen aaron. ( i was in jail when he came home this summer) so to see him, meet his family, would make my day, month, decade.  it’s amazing what you let go of when you are in the grips of addiction. i hate that life. i wish i could remember how i feel right now the next time someone passes me a bag.  but how many miracles can i ask god for, anyway?

a sheep among wolves

just got off the phone  with jesse.  i know it’s boring here at mom’s house, but i’ll admit it’s nice to be out of the drama scene that junk wraps you so tight in. case and point:

jesse and our friend elliot are sitting in elliots apartment on a main street in downtown boston. one of our drug dealers/friends (you know, the guys you get along with, kinda friends, but really not..) brian came over, and they were all getting high, talking about me. (don’t i feel special)

“so i guess kaia’s coming up to visit in a day or so” jesse said, scratching his nose absentmindedly.

“that’s cool, it will be good to see her.” elliot said. “anyone want tea.”

“i do.” brian raised his hand. “so how are things with you and her?”

“okay. we are trying to work around the evan thing. it’s not easy. i wanna beat the bag outta that kid.”

“well,” brian said, standing up. “if it does go down, you know i’ve got your back, and i will gladly hand that kid his own ass for disrespecting kaia like that.”

“thanks man, that really means alot to me.” jesse shook brian’s hand.

“no problem.”

“i still think you guys should try to talk it over, violence is never the answer.” elliot chimed in, pouring tea for the three of them. ” i mean, what will kicking his ass or sticking him do, really?”

“make me feel better.” jesse laughed. “jesus, elliot, you even talk like a queer kid!”  elliot is the only kid we chill with that is gay. he’s an adorable boy, with long dark hair, very native american looking. half mexican i think.

“i’ll take that as a compliment, sweety.” they all laughed, and then the phone rang.

“hello.” elliot said. “oh, hi evan. you’re what? oh, and one for me?  sure, you can come up, brian’s here.” and elliot set the phone down.

jesse’s blood was boiling. he was up and putting his coat on before anyone knew what was going on.

“where are you going?” elliot asked, all innocent.

“where the fuck do you think i’m going, i’m gonna meet evan at the train station and kill him; were we not just discussing this?”

“i know, but he’s dopesick and he wants to get off e here, and i thought it would be a good idea for you guys to TALK.”

“there will be no talking. brian, are you coming?” jesse put his left shoe on and reached for the door handle.

“um, yeah….but jess, can you do me a favor and let me get this sale off before you touch him, i could use the money.”

jesse went bright red. “okay, so two fucking seconds ago you guys were both my ride or die boys, and now, from what i gather, you, elliot, told evan to come over cuz he’s gonna get you high *again*. and brian, you were gonna help me stomp him, but now 40 bucks is more important. nice guys. fucking forget it, i’ll go see him myself.” and jesse slammed the door behind him.

he walked briskly down the street in the winter air, running over in his mind all that had transpired in the past month. all the awful things about me, the girl he still loved very much, evan was spreading all over boston- like the *completely untrue* rumor that i was fucking him for heroin. that i am nothing more than a common nightwalker. he picked up the pace and as he was getting passing a prominant hospital in the city, he caught a glance out the side of his eye, evan hoofing it down the street.

jesse stopped and called his name. evan, dressed like he was in disgiuse, cap pulled down over his eyes, head down, obviously in withdrawl. he picked his head up at the sound of his name, and their eyes locked. (as jesse told me this part of the story, his voice began to shake) “that fucking pussy broke into a sprint and dove into the hospital!!!” i couldn’t help but laugh.

jesse did not go back to elliots apartment, he went to see our friends tommy and sheena in dorchester instead. evan, as i heard from elliot over the phone later in the afternoon, proceeded to elliot’s where the three of them talked about me and jesse, and how evan “would’ve kicked jesse’s ass if he’d seen him on the street.” ha. tell me another one.

just goes to show you, drugs and sex make friends and enemies of us all, all at the same time. it’s so hard to keep up with the “he said she said he owes she stole he fucked she sucked” bullshit. sitting here, in the bedroom of my childhood, alone, i breathe a little easier.

straight retarded (that’s me)

jesus christ. i am a hot mess. let’s start from the beginning i suppose.  i ended up getting strung out *again* while jesse was on the clinic. i was sick of watching him dose up and take benzo’s and get wasted, so i caught a habit. (i know, dumb) and on christmas day, he went to his parents house to get money…but instead they called the cops and he went to cambridge jail. no bail. violation of a protective order. okay, so now i’m dopesick and i’ve got no hustle in me this time. i don’t wanna go out and steal and rob.

