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The old lady downstairs finally kicked it. I know, that sounds cold; however, she was like 95, in serious hand and leg pain all the time, her kids suck ass and didn’t give a rats ass about her – they never came to visit, etc. She was literally all by herself, ALL the time. She was also really dirty. She never showered and smelled REAL bad. Her apartment reeked of ass and old food. Her carpets were once beige and now almost black and matted with dirt. She would stand at the front door all day and look at the street outside. Just from standing there, the door, which was once white, was actually gray and covered in dirt. Let’s just say, no matter how “Cold” I sound, she is now in a better place.

She died in late November. Her piece of shit children are just now getting around to going to her apartment to clean it out. When I say just now, I mean they never even went there to clean out her fridge after her death. Rotting food, dirty dishes just sat there for almost 3 months.

::ENTER MICE::

Her piece of shit children came to the house last weekend and proceeded to dump all of her belongings (even mint condition antique furnitire) carelessly into a huge metal dumpster in the street. When they removed all of the furniture from the apartment (which she lived in for 60+ years) the mice that once happily co-existed with her now had no place to go. They came upstairs.

About 2 weeks ago we became INFESTED with mice. Not only is waking up to mouse droppings strewn all over your kitchen counter in the morning both gross and not safe at all, to make matters worse my half doxie dog (hunter by nature) is now ruined.

He sits in the kitchen ALL night long whining, crying, panting, barking, scratching and just plain being the most annoying pest in the universe. Our bedroom is right off the kitchen and me being the light sleeper that I am (if a mouse farts, I wake up) he has me up all night. I have not slept an entire night in more than 2 weeks. I am over-tired, cranky, irritable and just a fucking ray of sunshine to be around these days.

We tried everything. We got humane traps, disk traps, etc. Being that we are vegetarians, we could not bring ourselves to kill the mouse (or at least see it dead). We are pussies by nature. We can not eat a steak, must less murder an innocent and cute mouse. It sucks.

None of the humane traps worked. I finally had reached a point where I could not take it anymore. If I did not get some sleep soon I would wind up killing a human being. I was really not far away from snapping.

We went to store and bought glue traps. We came home, set the glue trap and within 20 minutes caught a mouse.

The mouse was TINY and dark gray and so fucking adorable I could not even take it. It got stuck in such a way that was not at all heartbreaking for me to see. I dealt with it. I took the glue board – mouse and all and threw it in the garbage. On my way upstairs I felt a pang of guilt being that it was 0 degrees outside and that the poor thing would either starve to death or freeze to death, both options equally as painful, but I just couldnt bring myself to kill it quickly. Fucking PUSSY.

This morning we get up and Craig notices that we caught another one. This one was WAY WORSE. The poor thing had half of its face stuck to the glue. It’s legs were stuck and in a desperate effort to free itself had literally ripped its own back foot off (FUCK). It’s breathing was very shallow. It looked so damn sad. I had to kill it. I couldn’t live with myself unless I did. F U C K.

Just what I need at 8AM, as soon as I open my eyes.

I put the glue board in a plastic bag and proceed to smash it with a hammer. Much to my dismay, the first time I hit it I had managed to merely crush its back and not kill it so it started to cry. I then wound up smashing it’s head and killing it. FUCK!

I feel like a scumbag. Seriously. I know its a mouse. I know it breeds disease and is dirty. I know I can’t co-exist with these things, it’s gross. I just feel really bad about killing them….

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK….!

In the spirit of my upcoming 8 years of sobriety anniversary, I thought I would write a little bit about my time as a junkie and my recovery.

Looking back, it is amazing how much I have changed during the last 8 years. I remember when I first quit using my drug of choice, Heroin; I thought I would remember the experience, vividly, for the rest of my life. I had assumed that it would be etched into my “mental book of personal experiences” deeply. I was incorrect in my assumptions. With time, memory fades and it is almost impossible to feel those raw emotions that you thought would once suffocate you.

Now, on to the story…

How Heroin Stole my Soul and the Long Road to Recovery

The year was 1998. I was working a great job and was stressed to the max with the long hours, constant traveling and lack of personal life. I needed an out and unfortunately found that “out” in the form of drugs.

