DAMAGED

 

 

The earth knows we are here; it called us by name. She knows we are on her surface; every lesson I took happened in the hollow of her hand; and we share these lessons every night as I try to drift from this head.

My God knew what I did; I accept the facts of what I did.

I started to ask myself as I came face to face with me. Why did I survive this? I could not even add up in my head how many times I should be – dead.

I journey through my times of desperation and fact. I lie on my bed and hear the earth beneath me; you were meant to survive it… my God sends back.

My past mistakes are meant to guide me; not define who I am. Anyone can know – the point is to understand. Sooner or later you’re gonna realize just like I did. There’s a difference between knowing the path; and walking that bitch.

I learnt the hard way that I cannot always bank on people to respect me, consider my “feelings” even if I respect theirs. Being a “good person” or even a “proper criminal” doesn’t guarantee that others will be good to you.

And money? You can forget about that. There are no friends or family when it comes to money; especially their money.

You only have control over yourself and how you chose to be as a person. Science is only going to carry you so far; the rest of all that, my reader, that’s God. All things share the same breath. The beast, the tree, the man, the air shares it’s Spirit with all life it supports; and that is my Spirit.

Some hard-core facts—I don’t even like to say them—it still hurts. I have been exposed to drugs and addicts since I was three years old. Of all the education I took, addiction was the one I excelled at. Hands down I am the best junkie there is.

I got so good, that even today, everywhere I go, every picture I look at, if they are using, I can smell it. I can even smell your flavor: Opiates, Heroin, Meth, or even Cocaine.

Also, I saw everywhere I looked, a whole society of my own people not giving a shit.

How am I going to man the borders of my sobriety? How am I going to man the borders of myself? I had no clue who self was; I knew I had survived.

Socrates said it best! “Wonder is the beginning of wisdom.” I mean, could it really be me that was the problem? And I needed to take the time to listen; to do it in the right state of mind.

Understand early that the act of forgiveness rarely has anything to do with the other person and everything to do with you. Forgive yourself. Forgive your people. Grieve daily if you have to. It’s okay, I do it all the time. Just let go. It’s not a sign of weakness; some might say it’s weakness leaving your body.

I also want you to remember, Buddha was not a Buddhist. Jesus was not Christian. Muhammad was not Muslin. They were teachers who taught love. Love was their religion.

I was angry, I had hate. And I came up on angry people who hated me. I will tell you the words of Chief Red Eagle: “Angry people want you to see how powerful they are. Loving people want you to see how powerful you are.” You pay acute attention to those types of people, because what you allow will continue.

The hating of yourself for what you did; anger in what you had to do. What you saw – how you got through. Pain is part of that journey. It gets better with time. Taking a season or seasons of self-reflection is a journey worth taking–you are worth it. Stay out of your comfort zone–nothing good for you comes from there.

What I do today may not be text-book guide for recovery. But this is my recovery, and in my recovery, I found a new calling. Some might even call this kind of calling, higher. What I did, was I decided that I personally would change my people, places and things… I helped create them, didn’t I?

The things you become passionate about are not random, they are your calling; I’d rather be freak then fake any day of the week – I’m use to it at this point.

 

 

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Welcome to Hell

WELCOME TO HELL

Welcome to Hell the sign should’ve read – we are reaching your destination-all in your head! Last call for the train heading to ‘Nowhere Fast’ the memories you create will, forever last. You want to buy a ticket? What’s the cost you ask…? Just hop on board, we will talk once your trashed.

In the meantime, close your eyes and picture something, grand. No peeping! And trust me, give me your hand. To the beach with water and the sun shining down. Open your eyes now, no beach here, baby you are, hell bound. Of course, there’s water! But it’s for your rig and spoon. Lil’ girl, don’t be afraid, fourteen-years-old is not too soon. The men don’t bite, but you’ll be messed up unbelievably for life. When you do pass out, not remembering, trust me on this; it will be the only bliss you will ever experience.

Ashamed to face Mommy? Oh, that is right you, “got to have that coke.” Shooting dope every day, a girl with dreams lost ALL hope.

