Little Orange Pills.

I shake the prescription bottle, the little orange pills clang around in the neon yellow plastic holder. The sound of it gives me relief, and even though the feeling leaves me a little embarrassed, I’m actually really glad I found a doctor who is finally listening to me.

The sun is shining through my bedroom window, and it’s pretty because the fall leaves give this burst of color against the blue sky, sometimes with this stark contrast, other times more gentle, and during the sunset there are times the layering of colors are almost seamless and I love it. I think of God when I look at things like that, taking out those quiet moments to pay attention to something with intention, with warmth. I think of God when I look at a lot of things in that way, but along side this gentle rush of joy, my heart is sick and filled with anxiety. Just like it has been every morning, for the last three years.

Back to the neon yellow prescription bottle, still sitting in my hand.If you turn it to the left, the label reads clonazepam.

Klonopin. My new best friend.

How many are left? Twenty or so. A sigh escapes my lips, as I fill the glass with cool water, and drop one of the tablets into my mouth, swallowing it down hard and fast with a deep breath. Leaning up against the bathroom counter, the pill sliding down my throat and landing in the base of my stomach as I stare myself in the eye. Most days, I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me. She’s pale. Her skin is dry, and the eyes are heavy from the med’s, sleepless nights, and let’s face it, the pain. I’m embarrassed, ashamed and I miss the woman I once was. It’s been over ten years since I took anything for my panic disorder, and if you asked me three years ago, if this is where I’d be, I’d laugh.

I’ve learned to be a little less judgemental since then.

Let me just say, I didn’t wake up this morning thinking to myself, ” I can’t wait to share my weaknesses! yay!” Not at all, I actually hate this right now, my heart is rebellious, I’m angry at my feelings and I want to slam this laptop closed, and go lose myself in my art work, but I made you a promise. I promised I would share it all, and these fragile and unsteady days are the hardest to write. Because it’s not just the fucked up story, this is me, exposing the lies I tell everyday. The little ones, that are so damn big, like… “I’m good, how are you?” or “I’m fine.” The small lies, that eat you up inside, chewing away at your heart, because after a while, that’s all you’re really saying, and in the end no one knows the truth.

This is me, saying, yeah I’m a mess a lot lately, and that’s just not something most people feel very good about admitting. At least not continuously. They may for a moment, to someone they trust, but it’s certainly not looked up upon in our society to admit the wallowing.To recognize, the coming apart at the seams and how after tragedy, it can take years to heal. People just don’t go around talking about it like that, it’s just too unbecoming to be honest about the despair. Society, even our friends, family, television and sadly even the church at times, urge us to hurry up and move on. To find the light of day, be positive and find the strength to rebuild. And as much as I agree with that, I also feel strongly, that before that can truly happen, we all need and deserve the time it takes, and it’s different for each of us, to process. To become aware of oneself, and internally work out what we’ve been through, whatever that may be. But, because it’s not considered attractive in any sense, to lurch around in one’s own suffering, many of us are left alone to do this. For many reasons. And because of these shitty reasons (fear of judgement, shame, crappy morals from a dysfunctional upbringing, religious reasons, anxiety, the fear of appearing weak and the list goes on…) it can take a really long time to reconcile within. It’s like, we’re allowed to stumble, but we’re not allowed to fall. And if we fall, we’re pressured to climb back up, as fast as we can, screaming love in the face of adversity, revived, hopeful and running toward a future that is waiting with open arms. But here’s the thing….

As I lean up against that bathroom counter, taking deep slow breaths and waiting patiently for the medicine to work…I’m still frightened of my future, of what it holds, just as much as I have hope for it. The hope and the fear are equal parts. And even though, I pray often and keep an open communication with God, I still hurt.

I still hurt, and that’s okay.