Heroin is not JUST a drug, it is a lifestyle. It has this way of numbing you from pain, not just physical pain, but emotional pain. Let’s face it, everyone needs a break from reality from time to time. Most people do not make that leap to something as serious as heroin, but I have always been an extremist so the leap was not that far for me.

I was 23 years old and I went down hard. It started as just a weekend thing – then progressed to every other NIGHT. I kept telling myself that as long as I did not need a shot in the morning, then I did not have a problem. Denial is amazing that way, it can play some serious tricks on your mind. Denial can literally force you to believe your own lies, the lies you tell yourself to make it through the day without conflict or pain. Denial is the easy way out of hell.

Before I knew it, I was a hardcore junkie. I was not working because of the whole Martha Stewart issue, which I believe was the catalyst to my downfall. I was home all day, every day, with nothing better to do but “medicate” myself.

6 months went by and I was losing weight at an alarming rate, I was 80 lbs at my worst. I was getting sicker and sicker. I finally decided it was time to quit. I came to that conclusion one chilly Spring morning at 6AM.

The night before I decided to attempt quitting, I used every last drop of my heroin supply and went to bed. I had every intention of toughing out the next morning. I woke at 6AM chilled to the bone, but laying in a pool of sour sweat. I had to pee, but dreaded making the 20 foot trek to the bathroom to do so.

I finally forced myself out of bed, the urgency to pee taking over. I walked to the bathroom and began to feel sick to my stomach, I had to vomit.

I leaned over the toilet, which had not been cleaned in months, and began to dry heave into the dirty water. I happened to look down at my right arm and noticed an abscess leaking puss. This site made me even sicker.

After my episode, I pulled myself up and started to splash my face with water in the sink. While doing this, I caught a glimpse of myself in the dirty mirror and what stared back at me was not me at all, but some horrifying shell of me.

My skin was pale and pock-marked, my eyes, once green and bright were now black accented by the deep black circles under them. My hair hung in dirty clumps around my emaciated face and neck. My teeth were a grayish/yellow from not being brushed in weeks. I scared myself so badly that I just screamed and cried at the top of my lungs for what must have been 45 minutes.

I was 23 years old and my life, as I knew it, was over. Everyone who ever doubted me, my success, my happiness – were being proven right. I had succumbed to a life of nightmares.

I picked up the phone and called the ONLY person who I knew would understand and do anything to help me, my Father. I was on a plane to South Florida the next afternoon to detox.

The process of detoxing from heroin is EXACTLY like you see in the movies. There is no over dramatization, it is REALLY like that. You can’t eat, you can’t lay down, sit still, you yawn every 30 seconds, you have insane bouts of diarrhea which last for 20 minutes at a time, your spine feels like it was replaced with a cold metal object, you hallucinate and most importantly you do not sleep for one single second for at least 2 weeks.

During my detox, I was rushed to a hospital by my Father who felt helpless watching me in such agony. I could see in his eyes that he would do anything, give anything to rid me of what I was feeling. There was nothing he could do to alleviate my pain. I felt so bad putting him through that.

After waiting in the ER for what felt like days, I was brought to an examining room in the back where I was told to remove all of my clothing and put on a blue paper “Johnnie” (gown). Dreading taking off my clothes because I was SO DAMN COLD, I did what I was told and sat on a cold metal table. I must have passed out because the next thing I remember is waking up to short, yet insanely profound conversation.

I opened my eyes and to find a blonde girl wearing a short white coat and a stethoscope, I now realize that she was 3rd year Medical Student but did not make that connection at the time, staring at me.

“So, what brings you here today, Gloria?” Medical Student

“I am going through heroin withdrawal and its bad”, I replied.

“How long have you been using and have you been injecting or snorting?” Medical Student

“Mainline injections for 6 months”

She then does a short exam, checks my legs (circulation) and checks for blood clots and/or swelling. She feels my liver for swelling, checks my heart rate and reflexes.

When she finishes, she sits down and looks me straight in the eye and asks…

“How old are you, Gloria?”