I will have you know; I laugh at you as you toss your life to the four winds. Too far gone now baby – it’s us till’ the end. I’ll be there when you lose your pride. When your moral fiber of your being slowly unravels. I will be right at your side. I will watch you cheat and steal to have that, fix. You won’t even take your baby to the doctor although she’s, sick? Getting a pill definitely is number one on the ‘to do’ list. Oops! Another appointment baby missed OR Nana or Social/Community Services buys diapers and food because Mommy – stays trashed. Of course, Daddy hits Mommy and ALL the children cry. After years of this happiness the kids ‘got took’ because mommy is a junkie and fast becoming a crook.

You’ll land in jail; a drug addict YOU will remain because guess where I am now? Addiction lives with your instincts in the brain, the same part of the brain that tells you to breathe. So, once you realize that, your heart turns cold as you play the game.

Do not pass go- strip your dignity right here, this old man wants you, so, dry your tears. Quote a price? Self-respect long forgotten? Remember girl, you sold your soul to the devil for an, Oxycontin.

I told you the destination is in your head! Welcome to Hell, next stop, you will be dead. I told you that I’d stick it out till’ the end. I mean really, how could I not? Look what you have done for me… you traded your dreams and kids.

Your forever friend for life,

Your Addiction

Bush Beer and Cocaine

Because He Loves His Cocktails of Bush Beer and Cocaine.

 

THE POINT 2016

I can see it in his eyes when he comes creeping in. He’s been somewhere he promised me he’d never go again.

He thinks that I won’t know it. He thinks that I can’t tell. But he forgets how many times he’s put me through this hell.

The deceit is never-ending. The betrayal and his lies. How can he even sit there and look me in the eyes?

I’ve cried so many tears. I felt all alone. Even if he’s sitting right beside me, he’s not really home. These drug have taken over him. It’s eating up his soul. It’s made his heart so ugly. Black, like a piece of coal.

I try to stand beside him. I try to give him love. I beg him to love me more than it, but I’m not good enough.

This burden is so heavy; I cannot tell my friends. I pray to God to help him. I pray it someday ends.

Please God hear me praying. Please God help him soon. He has a son, who thinks his daddy hung the moon. I think it would be sad, if a son as great as him has to grow up without a dad. Because his daddy is slowly dying. Killing himself, without a care. I wish that he could understand that this just isn’t fair.

I have no happiness anymore. It’s killing me as well. We always fight. We never laugh. We only scream and yell.

This is our lives he’s tearing apart. To him its only fun and games. It’s destroyed our family and killed our love. Because he loves his cocktails made of Bush Beer and Cocaine.

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Shit Creek

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Bunnell Florida is not the earth my father recognizes anymore – he was born on his mama’s kitchen table right out in Espanola. The very same earth I traveled all day yesterday with my cousin Carolyn.

By the time my daddy was a toddler, they lived above the train-station. For those that don’t know it, that’s where ‘Habitat for Humanity’ sits on the edge of the train tracks after you cross US1 traveling 100 to the sticks.

MY father is a good, just, righteous man – and my brother, also born and raised here took these SAME lessons from THIS land. Although our daddy is aging, we use to gather around in all eagerness to listen to his stories of being – a child of Bunnell.

Those stories have left imprints on us to carry through – generations. Daddy does not recognize the earth; the way of the people on those city blocks he was raised. Times changed, people evolved away… many of us stayed and still see Bunnell through his image of words.

My cousins will tell you some of the most beautiful stories of their time spent in Bunnell. I was privileged enough to walk in safety and love among many of them. In my childhood, Bunnell was still somewhat wholesome. But then again – most of my cousins are not addicts like I am.

True, I will give you this, in Bunnell it started with moonshine, and everyone knows my Granddaddy manufactured and fed our area… So, in my brain the show started early in my youthful years. Drinking started consuming Bunnell people, including my grandfather.

My family got to witness me, experience a whole new birth to the streets of Bunnell, I like to call it ‘The Dope Show’ drugs are taking our people, right along with the drink too. So I started thinking about that one-hundred-year-old house, the very same one I found my addict friend in Saturday. So I came home and asked my daddy ALL about that one old house.