I guess what I’m saying is, give yourself, and the people you love, the freedom to be in pain, let them hurt. Give yourself, and others the time they need, to process. Of course it’s important to edify, to speak life and to support someone. But, there’s something to be said, about patient silence. Just sitting with someone. If your words are needed, you’ll feel it. Prayer, is prayer for a reason, and one of the beautiful things about it, is if someone isn’t ready to do it WITH you, you can totally do it behind their back. Choose to meet them where they are, and put down your own agenda. We can be SO selfish with our agenda’s can’t we? and they can really hurt those closest to us. Don’t be the kind of person that your friends or family cross of their list, when they’re in crisis. And don’t be territorial with your support in their life, that’s messy, gross and unbecoming. And nothing like a friend, in the way God intended friendship to be. In the way love intended friendship to be. So, with that being said…

I still hurt. I still cry at least once a day, but I laugh too, and I’m not ready to run screaming in the face of adversity yet, I’m tired, and I want to take my little orange pills, talk and write my story, and create things, paint, draw and eat. Rest and sleep. Pray and go for walks. Learn how to live once more, before I get all up in life’s face again.

Ernest Hemingway says beautiful things that I really like, so here’s one that made me smile.

“Forget your personal tragedy.We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously.But when you get the damned hurt, use it-don’t cheat with it.” ~Ernest Hemingway

God bless each of you, on your own personal journeys..brothers and sisters xo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Clear Up Some Things…

Hey guys,

Before I write my next post, I would like to clear up some confusions that may be out there, about who it was exactly, in my family, that initiated the kind of abuse I have been writing about. I realize, not everyone has read each and every one of my posts, and because of that, I’d like to set the record straight here for a moment.

My mother was adopted, at the age of four years old, to two people I love very much. My grandmother and grandfather, who in their forties could not conceive on their own, and because of that, looked into adoption. The little girl they fell in love with, was my mother. My mother, who had come from a very cruel and painful upbringing, until she and her other siblings were removed from the home by the child care system. The person responsible for that merciless and heartless experience, is the woman, I’ve been referring to as Granny.

What many people who have been adopted, at some point in their teens or early twenties often do, is choose to search for their blood family, and my mother was no different. So at the age of seventeen, from what I’m told, and perhaps even already pregnant with me, she went searching. And, she found them. And this, this is how I came to be involved with “the Kings”. With Granny, and the people who we’re unfortunate enough to have known her as family. Myself included.

I won’t go into detail, at this time, toward future events, that’s what my blog is for. But, it was very important to me, to make it clear, that the family many of you know me to be from, had nothing to do with this. Not the grandparents that adopted my Mom, Not my Dad, not my step-mother (of whom I call Mom, and that will never change, because she is my Mom and always will be.) Not anyone outside the very tight circle of evil, that lived beyond those walls, and that front door.

And remember, I didn’t know until the memories began to surface, two years ago. Not that, something awful and dark hadn’t haunted me my entire life, because it had, but I couldn’t validate, or verify anything, until those memories came. If you’d like to read the post I wrote about that experience, you can here ~

https://thisbeatingheart.wordpress.com/2012/04/25/repressed/

Anyhow, all this needed to be said. And now I’ve said it. It is very important to me, that my family be respected during this time, as you can imagine how difficult it must be, to not only read these posts, but to be learning about all of it at the same time I am. And doing their best to support me, in the ways they know how. So please, if you must ask questions, ask me. If you feel curious, message me. I am available to respond, and because this has been my choice, and my personal and public journey, I ask that you do.

So, before I move on, to writing my next post, I like to offer another thank you, to all the wonderful people out there praying for me, and supporting me. Your love goes the distance, and each of you, in your own way, are making the difference, I’ve been fighting for. To get the story out of me, and into the world where it belongs. So, God can use it as He see’s fit. From me, to you, and back into His Hands. Piece by piece, in love.

Blessings brother and sisters, and to my Canadian friends, have an absolutely beautiful and gratitude filled Thanksgiving.

All my love,

Angie

 

Meet Granny.

“You little bitch. You stupid little bitch. Get the fuck in the house. You know where I want you. You get your lying little ass to the table! And don’t you MOVE until I get there.” The weight of her hand on my shoulder, squeezing so hard I can feel her fake nails digging into my skin through my sweater, and it hurts. “You better get your fucking ass moving.”  The voice was solid and commanding, like a drone reverberating over iron. 