so this kid evan, who i know through a friend, had been calling me off the hook. obviously looking to hook up. so i called him back after a couple days of fronting off my guy. needless to say he came over and got me off e and then we slept together. i know, it sounds really bad. it was really bad. i felt so guilty from jump. he stayed at my house for three days, including new years eve. finally on new years day i couldn’t take being around him any more, and i called detox, and went away for a while. like three weeks to be specific, detox then holding, thought i was gonna go to a half way house.

dumb ass me fuct that up too. ended up getting high in the program. needless to say i got high, someone snitched, and i was urined and on the street in a matter of a half hour after i got off. ha. worth it? no. but it is what it is. i ended up doing all that hustling i didn’t wanna do, cuz i was gone so long, my apartment was rented to someone else…i was sleeping at logan airport and pulling scams all day to  get high.  seriously, when you’re homeless like that, what else is there?

so the kids i was running with decided it would be a wicked good idea to rob their guy. we went down to the end of the blue line and this kid pulled a knife on his guy. guess what happened then. yep, dude pulled a gun on all of us. i could’ve died over 2 grams. ha. at this point i was like “i’m all set with this” and called mommy dearest and came back to the country. i was here for about a day before jesse got out of jail. the rumor is he stepped off the train at mass ave, and was swarmed w people from the clinic, just itching to tell him how much of a whore i am. nice. real nice.

i went into the city to see him, and it was bittersweet at first, but we ended up talking it over the past week or so, and he’s willing to give me another chance. (thank god) but i have been put on jesse-induced level 3 OCC relationship probation. ha. one fuck up and the relationships a wrap.

so i’m waiting for him to get a place so i can go home to him. that’s really all i want.

this drama is played out. straight retarded. and i have no one to blame but myself.

as usual.

never ending drama

i can’t even begin to explain where i’m at right now. finally not strung out…kicked out of a holding for getting high….jesse’s still in jail….have a totally new boyfriend….living back  @ mom’s after a week or so on the streets of boston. i’ll get into more detail when my head has cleared a little more.

different kind of sick

i’m gonna keep this short. i don’t have any funny/sad stories for today. i’ve been sick with some kind of flu for two weeks. and couple that with the crushing manic depression that smothers me like this down comforter i hold like a security blanket, and you have a complete human mess. you could mop me up with a bucket at this point. i feel so empty and alone…my brother may be part of the new Afghanistan shit, and that will really kill me. (i’m not allowed to speak to him cuz his cunt wife thinks i’m a bad influence. even though he’s never even seen me do drugs, i’ve never sold him drugs.) i made that mistake with my cousin and i’ll never make that mistake again.

so every day jesse goes to the clinic and sells his pills to make money for crack or whatever we can afford, because without something in me i fall apart at the seams. and i just had another therapist tell me i’m too fuct up, i reach “beyond her scope of treatment” so funny in such a pathetic way.

i’m crying now as i write this. just before i got sick i was in such an upswing. i was cleaning OCD style, going to the clinic everyday just to keep jesse company. i was going to the library, doing all my wiccan rituals, calling my mom. and then smash, you hit bottom like you feel down a well. and here i am. i honestly haven’t gotten out of bed, showers minimal. it’s reminiscent of when i was bipolar untreated in high school, and i used to cut. that sweet release right after the pain, the warm blood. it’s like having bulimia, which i am also cursed with. not to be gross, but that 30 seconds after you finish purging, there is so much relief, a precious moment of peace that doesn’t exist in real life. the same moment you get after slamming a huge speedball. like none of this shit matters. just me  and this fucking needle. it doesn’t matter that my family chooses to pretend i don’t exist. it doesn’t matter that my ptsd keeps me from riding the T alone. it doesn’t matter that i can’t get or keep a job, because of my head, i’ve got no habit. i kind of wish i did, cuz that pain is sure,  certain, and you can make it go away, if you work hard enough. this head shit has been around since i saw my father stab my mother in the neck when i was 5, and it’s only gotten worse.  so maybe i have a bad attitude. but i won’t get into what else made me this way. i’m to weak and tired, and i’m quite sure no one really cares. i’m just gonna take some pills and go to sleep. i like sleep alot now, no dreams with the meds. it’s the best part of my “life”.

now i remember….

why i started doing drugs in the first place. life is a trainwreck. it always will be, drugs just kill the pain while we all die slowly….real slowly.

