Filling in the Blank Spots

     Get up off your knees, girl

     stand face to face with your God

     and find out what you are - 

"My Name Is Human" - Highly Suspect

It's 2 a.m., I'm running on fumes and I'm up in 4 hours to do it all again.  Good enough reason to say, "fuck it, I'll start writing it all tomorrow night", and keep bullshitting for another week, month, year.  I played the song quoted on loop today and even though I've listened to it at least a hundred times, the meaning changed for me this morning. In my mind it's self-explanatory as it relates to telling this tale, but deduce what you will.

Caveat, to my family... I don't know that anyone other than Devon - and possibly V - will be reading this in the near future.  BUT...shit happens, details emerge and one day my sister might pop in looking for Finley and instead, here's this veritable shit storm of brutal honesty about what really happened in the life of her junkie sister, no omissions, no candy coating, and then the phone calls start coming from Mom wanting to know why in the name of the baby JESUS I would tell the entire free fucking world that I tried heroin, HEROIN, did I really try heroin? and things get awkward and very embarrassing for the people I love.  I have been at war with myself about committing all of the ugliness to the internet where it will reside until there's nothing left but cockroaches and Twizzlers (seriously.  Both of those things will survive nuclear wars and global warming and asteroid impacts) because, while putting myself on display for all the lookie-loos is one thing, they might not want any part of it.  So, here's the deal.  I wouldn't have even considered the idea of baring my soul again had it not been for the urging of family.  I was stunned that the most vocal supporter was Devon.  He's conservative, private and never hesitates to tell me to get my shit together, grow up, own my mistakes, <insert pithy and fucking annoying-as-hell-because-he's-only-24-and-right-goddammit advice here> and he's the last person I imagined cheering me on to pen this particular Gold medal winner in the Trainwreck Olympics.  So, I thought, "well, he just meant write more crap about embarrassing the kids in public and how often I fall".  Then a text came through after my last post:  "I'm really glad you're writing, again."  He wants me to tell this story and although I don't fully understand why, I'm grateful for his and Virginia's blessing.  They're both ready to weather whatever comes because they know how much writing was a part of me and how I disappeared a little more every day that I tried to pretend it was a passing phase.  I just hope they truly comprehend where this leads:  there will be bone exposed.  I will not do this if I feel like I have to lie about any of it because deluding myself is how I started unraveling in the first place and pain is what gets my undivided fucking attention.  It has to hurt, memorably. With that said, note: These are the things I've done; they are not who I am. The distinction is crucial. 

For those of you who sent me friend requests on Facebook solely to have gossip fodder to spread three and four fucking YEARS later on hate sites, grab a few changes of underwear because I'm about to give you the motherload, tickets to the SuperBowl of Oversharing, the bona fide what-the-hell-I-can't-believe-she's-telling-anyone-this secret decoder ring to share with your other sniveling buddies.

 For those of you who matter, who've prayed for my family and I, sent me thoughts of kindness and compassion, the people who perpetuate beauty and joy, the ones who remind me that there is purpose in this?  I'm so glad you'll be with me for the journey.  You give me strength.  

Away we go...