Like a long, cold, hiss… loaded with threat. Sending shivers up my little spine, and my small body would freeze up. 

It was coming, and there was nothing I could do to stop itThe helplessness of a child lost in a hideous and malicious adult playing field. Abandoned. 

I could hear her voice, even before we knocked on the door. That all too familiar shrill, the undertone of her raspy growl, all those  years of smoking pack after pack, of cigarettes. The voice, that I’m embarrassed to admit, still finds me in my sleep, and I wake up crying in a daze of a familiar hell.

           Trigger Warning : In this post I will diving into a very dark part of my past, and begin sharing my experience of satanic ritual abuse. I would like to take a moment and gently remind you that some of things you’ll be reading can be very powerful and deeply disturbing, to some.  Due to the nature of this post, and the ones following it, please be aware that if you yourself, are a survivor of abuse, in any form, reading my story may have the ability to create “triggers” which can lead to“flashbacks”. Flashbacks are defined as “a sudden and disturbing vivid memory of an event in the past, typically as the result of psychological, spiritual or physical trauma.” Flashbacks have a been a part of my life for a long time, and I understand just how debilitating they can be, and so for that reason, I ask that you proceed with caution, if you feel that a trigger is imminent, due to the nature of my story. With that being said, moving on…

Even though I was only four years old, I can still remember the walk up that drive way. The weather’s always damp and cold in my memory, the kind of weather that gets stuck in your bones, that chill you get over the surface of your skin, when it’s been raining all day, and you find yourself shivering for hours, unable to get warm. Maybe, some kind of fore boding added in my kiddo mind, because I know for certain, I visited that house many times and in all the different seasons we’re so blessed to have here in Canada. Anyways, it wasn’t the normal things you’d remember, not the flowers or bushes that I’m sure she had lining the walkway, nor the dog barking or any other normal perspective one would have as they are about to enter one’s house. Especially a family home. A place most people would feel safe. What I remember, is the feeling. The sudden anxiety that I had done something wrong. That heavy feeling, that kids can understand, that you get right before you get in trouble. Except, with Granny, I was never sure what I had done. Only this pit in my stomach, the fear coming in panicked waves, and this uncertainty of myself. This abrupt self-consciousness and harsh self examination. I wasn’t good enough to be here. I wasn’t good enough. My head hung low, the palms of my four year old hands are sweaty as I reach towards my mother’s. Her long red fingernails, and how tall she seemed to me then, all four foot eleven of her.

The knock on the door. My tummy in knots. The little heart beating faster. 

If my Mom was the one dropping me off, Granny made sure to be herself, no holding back. No smile, no nonsense. Right to business. I can’t really remember what she was like with any of my other family. The ones who never knew. She could of been a bouquet of stinking plastic roses for all I know, because I can’t remember one good thing about that woman. Who’s still alive by the way, both her daughters die of cancer before the age of fifty, but not her. After smoking a pack a day all her life, being one evil bitch, and contracting blood poisoning in her 80’s, you’d think the broad would croak already. But no. Go figure. Anyways. 

And so the front door would open, and there she’d be, standing there in her sheer robe, and I mean sheer robe, nipples exposed and everything else you wouldn’t dream of seeing on your Grandmother. Cigarette in hand, a scoff dripping from her tight lipped mouth. Disgusted with us. Her short hair and lanky body, bending to support the hand on her hip, peering at us through the slits of her suspicious eyes.

“Get the fuck in the house.” And immediately, as she walked in with obedience, my Mom would let go of my hand. The vibe changing instantly, and I knew why. And I also knew, I was alone now. Mommy was no longer my Mommy, not here anyways. Everyone belonged to Granny, even her, and that role trumped me, her daughter, every time. And so, I’d take off my little pink rain boots, the blond hair falling over my eyes, those super blunt 80’s bangs. And even in her hate for me, I wanted to hug Granny, and even though I knew better, I had tried a few times before. Only to be met with a rigid body, severe backlash and a hard,

“Don’t fucking touch me, you lying little bitch.”

