I ride the same bus to the methadone clinic a few times a week. At first I thought the driver was sorta cute (god I’m a sucker for boys with glasses). I tried a few polite hellos, they were met with blank stares/borderline glares. No biggie. Considering how annoying riding the bus can be, I can’t imagine driving one forty hours a week. One day advertising reps for a new energy drink were handing out free samples. I grabbed an extra one and offered it to bus driver man (It was sealed, packaged etc and I explained where I got it so as not to appear crazy.) His response was to ogle me in horror as if I were offering him a dead puppy. Again, oh well, I tried whatever more energy for me!

This brings us to today. As per my obsession with recovery books I enter the bus clutching a book entitled “Party Girl”. (Fiction but excellent. Plus Jerry Stahl, the author of “Permanent Midnight” dug it…so you don’t have to take my word for it!) Out of nowhere busdriver man points to my book cover and says, I kid you not, “I bet YOU’RE a real party girl he he. Reading up on it to get some tips?” Seriously? This is really the first thing he’s gonna say to me? It took all my strength not to respond “Nope, not me! Just on my way to the good old methadone clinic!” I mumbled something vaguely acquiescent and walked WAAAAY to the back to sit down. Then I spent my bus ride wondering what exactly a party girl is, and how on earth I look like one.


{August 19, 2011}   Things to Do

Little background: Since I started at the methadone clinic I have literally had five counselors. The first one was amazing. I still miss him. The others varied from torturous to ambivalent. One was both EXTREMELY angry and resembled a sea cow. Trust me there may be nothing more frightening than a murderous manatee with the ability to revoke my access to government drugs that prevent me from going into violent opiate withdrawls.

My new counselor, Marvin, is a pretty nice guy. However, I’ve got a few issues. First of all who the fuck is named Marvin? My pet name for him, completely appropriate although unoriginal, is Marvin the Martian. Second of all he’s got some sort of weird lazy eye/cataract issue that makes it really difficult to make eye contact. This is not a good quality for a counselor to have, as you are expected to look into their eyes and bare your soul. Thats pretty damn hard to do when you can’t make goddamn eyecontact. Thirdly, I think he’s a little slow. Again, NICE AS PIE! But how the hell can I expect someone to help me sort my life out when he needs my help to fill out simple paperwork?

That said, he suggested I make a to do list and cross things off when I feel overwhelmed. He also suggested a gangload of ridiculous ideas (Go for more bike rides by myself? I bike alone for miles EVERY DAY!!!!) So I’m feeling overwhelmed. I made a to do list. Maybe it’ll work. If not at least poor Marvin will be pleased.

{August 17, 2011}   Being Here Now

Just finished an AMAZING book by Noah Levine called Dharma Punx. It’s about a junkie/gutter punk from Santa Cruz (now why on earth would I empathize with that?) who finds himself (or salvation if you go in for all that jazz) through meditation and Buddhist practice.

I love recovery autobiographies. Actually, books, films, trashy Lifetime network movies…anything to do with someone spiraling into the hell of their own creation. My usual pattern is to read voraciously during the juicy parts-I sucked dick for crack, got stuck in my neighbor’s dog door while stealing a vcr, crashed my car with a bottle of JD in my lap and vomited on the good samaritan attempting to pull me from the flaming wreckage- you know, the good stuff. Once the book’s hero is on the road to recovery however, I schlog through the rest of the reading like it’s homework. (Fun Kate Fact #47: I almost NEVER not finish a book. I guess its one of the only areas of my life I am excellent at followthrough.)

This book was different. Drugs were never the main focus, the punk rock scene was. The feeling of homecoming you get when something is really, really right he found through music. So did I. He lost it through anger, fear, and drugs. So did I. Noah begins to use meditation and undertakes a massive spiritual quest to square his outsides with his insides- to be both a punk, and at peace. At least according to his version of events, he succeeds. I hope to follow.

