|KISS THE STORM GOOD-BYE, RACH!|
IT'S OVA. FINALLY! *YAY!*
Three years, five months and, seventeen days. That's how long it took for me to finally get back on my feet after my mother betrayed me in ways that still shock me. Sometimes I wish she simply blew my brains out, since instant death would have been infinitely easier than her figurative massacre of me and my life.
In contrast to my old, hard-nosed, rebel persona, I am stuck in a paralyzing state of grief that cuts deep into my soul.
Who am I?
What the fuck am I doing?
What do I want to do?
For now, my strongest desire is to find hope within myself that there is still hope for someone like me.
I have a lot of faith that there is.
I'm pretty sure about my desire to write, paint and to make films.
I miss my creative outlets. Money. Work. The ability to buy stuff...
I am starting over from scratch.
I'm really sad.
It's gonna to take some time.
How much time?
I'm not really sure.
All I know is that no matter how hard I've tried to find someone, absolutely anyone, to help me fix this disaster, nothing ever worked out. People suck. I suck.
WELCOME TO MY CRISIS.
It is what it is.
At least now I irrevocably *GET IT.*
Aside from my strong faith in God, I am truly on my own with this.
DID IT FOR MYSELF.
ALL BY MYSELF.
When I told my Godfather that I was moving to Daytona Beach, he warned me to be careful because the people here are crazy.
Yes they are and, so am I.
Together we are:
*WICKED, FUCKING CRAZY.*
I absolutely *LOVE* this place.
Finally, I'm home.
Someday, I'll tell you all about how I left my ex-boyfriend on the highway in a town I barely knew because he turned out to be too stupid to understand how to treat a lady with high hopes for a washed up criminal like him.
Next, I was stuck in a phony pastor's disgusting "safe-house" that may or may not have been a front for a drug ring. I am proud to have been the person the cops needed to investigate that prick - they'd been monitoring him for more than a year.
That horror was the first of five separate calls I made to police while in fear for my safety - something I've never had the need or desire to to do before I moved to Florida.
The final straw in my own weak, suck, puke actions came when I was conned then robbed by two junkies who stole my medications, clothing and money just hours before they robbed a local bank.
That's quite a "brush," eh?
At long last, I became sick and tired of being sick and tired, plus I was in massive Xanax withdrawal AGAIN, so I checked myself into a mental hospital where I was held against my will in a place way worse than prison. The viciously condescending staff forced me to take expensive medication that made me feel completely out of my mind, while I spent an entire week in a place exactly like the one portrayed in ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST.
It was in this filthy, scary, cold place with co-ed bathrooms and over-drugged lunatics fond of wigging out, instigating staff attacks resulting in restraints, power shots and exposed, pissing penises spraying all over wide open bathroom floors that I found peace for the first time since I left Cuntessa's.
Although my worst fear in the world is that I will be locked away forever in a nuthouse - and this place definitely made me wonder, I was able to look beyond all that I loathed in favor of rest, safety and time ALONE, where I read my bible, prayed and had many conversations with God.
Within a week of my release, I was living alone in a shitty efficiency that I could afford by myself. From there God blessed me with my own, gorgeous studio next to the beach, in the center of the action and exactly where I want and need to be.
I signed a year lease, with every intention of renewing.
The Shit-storm is finally, epic-ally OVER.
I AM GRATEFUL.
I wonder if my "mother" has any regrets?
Aside from ditching her, my asshole brother and THE CULT, I regret nearly everything, pretty much; however, I'm ready to move the FUCK ON.
'Till Next Time,