So, it didn’t take long for me to let go of the hugs I would never receive, unless someone “who didn’t know” was watching. And I got used to the “table” routine. The same talk we had every time I visited. Within five minutes of that front door opening, that’s where I’d be sitting, waiting. Waiting for her to come meet me there, and take the worst verbal beating I’ve experienced. Over and over, and over again. Most of the time, the berating would take so long, I’d have to go pee. Only a couple times, did I ever ask to go. Because she would never let me. She would force me to hold it in, she took pleasure in watching me squirm and fuss, and if I had an accident, it was bad news. But we’ll talk about that another time. And so came the words, and the prays of spit. The yelling, the screaming. Her face lunged into mine, and the hate that came with it. Often, her words would end with her jabbing her fingernail into my shoulder, going something along the lines of this-

“You stupid, finger jab, fucking little bitch.”  Finger jab, then a loud sigh.“You know, if your father knew what a little cunt you were, he’d leave you for good. Finger jab. You’re lucky to have us, you know. Because I bet you spent the last two weeks playing your little lying games, and making everyone believe what a good little girl you are. Finger jab. But I know the truth, we all know the truth about you. You’re just a worthless piece of shit. You mean nothing. Look at you, finger jab, you’re just an ugly, lying little thief. Finger jab. And don’t even get me started on how you manipulate everyone around you, trying to make us think you’ve changed. You’ll never change, finger jab, you’ll always just be the stupid little lying bitch you are. Finger jab. Don’t you ever forget it.” And at four years old, I would sit there silently, soaking up every word, and believing them. Responding internally, with that childlike acceptance every little one has in their heart. To secure the truth in their mind when they hear it. And Grandma’s don’t lie. Daddy’s don’t lie. Mommy’s don’t lie. Right?

And so, she would go on in this way for hours, and sometimes I peed my pants, sometimes I didn’t. And when I didn’t it was a blessing. Running to the bathroom, holding the crotch of my pants and hitting the toilet with a kind of victory that’s hard to explain. This happened to me for years, along with the sexual, ritualistic and satanic abuse.  So, to the one’s who have walked with me throughout my life, for the ones curious about why I’ve been driven to hate myself all these years…

Well…

I was trained to.

 

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places…”~ Ernest Hemmingway

 

 

 

 

Concrete Staircase.

Again, this is an older post. I’m still doing my best to get the ones who wish to be, caught up before I continue my story on Saturday…enjoy!!!

~On Your Own Kid.~

I’ve always had this unspoken rule. Don’t make friends with people in your apartment building. If you live in a nice building, with condo fees and a manicured lawn, the rule doesn’t apply. Being that most of your neighbours would kindly give you a cup of sugar, and unlikely rob your house. It’s plainly obvious that the Y, was not such a building, far from it. Instead of a lawn, there’s a concrete staircase, littered with smokers and drug dealers, and pan handlers.  Instead of sugar, your neighbour kicks down your door at three in the morning, drunk and high, looking for his girlfriend, and screaming some bullshit about how you stole his cocaine. Just an example.

Like I said, I did try and stay away as much as possible. Even going to N.A meetings a few times a week with a friend. Anything to keep me from sitting in the quiet confines of my room. He would pull up in his car, Wu-Tang blasting out of the speakers, and we would drive over to the community centre down the street. The same community center my Mom would take me too on weekends as a kid. When we would go to her A.A/N.A meetings. Three times a weekend, like clock work. I knew a lot of the people there  because of those weekends. It’s kind of like a family reunion, where you get those strangers who tell you they knew you when you ‘this big’. Except it’s peppered with a kind of awkward shame. “Hi, I’m an addict.” Fiddling with your hands, trying not to look them in the eye. Finding a seat somewhere in the far back.

At the time, I didn’t even know if I was an addict. I just wanted to be somewhere that afforded me the luxury of safety.

