Posts Tagged ‘addiction’

copyright Gay Harper
It seems that,
with every death,
I lose a part of me.

There’s very little left,
of who I used to be and

this person
I’m becoming
isn’t able to see

the person
who I was then or
treasured memories.

Locked in this head
are places to which
I no longer have the key

My identity
must have drained out
with the last bag of my IV.

A hollow shell;
mask on tight,
I still resemble me.

The me
I used to know.
The me
I used to be.


I just got a newsletter from the suicide bereavement group my sister and I attended last summer. The statistics posted below make me sad. I know that they’re right and I have felt the immense difference between the types of “compassion” shown to families where the death is accidental or natural as compared to drug overdose or suicide. This last year, my father died. The same week, two of my cousins died too. One was an alcoholic and no one seemed very upset by his death. His brother, on the other hand, died of complications from pneumonia. His death was a shock and was far more devastating to the family than the cousin who died of an alcoholic related disease. Why? Both were my cousins. Both were loved. Both had virtually the same background. Neither were expected to die any time soon. Why did everyone seem sort of relieved that Kevin died, but sad that Kenny did?

It just brings up so many bad feelings about the way my family and I were treated after Ty’s death. Especially at work. We weren’t allowed to grieve. People we thought were our friends accused us of causing Tyrel’s death by either inattention, by being “bad examples” due to our own mental illnesses and all sorts of other ridiculous, but incredibly hurtful things. Voyeuristic vultures wanted to hear every detail. I just recently had someone ask me if Ty died as the result of autoerotic asphyxiation. I just stared at them for a long moment then said “No. ‘He killed himself’ doesn’t mean he died accidentally trying to get off.” Dumbass, but sadly all too common.

When another nephew’s friend died from a congenital heart defect while they were staying at the family’s cabin with another friend, the rumor-mill ran rampant. Three boys alone in an out of the way cabin…clearly they were using drugs and one had ODed. It’s such bullshit that it makes me furious. When the autopsy results came back, it showed what we’d known all along. Jesse had no drugs in his system. The other boys were tested by the police the day that Jesse died, and had neither drugs nor alcohol in their systems but the rumors continued. I’m tired of people being so judgmental. Even if Jesse had died of an overdose, should being a normal kid wanting to try something new be a death sentence? I don’t believe so. Ok onto the study results before my head explodes from fury induced high blood pressure.

“In this study, the authors compared and contrasted 571 parents who had lost children by various causes— suicide, drug-related deaths, accidental deaths and natural causes in terms of their grief difficulties, post-traumatic stress and other mental health problems and perceived social stigma. In comparing parents whose children died by suicide or drug-related death with those whose children died of accidents or natural causes, the suicide and drug-related death survivors had appreciably more difficulty in grief and with poor mental health. The authors conclude that powerful social stigma against drug use and mental illness remains a pervasive challenge for these parents as they experience less compassionate responses from others following their losses.”

“Parental Grief After a Child’s Drug Death Compared to Other Death Causes: Investigating a
Greatly Neglected Bereavement Population.” By William Feigelman, John R. Jordan &
Bernard S. Gorman, Omega, 2011, Vol 63 (4), p. 219-316.

That darker dawn is coming.
The light of remembered lies;
lies I was told, lies I told
to protect my innocence.

It’s gone anyway,
shattered in a hundred
different ways.

I hide in the shadowed warmth
of the old bathtub,
shower curtain half drawn
to keep out the light,
the eyes.

The lavender curtain
turns skin to bruised petals,
soft and wet,
as if from spring rain.

The faucet drips constantly,
accompanying pain.

Nothing will wash this away.

Creature born,
fully grown;
not like a foal
on shaky legs:

invincible warrior,
claws honed
for tearing
from the flesh
of unreason.

need not fear
this spawn,
which grew,
for years;

crawled at night
from my belly:

a force intent
on saving me.

From myself
when necessary.

It germinated
in the lush jungle
of secrets;

grew stronger
every day
it pulled itself
from me,

my face
with claws
like obsidian blades,

“We are one
in purpose.
I will be
your savior.”

