Intervention Jamie Jesus and Ketamine

"The whole family never properly grieved her death and are the major dysfunctional freaks they are today because of it." 

reading blogs you sometimes come across phrases or sentences that stand out like a flag--this pertains to YOU. Of course I am the biggest freak in my family...my brother, though self-admittedly odd, has had the career, the family, the house, you know--a life.

I on the other hand...sort of flailed my way through life with no goals no plans and am flailing still. 

I want to be a vet tech cuz i love animals. I really want to be a vet tech because at some point I may have access to Ketamine.

I'm fascinated by Ketamine (special K) though I've never used it. It's a trance drug, a dissociative drug...the state my mind naturally takes due to PTSD. Ketamine will just help it along, I feel.

This intervention episode touched and enraged and saddened me on so many levels I can't begin to delineate without spiraling down into the K-hole myself...look I can do it without the K

It helps to have DID, what used to be called multiple personalities. the more divided i am the more protected i am and that's how i like to be.

then i realized this episode was recorded 10 years ago. I never watched it cuz the whole family are Jesus freaks, emphasis on the freaks...

but that is integral to Jamie's hellish life journey. With a mad bad father who could be Jim Jones--the narcissism. the religiosity. the control freak.

and i think Candace pulled her punches here because she didn't want to put Christianity in a bad light. But the bad light is the light of truth here, and the destructive potential of any religion is floridly shown in this sad mad family...

I'm going to do some research and see what happened to them all...I don't anticipate a happy ending, but you never know...Festivus miracles happen.

"Anyway, Jamie accepts treatment mostly because she’s religious and has such deep-rooted shame about her sins. She’s been sober since December 18, 2010."--Ryan O'Connell 



the initial intervention was in 2005. Five years is about right to sort out the madness of Jamie's family ties. I really do hope she is okay.

there are comments on the blog from someone who lives near Jamie and knows her personally. she's not the most sympathetic commentor but she's pretty funny as shown here ( her symbol is a unicorn in a rainbow so to me she's a-ok) "Lily • 6 years ago

Wow. I'm amazed that one of the most craziest Intervention subjects is Canadian! And from the same province! As me! I didn't watch this episode but from your description of teh crazy, I thought that kind of crazy could only be found in America. Never again shall I underestimate my own countrymen/women or think that only certain kinds of crazy exist in the US. Now when is an Intervention episode going to be filmed in my hometown?!?! Glad to hear that Jamie is sober - hope she stays that way!"

to me, the hardest thing about a recovering person watching interventions is seeing myself and my madness in so many different forms. We are all unique but we are all the same. OMG it helps me break through my own brick walls

in this intervention scenario i realize I am the father. that is me parenting myself. of all people, Anna, you should not be unkind to your inner child. Of all people. exactly.

the horror
the horror

how to love yourself in 12 simple steps

 I *hate* it when people tell me that. I still haven't figured out how to love myself. I certainly wish I could figure it out. 😔

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Anna Costello start with remembering yourself as a little girl. Then treat that little girl as if you cherished her, even if your emotions are mixed. That little girl absolutely deserved unconditional love and if she didn't get it then, it's your mission, if u chose to accept it, to love her. Love her innocent self...that's the first step

A bomb is a bomb is a bomb

A facebook friend clued me in on a punk revival band: Franz Ferdinand  Good music. Nice to know I'm not doomed to punk-oldies-80s radio to hear the music that speaks to me.

I'm a rock fan. Classic rock. Those luscious ballads and hammer guitar from Queen, Eric Clapton, Pink Floyd

But I LUV punk. Punk is my emo adolescence. Punk runs through my heart like a hot dagger and takes me someplace else.

The name struck me. Franz Ferdinand. The emperors's son and heir who pulled a JFK and started WW1. At least They let Jackie Kennedy live. Poor Sophie died with her husband, Grand Duke Franz Ferdinand.

Maybe that's progress.

[please excuse my anachronisms]

That shot. A pistol in a crowd. A shadowy organization with ties to the Serbian government. The black hand.

We look at ancient royal dynasties and think how barbarous--killing off all your brothers so you are the only heir to the throne. Wanting it that bad.