The meeting would wrap up, and we would all go out to the coffee shop to sit outside, smoke cigarettes and talk. Honestly, the entire time I was there, at the coffee shop, I dreaded having to leave. I never wanted to go back to that building. Everything scared me. The drug dealers on the front steps. The drunk native man who tried to grab my ankles when I walked by, just trying to get inside the building. Cursing and spitting hate at me. The man overdosing on heroin in the lobby, surrounded by paramedics. The foul smelling elevator that brings me up to the sixth floor. Those hospital like white walls leading me back to my room. The quiet inside of it. Leaving me with nothing but my thoughts, or my fear of them. So, there. I never wanted that time to end, the laughing, the company. The safety of it. The warmth. I wanted that cup of coffee to last hours and my ride home to never come. The drive home was worse then actually leaving. Hiding your tears, and staying strong is hard. Looking out the car window, feeling more lonely than you ever have in your life. Doing everything in your power to push away those tears, the ones about to cascade down your weary face. Wanting more than anything, to turn to the person next to you and just scream. Scream how scared you are, how you don’t want to do this. For someone to take you home to your Mom and Dad and end this damn thing. You can’t. There’s no point, this is where your at, and nothing is going change that. Except of course, yourself. But, you’re sixteen and have nothing left to give. You’ve hurt your parents more than you’ll admit. That, in all reality, they CAN’T have you home, and you know it. And as you close the car door, and give that last hug goodbye… you know it.

And as you walk up those concrete steps, into that lobby…watch the elevator door close, you know it. That knowing, following you down the white hallway and through that blue door, into the small quiet room. That you are left with, just yourself now. The thought frightens you so much, vomit comes pouring from your mouth, and you cry like a five year old girl on her way to kindergarten for the first time. Or worse.

One thing happens, when your intimately lonely..vividly afraid.

I  did what I  knew best, and what I knew best was this.

People.

You have to find someone, who feels like you do, and use them to create a place of safety and support. Everybody does it at some point, or another. Use people in this way.Whether it be a dependency on a best friend, or an abusive partner, we all do it. We all find something to cling to, in our state of desperation. Little did I know, the people I chose, and the people that chose me, would lead us to a place so dark, I would lose my grip on myself completely. It’s a miracle that I’m even sitting here to type you this. Honestly, it truly is. One tiny step farther, and I’d likely still be sitting in jail as of right now. No lie. By, the amazing grace of the Father, I’m not. By no choice of my own, He saved me. Before I finish this entry, I want to say something. I’ve never told this story before in detail, and I’m a little scared. I’m a little shaken at the thought. I need your prayer, if that’s something you do. If you do, I want to say thank you in advance, because, it’s time to have this out. There are so many things that could have been avoided back then, and I can’t change that now. What I can do, is be as honest as I possibly can, in hopes that this gets back to someone who needs it. Using this nightmare as a way to warn the youth out there, that feel they truly have no other options. This is what happened to me, when I fell into that lie, but it doesn’t have to be that way for everyone. There are choices, ALWAYS. Even if they seem thin and invisible. I wish someone had earnestly and openly confronted me with that back then, and you know I’m sure they did, and I was just too blind to see it. If you feel like someone you know could benefit from these entries, share them. I’m not writing all this down, just to get a rise out of you, or just to publish something gritty. It’s because God wanted me to bare my life to others, to gain comfort from it, and to show his glory. Because I don’t want this to only belong to me anymore, I want to build something from it that even I , couldn’t imagine.

So, the story will continue, where fear and desperation take a young girl on her own, and all the while, I’ll be needing your prayers. You are all amazing for supporting me in this journey, and I’m humbly grateful.

To read the post that follows this one, just simply click the link as follows~http://thisbeatingheart.com/2011/11/21/one-of-them/

Every Right To Be Here.

Time to go back to jail. Go back to the street. To the drugs. The chaos. The crime. The pain. My story…

It’s been one hell of  a shitty month, and I’m just starting to wake up to life again, through that, I want to continue sharing my story. In between processing  heavy emotions from the loss of my Grandma, chasing my three year old around (being a parent while grieving is crazy hard), keeping a relationship with God, and my family…it’s been impossible. Overwhelming. Dark. Emotional.