He knew exactly what house I was talking about! He told me of a black family he knew that built it and in the times they were living in – that was quite the accomplishment. He told me it was a lifestyle choice to be honest and humble. My daddy smiled the whole time he went on about the pride and the labor, the hours of work it took for that man to provide that gem of a home with love to his, wife and family.

Then my daddy asked me, “Why you asking about that house anyway Shonda Renee’…”

I said, “Oh Lord daddy, you ain’t gonna like hearing this…” I did not even want to look my own daddy in the eye, I just did not want to see that happy drain from his face – he was in a good place ya know. But he had already asked, so, I told him.

What made our hearts even heavier as we sat and talked it out? What happened to Bunnell and its people. Why the fuck are we not taking our streets back? Why are we not taking our people – back? Why aren’t we in the trenches fighting the ‘good’ fight? Or have we just decided to leave generations behind?

When did it become ‘okay’ to support a person who has lost it all to drink or dope? And they, ‘friends’ continue to feed that with more drink, and more dope. THEN as if that was not dark enough, they would feed it to our children.

They would give it to me or my daughter if they thought we would become a tool in the mechanism of dope again. They will give anything to see one junkie strung out ‘really good’ again. They will feed our darkness with chemicals and never release us from those city blocks. They will feed us until we are dead, and take whatever we got left. You know what the dope boys will do then? Step over our bodies and walk away. Find more addicts – and repeat. Why do I know this…? Because Bunnell City blocks had me – once.

I wonder if the ancestors that are tied to that one-hundred-year-old house look down on that block and see what their own children are taking part of. Dope boys and crack whores running in and out their doors. Would their ancestors stand on that porch and let their chest be swollen with pride if they saw all those years work of their family and lives shuffled to the local dope boy to enjoy. To that life of annihilation and devastation and disease – served up and readied on the backs of addicts.

AND as if taking one family members able body and what they provided to their family was NOT enough – I will have you know, an addict and the dope boys drags the whole of a family along with them. They enjoy our cash that is stolen, or the food stamps meant to feed hungry children. All those precious family heirlooms that were passed down for – generations. An addict feels desperate and the dope boys feel entitled.

I think I should let MY truth flow down all those soiled roads. A river of tears and the worst kind of deceit stirred like a cocktail with what’s real.

Why you ask…? I just don’t know sometimes Flagler County – I don’t think you have had a proper introduction to OR an official welcome to what I now call – shit creek.

It couldn’t be more than a two-mile compass in any one direction. Although I have waded out of shit creek and took my children with me – I sincerely think I should journey back so you can see it through my eyes, our eyes.

And it is incredibly important to me that you not just hear the message of disease. You hear the message of some of the most beautiful creatures I have ever know resting on or raised on the banks of the area of shit creek. Like this little girl I watched grow up there – her name is Lina.

I want to tell you about the children who witness what their parents and people were taking part of – I want you to hear it ALL as I scream from my key-board every reason this ‘junkie trippin’ OR typing, turned my life around. And every reason we as citizens should be taking our streets back.

This earth does not belong to you my friend – we are borrowing it from our grandchildren. This is not the earth my father and brothers knew, this is not the earth my cousins and I played upon – this cannot be the vison for what we are leaving our children.

I tell you right now shit creek, I ain’t fucking having it.

I discussed with my editor last week – about a live blog flow – short stories, things I would share with you because I do not want your cash currency, I want your moral and ethical coins. AND all my cousins write (a strange weirdness to my life) and we think we have something to say.

If I had to tell you a truth with my daughters and family present. Hymon Circle in Bunnell would be the PERFECT spot to share with you the public – an addicts’ nightmare.

Dr Martin Luther King had a vision, a GREAT man to behold. If time travel were possible HIS time would be one of the first I would go. So as I gather around my keyboard to write this week, let’s talk about what we are looking at now, as we travel the street in his name through Bunnell. We will make a left on Hymon Circle and I will take you straight to the – trap. Those of us in the ‘Dope Show’ we call this ‘Cocaine Alley’.

