Tag Archives: family

Happy Birthday Fool

It’s my mother fuckin’ birthday!  It’s my damn birthday.  Who really is excited to turn 37.  What the hell kinda joke is 37? Has anyone even anticipated their 37th birthday?  Shit.  Has anyone ever anticipated a birthday after 21?  That was so long ago I can’t even answer that question.

My thirties have been odd.  I finally had a birthday without Tony, and then I decided to take my drug use to a whole new level and call in an addiction. I created an empire around a drug called meth, sitting on top of the world, or so I thought, and then unexpectedly got knocked down so low, I couldn’t get up without help from rehab, outpatient, family and friends.  I lost not one, but three “best friends” in a year while repairing relationships with people I thought I lost a long time ago.  I wanted to die, I thought I would die, I KNEW I would die, and then I saved myself.  I got stuck some place in between young and old, daddy status and being a daddy chaser.  I recovered, but never really felt whole until a Vegas vacation changed my view of life.  Right when I got comfortable being alone, I met the man that I plan on spending the rest of my life with.  That’s how the story goes.  Today I don’t feel like I have all the answers.  I’m smart enough to know that I won’t have those answers tomorrow either.  I went back to school, and started a new career, going from being my own boss to having 50 bosses and living in constant fear that I may loose my job because my maturity level won’t ever match my age.  Basically, I’m growing up.

My wish for myself if that I continue to see the progress made and not to backtrack ruminating about my life that has passed.  Sometimes the lines between being an addict that’s on top of the world, even if its superficial, and being this new, seemingly boring version of myself get dangerously close.  Thank god someone taught me how to play the tape through, always saving the day when I think I want to go back to the thrill and excitement of the games I used to play, and the playgrounds I played them on.

I may not have what other people my age have, but I’m only aware of the world around me because I stopped doing drugs.  I have a hell of a lot more then I had two years ago and that is a FACT.  Everything else is just a thought or opinion that needs to be shut down on the bad days that I have them.

I need to promise myself this:  I promise to continue to grow and not let minor set backs break me.  I promise to not be afraid to say what I feel, and to always do my best with my relationships I have and the people around me. I promise to not get upset about not being perfect.  I promise to continue to be weird and eccentric for these are the qualities that make me who I am.  If I can’t be myself at 37 I never will be.  A fool at 40 is a fool forever, and my momma didn’t raise no fool.

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Thansgiving without the Paparazzi

The holidays blow.  It’s Depression Eve, the beginning of a season I have grown to hate.  It’s the time of the year when you can find me alone at a family party or as the third wheel with my brother and sister in-law. I never thought that I’d be single at 35.  I mean, EVERYONE LOVES ME!!  For real, at this point I’m almost the full package.  Whoa is me is the familiar song playing on repeat over the holiday season coming from my loud pie hole.

Today is January 22, and I’m already over it.  I want to be alone.  I choose to be alone, and most importantly, it has nothing to do with who wants me, Who do I want?  I don’t want anyone.  I’m the reason that I’m single and also the one who calls the shots when its time for a relationship to end.

I have so many things that I want to do in my life, that I know would be strongly compromised or influenced by someone if I was in a relationship.  It took one hell of a long time for me to love the imperfect angel that is me, and I want to enjoy myself.  Besides, its not fair to serial date anyone, knowing damn well I’ve never had real love in my life when I didn’t love myself.  Back then I was searching for any soul to fill the void that I had in my own.  It wasn’t until I realized that my soul didn’t need to be fed (I was getting nothing out of being a slut), but fixed and filled with only things that I could produce.

I’ve never been the type to fake being with anyone.  Those relationships get boring very quick, as well as the ones with the boys that don’t quit.  It sucks because If a celebrity millionaire fell in love with me, and I wasn’t in love with him, Id have to turn him down at the alter.  Sure, I would do it for a few vacations and some nice high-tops, but at the end of the day, I could never spend the rest of my life with someone that I did not love, no matter who they were or how much money they had.

I don’t know what the future holds for me.  I will  remember that even though it may be another Thanksgiving without the paparazzi, that I’m OK and it’s going to be OK because I love myself and that’s the hardest thing to do.

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When things cant get any worse, thats when they start to get better

I hate that this is a “thing”.  I hate that I have to believe in this, that I have no choice but to have faith in something bigger then myself.  I hate that it’s seemingly true, that my so called life never seemed so hopeless in my 35 years as it was in July of 2015.  I hate I’ll be turning 36 and I know for a fact that he won’t be there with me this year like he was last year.  I hate how much I cried, how much it hurt and that I’m beginning to forget the worst pain I ever felt.