Just waking up to life everyday, has been a war in itself. Battle of the mind. Battle of the heart. One I’m used to fighting at this point..this is life right?? and even though it’s intimately beautiful, it can be a weight too heavy to carry at times such as this, and sometimes we need to just lay down for awhile. Sleep, cry..get confused, give up and then… say Yes, I’m ready to live again, when the time is right.

So as my mind clears, and my heart resurfaces, I’m getting ready. I really want   this chapter to be released… the arrest, the final crime that lead me there…the thoughts and feelings surrounding it. I still have so much to say, so much to tell..and some of it, still shames me to the core. I’m genuinely nervous to put on display, this part of my past, which is why I need to just say screw it..and let it out. To be authentic with this. I am who I am. I did what I did. And I’m not that person anymore…even though the memories still live within. Loud and dark. I still have days, where I look in the mirror, and have to remind myself…I have every right to be here.

If you haven’t read my story, I’m adding my first post..The Concrete Motel, here. I started my testimony with this first entry..and it’s begins with me doing my first stint of adult jail time. Thank you to each and every one of you who support me, and read these dark parts of my life…here we go..

~THE CONCRETE MOTEL~

They have you sit for hours in a tiny exposed cell. Hours. It’s restlessly quiet, except for the opening and slamming of metal bar doors. The sound of it is jarring. These damn awful doors. The buzzing of the security system as they do, like late night corner stores when you buy a pack of smokes through a glass window. Makes you feel like a criminal. Which I am, I’ve been sitting here for hours while the olive suit wearing guard processes my paper work. How long can this take really, I mean don’t you just throw me in,and toss away the key? It’s too quiet in here. I shove my face into my arms,which are crossed over my knees, staring down at the greasy floor below. It’s gray, what isn’t in this barren place. Gray, gray, gray. Cold dripping agony, I hate it.

I’m jolted awake out of my daze when a guard yells..

“Sawatzky!!” throwing something at me, “A bundle.” I stare down at a forest green mass of clothes at my feet, a towel wrapped around it, holding it all together. He must have seen the confusion on my face..

“It’s your clothes, now you shower.” I nod my head, and pick up my new uniform.The shower is like some kind of shower you’d see in a horror movie. Dank, morbid and stinks of black mold. The curtain to shield my shame is thin and partly see through. Never mind the huge rip down the one side. It’s okay though, when I woke up this morning, I had wanted my nakedness to be displayed for all to see, especially to the overweight, jaded, muffin eating female guard standing 3 feet away from me. It’s not like I didn’t just perform the squat and cough at strip down for her, what difference is it, taking a shower in front of her now. She looks at me like I’m a useless waste of space, maybe I am.

I do my best to cover myself with my towel as I step into the shower, but it’s one of those tiny towels, you know the ones that only reach around half of your body.The tiny stupid ones that belong in your bathroom for guests to dry their hands. Yeah, one of those, it’s slips down regardless and I just give up. Shes seen me naked like a million times today, I’m done, shame washes over me. The shower is this rectangle box sitting on floor tiles. It actually sways back and forth with each one of my movements, and for a second I actually think it might tip over. Hilarious. Wouldn’t that mess this broad up, if I just go flying over and landing this stainless steel shower box right on top of her. Classic.

It doesn’t happen though, what a shame.

They gave me hotel soap. That’s it. Ever washed your hair with soap? it leaves this nasty film everywhere, and you feel like a savage. My new uniform consists of a sexy pair of forest green joggers, and a green sweatshirt. Can’t forget the granny panties and a dudes beater. I realize these underwear have probably been passed around between every female inmate in this place. I try not to vomit. I’m going commando here on in folks. I put my hair up with a rubber band the guard gave me from her desk. Well at least she did ONE nice thing for me. We proceed to leave the “take-in” area and head down a narrow and  humid hallway. Her keys banging back and forth on her belt. Those huge damn awful keys. I hate them. This will be the sound I hear for the next 3 months. It will wake me up in the night, give me a jump when I get sent out to yard, and rise me awake every morning. I will develop a nervous twitch from here on in, anytime I hear that metal clanging sound, a unsettling chill down my spine…and I will clench my fists. Sweat will form on the inside of my hands and I will remember I can still breathe.

