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*Originally posted on myspace 6/13/07*

I have an insane fear of roaches.  When I say insane, I mean that when I see one I literally FREEZE.  My entire body becomes frozen in fear.  I can’t breathe, I can’t even think straight.  For an onlooker, this can be quite the hilarious scene, but when I am alone it is flat out horrifying.  I have to say that it is SO bad that even writing about this right now is making me sick to my stomach and scared to death.

I was walking on the subway platform a few weeks ago and a roach crawled across my foot and I lost it.  There was a subway musician playing guitar and saw my reaction to the roach and actually started singing a fucking parody about how I am afraid of roaches.  Talk about embarrassing.

Anyway.  On to the story.

Last night at about 10:30 PM I was in the computer room, which is really Craig’s “work room”.  I was surfing the web and trying to keep my mind off of the fact that Craig had not called me once all day.  The room was really dark, except for the light from the computer screen.  I felt something on my arm, thinking it was a stray hair from my head I just casually looked down and attempted to brush it off.  As my hand reached towards my arm, something HUGE moved.

I jumped out of the chair and let out a blood curdling scream.  There was a waterbug, about 4 inches long (no exaggeration) crawling up my arm. 

::pause::  I am literally getting asthma right now. 

Whew.  OK, I am filled with the sweet aerosol of Albuterol.  I can continue now.

So, obviously when I jumped out the chair, the thing went flying off of my arm.  It’s time for the face off.  I flip the light on and it’s not just any roach, but some weird looking HUGE brown one with orange on its back.  It also fucking FLIES.  What do I live in Hawaii now?!  It flies over to the printer and starts crawling across the paper in the hopper.  I, still frozen in fear and can’t think straight, start crying hysterically.  I slam the door to the room, run through the dining room, slam that door and proceed to shove towels under the door so that there is NO way this flying hell bug can get me, then I go to the bedroom.  I turn on the light, get under the blankets and continue to shake.

I can’t sleep, but somehow I manage to fall asleep after about an hour of crying.  At 1:30 AM, I wake up to find the waterbug crawling across my fucking NECK.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I jump out of bed, and my dog (oh how I love him) springs into action.  I am screaming at the top of my lungs, trying to spray the thing to death with Craig’s aerosol “Sure” deodorant.  It won’t die and now I have turned it white. 

Doobie goes after this thing with a fury.  I am screaming “Doobie GET HIM.  KILL HIM” as Doobie dives beneath the end table.  As all of this commotion is going on, Craig walks in the door freaked out thinking there is a strange man in the bedroom trying to rape me.

Doobie kills the roach.  Craig gets the carcass with a tissue and tosses it in the toilet.  I, reeling from the roaches and depressed from the state of my marriage, just fall into his arms shaking and crying like a chick from a 1950’s film.

I can conquer all of these horrible things in my life.  I can punch someone dead in the face without even thinking twice about it.  I can cut someone’s throat if they ever dared to harm me, but I can’t kill a fucking ROACH?!  I sat up all night and could not sleep.  I did not sleep 1 second.

Seriously, no matter how sad and pathetic that is… I have to move.  Craig then proceeded to tell me, the fucker, that the night before he was taking a piss and another roach was crawling up his leg.  He killed it.  That makes 2 or 3 roaches.  We are officially infested.  We are officially moving.

Eyes closed, mind racing.  Thoughts of my childhood, like running down 13th ave. with it’s littered curbs and cracked cement, on an especially hot and sticky afternoon in late July.  I am 8 years old and wearing my favorite pink, white and black L.A. Gear sneakers.

My shoes hit the pavement in rhythmic bursts.  My frail, young body, out of breath but not in the least bit tired.  My long mousy brown hair flowing behind me, sweat pouring off of my neck, down my spine and gathering in a pool at my almost non-existent waist.

I’m running from something, it’s just not physical.  I turn my head over my shoulder with every 5th step, half expecting to see someone chasing me.  With each glance, I am somewhat disappointed to find the street empty behind me.

There has to be a reason for this gripping fear in my chest.  It feels like icy cold fingers wrapped around my heart, squeezing gently, but firm enough to cause discomfort.I could run forever, but it will not cause this feeling to leave me.  I finally stop, heaving almost to the point of vomiting.

The problem is me.  The fear is in my mind.

