Shit Creek




There’s not an alcoholic in the world who wants to be told what to do.
Alcoholics’ are sometimes described as egomaniacs with inferiority complexes.
Or, to be cruder, a piece of shit that the universe revolves around.
~Anthony Kiedis, Scar Tissue  



I don’t think I ever met someone without a conscious before, or so I had thought.

What if I told you I slept next to him for six years THEN I realized the conscious was absent and the heart was as black as the void of space. As vast and empty as the black hole itself.

Ask yourself why I say this…?

He, daddy – has a son, who thinks his daddy hung the stars and the moon. I think the only thing his son ever wanted, was to be consistently loved by his father.

And of course for daddy to be – sober. At least to be loved as much as his father loves drink and dope.

Every home son lived in with his father, daddy simply abandons him there – left him to his own resources so daddy could chase the only thing important to him, that high, that drunk – the dope boy on the block – and, other woman.

As the home with sons’ biological mother and father collapsed, due to dads new drinking game, “Keep doing shots until you’re divorced…” It was a series of other woman for his father to abandon him too, one after another, and another, and another.

One loss, after another, and another until, time passed so swiftly – as time seems to do. SO many years’ daddy stayed trashed – he missed his ONLY son’s ONLY youth AND that little boy became a man – with SO many scars and sources of pain… it was SO hard for me to keep up with them all.

So, I ask you this, is it no surprise that he was constructed JUST like I was and an addict too? It did not happen overnight my readers, I assure you he was built this way.

Since I am one of the houses daddy like to abandon his son too. I came to love son because God demanded that I do. I just walked him through a seventeen-day detox off of “benzos” methadone and suboxone. You want to know all I heard through those tender hours of detox from dear old dad? Money, and a whole lot of me me me me and – fuck him and fuck you.

I had to remind dads son that, “dads addictions are just as selfish and demanding…” and again, dad bailed because son would not give dad his – money, dad is far too busy with the dope boys and the crack whores or whatever always takes priority above – family.

I saw son yesterday, as fucked up as a fish sandwich… living on the streets of Bunnell, again. Because guess why…? Daddy left him standing in them – put him on the streets, essentially saying, pick a spot on the concrete – that’s your bed.

Why you ask…? Dad says son deserves it. Dad says he is done with junkies. I had to remind dad, “Wait a minute man – you and that boarding house crew have been smoking crack since FRIDAY! As a matter of fact, I JUST had the cops at your place, you just shoveled all of my shit off – to the local dope boy!”

Son showed up, again – SO fucked up we could not even let him in. As he nodded out on the concrete outside of our doors, all he would say between breathes to my daughter. “I’m going to kill myself. I can’t live like this – I want to be dead. I will cut my wrist; I will find a gun. I do not want to – live…” And he took off before we could get our hands on him again…

Guess what daddy said…? “I don’t care, he did not give ME his money. I do not give a fuck what he does ALL you fucking junkies and your pills. I do not care, guess when I wake up tomorrow he will finally be dead”. And daddy settled back down in the beer-cans he stuffed his whole life in.

So as I sit here and type praying son did not take his life and that he made it to the morning light. A very cruel life addiction can bring… Prayers my friends, and a whole lot of them. Prayers for ALL those still out there. Still hating the disease of addiction NOT the addict.



Excerpt from The Contaminated Well: Book Two OR Twin Toxic – Enjoy!



Like branches on a tree
We all grow in different directions
Yet our roots remain the same…




I think my daughters just wanted to know where they came from you know. A huge reason both Jorganna and I use, or fall back to our ever faithful addictions – is dissociation of family. And both of my girls know home, or Lima Ohio is a touchy, soft or tender subject for me… A fragile time before I was damaged. Before I moved to Bunnell Florida permanently.

I had to shake it off though, I knew what was coming… I watched them flip through the only pictures that survived my house fire in 2003. ALL saved and untouched somehow from the smoke, soot or water damage. We could not believe when we found it. I promise you my reader, we found it buried under every bit of three foot of ash…

But this one picture is the first one to catch Jorganna’s eye. She pulls it from its plastic sleeve – that still looked brand new somehow. She said looking to first me, then to her sister, “I remember him… I swear I do. Adrienne he passed over before you were born.”

Even my Adrienne could not pull her eyes away. “He is so beautiful. He looks like a force, like a force to be reckoned with…” She flipped it over and read out loud to us what it said on the back, “Every soldier that was a boxer too, had to register our hands as weapons today…”

I took it from her to see if that was correct, I had never looked at the back of this picture. But there it was, somewhere in WWII.

I told them both, “I never knew this man to have a violent bone in his body… But I will tell you what I do know… My Grandpa Niehaus was a first generation from Germany, born in this country. He was the youngest of eleven children. On his eleventh year he became his OWN man. Left the home he was born to and started working on a neighboring farm. He made his own way after that.

He came from a time when they believed, if the hands were dirty the mind was clean. There was pride in a job well done – satisfaction of an HONEST day’s wage. They knew the value of getting your hands in the earth. Generations of us gathered over them gardens he planted OR in that kitchen in my grandparents’ home – over laughter, sweat, children with chicken pox and runny noses. There were so many of us it was hard to keep up…

I pulled the picture of my grandparents’ home free from the same photo album, I said, “Remember what I published? That chapter, All Trails Lead Home…?” I laid the picture down on the table and pointed to where I left off with my written words, and pointed to the door we went in and out of in my youth.

I told them both, “As I passed through the garage to enter the house, I looked forward to the births that came after your Uncle DeWayne’s death – Tammy, Shelly, Jaylene – Robert.

“We eventually, became happy and whole; we became team players – again. Even as children we developed freedom of choice, freedom to dare, freedom to unbind ourselves from our OWN despair. The freedom to not only believe in love, but believe in all thought possible, of love. That love is profound. The very emotion of love is what moved BOTH of my Grandparents inside and out…”

Grandpa Niehaus


To read how the journey began, follow the link below.

The Contaminated Well: Book One




“Heroin was always my drug of choice. Once we learnt to pull it from codeine it started a decent for me. I still don’t like to go there in my head even to this day.

“It’s dark in that world of disease, I think I slept for a year in a hidden haze… trying to keep that animal leashed and muzzled, convincing myself in the arrogance of my addiction, that I could…

“I deserved it, heroin… no one knew the stress I was under, no one cared if I came in alive at night OR if I woke in the morning light. Just as long as I came home with… the all mighty – dollar.”


It can get JUST that sick in our world of disease…

Prayers for those still out there. Still hating the disease, not the addict.