“23, I will be 24 in July”, I replied

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I am just about your age and I am a Doctor. You are a heroin addict. How could you let that happen?”

I still remember the feeling I had when she asked me that. Tears sprung to my eyes and I couldn’t answer her. I wasn’t offended; it was a real eye-opener for me. There she was doing something I always dreamt of doing and here I was with an abscess in my arm and my life flushed away. How could I let that happen? She was right.

From that moment on, I decided that I would never let myself go down this dark road again. Drugs are the “easy” way out of hell and I would be damned if I would ever take the easy way out of anything ever again.

The two years of depression that followed my physical withdrawal solidified my decision. There is NO PAIN and no hell worse than a depression that deep. I would wake up every morning and try to think of reasons to not kill myself.

However difficult, I made it through. Statistically, only 2% of heroin addicted people get off the drug and stay off without methadone per year. 2%! That is a crazy statistic, almost unbelievable, but completely true.

That girl made a HUGE difference in my life at that moment. She took a huge risk in saying that to me, considering that she was only a 3rd year Med Student. I respect her for taking that risk and thank her for being the alarm clock that I needed to rouse me from that dark slumber.

So 8 years ago I was in a place I never thought I could come out of. I was in a place I never imagined I could be in the first place. While it was a hard time for me, I do not regret it, for it made me the person I am today. On the same token, if I had never fallen like that maybe I would be happier today. I will never really know the truth and I guess it really doesn’t matter…

One last thing, kids…. Don’t do drugs. Seriously. It’s just NOT worth your life, trust me.

What started out as the best day of my life yesterday quickly ended as what I would easily call the worst day of my life…

When I was a little girl, I was incredibly independent. I did not play with dolls much, I did not want to wear dresses, I did not spend much time with my Mother, I did not want to grow up and have babies and I never dreamt of my wedding day. I had one thing, the only thing I really ever cared about – my Dad.

Deep down, he is an amazing person with a HUGE heart. He has such potential. He is one of the smartest people I know. When I was a kid he literally forced me to do well in school. He would read me the dictionary every night before bed. When I had a paper due, he would rip up my work and make me do it over and over again. At the time, I thought he was mean. In retrospect, he made me who I am and who I am is GREAT.

Every other night we would go jogging together. He always took me shopping and told me everything. He was honest with me and treated me like an adult. He trusted me when every one else thought I was a liar. He embraced my individuality rather than shun me for being “weird”. He was my hero, my life.

However, he had his own issues. He was suffering inside for years. His childhood was a nightmare…

To give some quick examples, he was molested by priests and his father’s friends; he was moved from town to town, city to city, state to state – never able to establish any real roots. His Father had rage issues and would fly off the handle and beat him and his brothers and his Mother on a daily basis. His Mother worked really hard to raise 4 boys, work 2 jobs and create some semblance a life for them. She finally had saved up enough money to take the children away from him and move out on her own. When that happened he needed to quit school and stay home to care for his 3 younger brothers while his Mother worked.

As he grew older, he finally met a wonderful woman named Jenny. He fell deeply in love with her and they planned to marry. He was so happy to finally have some roots and excited to start a family. One week before the wedding, she died in a car crash driving to the market to pick up a last minute item for a dinner she was cooking for him.

His world crumbled. Her family buried her in her wedding gown, which only made things worse for him. Since the death of Jenny, he has never been the same.

Years and much drug use later, he joined the Marines and wound up in ..Hawaii where he met my Mother who was a cocktail waitress on the Marine base in Kaneohe Bay. I was 2 years old when they married. Obviously, he is my Step-Father but since he was there since I was a baby, I called him Daddy. He was the only Father I have ever known.

We stayed in Hawaii for awhile and then eventually moved back to New York City. I could always tell he wasn’t happy living in New York. He hated cold weather, the hustle, the crowds, the dirty streets. Although he hated it he made the best of it and created a career in Real Estate for himself, a lucrative career.

After 10 years of living in New York, his love for me and love for himself were just not enough. He turned back to drugs – HARDCORE. We wound up addicted to Crack/Cocaine, 120 lbs, lost his job, blew my college fund, and there was an “incident” concerning me where he molested me. I was 11 years old.