Flash ahead 24 years.  I am perfectly safe, yet feel as if the world is closing in on me.  It is a feeling I have grown accustomed to over the years.  It is a feeling I have become great at hiding.  It is a feeling I would never let the world see.

All of my choices are affected.  The way I live my daily life is evident of someone who was/is somewhat damaged.  The question is… Aren’t we all somewhat damaged?

I could go on pretending that I am happy.  That my life has taken the course I had always planned for it to take.  I could go on pretending that my childhood did not damage me, that excessive drug use did not damage me, that choosing the wrong men did not damage me.

The fact is…  It all did.  It all took its toll.

Yet, I wake up every morning and I wrestle the devil inside of me to the ground.  I dredge up the strength to force myself out of bed and smile.  I live my life everyday by doing the right thing.  It’s not always what I want, but I know it’s *right*.

Things could be so much worse.  I could be a homeless, drug-addicted lunatic in the streets.  Somehow, I found the courage to make it through all of that – why would I give up now when the race is not even halfway done?

Life…

Is funny sometimes, kids. 

I have always been good at taking photographs.  Mostly of myself, because let’s face it… I genuinely love myself.  Taking pictures is expression, without words.  It is my form of visual creativity.

The female body is amazing.  The soft curves, different sizes and shapes, the ability to look amazing naked when most men can never achieve that (well there ARE some).

There is NOTHING in the world like hooking up some ghetto lighting, slipping into some fantastically sexy clothing, popping in some soft, sweet, acoustic music, propping my camera up n my tripod, setting the timer and going to town.  It makes you feel sexy, wanted, IMPORTANT… but in a non-shallow way.  In an artistic way.

Any cute girl can walk down the street and demand attention, that is easy.  Demanding attention from a camera, which captures every imperfection on your body AND soul, is a gift.  Looking perfect through the lens of a camera is difficult to achieve, but certainly attainable.

In short, while taking photographs of myself and other women is not my lifelong aspiration, I am good at it.

*Originally posted on myspace 6/12/07*

I remember floating out into the ocean with my Dad on a boogie board when I was 2 and we lived in Hawaii.

I remember my Mother and brother standing on the beach screaming for us to come closer to the shore because she was scared I would drown.

I remember my Father telling me to wave to my Mother while he was laughing at her hysteria.

I remember laying in my crib and seeing a lizard on the ceiling and screaming at the top of my lungs at 2:00 in morning and scaring the shit out of my parents.

I remember running into my room at 2 years old and changing out of the clothes my Mother made me wear and into something I liked, like polka dots and stripes.

I remember riding my big wheel down 73rd Street and falling on my face.

I remember my big brother running down the block when he heard my screams.  He picked me up and carried me all the way home in his arms and tried to calm me down.  He was my hero.

I remember writing “Michelle loves Billy Stain” on the brick wall on 74th street just to torture her.  To this day, 29 years later, it’s still there.  Faint, but there.

I remember playing manhunt and “climbing” in the backyards on 13th Ave.  We would climb the walls and go onto private property.  It was an adventure.

I remember roller skating with Amanda up and down 75th Street ALL day long and never, ever gettin tired.

I remember eating carrot salad with Michelle & Michelle in 1328 73rd Street.

I remember playing “fame” on the corner of 13th Ave and 74th Street with my friends.  We would make up dances, play the boombox as loud as it would go and put on shows for the boys.

I remember when the graffiti phase was huge and my brother was “Dest13” and to make him angry I ran around the streets with a big sharpie and “toyed” all of his “tags”.

I remember the Alley Cats and wishing I could be one, but i was just a “girl”

I remember when my Dad used to load the station wagon up with all of the neighborhood kids on Sundays, even Fat Mike in the back and take us to Dyker Park to play Football.  He would let me play, even though I sucked.

I remember going on “adventures” in the “devil worshipper area” of the Dyker Park Golf Course and being scared out of my mind when we saw the smoke coming out of the trees.  I remember thinking they were sacrificing animals in there.

I remember playing jumprope on the corner.

I remember almost getting kidnapped 3 times.

I remember being head over heels in love with Antonio Devito and wishing everynight before bed that he would marry me, or at least notice that I existed.

I remember playing “animal house”, “haunted house” and “sock sliding” with my cousin, Dori and getting into serious trouble every time.