I have lightly tweeted about assassinating Trump. I won't do that anymore. I was wrong even to put that thought out into the universe. Murder is bad. There are many wells of black humor to drink from...I don't need to choose death.

Ironically, Rasputin was attacked by an assassin on the same weekend Franz Ferdinand was shot. Rasputin lived. His mesmerizing holy Orthodox ways kept a tsar and tsarina in thrall and allowed anarchy and terrorists to take over Russia. That great bear drunk on terror let loose. Violence...horrible violence...decades of blood and violence.

Rasputin's survival contributed as much to the disasters of WW1 as Franz Ferdinand's death did. Well, that's a theory I pulled from a book about Nicholas and Alexandra

It's nice to put a finger on an event, a time, a place, and say: "there. that is where it all went wrong."

but we've been assassinating leaders and mongering wars and tossing bombs --or rocks--as far back as we can see.

They are doing it now in Syria. They will spread. History repeats and repeats and repeats.

Peace is the only answer. But we are not a peaceful people (We, the People). We stand our ground and cherish our arsenals. The only change is the arsenals get increasingly large and damaging. Innocents die. It sucks. The whole fucking thing sucks.

I'm sorry...I can't say anything coherent about war or terrorism or a war on terrorism (do you see the folly there?)

I can't even.

Peace out.

A Crackling Fire and Chicken Pot Pies

I'm listening to a bonfire. It's a dandy replication of the sounds of a bonfire. I've always loved burning wood...the whole experience...the sight, smell, sounds, warmth...the taste of marshmallow burnt just right gooey inside crisp outside like a good crème brûlée, it just now occurs to me.

One of the most fun things our mother did was take us on a winter picnic. Chicken pot pies in thermoses, and hot chocolate. We'd go to NayAug park and be practically the only people there--my brother Joe, our Mom, and me.  It was a summer park, not a winter park.

My mother was creative that way. We made it a winter park.

We had a blast in the snow-covered park, doing what all I can't remember. I wonder if the animals were there in the zoo--I don't remember. research that.

I do remember the wonderful warmth and tantalizing smell emanating from the thermoses. How hungry we were after romping in the snow... how good the hot chocolate tasted.

We didn't light a fire. Didn't need it. All our warmth was imported from home.

But somehow this memory got tumbled in with the memories of bonfires past.

There were bonfires at weiner roasts at summer camp at Spojnia Farm.  How to pronounce it? the "j" is a soft "y" sound in polish...there's not an exact English equivalant...    Somewhere between an "o" and a "u"...spooo-nyah

My parents weren't campers. They didn't do fire for fun. I learned that later...what fun could be had round a bonfire. or any wood fire. The substitutes like gas fireplaces that look like wood fire are anemic -- a fire is not a fire without GREAT SNAPS crackles pops...falling wood...wafts of smoke burning your eyes and seasoning your clothes. Yes it's messy.

But like great sex, it's worth the mess.

Oh damn my grandmother was some wicked efficient housekeeper. She did it for a living in Philadelphia when she first came over from Poland as a girl so maybe it was ingrained. Babci would have a meltdown if she saw the state I keep my trailer in. But her house was clean. Always. Not pristine, no, our grandfather smoked hand-rolled cigarettes and spat bits of tobacco here and there. It was comfortable. You could make a mess but you'd better clean it up.

Odd memories...I stayed overnight and had some 24 hour stomach flu...I couldn't make it to the toilet and she scolded me--hold it until you get to the toilet. I was 7 maybe sick as a dog...I had to throw up it was beyond my control. I did make a mad dash for the bathroom. A MEMOEY later

there was the fire i fell into, drunk. Backwards down right into the middle of the fire. I leapt back out...no damage done. I didn't get why my friends were making such a fuss.

I've had my run-ins with fire.

I like the Mockingjay series. I love the girl on fire. I have the trilogy on my Kindle. I like the movies too. Katniss...Katniss...I was planning to name a cat Katniss...haven't gotten around to it. Maybe next cat.

I have 5 now. Four my own and a foster kitten. I never had children. I knew I'd screw them up so I decided very young I would not have them. I have cats.

well, this was supposed to be a lighthearted memory of winter picnics with our mommy. I hope I captured that. I can do light I just can't stay there very long. Not yet, anyway

Working on it.