Sometimes I wake up and I feel OK, other days I get out of bed and I feel sad still.  Recently I’ve been waking  up and I feel angry, with an “its your loss” type attitude towards the only human being in the world that made me realize I was a monster.  What is different here than other days is the simple fact that I actually “wake up”.  I get up, I take a shower, I plan my day and move forward.  On July 1st of 2015 this seemingly simple way to start the day wasn’t possible.  The realization of what I became and who people saw me as in the world was crippling.  One of my best friends said “I know that you feel like you will never be normal again, but trust me, you will.” I did trust her and I can tell you that she was right.  Today I feel normal.  I am not crippled by my guilt.  I am anything but fake, and I’m not overly happy, and basking in the sunlight of new sobriety.

Life is still in a transition.  I still live with my parents, and I’m still in school.  Sometimes I feel like it’s never going to get better, or when it does, I won’t know how be responsible as an adult.  I know my thoughts are opinions, not facts, but that doesn’t stop them from getting the best of me sometimes.  Especially days I’m on a no carb diet, but that’s a completely different story for another day.

Even though I’m moving forward, and beginning to let go of the past, I know no matter how far ahead I get, it will haunt me forever.  I may forget how painful it was to loose him, and no matter how scared I may be someday I will forget, It’s certain my scars will last forever, and I’ll never forget his name.

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TOLEDO (Writing 201-Acrostic, simile)

Traveling is a gift to my soul. It fills my empty heart like a pool full of people on a hot summer day.  Happy.

Opens my mind like a clearing in the dark clouds over head.  Peace.

Leaving all the drama behind, like a child in a day care. Temporary.

Eventually I return like the geese in the summer. Anxious

Distributing gifts to the people I love, like Santa Claus on Christmas.  Grateful.

Only to dream of the next trip, like a soul searching for love.  Patient.

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Holy Toledo! (Memoirs of A Vacation 3)

Holy Toledo is right!  Being from Chicago, I can really appreciate a city that has a lot of its original historic structures.  I LOVE the glass and steel towering monuments that make up Chicago, but visiting here makes me wonder what kind of beauty was ripped down and demolished to pave the way for becoming the “Home of the Skyscraper”.  You also have to take into effect the miles of highways that seem to run right through the city of Chicago and what was lost to build these roads that are so traveled on today.

Our first stop in our journey was the “Black Kite” coffee shop.  This is my friends place of employment and I got to enjoy a beautifully crafted brunch with the luxury of paying half of the original cost.  My French toast was served with a sweet berry sauce that completely removed my need for maple syrup.  He had some crunchy avocado salad with tortilla, chick peas and of course avocado that I found myself stealing bites from throughout the whole meal.

Next we wondered over to the Rosary Cathedral.  BREATHTAKING.  Born a Catholic and not so practicing, I really was reminded what it was like growing up in the church.  It also made me realize that even being from Chicago, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a magnificent display of art and wonder.  I took many pictures, lit a candle for my grandma and the fallen addicts before me, also blessed myself on the way out.  I’m far less talented of a writer then most to be able to put into words the glory that I saw and the emotions I felt from just being in that building.

Down the road, within walking distance we stopped to see the Collingwood Arts Center which was taken over from an old school for girls and a convent.  The building was old, built in 1875 I believe and barley touched.  I don’t think there were any changes to the building since it was built.  The glass windows where stained with a fog from the elements.  The wood never touched, down to the wooden stall doors in the bathroom.  The paint was chipping and the hardwood floor that haunting creaked was completely worn in.  I LOVE IT.  We got to do a full tour and entered rooms on all 5 floors hoping to experience something paranormal.  I felt anxious looking around getting a real feel of what it was like to walk those halls all those years ago.  The building was connected to the Christian Gerber mansion, also outstanding, accessible and in similar shape.  I could wander and explore that convent and mansion for hours if time allowed.

There was a free swap across the street at the community garden where I picked up some worn boots and a hoodie.  I’m a sucker for free shit.  The real shopping started at “Handmade Toledo” a crafty gift and clothing shop where I managed to spend $120 on things to bring home to the family, friends and the boyfriend that I anticipate to have.  I forgot that I probably, well, certainly spent more on myself.

Never hearing of the Toledo Mud Hens until my train ride, I became obsessed with the idea of getting myself a baseball hat.  That brought us to Fifth Third Stadium and to my disappointed the gift shop was closed but will reopen tomorrow.  I’M GETTING THIS HAT.  Right down the street was the art museum and we toured that and I got a fabulous book about the sneaker exhibit that will soon be traveling through.

What a long eventful day!  Next up is some dinner and a talent show to end the evening.  All in all, a pretty amazing day full of exploring and sightseeing, exactly what this guy right here wanted to do.  I always get a little home sick, and this time I know why.  I got a special guy waiting at home for me to get back that I can’t wait to spoil with little Toledo gifts and kisses.

