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Rated: 18+ · Draft · Biographical · #1911932
Feeling intensely, my writing suffers but blocked when there's no feeling involved.
My life started over a year ago, when I woke up in the hospital where I spent the next three weeks. I know these dates because it has been a year and 14 weeks plus a few days since the last time I had sex or indulged in any self-enhancing substances. When I am not in my head, I miss both.

So, I eat and seek. I rummage through my old on-line accounts that I didn't have much use for when I was running a muck. I wander aimlessly through facebook or research what the world has been doing while I was absent from 'normal society,' and I grieve.

Today I opened an email from a writing site I registered with shortly after my fall from sobriety. I was greeted with "Happy Anniversary" it has been 5 years since you joined us, closely followed by a list of my accomplishments. Zero publications, zero stories or blogs, zero friends or reading critiques, my life in a nutshell at 46 years old summed up in a word, ZERO.

I cry every day. I answer emails, do dishes, think about writing, sometimes I research or read quotes and study words, for love of the process but creation seems to have fled, to be replaced by a negative critique who holds perfectionistic standards that I couldn't achieve if I hadn't spent the last 3/4 of my life homeless, under a bridge, without even a shopping cart.

Insecure and vain, I didn't ever want to appear mismatched, dirty, or unkept and if there is one thing that gives off that appearance, it's a shopping cart loaded with personal treasures and change of dirty cloths. I risked death more times than I can count leaving off the sweater or jacket so my outfit would match my shoes and purse. When I was looking for an unurinated doorway down town to rest my body under, the color coordination of my sandals and skirt with my painted toe nails were small comfort.

I never was very "good" at being homeless, a neurotic and spoiled only child, I was a princess born and raised in California. If it weren't for the homeless' community that seems to know who is worse off, (even when we don't know it ourselves) their acceptance of eccentricities, and general camaraderie I wouldn't have survived. Not to mention the many do-gooders who sincerely care past their own prejudices to reach out to us, when we are in our less than socially acceptable forms.

My oldest son, the educated writer in the family said, "Mom, you have to quit living the story and save your energy for the work." Of course, I understand what he means but do I have to feel so dead? Is this the process to becoming an adult? Or is it just me? Have I been 'crazy' so long there is no way back? Do I want to scratch and claw my way 'back' into a society that I rejected long ago when it abandoned me along with my family? It seems as though, I have been abandoning myself ever since.

My adopted mother keeps telling me that my "relatives" will welcome me back into the fold when I get "it" together...WTF....I was 16 years old, lost, scared, totally fucked up and if rejecting me means they have "it together," I hope to hell I never do!! Probably the biggest lesson I learned over the years has been the value of societal rejects. That filthy drunken ass hole yelling on the corner is a person, with a story, a life of pain, fear, joy, and worthy of a hug if nothing more. It seems to me, there is more honesty in the asshole than in politically correct hypo-crazy. I am just not sure where that leaves me today...

If I am not crazy...then who am I?
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