“All of this is to say:wake up! Look at your own life and see what is true about yourself. Freedom is available, the trick is to stop looking out there for it and to sit down, shut up and see for yourself that your truest nature, however deeply buried or obscured, is closer to love than anythign else.” Noah Levine

That’s Elliot Smith, for those not in the know. He eviscerated himself as well, although a bit more literally than me…

After eight months of radio silence, my sister called my work today. She wants something from me. That’s standard. Never anything like money etc, cause she’s “successful”. She ignores me until she feels bad about herself- she’s like a puzzle and I’m the only one with the answers. As long as she’s whole I’m useless to her.

So once again I jump on the carousel, grasping for the brass ring that is “good enough”. I know I can’t get there. Even if I am really good enough. Even if I may be better than good enough. i will always be seen as substandard in the eyes of my mother, sister and relatives. It was that way before I took up “horse riding” and it sure as hell is that way now….

{August 11, 2011}   Somebody thinks I responsible!!!

So my boss hasn’t paid me in three weeks and I think I need to start looking for a new job.
I haven’t managed to accomplish any of this week’s goals…at all.
My brother had to break into the upstairs apartment to find the tweekers hiding in the walls and forcibly evict them. I have been verbally (first sympathetically and then violently) encpourgaing them to leave as they were unpaid as of the first.

But I met the property manager today. And MY LANDLORD TRUSTS ME!!!! I can do a lot with the trust of a good person. I may be a screw up, but if I know someone who I care about (who deserves it) depends on me, I’ll break myself to help them. The property manager thanked me profusely, has offered to pay me, and I get the opportunity to help a lady (the landlord) who gave me a chance when I had nothing. It feels so fucking good to be the repsonsible one!!! He actually told me that ” as far as he and the landlord are concerned this house is mine” They trust me THAT MUCH!
That said, as of Tuesday my boss will owe me $850 and that’s him getting away with paying me NOTHING. I sort of hope my hours do get cut so I can get a job where I get paid.

Even so not even being broke or gross porn renters or sneaky squatters can ruin my mood. *knock on wood* I’m happy and dare I say proud

knock on wood
knock on wood
knock on wood
(I really hope I didn’t jinx myself…)

{August 8, 2011}  

I should have just walked away. (a little background) I am the caretaker of our house. A week ago I went to collect rent from upstairs and they said they needed a few days. I called our sweet little old lady landlord and she said no problem. For the past few days the neighbors have been getting harder and harder to pin down. They will scoot past my room to buy from dopeman, avoiding eyecontact like they get paid to do it. And I have been getting physically sicker and sicker wondering how I am going to deal with the landlord. Haven’t kept food down in three days but, Hey? Who/s counting? I’ve been begging doepma n for minutes for my phone but inststead skank needed a new 200 flat iron (so she can job hunt lol) I shouldn’t have. Really. But I asked the dopeman for a taste. A little piece of dragon to chase the nightmres away before I h=ve to get up at six AM, shlog to the clinic and hen head to work where i call the landlord to tell her the upstairs tenants stole 1420$ from her and trashed the apartmen t. He made me beg In a room full of laughing junkies. Don’t get me wrong, I still did it. I just shouldn’t have.

Too Big
(Rubenesque if one were feeling charitable)
for invisibilty
perhaps my realm is more mundane
a bridge; driven,
ridden, walked over
daily by hundreds
Pigeon grey statue
posted over town square
dappled with refuse
avian and bottanical
tilting misguidedly
after static windmill.

p.s.I insulted the gangster ladies’in my hood’s welfare benefits when they threatened to stab Dopeman’s dog. Dopeman repaid me by expounding loudly and in depth on my stupidity with a room full of witnessess.

p.p.s. I broke my promise to visit my friend tonight. I was exhausted but in hindsight I prettymuch hate myself for not going. I really wish I hadn’t flaked, and not just cause I would have avoided conflict with the neighborhood pta.