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Auto Biography Of An Addict Part 1 (Childhood)

The names in this story are not changed (except mine) cause I don’t give a shit…

My name is Dolce Minaj  I was born on March 16, 1980 to a married mother and father.  My mom was 21 and my dad was 25.  I was the first born, now known as the oldest, of two children.  My mom was the only girl of 5 kids and was a victim of sexual abuse from both her brothers and her father.  She was a lot like the person I would later become.  My mom was energetic, outspoken, and a hairstylist.  She tly had a heart of gold but was mostly misunderstood because of the mental health issues that she suffered from.  My dad was the oldest of 6 kids and the exact opposite.  He was quiet, selfish and never wanted children.  In his defense he always had a job and supported my small family the best he could.  I did pick up a few positive traits from him, the number one thing being his entrepreneur spirit and the ability to talk his way out of anything.  While digging up feelings to write this auto biography I realized that I could not recall one vivid memory of my dad interacting with me as a child.

Most of my childhood memories are of my brother and I doing normal kid stuff.  Our early childhood was spent in Frankfort Square, IL.  The neighborhood of small starter homes had many starter families, and many kids for us to play with.

I can recall at the age of 5 knowing that I was different from the other kids.  I gravitated towards girls and “girl” things.  The bullies on the block where a few years older then me and were twins.  Joey and Jason would called me “Davidrella” and other names to insult me for the feminine way that I acted.  (I have to note now, that Jason currently owns a gay bar and preforms as a drag queen in the south suburbs of Chicago.)  When I was 6 years old, my parents sent me to a Catholic nun physiatrist because of my behaviors and concerns about my sexuality.  When alone in the cold office while sitting on the wooden floor the nun opened up a large closet full of toys.  I was asked to choose whatever toys that I liked that were in the closet and to play with them.  At 6 I knew what they wanted, and I wasn’t going to give it to them.  I told myself not to play with the girl toys and I picked something gender neutral instead.  The verdict was that my dad should spend more time with his son, and I should be fine if they didn’t want me to grow up with homosexual tendencies.  That never happened.  In grade school the names and taunting continued.

I was always the one boy in a crowd of girls.  In 4th grade we moved to Carol Stream.  At Evergreen School, it was apparent I had a problem and the teaches collectively were going to do something about it.  I found myself forbidden to talk to my friends anymore.   I watched the girls play at recess not understanding why I was to stay away from them.  I spent recess sitting alone while avoiding kick balls being deliberately aimed for my head from the other boys in the school.  I sometimes wonder if my parents were in on this, or if it was all the idea of the administration.

It was 1990 and my parents decision to move to Carol Stream so we could be close to the rest of our family.  This is when, as a family, all hell broke loose.  My dad was sneaky.  He was a liar and a cheater.  My mom was crazy, angry and spent all of her attention on her children while she ignored her husband.  When they argued, it was common to see my Dad hit my mom. Also, just as common my Mom would attack him right back. No one should ever hit a woman, however my Mom was harsh with her words and had an angry steak along with a “my way or the highway” attitude. Vases were broken and holes put into walls.

The following year and a half were crazy. After 11 months in that house, my mom had enough. While at bingo with my Grandma and Aunt she met a looser named Bill. I have no idea what she saw in him. I am assuming it was the attention that she never had. She filed for divorce and we got an apartment in Wheaton with Bill. Despite his white trash appeal, he was actually pretty good to my brother and I. We liked him because he did the things that our Dad never did. He took us fishing, taught us how to shoot a gun and other things that that we were missing without a male role model in our life.

He was a coke head, and also beat my mom. Again she would beat him right back. He always had guns in the house and actually set one off on accident. The bullet went through the dining room wall, through the refrigerator, and luckily got stuck in the door. The bullet had enough force to open the freezer door as it hit my Mom in the head. If that bullet did not get stuck in the door it would have hit my Mom in the head.

Six months into that relationship, while thinking she was doing what was best for her kids, my Mom left Bill and we moved back in with our father. I remember crying that day, harder then when they told me about the divorce, because I didn’t want to go back there. My parents re married and shortly after that my Grandpa died. My Nana moved in. My parents were at their worst. My Dad actually attacked my Mom in front of my Nana and me as my Nana screamed in terror watching her only daughter get beat. She was helpless, and on oxygen. Not being able to do anything else but call 911, I did just that and my Dad fled the house without even putting his shoes on. the marriage only lasted 9 months. Shorty after the divorce my Nana died. I was 15 at the time. She was the glue that held the family together and nothing has ever been the same.

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