One Saturday morning before Christmas, I woke up at my normal 7AM to make him coffee and get ready for the day and he wasn’t there. He had left. I found my Mother crying at the edge of the bed and being that I was so young and so enamored with him, I didn’t understand her pain. I instantly resented her and blamed her for his leaving.

When he left I was in the 7th grade. I failed out of Catholic school (which was big for me because my grades were always so great) and basically went on a downward spiral. Years and years of doing badly in school, doing drugs, drinking and staying out all night, set the stage for what my life would become. I just didn’t want to live I guess. When you are a kid things hurt more and your lack of understanding only makes you blame yourself. What did I do? Why did he leave me? I must be a terrible person…

I continued to treat myself like garbage well into my teenage years. My relationship with my Mother steadily declined. I never listened to her, I just didn’t care. My dreams went down the drain…

There were 2 things I’ve always wanted in my life. I wanted to be a writer and I wanted to be a Brain Surgeon. When little girls dream about their wedding day, I was dreaming about cutting into people’s brains and writing novels about it. Granted, I had a lot of wild dreams when I was a kid – but these two were always a constant.

Because my Mother and I were not getting along (my fault), I needed to quit school and get a job so I could move out. At 15, I left school and got a job in the city. At 16, I moved out.

I worked in the city for years until I decided that I wanted to go back to college. I entered a contest when I was 18 years old to win a college scholarship. I wrote a short story, which won first place. The prize was a scholarship to Pepperdine University in Malibu, California! Talk about a dream! Pepperdine was a great school, in a beautiful place and I decided I would study pre-med. I was so happy.

I quit my job and started to get ready for college. Needless to say, I should have waited to leave my job – but I was young and foolish. The scholarship had some limitations… I had to pay for my own room and board, which I could not afford and neither could my family. I had screwed up my credit at the mere age of 18 and could not obtain a loan. Another part of this is that the man my Mother was married to before my Father is listed on my Birth Cert was my natural Father. I also have his last name. This man, Ronnie is quite well off. When I applied for Financial Aid, they used his income and I was not eligible. I had to turn down the opportunity and go back to work. I was crestfallen. Also, at that time – my Father was doing particularly bad. He was homeless and on death’s door. I did nothing but cry.

Dreams broken, spirit gone – I went back to work and made the best of my situation. I excelled at my career in Information Technology and by the time I was 23 I was a VP of a national Marketing firm in NYC. I had a corner office and a 6 figure salary. Although I had all of this, this wasn’t the life I wanted… I always mourned for what I really wanted, but was too afraid to do.

Getting to my point… I have always pushed my own needs aside for the needs of others. I have always sat on my dreams because I was afraid. I have always pushed myself down rather bring myself up. I have to stop that.

Yesterday, I called my Grandmother to say hello. She shared with me some very bad news… My Father is homeless, out on the streets, 150 lbs, smoked his entire business, life, and sanity away again.

After all of these years of me finding him in the streets of Miami, in the worst neighborhoods imaginable – after always forgiving him and helping him to be himself again, to be the person I know he can be – I’ve just lost my faith. My hero has fallen. My heart is broken.

He is now 50 years old. I do not think that his body can handle this anymore. I fear that this time will be the last and not because he quits, but because his body will “quit”. I just know that he is not going to make it.

I can’t even be angry anymore…

Isn’t it amazing the way history repeats itself? It’s like a test of wills. Every time I try to do something for me, he always pulls me down. I am 31 years old and I can’t let him do that to me.

The question is – How do I ignore the fact that he is homeless and practically dying and focus my energy on me? How can I forget that without him I wouldn’t be who I am, or WHERE I AM…

How could I just let him fucking die?

I know I have to be strong and I have to follow my dreams, even in the face of extreme hardship… However, all I wanted yesterday was to tell him about how happy I was and hear that he was proud of me and himself. I was not expecting to hear that he was “on the way out”

So, I started the day with my heart in the clouds and ended the day with it broken. Talk about extremes.