This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“The moment I admitted you could kill me was the moment I finally chose to live.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Let the first curl of smoke rise like a confession I’ve been swallowing for years. The kind that sits heavy in the chest because it’s finally time to stop pretending. This is me standing in the doorway of my own truth. Trembling but present. And ready to speak to the thing that once felt like comfort. You didn’t come into my life with claws out. You came soft. Familiar. You came disguised as relief, comfort, and as the one thing that could quiet the noise in my chest. Then you became a companion. I didn’t know you were studying me. Learning my wounds. Memorizing my weak spots. And waiting for the moment I’d confuse your hunger for affection.
And now you reveal yourself as the slow, patient danger I keep calling love. I can feel the ache of it. The grief of it. And the terrifying clarity that comes when you finally admit the thing you’ve been running from is the same predator that’s been hollowing me out from the inside. And today, with this smoke rising around me, I’m done whispering. I’m done softening the truth. I’m done pretending I don’t know what you are.
I’ve finally stopped running from the truth. And it hits me with a force that steals the air from my lungs. I keep letting you lead. And you won’t just ruin my life. You will end it. Not in some dramatic, cinematic way. But in the quiet, methodical way predators always finish their work. You’ll take my breath one day. And the world will keep spinning. The people who love me will stand in the wreckage wondering how something I once trusted became the thing that swallowed me whole.
That realization sits in my bones like a cold prophecy. I can feel how close the edge is. I can feel how thin the line has become. I can feel the way my body is starting to whisper warnings I used to ignore. And for the first time, I’m not pretending I’m stronger than you. I’m not pretending I can dance with you forever. I’m not pretending this ends any other way. The truth is simple and terrifying. I will die.
I let you close. Closer than anyone else. I let you wrap around me like safety. Like something I could trust. And for a long time, I believed you were saving me from the world, myself, and the ache I didn’t know how to carry. But predators don’t save. They circle. They stalk. They wait. And I see you for what you are.
You’ve been feeding on me piece by piece. Slow enough that I could pretend it wasn’t happening. And gentle enough that I could call it love. You made me believe I needed you to breathe, function, and to exist. You made me forget what life felt like before you sank your teeth in. But I’m not blind anymore. I can feel the way you’re hollowing me out. I can feel the way you’re tightening your grip. I can feel the truth I’ve been terrified to say, “My days are numbered.”
Not dramatically. Not suddenly. You’ll do it the way you’ve always done everything with patience and precision. With that quiet, familiar whisper that tells me I can’t live without you. Because loving you has become a slow death. And I’m finally admitting that the thing I thought was protecting me is the same thing dragging me under. You are the predator. I am the prey. And you will finish what you started. I’m done mistaking your teeth for tenderness. I’m done calling this love. Because when you take my life, it will be the last thing you’ll ever take from me. Please just make it quick.
Saying that out loud breaks something open in me. It’s not just fear. It’s grief for the version of me who thought I could love a predator into gentleness. Grief for the girl who thought she was in control. Grief for the woman who kept choosing you even as you carved pieces out of her.
But there’s something else under the grief. And this is where I stop lying to myself about what you are. This is where I look you in the eye and speak the truth you never wanted me to understand. I see the death you’re leading me toward. And, yet, I still can’t break free. Thanks for reading! And turn back before it’s too late.
“Some houses echo with laughter. The House of Addiction echoes with lessons. Loud, painful, and unforgettable lessons. And still, somehow, we walk out wiser than we ever meant to be.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like it’s clocking in for a double shift. What we’re about to talk about requires spiritual PPE. It’s Addiction Awareness Month. And the House of Addiction doesn’t just haunt. It redecorates. It rearranges your memories. Steals your peace. And has the nerve to act offended when you notice.
From the outside, it looks like any other home on the block. But step inside, and you’ll find a floor plan designed by chaos itself. Complete with emotional booby traps and a staircase that creaks like it’s snitching on everybody.
The House of Addiction doesn’t creak when you walk in. It narrates. It knows your footsteps, fears, and soft spots. It knows you’re here for the truth. And it is already rearranging the furniture to make you doubt your own memory.
This house has the audacity of a Southern aunt who swears she “don’t gossip.” But somehow knows everybody’s business. Including the things you haven’t even done yet. Step inside. Keep your shoes on. This floor has seen some things. It will walk room to room with you, pretending it’s just “checking on things.” While it’s really dragging its mess across every surface like a toddler with a Sharpie.