{August 6, 2011}   MMmmmmm…Brains


Like pretty much every kid, there were days when I prayed for adulthood.  Ididn’t care about getting married, raising a family or having a career. I just didn’t want anyone to freaking tell me what to do.  EVER AGAIN.  In a way, I’ve achieved that.  My boss at the video store is pretty hands off, my roommates are never gonna yell if I don’t do my laundry or make my bed.  In esscence, I’m the boss of me.  Lately, though I’ve begun to wonder if that’s such  good thing.  I have a generalized anxiety disorder that makes it really difficult for me to leave my house-especially if I’m travelling into uncharted territory.  For the past few years my coping process has been to not do anything I don’t feel comfortable doing.  Thus my life consists of work, methadone clinic, a little hanging with the roomies and watching endless amounts of movies in my room.  Comfortable, yes.  Happy? Not exactly.  Fulfilled? No way.  So I’m going to do my damndest to step outside my safe little cave.  For starters, here is a list of things I am NOT going to flake out on this week.  You heard it here first, folks. Now hold me to it!

1. Meeting my friend Mac after work tomorrow. I don’t care how tired I am.  It doesn’t matter that he’s seven months sober and I won’t be able to grab a post work beer.  His dog just died, and he needs a friend. It’s not like he expects me to throw him a goddamn parade, just be there…and, for once, I plan to whether I feel like it or not.

2.  Check out the health realization meeting after work on Sunday.  I already called the contact lady and not only does she seem really nice but she told me it’s fine if I’m a little late (the meeting starts at six which is when my shift ends).  I really need some sort of soberish support group.  I’ve only been talking about it for three years. I think I can devote an hour of my oh so precious time to this meeting.

3.  Calling O and A.  They are customers at my work who have gone out of their way to befriend me.  They have extended numerous invitations and their house is directly on my way home from work.  When O found out I was working a twelve hour shift tonight, he stopped by with some uber dank just to brighten my day.  I like these people and would love to be friends with them.  I’m just terrible at picking up the phone.  But not this week.  I WILL call these people.  Perhaps I will even venture over to their house with a six pack of fat tire and a good attitude.  The sky’s the limit 🙂


{August 3, 2011}   Forgetting to land

According to the Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the trick to flying is a) fall and b) forget to land. Lately I’ve been excelling at column A and failing miserably at column B.  My day started with a leisurely pre-work ride to the clinic courtesy of my brother.  Dopeman and the Skank graciously allowed me to throw “their” bike in the bed of my brother’s truck, as my riding home from work at one A.M. saves them the ten dollars I usually need for a cab.  (“More money for smack-yippee!!!”  squeals Skank, jumping up and down while clapping.  Nah, not really, but she did open her eyes halfway and mumble “yeah….take the bike…baby can I get some morezzzzzzzzzzzzz…..”)  Now don’t get me wrong, as my car does not exist, my heart wells with gratuitude so strong it’s almost painful when someone is kind enough to offer me a ride.  That said, hopping in the truck with my brother after his third day of no food or sleep and lots and lots of methamphetamine is taking my life in my own (or his extremely shaky) hands.  We’re flying down the freeway, weaving in and out of those assholes who can’t be bothered to drive more than fifteen miles over the speed limit when the phone rings.  I grab the wheel, my brother starts crying and punching things and we pull over asap. Turns out his seretonin, nutrient and sleep deprived brain was not capable of both driving and processing the bad news on the other end of the phone.  So I’m stranded downtown with fifteen minutes to bike my ass to work before my ass has no work to go to.  (I’ve been in the doghouse hardocore with the boss man lately.)  Oh man.  I biked like I have never biked before; through construction, past pedestrians, hopping curbs, blowing through red lights.  I was freaking amazing!  Then,  a block away from my work, stopped at a red light, I lose my balance and fucking tip over.  Bike lands on top of me, HEAVY-ass messenger bag lands on top of bike, and I unleash a torrent of invective so vile I’m surprised the old lady nearby was  brave enough to ask if I was okay.  So yeah.  I need to learn to forget to land. Two stupid bailouts in two stupid days.  At this rate I’ll be in traction before the summer’s over.  At least I made it to work on time….

et cetera