I remember when my family used to go to Belmont park every summer and Ronnie jumped off of the swing in his cowboy boots while Mother and I watched him fly through the air with our hearts in our throats, only to witness him land safely over the fence on one leg.

I remember when my parents used to fight.

I remember the stress of that.

I remember my beautiful Mother crying on the windowsill.  I remember wishing I could make her smile, but knowing that she was too hurt for that.

I remember when my rabbit died and we buried him in the yard of the abandoned house on 14th Ave.  I remember walking to school the next morning and finding the rabbit dug up and hung upside down, decapitated, from the stop sign covered in beer.  I remember crying so bad from that, that I shook for 3 days.  I remember my brother trying to sheild me from that.

I remember James Begly hitting his head on the stop sign pole while we walked down the street because he wasn’t paying attention to where he was walking.  I remember the LOUD SOUND it made, like someone hitting a gong.

I remember my pink bike with the white banana seat, the streamers and basket in the front.

I remember breaking into my parents station wagon with the dogs leash through the window crack and hanging out in the parked car alllllll night with my friends.

I remember meeting Geroge Tapinekis.

I remember being best friends with Frankie Russo for years.

I remember having my first 40oz and joint at age 12 on a rooftop in Bay Ridge when I was supposed to be in school.

I remember hanging out in Ft. Hamilton park while the boys played basketball and we drank beers and watched and cheered them on.

I remember the first time I took mesculine at age 15.  I remember laughing so hard that my head hurt.  I remember eating egg salad at Jeremy’s house because he said there was nothing like egg salad on mesculine.

I remember going to the “Chicago” concert with my family the next day.  I remember I had a missing filling in my molar and a piece of the Mesc went into the hole the day before.  I remember getting it out at the concert and tripping all over again, but with my family and PHIL COLLINS.

I remember taking “e” for the first time when I was 15.  I remember going to the Ft. Hamilton Army Base and giving strangers my money to go buy a hit.  I remember it only cost 10 dollars.

I remember my first heartbreak and sitting in the rain on valentines day when Jason Esposito broke up with me for a girl named Nicole after I had given him my virginity at age 15 after three years of dating him.

I remember meeting Lenin in the village and calling him Arabic.

I remember him making me laugh more than any guy I had ever known.

I remember building an undeniable bond of friendship with him that would last forever, because we are twin souls.

I remember seeing his astonishing talents for the first time and busting into tears because it just blew my mind how amazing he was.

I remember meeting Eddie Sleem and feeling like no other love could ever be that strong in my life.

I remember sitting on Venice Beach, LA for the first time and thinking that I was just MEANT to live on the West Coast.  I remember feeling so complete, so at ease. 

I remember that no matter the situation in my life, no matter my state of mind, my journal was ALWAYS there from as early as age 10.  I still have every single one of them too.

I remember the “best summer of my life” when me, Gina, Ryan and Ian were all best friends and did everything together.  I remember the rock fights, the chainsaw fight, the acid trips, the camping out in stolen tents, the eating of white castle burgers and the pain when it was all over.

I remember doing heroin for the first time and thinking that nothing could ever “break” me.

I remember the exact moment when I realized I was an addict and that my life was out of control.

I remember every second of quitting heroin and how it took me 5 years to get over the pain, depression and bone chills.

I remember the night Sean G. “re-proposed” to me.  I remember thinking that he was the one and that the way I felt at that exact moment could never be duplicated in my life.  I remember the chills I felt when he touched my skin.  I remember feeling as if I was high and that I was entirely SOBER.

I remember the moment I realized that Sean and I were not going to make it.  I remember feeling insurmountable pain in my chest and thinking that I was seriously going to die from it.

I remember the day I re-met Craig.  I remember telling myself in the car that he was “off-limits”.  I remember telling myself over and over that besides that fact, that I needed to be single for awhile.

I remember the night I realized that Craig was the one, the REAL one, who stole my heart and I remember the gripping fear take hold of me.  I remember feeling vulnerable.  I remember feeling like I had no control.

I remember all of these things…. but somehow I can’t remember what I did yesterday.

Somehow I can’t remember one time in my life where I actually saw something through.

Somehow I can’t seem to finish anything.

Somehow I need to change that.  🙂