And I believed.

In the casual flick
of an ash,

bright gleam
of flame,

lie hate
and anger.

to my body
I’d do anyway
by other means.

Mesmerizing glow
even my lifelong desire
to hurt myself:

mark permanently
into my skin,
all the feelings
I can’t express.

So I inhale
and exhale,
knowing each
is a death sentence

for an asthmatic,
already struggling
to breathe –
to live life
like a human.

I no longer
staple my skin
leaving bloody marks
like fangs.

I don’t burn
or cut,
but I smoke
for the same reason.

The ash
I contemplate
will be the drug
that kills me

Cigarette butt, red
not lipstick.

Crouch on the curb,
at 3 AM,
flick sparks
at the ground,
like God.

Leaves bristle
by my bare feet,
shoving past
pushed by wind;
that external violence.

By virtue of hundreds
of dead geese,
your jacket
keeps me warm.

and blood,
dripping down my heart.
It doesn’t work anyway,
can’t feel a goddamn thing.

Speak in tongues,
I don’t listen.
Words, a blizzard
blurring by,
soothing like a lullaby.

You sketch me,
but I never am.

You sleep,
curled like a child,
in the icy embrace
of my silence.

You like me to be quiet.
Speak when spoken to.
Do puzzles
while you paint.

I don’t mind.
Don’t care at all.
I am just a puppet.

Beat me,
I will cry false tears
because it makes you
not because it hurts.

I don’t feel a thing
when you pull
the chain
around my throat.

you’ll count bruises
with a gentle touch,
kiss each one.

All better.

There is genuine
part and parcel
with abuse.

And love –
It’s just a word.
as Santa Claus.

***Caution to viewers. This video can be triggering/upsetting. It contains images that can be disturbing. Be safe.***
This is to provide information about this very misunderstood disorder that affects aproximately 1% of the world’s population.
The disorder is very real. As someone diagnosed with it, I know for a fact that it is.
(for those who are going to ask which song this is… it’s “About her” From the Kill Bill soundtrack)
Video & caution by MaxP0wer25 on youtube
Song Scarlet by Brooke Fraser, video by Bcciliz
video by castorgirl
Directed by Trevor Sands, posted on youtube by InsideShort
This is part 1 of 8 of a series called MPD / DID – Trauma based Mind Control – it’s well worth the time it takes to watch, if you want to understand DID.

A gift,
a curse,
an illness.
I choose,
to think
I’m blessed.

drugged out
returned me
to myself.

For the first time
in what feels like

I see the world
without drug
fogged glasses.

LSD has nothing on
prescribed medication.
My brain clicks now,
with almost forgotten

You may call me manic.
I call myself a miracle.

I can’t
the slow song
of the South.

Don’t know
what it was
about you
that fulfilled me
so completely,
I wanted nothing
but you.

I don’t know you

I never pictured
I saw us
in love
for the rest of our lives
and then eternity.

How could I
have mis-
so completely?

I think I simply
trusted too much
in your conviction.

When you said there was
nothing I could do
to make you turn away,
I believed.

All it took
was suicide
and my shatter
in the aftermath.

As far apart
as we were
in actual distance,
we’re much farther
than that now.

Me, in small pieces
I don’t recognize –
they don’t even know
each other,

and you are…?
God knows where
or what these days.

I shower every night
to erase
the tracks
leading back to

still oozing
from broken
I smudge a hole
in the fog of the mirror.
There’s no one
looking back.

That’s how much
I’ve disappeared
from both
our lonely hearts.

I wish you’d go
from mine.

For you
it must be a relief
to forget;

for me
it’s just
ground zero.


it rolls
the surface


this enormous
I fight to forget.

Bubbling up for air,
it comes with
blood and blisters.

You may never see
the whole creature:
just the occasional
leap, twist, and flail.

It always returns
to its home,

leaving broken skin
to become scars,
as homage to its presence.

Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive. –Josephine Hart