Meow

The Opposite of Spoiled

I learned I had writing talent in a seventh grade English class. Our teacher (male, young, can't recall name) assigned topics and we'd write essays or stories, then read them out loud.

My stories made people laugh. The teacher gave me straight 10s...the highest grade that was supposed to be unattainable.

Then I took Creative Writing in 11th or 12th grade. My grade was A with the addition: "does more than is necessary for grade." I wrote voraciously. The sap was tapped and the flow was sweet.

But Pittston Area High School did not value the arts. Football. Football made money for the school. Boys won scholarships. I played clarinet in the marching band. There was no other musical teaching there. I wasn't very good. I never practiced. I was a good sight reader. I didn't like the clarinet.

I liked the flute. I still do. I chose the clarinet though cuz my older cousin Ellie had played clarinet and she'd pass her clarinet on to me. I did it to save my parents money. They told me I could play any instrument I wanted. We weren't poor at all. They didn't encourage me to take the hand-me-down to save money. It was all my idea. At age 10 maybe.

I worried about finances. My parents' finances. We were solidly middle class. Now today I see they could have easily afforded a flute. It's strange how I was willing to sacrifice without being asked--without there being a need really.

I took that upon myself. The opposite of spoiled. But it was voluntary.

I almost never bought clothes of my own until after my mother died. (I was 13). I wore hand-me-downs from my older girl cousins. I didn't have to do this. I'm sure if I asked they'd have bought me clothes I'd chosen. But I didn't care. Seriously didn't care. The opposite of girly girl.

In fact, after my mother died and the cousins abandoned us, I was at a loss to know what sort of clothes to buy. I only had my first pair of jeans when I was 12. I bought polyester matching sets. Ugly things but I didn't know. Not until a girl in my class told me purple didn't match green. I really didn't know.

Somewhere between 13 and 14 a fashion sense kicked in and I started dressing normal. But before? I must have stood out like a homeless person pushing a shopping cart. I saw what people were wearing of course, but it didn't translate to what sorts of things I should buy for myself.

The mall--once I got into it I enjoyed a bit of fashion. No one really showed me. I guess normal girls don't need to be shown.

I was a funny girl... the mother of the cousins that abandoned us after my mother died said so.

My older brother got all sorts of things. A Schwinn. A mini-bike. A CB set up. He had a rock band and my parents bought the instruments. Bought a station wagon that smelled of cigar smoke for the family car so Joe could transport his equipment. Camera and dark room. Remodeled the cellar so he'd have his own whole floor as a bedroom.

I didn't miss anything...I rarely asked for anything. I never felt deprived. I had a very nice stereo set-up that saved my life. I got a car when I started going to college so I could commute.

I chose to go to Scranton U because my brother went there and it was cheaper if 2 students from the same family went. That's how I chose the school. I knew absolutely nothing about what ivy league or girl's colleges or UC Berkeley could offer me. No one suggested it. No one suggested I apply for a scholarship although I was near Valadictorian (a C in gym one semester ruined my GPA)

I could write. They knew I could write. Yet no one told me how to go about being a writer. I changed my major from pre-med to English without telling my father. I couldn't explain. What would I do with an English degree? Teach? Law School?

the horror. Cornell Law School is its own horror story.

I should have stayed in academia...gone for a masters...an MFA...or tried journalism seriously. I wanted to write for a living but I didn't know how.

And I didn't think anyone could teach me cuz...well...I knew how to write.

So I should just write.

Right?

What a naive fool I was.

Magical thinking that I could somehow become a writer without a clue how to go about it.

I'm angry at myself, my schools, my parents, my hometown.

Cause y'all let me fall through the cracks. I was drinking daily by the time I was a freshman in college so I could...oh gods.

I have to get over this. I guess I have to forgive. I am grateful my 2 nieces didn't fall through any cracks  but had great educations in spite of public schooling.

I feel I've been cocooning these past five years.

Hibernating.

But not wasting away.

gathering my energies that were so sprawled and wasted most of my life.

I have to grieve the losses my young self experienced. She was a tough nut to crack. Very tough. I couldn't allow myself to feel pity for myself cuz then I'd cry and never stop crying.

that's all for now

i hope this exorcises that particular demon.