The House of Addiction always looks normal from the outside. Fresh paint. Curtains that match. A porch light that pretends it’s welcoming you in. But the moment you cross that threshold, you realize this house has plans for you. None of them good. All of them messy. And every one of them delivered with the confidence of a demon wearing your grandmother’s pearls.
The Foyer: Where Denial Greets You Like a Nosy Aunt
You step inside and denial is already there. It’s leaning against the doorframe like it pays the mortgage. It’s smiling too big. Talking too fast. And insisting everything is fine. While the smoke alarm screams in the background. “No problem here,” Denial says. All while waving a broom at a fire like it’s a mosquito. The floorboards creak under the weight of secrets nobody wants to say out loud. The air smells like Febreze sprayed over a dumpster fire. This is the room where kids learn to tiptoe. Where silence becomes a second language. Where you learn to read moods like weather reports.
The Kitchen: Where Chaos Cooks Its Famous Disaster Casserole
Addiction loves the kitchen. It treats it like a stage. Pots banging. Cabinets slamming. Someone crying into a sink full of dishes that have been “soaking” since the Bush administration. This is where promises get burned to a crisp. Apologies get reheated for the 47th time. And kids learn to eat fast. Stay quiet. And watch the adults like they’re studying wildlife. The fridge is full of expired groceries and emotional leftovers nobody wants to deal with. And the table is where love tries to sit down. But keeps getting shoved aside by chaos wearing muddy boots.
The Living Room: Where Hope Sleeps on the Couch
The living room used to be cozy. Now it’s a battlefield with throw pillows. Addiction drags its drama in here and spreads out like it pays rent. The TV is always too loud. The arguments are always too sharp. And the kids are always pretending they don’t hear what they hear. Hope still lives here. But it’s exhausted. It curls up on the couch under a blanket that smells like worry. It keeps whispering, “Maybe tomorrow.” Even though tomorrow keeps showing up drunk and late.
The Bedroom: Where Secrets Tuck Themselves In
This room is quiet. But not peaceful. It’s the kind of quiet that hums with tension. Addiction sits on the edge of the bed like a shadow with opinions. It whispers lies into the dark. It says, “You’re the problem,” “You can’t leave,” and “Nobody will believe you.” Kids learn to sleep lightly. To listen for footsteps. To brace for the door opening at 2 a.m. with the kind of energy that never means anything good.
The Laundry Room: Where Shame Hangs Itself Up to Dry
This room is where the truth piles up. Dirty clothes. Dirty secrets. Dirty looks from neighbors who pretend they don’t see what they see. Addiction loves this room because it knows shame thrives in small, cramped spaces. The washing machine is always running. But nothing ever feels clean. The dryer door squeaks like it’s tattling. And the air is thick with “Don’t tell anyone.”
The Bathroom: Where Tears Pretend They’re Just Steam
This is the only room with a lock. Which means it becomes a sanctuary for everyone including kids, partners, even the person struggling. People hide here to cry. Breathe. Or just exist without being needed. Addiction hates this room because it can’t control what happens behind a locked door. But it still bangs on it sometimes while demanding attention.
The Kids’ Room: Where Innocence Packs a Go-Bag
This room is the saddest part of the house. Toys on the floor. School papers on the wall. A bed that’s too small for the weight the child carries. Kids learn how to be invisible. How to be responsible for things they never caused. And how to grow up faster than their bones know how to handle. Addiction tiptoes in here sometimes. While pretending it’s not doing damage. But the cracks in the walls tell the truth.
The Basement: Where the Truth Lives
Nobody wants to go down here. Not even Addiction. But this is where the real story sits quiet, heavy, and waiting. This is where trauma stacks itself like old boxes. Memories hide under tarps. And kids grow up and realize the house wasn’t normal. The basement is the part of the house that never lies. It knows exactly what happened. And it remembers everything.
The Attic: Where the “Old Stories” Live
The attic is dusty, cramped, and full of boxes labeled “We Don’t Talk About That.” This is where Addiction stores the memories you tried to outgrow. The versions of yourself you’re ashamed of. And the lies you were told about who you are.
Every box rattles when you walk by, like it wants to be opened. But also wants to stay sealed forever. Addiction loves this room because it knows you’ll avoid it. It knows the dust will settle on your truth until you forget what it looked like. But the attic is also where the light sneaks in through the cracks. It’s where you eventually realize that some stories aren’t yours to carry anymore.
