Some refer to my life as tragic, I say “sometimes you have to sacrifice one to save a thousand”

Some might refer to my life as tragic. I say “sometimes you have to sacrifice one to save a thousand”
You see, I have a story to tell and it’s not pleasant but through it all, I’ve prevailed with great understanding and the knowledge to educate or at least, empathize. Not everyone believes they carry that same strength. It is my goal to prove they can. Not only is it possible to survive drugs and alcohol but inturn, you can teach others how to survive and win in this twisted game of life. My life, My stories, will not be in vain.
Back to 1985, I was 5 years old. My mother was the coolest mom on the block. The neighborhood kids would spend the night with me for “girl’s night” and my mother would encourage them to “let loose” take off their tops and run around the house. My mother, like myself choose be free of conformity. My mother didn’t get any type of sexual rise out of this display, what she got was appreciation for being “so cool.” It was the appreciation she needed. That same year, she taught my neighborhood friend and I all about sex. Not the birds and the bees, Stuff to make up nearly vomit and scream “EEEEEW” Nothing about my mother was sane or age appropriate. I remember asking her what a blowjob was at age 6. (Because I’d heard her talking about it) She laughed, and then proceeded with a play by play. By age 7, I had my best friends humping the arms of sofas and painting their breasts with my face paint kit. My mother had unintentionally released hormones in me that would have naturally occurred via teenage hormones (hence, my sexual addiction). I’d go through my mother’s VHS tapes and gather my friends around to show them home made porn. The tapes starred my mother and her then, child molester boyfriend. Oh yeah, mom and dad split when I was 7 but have no fear, there was always a man to take his place. Anyways, I never knew a person’s mouth went “there” until I saw my mother’s boyfriend doing so, GROSS.
Elementary school was a joke. I went to school every day coached on what to say. Where my bruises came from, Why I missed so many days, mommy and daddy don’t do any drugs etc.. I did okay grade wise and when I didn’t, mom made sure to pay the teacher a personal visit and bully them into a passing grade. There were many days and I mean MANY days, I was left behind with no one to pick me up when elementary school released at 2:15.(hence my abandonment issues) The principal would let me sit outside ‘till around 3 then call me into the office for safety and make emergency card calls. My aunt Cailin always came to my rescue and my mother; well she was full of apologies. Mom was great at apologies, shed hug, cry, plead for my forgiveness, tell me she loved me more than anything in the whole world, the whole shebang! All addicts do this so if you have a “boohoo, My life is so hard, you don’t understand.. This happened and that happened and this is why I can’t do what I need to do” THEY are an addict; YOU are an enabler; WAKE the fuck up.
I guess maybe I skipped a few years in my story telling. This is what I do, Tangents. Before mom was on her own, dating said child molester, she was fighting head to head with my father on the daily. He, as well as her, used any and every drug they could get their hands on along with alcohol. Every night our home filled with loud music, “playful” gunshots and fear. Several people were in attendance and I was to stay in my room, terrified. Every morning I awakened to drunks and drug addict everywhere. My mother and father had painted their toenails and put makeup on them. I was invited to join in on the laughter.
On the nights my parents weren’t “having fun” mom and I were escaping. Sometimes it would be to a neighbors, only she would return to my father leaving me with my friends. All night I’d worry about her never returning. One night she and I slept on a blanket for hours in the bushes until my Bigmama and Aunt Chris arrived to rescue us. They swept us away to Jupiter Florida for the weekend with only the clothes on our backs. My Bigmama always rescued us. God rest her soul, she was quite the enabler but she didn’t know better. She only wanted us safe and believed moms manipulation as many do when they love their addict.
Another night my father held me hostage from my mother. I remember him running around our dark home tweaking. He’d check every window every few minutes, yell at me to stay in my room and yell things I didn’t understand to my mother who was outside pleading. Mom or someone called the police.
Here I am, maybe age 6, sitting in my room alone, while my mommy was screaming outside and I wasn’t allowed to help her. I heard quiet taping on my window and saw flashlights shining through. I looked to see and it was the police and mommy. They cut the screen, pulled me through and placed me in her arms. The next day, we were home again. Mom, Dad and myself. Understand why abuse feels like home? It was, Home.
When I was 4, our house burnt down. My Shar-Pei puppy named Ugly was in there and my parakeet named Chirpie was too, along with photographs, my babydolls and a lifetime of memories. I still have my half burnt baby shoes. We moved around a few times while our home was being rebuilt. First we stayed with my Bigmama, then in a trailer which seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. There were farm animals next door. The walls were covered in brown paneling and the only thing in the fridge to eat was a jar of mayonnaise. I ate the mayonnaise with my fingers while my mom slept in (She always slept in). I remember being so scared in my new room. My mother lay next to me singing “Que sera sera.. whatever will be, will be. The futures not ours to see. Que sera sera, what will be, will be” While she sang, I thought of my favorite wall paper my parents previously hung in my burnt down room. It was full of happy little girls each with a pretty dress and an umbrella or a flower. It hurt me to think about my losses.
After leaving the trailer, we moved into a hotel. The Interchange motor inn, classy. My father was a jack of many trades and at the time was a painter. While he was at work, mom and I would play by the pool. Well, mom would lay out and I would swim and beg for attention. Got my butt whopped for it too. One morning, I was awakened by my mother’s giggles and what sounded like Wayne, a family friend. I wasn’t facing them but was sharing a bed with my mother and could hear them messing around. The bed was shaking and I heard a flirtatious “stop, hehe” I was only 4 or 5 but I knew what was up. I turned around “in my sleep” so I could witness it for myself. What I saw was more than I’d bargained for. Wayne was lying in the bed with mommy playing with her exposed breasts. Daddy was at work. I WAS IN THE SAME BED. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and “woke up” I told my mom I saw what they were doing and it was “gross” She apologized and so did he but I was disgusted and hurt. I couldn’t believe she was doing that to daddy and to make matters worse, made me swear not to tell. Wayne got off the bed and sat at the mini table and chairs located next to the ac unit and window. In 1984/1985, Men wore these ridiculous corduroy daisy dukes. One lean to the left and their sack flopped out. So here I am 4 or 5 years old, lecturing my mother and Wayne on what’s appropriate and what’s not. I look over to Wayne who’s crotch was at eye level and hanging out was his aroused man part. I remember trying so hard not to look but I couldn’t help it. I could see wetness dripping off. They begged me not to tell my father and of course, I didn’t but I carried it with me all of this time, until now.
Incidentally, I found out about two years ago, my father was the one who burned down our house. He did it one day after our home owners insurance kicked in so we could have a new house. No words. All I can say is, for years I lived in fear that someone might burn our house down. I, we might lose everything.
I don’t really know how to close this entry…. All I can say is..