Christopher Columbus toppled in Pittston Pennsylvania

Anyplace else this might be a protest against the celebration of an icon who actually was a pretty nasty character.

But in Pittston PA the nasty is often elevated. The mafia have dinner in peace there (in my uncle's restaurant in days past). Culm dumps made quick profit and now burn on into eternity as nobody's problem. Corruption reaches to shocking levels (well, shocking for the rest of the nation. In Pittston, it's business as usual)

Many years ago, when the evils of Columbus Day were making headlines, my father was asked by a reporter, "do you support the people protesting Columbus Day?". They cleaned up my father's response to : "I'd throw something at them." What he really said was:

"I'd throw acid on them."

I know this cuz he was upset they softened his words and repeated the story for family and friends many times. At least his name was in the paper.

My father wasn't a violent man but he had a violent mind. I think I've pretty much inherited that. Maybe that's why I can't keep friends. Sooner or later I'll let down my guard and say something outrageous.

Outrageous even for Pittston. I don't mean to. It doesn't seem outrageous to me. It's just my thoughts.

This is why I enjoy Facebook. I  belong to several groups that are uncensored. Where people post ugly vile thoughts and aren't banned for life. LOL

when I try to join a normal group, I'm usually booted out within days. I've learned to keep my mouth shut. But sometimes I forget. Or something seems so funny to me I MUST share it. It rarely seems funny to anyone else.

People tell me I write well and should write a memoir. Well, I've had a colorful life but I'm afraid of alienating mass audiences.

This blog is a compromise. Dipping my toes in.

Little Orphan Annie

You might say my mother died and my father bailed. It never occurred to me to blame my father for anything. But a few years ago I heard my sister-in-law say to my brother, regarding their daughter:

Do you want to do to Kayla/Megan what your father did to Ann?

What did he do to me?

I suppose I should have asked her but I didn't. We don't ask those sorts of questions in my family. I suppose that's one thing my father did to me. Make any questions regarding emotion VERBOTEN.

I love how my brother is with his daughters, my nieces. It's clear he cherishes them. Respects them. Wants the best for them. Will go to great lengths to get the best for them. They are not afraid of him.

I was terrified of my father but in an odd way. He wasn't a bad man. He wasn't violent. He didn't drink. He turned his paycheck over to my mother and she ran the household.

I guess I felt I never measured up. I felt my father disdained me. I wasn't pretty. I wasn't outgoing. I wasn't kind. After my mother died I was so relieved when he finally started dating. Then his happiness was off my shoulders.

I know my brother sees things differently. He thinks my father was happy more or less. Yes, a tragic thing happened...his wife dying so young. But he survived. He didn't melt down. He worked and paid the bills and we never wanted for anything.

We even travelled to Disneyworld that Christmas break. It was a weird vacation. No mention made of the mother who had died just that past thanskgiving. Not a word.

How can you not enjoy Disneyworld, and I did, yes, although I remember a parade through Fanstasy Land or something--the big ass parade with all the characters...

And that depression swept over me. That sudden emptiness, dread, and fear that had plagued me all my childhood--coming on for no apparent reason. And I went empty. Silent. No emotion. I couldn't smile I couldn't speak. Just numb. It wasn't deliberate. My father was angry at me. I didn't mean to.

It wore off in a few hours and I was okay. I was 13, my mother was dead 2 months after an agonizing projected horrible painful sickness. It wasn't the death it was the screaming in pain. No of course it was the death I kissed her forehead and she died the next day. I was at a bonfire. She insisted we go. She didn't want her dying to spoil our fun.

It wasn't fun. IT WASN'T FUN

what the fuck was wrong with you people you leave a 13 year old girl to handle death and pain and agony alone alone alone you do not talk to her you do not comfort her? what was wrong with you people?

sorry/\
bai

you must have been very unhappy there...

Moving away from home was epic for me. Cuz people in my family didn't move away. My mother settled one street away from her mother. My father's folks were just up the road in the same small town. We vacationed at the Jersey Shore, the closest beach to home--Atlantic City before the casinos. Hot buttered corn on the cob. Ferris wheels we didn't go on because there were ferris wheels at home. This was vacation. We did beach things. Body surfing the waves mostly. I remember the bed would seem to shift and swirl--my head was still riding the waves.