So before you get your panties all wad’ish-like, ask me why I agreed to do it. In hope to release a darkness from my streets and also take part of freeing addicts.

With that being said – if the streets of Bunnell have one of your loved ones. We will tell your story – reach out to us. I say let’s ‘out’ them with ALL of our truths. How else would the public possibly understand it? How else are we going to turn it around? TALK ABOUT IT – WRITE YOUR STORY!

I am off this key-board for a minute – clearly I will soon be writing. AND you all also know, I lost an addict back to their disease of addictions down in ‘Cocaine Alley’ Saturday – so, again I ask for prayer – prayers for those still out there, still hating the disease – not the addict.

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Shit Creek

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Two people whose sobriety I wanted to care about – used. (If not a few more times they don’t want to admit to me yet…) Of course ‘I get it’ I want to get high too, but I play that scene out in my head ya know – it gets my brain shook, my money took, and my name in the undertakers’ book.

That’s a one-way ride for this girl and please remember, my love for any addict will never be ‘enough’ to keep anyone ‘sober’. Its their love for themselves that you want to pull them through – and sometimes there is just no love left, only the love of using.

My daughter said it perfectly the other day, she had worked too hard and come too far to turn back now. I let her words and the images of the faces that surround me in my home roll through me when I backed out of my parking space here at The Point. I rode straight down 100 and right into shit creek.

The other words my daughter whispered came into my brain, Spiritual Warfare, I had never heard it before that day last week. While I was sitting at the stop light where 100 meets up with US 1, I could not help but think THAT is what I am looking at. I let that cold chill wash over me with the thoughts of my mama, she might have been right, maybe the earth here the energy she carried along her surface was not right.

I knew I was right thought, I knew where I would find this addict I was looking for – I knew where the chemicals are kept to re-rock some coke or maybe make some meth. I know Hymon Circle in Bunnell and that is one cherry I will gladly pop in the name of an addict – who can’t seem to stop.

I pulled up to that one-hundred-year-old house. It felt like deja vu – except in reverse. It is so obvious; I am just not the person I was before AND no introductions were necessary, they ALL knew who I was.

All I heard echoing out of the house is glass, like Pyrex-dishes being pushed around and the shuffle of feet scuffling to find a safe or known path. Then finally, my addict friend stepped from the complete darkness behind that badly neglected, paint chipped, crooked frame… and willed himself through the door. I saw he was – scared. Not of me, of what he was doing. Like a child would be doing, he was hiding his face, trying to look away from it, like it really is not him that is there smoking and drinking or even making that shit.

ALL of his rationalization skills gone as he stood in that yard… they went straight out the window the minute he ingested whatever drug of choice was chosen. He did not know what way to go, what way to look – what direction or route to walk. He could not make a coherent decision – not one.

His body once beautiful before, but as he stood in that yard, he looked older than his age of fifty-five. His bone structure is changing; he does not move so fluently these days. His skin is as grey as his aged eyes and hair. And his soul is just – gone. Piece by piece of this once great man, stuffed in a beer can or brillo-laced glass pipe, or the ever faithful, lithium based psychos of a light bulb full of – meth.

I told him to go home, wave good-bye to his friends. He did literally, wave and say good-bye. He could not hide his face fast enough though, he wanted out of my sights. He hit the block peddling with everything he had left… I followed him to his house. AND gratefully prayed a prayer of thanks that it is NOT a hive of junkies that consume the boarding house he currently lives in this week.

Idol hands are a junkies’ nightmare, so in my recovery, I draw A LOT – I had left my drawing tablet and pencils there the other day while he was doing laundry and I had visited. THAT day he was healthy and happy – reaching fully into his future. But that was then, and this is now.

His demons had wanted to come out and play and they were running up and down his skin. The words became ugly, vile and harsh because sometime the ugly truth of what this addict does can do that.

I reminded him as we gathered in his space – of this girls’ story of how I stopped touching things that would eventually destroy me.