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What’s really going on?

Honestly, I believe the Gay community wouldn’t have to try so hard to fit in if they didn’t try so hard to stand out. I mean, segregated clubs, Rally’s with ridiculous outfits, cheap wigs, underwear posing as the already repulsive Speedo and rainbow fairy wings. What’s the message we are trying
to relay here? That we are a bunch of mindless boobs playing dress up because we didn’t get enough attention as children? “LOOK AT ME!! I’m so proud, I’m prancing around in a pride parade with my old flabby behind sagging out the back of my cut off shorts and big fairy wings” I mean, c’mon guys?! We’re fighting for integration but displaying outrageous acts of segregation?! Ever seen Girl Interrupted? Case and point. This behavior belongs in theatre so strategize accordingly and let’s not set back what many have worked so hard to move forward. I understand freedom of choice, I do. This is beyond that. There’s a common respect to consider like removing your cap in church or holding the door for an elderly couple.
Most of us are gay because of our poor experiences or lack of experiences with our parents. Not all of us but most of us. Ranging from abuse and neglect to straight up abandonment, there is a void in all of us. Maybe your parents loved you dearly but they always remarked on your weight. Maybe you were screamed at often causing you to become anxious and withdrawn. Maybe everyone you loved, died. Maybe you were me, endured all of the above, went nutso and tatted myself up just to prove I’m no one’s pushover. Instead of searching for self fulfillment, we seek it in others, longing for that one special person to “make us happy and fill our void.” How dare we put that much pressure on someone else? “Make me happy” How will they ever have time for themselves? How will you ever have time for yourself if you’re always around them, dependent upon their every action and reaction?
We jump from one relationship to the next blinded by the reality of it all. Naïve to the person who is in front of us because guess what? We don’t know them! They live with us, but we don’t know ‘em. We just WANT to know them. We even do this with friends. Who’s popular? Who can make us laugh? Who has party favors? Who can give us social status? USERS and we don’t even realize it. So desperate to find “the one” we cycle the same group of people from one friend to the next. One week Jane is my best friend and Doe is my girlfriend, next week Doe and Jane are together, bitches. No one is going to make you happy but yourself so until you step back and take a long hard look in the mirror and realize THAT’S the person you need to love, That’s the person who deserves your time. That’s the person whose life you should be living.. You’ll remain that hamster running aimlessly in his wheel. Good luck with that.
Welcome to… yada yada yada.. My life, fuck off but please, keep reading 🙂
ps. pms

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Holy Codependent, Batman!