My uncle, my mother's brother told me: stay in Dupont cuz taxes were low. That was the only endorsement. Low taxes. Well, there were few amenities so yeah, taxes were low.

It was like the colleges who bragged about parking. Parking? That's the finest thing about your institution?

I ended up going to the college my brother went to to save on tuition. It was good for pre-med, which i was for one semester. I changed to English cuz I had vague dreams...but I never acted on it. I was accepted to 3 schools for MFA in playwriting but I chose to work for an insurance company a few miles from home instead.

My dreams were limited. I was never encouraged except by one professor at Scranton U.

I didn't know how limited I was. Cuz this was all I knew. I saw tv shows where young women had mentors who helped them spread their wings and fly.

I always wanted a mentor. I never got one.

There's something very wrong with me. I put people off. The come with enthusiasm and leave scratching their heads.

"She's a funny girl" my aunt said.

To this day I haven't figured out how to be acceptable. But I am happier.

I was showing my ID when I first moved to Key West...the photo on the ID had been taken when I was living in Pennsylvania. The person looked at the ID. Looked at me. Looked again. then she said, nicely, "You must have been very unhappy there"

It shows. It shows in the face i guess. the knitted brows relax. the perpetual frown lessens and almost becomes a smile.

It just struck me that a stranger had to point it out. I hadn't noticed.

They say you can't run from your problems...you take yourself with you. Well, sort of. Sometimes the place you live is not the right place for you. I still love to visit my family. But I've blossomed in Key West. It's a healing kind of place.

A Truthful Look at Suicidal Impulses

wow. so relate. This kid seems like surrounded by love and understanding. I was ignored and bullied. But he's gone and I'm here. I"M HERE MOTHRFUCKERS you got him :( but u didn't won't get me. the depression the void the self-loathing--it didn't fucking get me. Fuck U death.

i've had unipolar depression all my life; not diagnosed til I was in my late 20s. Prozac saved my life, i swear to god, one day, after being on prozac about 4 weeks, I woke up and I didn't want to die. Amazing. An amazing feeling I'd never felt before. that was like 25 years ago and I've been off and on antidepressents and in and out of therapy. Depression came back--antidepressents stopped working...I don't know...I'm fortunate that I'm also alcoholic (self-medicating) and found the rooms of AA. I think I'm more depressed than alcoholic but following the 12 steps, the fellowship, sponsors, phone calls, you are never alone....all that probably saved my life. I would not have made it to 54 without it. And I'm grateful. Ultimately. I look at myself sometimes and I am astonished I am still here. I never thought I'd live past 40

suicide in paradise

 I came to Key West to escape from the area I was born in--Scranton/Wilkes-Barre Pennsylvania -- which holds the title of the most depressed city in the United States.

Now I read an article saying the Florida Keys has double the suicide rate of the rest of the state.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire?

Holy cannoli more information needed here.



There does seem to be a disproportionate number of suicides down here.

But we're in paradise.

WHY AREN'T YOU HAPPY???

Maybe it's the pressure to be happy that kicks depressed people when we are down.

And people do come here specifically to kill themselves.

It's the end of the road. Heavy symbolic meaning. When we are suicidal we think in heavy symbolic even theatrical terms. The frenzy of the always changing tourist population is a fine destraction from what's really going on. Do the Duval crawl...crawl right into your grave if that's your pleasure.

I've been suicidal. Seriously suicidal. I didn't do it for a couple reasons. Mostly my family. I see how suicide wrenches a family apart, rips the fragile threads, leaves a gaping wound. No, I wouldn't do that to my family.

Also I realized killing yourself over financial distress is just tacky. Better to learn how to live in poverty and still find joy. Lower your expectations.

My expectations of myself are at an all-time low. I deliberately made it that way. Fashioned a life where if I check out I really won't be missed cuz I was just taking up space anyway.

I used to think I wanted to do something that mattered before I died. Now I realize simply staying alive when you jump from the frying pan into the fire is goal enough.

for today. For the suicides I've known and loved and lost. goddammit keep yourself alive. just keep yourself alive. that's enough. when you get that far lost on the edge of nothingness just keeping on is enough. seriously. we'll work on the rest of it tomorrow.

Keep yourself alive