We continue down the corridor, metal door opening, metal door slamming closed. Keys clanging. Hands shaking. My heart is racing, I’m sweating, and I think at any given moment I may have a full blown panic attack. I’m doing my best to hide it.

I’m eighteen years old, and on my way to my first ever adult jail experience. I will be sharing a dorm room with twenty odd women who come from the depths of dark and gritty lives. All I’m thinking about is how I’m going to stay safe. I’m thinking of the movie, Shaw Shank Redemption, and wondering if I should just pick a fight right away and get it over with,but I know I won’t. Are you kidding. I’m pretty sure Ill get eaten alive in here.

We stop at the beginning of another long ass hallway. The guard stops for a minute, opens a door beside me and pulls out a mattress and pillow.

“Pick it up,” she bellows, ” You want a mattress, you carry it yourself.”

I look at it. What?

If you know me, you know one thing, I’m awkward. Especially when it comes to carrying mattresses. Ever moved? then you know I mean, unless your a big tall guy, it takes two to carry a mattress. So I feel like a complete ass trying to pick this thing up in front of her. Little do I know, I will also be passing ALL the male dorms on my way to the females. Which is at the very end of the hall. So I will be struggling, dragging my ass, carrying and dropping this stupid dirty mattress in front of say 200 convicts. My moment of glory.

Literally all the guys begin to line up along the plexi glass walls of the dorm rooms. Banging on the walls and yelling a barrage of perverted bullshit. I’m suddenly grateful for the female guard walking along beside me.

She can probably tell….I mean, I’m still a kid right?

I’m telling you right here and now, this was the longest walk of my life. It may have only been about 100 ft, but it may as well been a mile. How many times did the thought run through my head…what the f**k have I done. I’ve ruined my entire life. I’m gonna disappear in this place….

We finally stop at the end of the hallway, the dorm here is much quieter then the males. I can hear the t.v squawking out some foreign language. My head is down, I realize I should probably look up, find my inner actress and appear to have some confidence. I imagine the women smelling out my fear, like rabid dogs or wasps. I was right.

As I step inside my new home, and the guard reminds me to fight for bed space, I see this lanky, wiry woman hop down from the top bunk facing me. She has one eye that works, the color, blue. Her other eye is completely white, like  Method Man in the video “Bring the Pain”. Seriously.

She swaggers over to me, one pant leg up like LL Cool J, seriously.

Corn rows and all, she spits out her mouth…

“Fresh Meat…”

To Be Continued.

 

Lady In The Fire~Work In Progress

A Tattoo Artist Stole My Heart.

My husband, Monty Holladay, has mad skills. Truly. His approach, and hand in all kinds of artistic expression (including being a Tattoo Artist) are an inspiration to me, on so many levels. Not only is it wikked to live in an extremely creative home, and be blessed enough to live that way together as a family, but, it’s pretty cool to have someone I love and trust, teach me new things, and sit next to me as we throw up our inner heart and minds on paper. I’ve been trying to get him to set up a WordPress blog to showcase his Tattoo Portfolio and other personal pieces, but he’s a really busy guy. SO, I’m just going to show off some of his amazing art here..today..now. Screw it, I love you babe..and I love your art..so deal.

Nominated?? WIKKED!!

This post is to say a huge thank you to,http://bluesander.wordpress.com/2011/12/25/the-versatile-blogger-award/ for nominating me for The Versatile Blogger award, along with http://byhisgrace211.wordpress.com/ for nominating me for the 7X7 award<3 You guys have truly touched my heart with this. It was unexpected, kind, thoughtful and filled me with gratitude. Warm feelings, that I’ve needed, more then words can express. After all that’s happened in the last few weeks, knowing people you have never met, would think of you in this way, kinda picked my heart up off the floor. Thank you so much beautiful ladies…you made me smile xo God Bless you both…you both friggin’ rock!!!!