I had a dream too, Dr MLK. Not as uplifting and paramount as yours but none the less, a fantastic dream. In this particular dream, my good dear friend had his doctorate in female felacio. Well, that’s the best way to describe my lucid wonders. I awoke to awkward feelings of deceit and confronting once again my sexual addiction and impulsive behavior. Aaaah Issues, another day, another blog. Honestly, I woke up feeling “Dreams are just that, dreams. I have no control over them.” I dreamed once I slept with my ex husbands father in my grandmas pool and another time, my father. DISGUSTING. Those dreams occurred back in the day before I’d reached 20 years old but they’re far too disturbing to forget. I will say they caused me to wonder about suppressed abuse.
Things have happened to me throughout my life that I viewed as normal or not that big of a deal. Of course I felt that way through conditioning. My parents possessed an animate style of attacking my self esteem and self worth without even realizing what they were doing. My mother inappropriately handled my life causing me to feel I wasn’t capable of handling anything on my own. I wasn’t good enough to control my life in an age appropriate manner. My need to repeat this cycle emerged throughout my entire life. Picking friends, boyfriends, husband and girlfriends was a game of “Whoever’s most fucked up, WINS!” Like my mother, I learned this need to HELP was the only way I’d receive the appreciation I not only needed, but deserved. Each friend or relationship began with “They’re perfect, If only I could make them see how great they are; I could help them with their style of clothing; Awe, they’ve never had a real family or real love, I can show them what real love is; they’ve not been successful because everyone in their past has taken advantage of them; he/she is only that way because no one has taken the time to show them better” Holy codependent, Batman! A few short months into the relationship and sometimes years, my feelings of wanting to help turned to resentment. They didn’t appreciate me or my efforts. I gave them real love, positive self esteem, a new freaking wardrobe for Christ’s sake, they can’t even say thank you! I FIXED THEM! I’d showered these people with my time and gifts to make them feel loved. I went without just to provide them with a smile. It was disheartening. I’d lost faith in humanity deeming everyone a freeloading piece of shit.
In 2008 amidst my second divorce, I went on a self help journey, I was rock bottom and began attending a ::coughs:: Baptist church. There I discovered codependency and dove into research. I learned that my mere presence is all a worthy individual should require of me. I learned to value myself. I don’t have to buy gifts to get appreciation and I shouldn’t be fishing for appreciation through my kindness and loyalty! There was a long lasting, overdue yearning for the approval and positive reinforcement I’d missed as a child and throughout my life thus far. I’d allowed people to manipulate me in to thinking I needed blonde hair, whore clothes and a mask of makeup to be sexy. I Dressed to be seen by everyone instead of seeing myself and relying on that to be enough. I declined sports in school for fear I would let my team down and be ridiculed. I didn’t learn to drive until 18 years old because I feared people might honk at me. I’d go out of my way to give people rides that should have had cars and jobs. I bought friends groceries when I was struggling my damn self. I’d placed myself in many sticky situations involving illegal activity because I “LOVED” the person I was with (Details later) I’d sit home with my spouse knowing I wanted to go be with my friends but afraid to speak up and hurt them or in certain situations, they would hurt me. Time and time again I gave myself to receive nothing in return. Through research and the eagerness to educate myself, I started living for me. I stopped seeking approval and started being myself minus the gifts. I realized the people around me who’d taken advantage of me were not there by mistake. I had carefully hand selected a group of people who needed me and I did it through my very own need to be appreciated and desired. I found myself sleeping with people just to make them feel desired and to hear how mind-blowing I was in the sack. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I was JUST like MY MOTHER! Minus the crack smoking/pill popping/ IV drug using/ prostitution etc. I just needed to be loved and respected. These people I’d surrounded myself with felt comfortable, familiar, easy to talk to and fun to be around. Why did they feel this way? I’d met them before. Not literally but through my parents, through my upbringing. Here I was trying to get away from the abuse yet selecting the very people who would continue the pattern of abuse that felt so much like home. I’ve since quit paying people’s way. Buying their clothes. Trying to change them. Good god, I’d varied from changing and losing myself to the abuser trying to change others. I’d force my opinion on any and everyone who confided in me including my children. This behavior caused them to feel judged or demeaned when they were only seeking a listening ear, not a yapping mouth of opinions they didn’t ask for. My kids would tell me about a situation at school and immediately I would tell them how to handle it. I felt it was my duty which in turn caused them to feel I didn’t believe they had the courage or wisdom to get through it themselves.
Men and women alike fell in love with me so quickly because I’d shower them with the love I needed myself. I’d made them feel like we’d been together for years.. It was so comfortable. The way I touched them, looked at them, praised them. It felt real to me at the time. I was caught in the moment, wanting so badly for it to be real love, craving it with my every pulse of emotion. This would continue for months sometimes years. Time would pass and they’d become so needy/clingy/dependent on my affection and undivided attention I began to resent the sound of their voice, they way they compiled their ignoramus words. Even their breathing exacerbated me. These current victims craved for the care I’d provided before my patience thinned. After all, I was/am attracted to addicts. I never had time for me. I didn’t take the time to address my own issues because I was too busy being a savior to theirs. I HATED them! That’s right. I hate(d) them. They love me/ I hate them soooo, BYE. I end it. I break hearts. Move them in, cut their hair, move them out.
Okay so, here I am, rebellious as ever, impulsively tattooing myself with Ink I would soon regret. My hair became shorter and shorter because I WILL NOT CONFORM was tatted across my wrist. I had my own ideas of beauty and they weren’t going to be hers or his or yours! I pierced my nose, lip and belly button all at once only to end up removing two of them. Oh Krista, calm down sweetheart, you’re doing it again, seeking reaction and you don’t even realize it. Here I was throwing myself in peoples face and demanding they accept me. I just need to be me. I admit I still struggle with what that is and who I am. I regret I’ve covered my arms in tattoos and have scars from those ridiculous LOOK AT ME piercings. I don’t regret my awesome hair though lol. Each day, each hour, each minute, I discover a little piece that fits my healthy puzzle perfectly. Every moment I am learning because once you stop or feel you know it all, you’ve stopped growing, and you’ve stopped living. I might not know exactly who I am but does anyone? Life is ever changing, our standards growing higher with the age and acquired wisdom. What I do know though is “I AM WORTH IT.”
My mind races and my fingers pound my keyboard to release this disastrous tangled web I/we have weaved! My heart is full of such awareness and passion about my surroundings, I want to help, I want to spread the word. I want to relieve my fellow care taking codependents of their duties! My writings might not flow but I still implore you, follow me on this journey and maybe, just maybe… I’ll open a few eyes, a few hearts, a few minds..
Welcome to this Chaotic Catalyst called, My Life… I thank you for reading and encourage you to subscribe. Stay tuned…

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Managed care, I’ll manage alright!

