Its always so hard and emotionally sensitive, saying goodbye to my only biological child. It has made many things that were easily taken for granted grow too difficult to deal with. The simplest of Life’s treasures and everyday, “little things” now seem decadent and wrong to enjoy. When your grown-up daughter has seemingly CHOSEN homelessness and the chaos that unfailingly attaches to such a lifestyle, the colors of the pages telling the story that’s your life dulls down a few shades. After getting married, I went back to get Boo and bring her with me to Arizona. She came willingly, at first. But, convincing her that she wasn’t leaving anything or ANYONE noteworthy behind was a different story; and proved too be impossible in the end. Boo ended up breaking every agreement we had in terms of house rules etc. She eventually got hotwired my car and attempted to steal it. Luckily, it wouldn’t go anywhere after being hotwired, so I got to keep my car, unharmed for the most part. She stole my purse, credit cards, emptied out my change jar in secret, and basically brought nothing remotely positive to the table. She wound up going back to San Jose to live in poverty and poor health. It hurt me deeply but I had to let her go. I’ve been with her for 2 weeks and am heading back to AZ today. It is very hard leaving her behind in the conditions she’s living in. Its difficult not to be eaten alive by guilt for having a warm bed to sleep in at night, to be honest.

Big One-Eight.


The day that lands on May thirteenth,

will be a very memorable one, indeed:

after all these years of waiting separately,

my little girl finally turns the ‘big eighteen’;

The anticipation that grinds behind her release,

is stuff that’s enough for the death of Yours Truly,

my heart pumps to keep up with the thumping beat,

but it’s barely enough to keep my blood flowing freely;

Her entire life, we’ve talked about its eventuality:

silly things she and I would do on this day, specifically:

create the biggest ruckus seen in recent local history,

roll around with the windows down in a rented limousine;

We’ve joked about obnoxious face paint we’d be wearing,

the gaudy jewelry that I brought to her from New Orleans,

spend hours doing nothing but her very favorite things,

truth is: I won’t even get to see her – and that’s our reality;

She will take her newly granted wish of finally being free,

and run with it as far and quickly in a direction away from me,

it might be years until I see her face again, if I’m so lucky,

her lack of any self-esteem or worth keeps her far, historically;

My little girl exists within a place that she can only be,

the pages of the Missing Persons reports, filed repeatedly,

the hours between the sunset and the next day’s dawning:

she’s in there somewhere trying to find any kind of meaning;

This day has long been a source of a most primal fear in me,

the burdens carried so long will either hold or break clean,

from the chains that have rusted around them quite solidly,

the very last of my chances to find the daughter that I seek.

Half of the Purple Pill

I took the pills. I needed to get some real sleep for a change. Sleeping pills have never been something I’ve been into, so the thought of popping a pill and being able to feel that tender yanking on my senses into slumber land has become intriguing lately, given the total lack of my only child’s whereabouts.

It’s hard to sleep under my current circumstances; and when I am able to drift off into the lair of my waking enemy, my visits are short-lived and bitterly laced with mental snapshots I’ve blocked out in the conscious moments during daylight.

To the mind of a non-practicing heroin addict, the inability to become truly sleepy is something akin to a foreign concept; because back when I was a practicing addict, the tried and true escapism, the accepted and sought after realm of the “Netherworlds”, known as sleep and slumber – shit, unconsciousness, for that matter – never managed to evade my habitual calls upon them. Incidentally, when I was strung-out on heroin, my existence (or lack, thereof) was in reverse from today in this respect: it used to be extremely and notoriously difficult to wake me up. I once slept through the first two days of broken jaw (the first and MOST painful of my broken jawbones). Thinking back, I can hardly even believe that was me – in any aspect of the situation, wow…

The pill – an anti-anxiety tablet from a zip-lock baggie my Shawnee Mommy forcefully punched into my fifth pocket the other day. This is my mother’s version of packing me my lunch before sending me on my way out into the big bad world, something she never got around to doing when an actual mom-made-packed-lunch might have made a difference somehow. The baggie was like a favor bag leftover from a Keith Richards & Stevie Nicks slumber party: Clonazepam, Seroquel, Alprazolam, Hydroxyzine, Trazodone, Valium, and of course my all-time favorite in plentiful amounts: Xanax.

I went with half of a Hydroxyzine; I just wanted to drift off to sleep for a change, I swear…

Within 45 minutes of popping the bitter, purple half-moon, I was clicking through photos from a long-ago burned CD-R filled with the lives of me and my only child – from her beloved infancy and toddlerhood all the way up to a few ugly years ago.

 It was during this time that the guilt reared its familiarly hideous head out of the CD-R, and commenced to swallowing me whole. I could no longer even see the images on the screen; a foggy, tear-embedded haze had redesigned the room and everything in it. Despite eating the half-pill that supposedly helps with anxiety and is praised by my most high-strung of acquaintances, my heart was thumping so painfully in my chest that I got angry. Yeah…get mad dumbass – get that adrenaline in on this too, that’ll help a lot.

My emotions affected by seeing my daughter’s little baby face at age 6 months or one year old – her wild bright blonde hair all over the place, her hauntingly unchanged green-brown doe eyes, her O-shaped little mouth – her innocence and promise and chances in life seemingly hovering over her in each photo I looked at – were absolutely consuming in every nano-ounce of my being.  Anyway, I learned last night, that sleeping pills aren’t my answer to the perpetually perplexing equation at of my life, either. I guess my backyard MacGyver laboratory lives on nocturnally, for now. DISCLAIMER: I don’t really have a laboratory and I don’t really make bombs, it’s totally symbolic when I make these remarks on my blog. I’d be lying if I said that the thought of slapping one into my camel pack instead of the water pouch and paying a visit to my daughter’s case worker over at the Department‘s Headquarters isn’t a daily fantasy of mine. I have truly become a hateful and calculating individual – a coiled up mother snake just waiting for my moment to strike, and strike lethally. I have enabled this through my PTSD and its overall grip on my concept of everything.

I have times when the reality that I have put upon my daughter is too much to bear for me; too much to accept, to swallow down and move on. I’m having one of those times today, likely due to the drug-induced guiltfest that I threw for myself last night in the attempt to get some sleep for a change.

Another. Lesson. Learned.