can’t have it both ways…

jese sits on the bed, i lay in my pj’s, tears rolling down my face. the sun is not even up yet. i love starting the day this way “so what you’re saying is  you wont get back on the clinic?” he asks, for the millionth time. “no, i don’t want to. i don’t want to get up at 545 and catch a bus in the middle of winter to go see my  dealer, the Commonwealth.” i snap. “so what, are you just gonna go on another run when you get your own money???”  (whatever happened to all that “our money” bullshit you pull when i hand over all my cash?)  “i dont wanna get strung out again, but yeah, i’d like to get high every once in a while.” i pull the covers up, its fuckin freezin in this hellhouse. “kaia, you know that you WILL get strung out again with that attitude.” he says, playing with his knife. i know he’s right, but: A. i won’t tell him that and B. i really don’t give a fuck. “so what do you want, jesse? you wanna get clean? how you gonna kick the benzo habit you got?” “detox.” “yeah fucking right, you don’t wanna stop with the pills. you already got me strung on them again, and there was no problem with that shit, what the fuck is the difference?” there is no goddamn difference. “you took the sixty dollars i made cleaning houses and made me pay you for that script of johnnies, and you doubled the PRICE!!!!” you won’t give me 40 bucks for a bag of coke, not cuz you want me to get clean, you see those dollars as pills in the hand, kid.” “i’m gonna miss the bus for the clinic.” he stands up. “better not miss that one.” i mutter, rolling over to try to go back to sleep. the door closes, and i roll over and grab this god awful machine and start looking for work. ha. that’s funny. i don’t know what jesse is thinking. being on the clinic is the furthest thing from being sober, i see it every day. that’s why i can’t go down there, i see wasted people, i need to be fuct up too. and he’s constantly on the nod cuz of the pills he mixes with it. he falls asleep smoking, eating. we ate so many pills last  night, we fell asleep at the bus station for an hour, missed 2 busses. then once we get on the bus, we fall asleep again, and have to wait at the OTHER end of the line a half hour to get home finally. and he’s clean……are you fucking kidding me? so i say, you can’t have it both ways. you can’t say your clean, and get fuct up. you can’t be fuct up in front of me and not expect me to not want to get high. you can’t push me into something i don’t want, and not expect a fight. there is no easy way out of this one, kids.  but when was this shit ever easy, right?

letters home

i put some jail letters up on my “postin up behind the wall” page. there is like 2months more to come, all the dirt’s coming out……

meet your maker

i started this draft in december 2008. i wonder what i was thinking then. i really wish i had written, but i was most likely too spun or whatever. but lets see what i feel about the phrase now.  “meet your maker” like god? like drugs? like yourself? what makes you? it’s funny, because that’s just 2 months before my cousin hung himself. do you think he met his maker? or was it his maker that drove him to that? (poor kid was strung hard, my heart still breaks every time i think of him) i guess if you are a semi-healthy person you would say your maker is your god. the creator of all things, breathing or not. recycling energy and souls like we are just one big endless spiral, spinning out, then spinning back in, meeting the center and starting the spin again. maybe that’s not what normal people think-after all. ha. but it is what i think.

but i also think of drugs as my maker, because since i was very young, they have made every decision for me small or large. “will i go to college?”  “will i go to this party?” “will i hang out with these kids or those ones?” “will i go to work, or school?”  “will i keep this appointment?” “will i go to court?” you see what i mean? even now, i do drugs every day, even if its not stickin myself, which i still do occasionally, so i suppose i’ve met one of my makers, cuz narcotics have made me who i am today. sad statement.

i like to think i’m not that bad a person. but i also compare. the people around me are homeless, living in shelters, hookers on the street, disabled people who will never be whole again, drug dealers, and clinic kids. so i’m not so bad. it’s funny, in a really sad way. okay, i’ve got a bed to sleep in, and my rent gets paid, and i’ve got clothes, and make up and jewelry (all stolen) and i have all my limbs. i’m not jumpin in and out of cars with the taste of a lubricated condom in my mouth. those are all good things. but i’m still a liar and a manipulator. i’m still selfish (what about me?????) i’m still self-serving, i’m still a little bit of a backstabber, still a thief, and still a full blooded junky, alcoholic mess that does and says completely inappropriate things at the wrong times. this is me. yes, i have met my maker.

i hope my other maker understands all that at the end of my run. i mean well, it’s just part of the game. i could choose to go through years of therapy and meetings and painful torturous memories and try to change it. but the longer i stick around, the less success i see. so i don’t know. i do my own thing with my god (goddess) and i feel like we are on good terms. i know i’m breaking rule #1 “an it harm none, do what thou wilt” and i’m harming myself. but She knows i’m trying. so i am not afraid to meet my maker at all.

i faced the drugs, and they molded me, now i have to find a way not to get thrown in the kiln. even the bible says we’re just lumps of clay. if we don’t come out right the first time, throw a little water on us and start the hell over. i heard that in a detox. ha.

so meet your maker(s) and see how you feel about it……