You’ve got to love managed care! They do not cover Dr. G, unfortunately. They actually only cover the bottom of the barrel mental health care. I guess when It’s time for open enrollment, I will choose new coverage. In the mean time, I’ll save some money and read self help books (My Favorite).

I was thinking today about the first time I realized I had to help myself if I wanted to get anything accomplished (I,I,I,I,I). I depend on me is a very true statement. So here’s the story.

Somewhere in the midst of 1984 (placing me at 4 years old) My parents moved into our Hamilton Heath home. The house was old and had crystal door knobs. I’m sure my father stole them from somewhere because they were and still are, a costly item. All the doors were equipped with a skeleton key hole and we had the keys to match! There began my fascination with skeleton keys and ongoing love for “secret places”. The Hamilton Heath Neighborhood was full of children. I am still in communication with them to this day via social networking. Our home was not in a desirable  location but our street was separate from that stigma. There were no single parents on the block, including mine and everyone looked out for everyone else’s children. I was allowed (as well as the other children) to walk freely down my dead end street to my friends house. I had a German Sheppard mix named Foust. Oh what a wonderful dog he was. Foust would follow me from house to house and lay outside to ensure my safety. My parents (when they cared to know) could always find me by spotting Foust.

Okay, so here I am at the end of my street. beautifully dressed as always because it was important my mother was perceived as a great parent who deeply cared for her child. That and the fact my mother understood dressing nice and appearing put together gave you instant respect. In the adult world anyways. Maybe she didn’t understand it to that extent, but she knew to get what she wanted, she was to dress the part (nipples exposed, make up on, sex appeal in full effect) Anyways, Here I am, outside to PLAY in a beautiful dress with  my hair up in pigtails. Lacy round barretts decorated the top of each tail. I had black slippery dress shoes on and white stockings with hearts. Oh, its now 1985 (I’m 5 years old) The street light coming on was my visual alert to head home and it’d just turned on. I’d been whooped good before for missing the street light and wasn’t about to get it again. Up Hamilton Heath I ran, pigtails thrashing about, my shoes clickety clack clickety clacking up the gradual incline in our street. All of of sudden BAM! My slippery shoes did me no justice. I slammed to the ground busting the side of my cheek open. I lay there on the street whaling for someone to help me. “Moooooommmmmmmy, Oooow!! It hurrrrrrrrts aaaaaahhhh uhht uhht uhht, MOOOOOOOOMMMMMY!!!!!”    Okay, Where the hell is my Mommy? I mean, She was ALWAYS there to pick me back up. There was very little teaching about caring for yourself in my parents home. If something was broke, mommy would fix it. She might yell and complain later about no one else doing anything but her. Still, that’s how she thrived. My mother needed, to be needed and made sure you knew you needed her. Still following? read it back a few times 😉

I laid there for a while. The neighbors didn’t hear me squealing. Everyone else was sitting around the table having dinner (Or so I believed) with their families. There were no passers by and Foust, you asshole, where are you? Do your Lassie duties and fetch Mommy! I remembered watching a Twilight Zone episode about telekinesis and thought maybe I could will my way home to Mommy’s arms. There was another episode (I was a fan) where a young child and her evil doll communicated though telepathy. I tried that too but mom didn’t hear it. 

 Finally I realized, No one is coming, You’re on your own, kid. No one could hear me so the need or urge to scream and cry subsided. My beautiful barretts were treasured by my Mother but I was angry at her for not coming and needed something to dry up the blood. I carefully pulled them from my neatly placed pigtails and stuck them in my mouth like gauze. I’d probably seen that on The Twilight Zone too, haha! After all, I watched what they watched. I walked home that evening very slowly. A new respect for myself was trying hard to shine through but it was far overshadowed by my mothers let down.

I don’t remember much of what followed. I only remember coming home and my mom taking care of me. Who knew it would have been such a significant moment in my life.

In retrospect I’ve realized, You can lay down in the street kicking and screaming, hoping for a change but nothing is going to happen until you take a stand for yourself. You have the power to react and change everything around you simply through changing your pessimistic victim role into an optimistic victorious role.

Welcome to the Chaotic Catalyst called, My life…. stay tuned and please remember to subscribe.

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So it begins….

 First things first, I cuss not curse, I spell terribly and my punctuation’s worse. (MC Krista on the Ones and twos) eeek, impulsive. I’ve just rapped my mini bio under my first blog entry instead of the appropriate “bio section”. Non conformist in action, TAKE ONE:

Yesterday I took my kids to their first appointment with their new psychologist. When asked “Who’s going first?” of course I replied “Me, wouldn’t you like a briefing?” We spoke for quite a while about mine and my kids history as well as the docs childhood. I have that “pour your heart out” effect on people or Maybe he was just making me feel comfortable, who knows. I looked around at Dr. G’s VERY BRIGHT office and asked “I’m sorry, I’m always looking for a better way of doing things (my way) It’s very bright in here, don’t you think its more comforting to dim the lights?” He replied “Well, it might be comforting to you. Based on what you’ve told me about your childhood. You might have been embarrassed and ashamed of many things and the light added some sort of spotlight effect. In my home it was bright and I like it that way” Well, okay. I guess I never thought of it like that, SERVED. When I think of comfortable places, they are usually dim but… alright. I’m more messed up then I originally believed if lighting is an issue for me. Now, When I quote my doctor.. Oh yeah, he’s my doctor now too, He scheduled me for this Thursday. Anyways, when I quote my doctor, It’s going to be my perception on his quotes 🙂 analyze analyze analyze! That’s what us codependents do, assess every situation, find the danger, the hidden meaning,  and in my case, learn from it. there’s a lesson in everything. With every smile and every tear comes a new perspective if you’re open and willing to accept it.

1980: My mother was 20 and about to birth an amazing individual, yours truly. My mothers name is Cyndee, my fathers name, Warren. He was in prison and for what, I don’t even know. Maybe it was jail, whatever. Mom worked very hard to keep a nice even tan and at least one man around to pay bills in return for her self proclaimed (and underdogs testimonial), astounding sexual abilities. She possessed this power (Pussy control, if you will) over men and women alike.  It’s the only way she knew to relate to people. Well that and her outgoing personality, interpersonal communication and knack for humor. Okay, She was a social butterfly and EVERYONE wanted to know her and share her company. She was a beautiful woman and she knew it. The youngest of three and a sneaky little black sheep. 

Now My daddy. To hear my family speak of my him (all my life) he was evil and turned my mother into the disturbed individual she became. I don’t believe that simply because, I’ve dated some real losers and I’m still awesome. It’s all about (as my friend Macky says) “Pick a self and stick with it.” My father was extremely handsome, so much so, my friends felt the need to flirt with him and remind me of how handsome he was each time they visited. They probably needed a daddy. I’ve always facilitated this keen ability to befriend painfully disturbed company. It’s my way of unintentionally repeating comfortable patterns of abuse (First step is cussing myself out, second is admitting there’s a problem). My father was a true smart ass, You either loved him or hated him. I, adored him.

Jumping ahead 22 years (So you don’t have to feel bad about their feelings) My father passed away at age 44 from ::ahem:: respiratory failure (details later). 5 years later, my mother passed at age 47 (drug related).  They were amazing people to say the least, fucked up, but amazing.

I  guess you could say, well no, I don’t guess, You CAN say, I am the best and most challenging combination of both my parents.

Welcome to the Chaotic Catalyst called, My life… stay tuned.

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