The Garage: Where “I’ll Fix It Later” Goes to Die
The garage is full of unfinished projects, abandoned hobbies, and promises you meant to keep. Addiction parks itself here like a broken-down car that still thinks it can make the trip. This is the room where dreams get postponed. Goals get dusty. And potential sits on cinder blocks. You keep telling yourself you’ll clean it out “when things calm down.” But Addiction keeps tossing more junk in, insisting you don’t have time, energy, or worthiness to finish anything. But one day, you find the light switch. And you realize the garage isn’t full of failures. It’s full of things waiting for you to come back to yourself.
The Office: Where Control Pretends to Live
This room is where Addiction tries to look responsible. Bills stacked. Calendars marked. To‑do lists half done. Everything looks organized until you touch it. And the whole pile collapses like a Jenga tower built by denial. This is the room where you try to manage the unmanageable. You convince yourself you’re “still functioning.” And you hide behind productivity to avoid the truth.
Addiction sits in the office chair spinning slowly, whispering, “You’re fine. Look how much you’re getting done.” Meanwhile, nothing is actually getting done. But this is also the room where you learn the difference between control and survival. And where you finally fire Addiction from its fake job.
The Guest Room: Where You Pretend Everything Is Fine
This room is spotless. Too spotless. It’s the room you keep ready for visitors. So that they never see the chaos in the rest of the house. Addiction loves this room because it’s the perfect illusion of clean sheets. Fluffed pillows. And fake peace. This is where you host people who say, “You’re so strong.” Without knowing you cried in the hallway before they arrived. But the guest room is also where you learn that pretending is exhausting. And that real connection only happens when you stop hiding the mess.
The Crawl Space: Where the Fear Lives
Low ceilings. No light. Hard to breathe. This is the room Addiction never talks about but always uses. It’s where the fear crawls. It’s the fear of leaving, staying, being alone, and of being seen. Addiction keeps this space damp and cold, so you’ll avoid it. But this is the room where the truth hums the loudest. And when you finally crawl in with a flashlight, you realize the monsters were smaller than the shadows made them look.
The Backyard: Where Healing Starts Growing
The backyard is wild. Overgrown. And neglected but alive. Addiction never cared about this space. It didn’t think you’d ever step outside long enough to notice it. But this is where you breathe again. You plant new habits. You feel sunlight without flinching. And you imagine a life beyond the front door. The backyard is the first place that belongs to you again. It’s where you realize the house doesn’t own you. And where healing doesn’t have to be pretty to be real.
The Front Door: Where Freedom Waits
Every child of addiction eventually finds themselves standing at this door. Their hand on the knob. Heart pounding. And wondering if they’re allowed to leave. The truth is you can. You’re allowed to walk out. You’re allowed to build a new house. One with open windows, soft floors, and rooms that don’t whisper threats in the dark. You’re allowed to create a home where laughter doesn’t flinch. Where love doesn’t hide. And where the only thing haunting the halls is the sound of peace finally settling in.
And that’s the truth about the House of Addiction. It thought it owned you. It thought you’d stay lost in its attic of old stories. Stuck in its garage of unfinished dreams. And trapped in its crawl space of fear. It thought you’d keep tiptoeing past the guest room. While pretending everything was fine. And where it rearranged your soul like mismatched furniture.
But you just didn’t survive that house. You walked through every room with the lights on. The sage burning. And the ancestors humming behind you like a choir that refuses to let you forget who you are. You learned the floorplan. You named the ghosts. You opened the windows. And then you did the one thing that house never expected. You walked out the front door. And didn’t look back.
Let the walls rot. Let the roof cave in. Let the lies echo in empty rooms. You’re busy building a new home now. One with sunlight, softness, boundaries, and peace that doesn’t apologize for taking up space. Door slammed. Keys dropped. Cycle broken. Story reclaimed. Thanks for reading! Now walk away like a boss.
Affirmation: I honor the child who survived that house. And I empower the adult who refuses to live in it ever again. My peace is mine. My story is mine. And my future is built with steady hands.”
“Addiction is a quiet predator. It’s patient. Calculated. Always hungry. And waiting for the moment you’re weakest to take the biggest bite out of your life.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Because when we talk about addiction awareness, the air needs to be thick with truth, protection, and the kind of courage that makes your voice shake but keeps going anyway. This isn’t a pretty conversation. It’s not a gentle unveiling. It’s not polite. It’s not something you whisper behind closed doors like a family secret wrapped in shame. It’s the kind of truth that shakes the floorboards and rattles the bones of anyone who’s ever lived it. Loved someone through it. Or buried someone because of it. This is a front porch, bare soul, trembling‑hands kind of truth. And today, we’re telling it out loud.
Addiction doesn’t walk into a home quietly. It barges in like a storm. It tracks mud across every memory. It rearranges the furniture of your life. And convinces you that chaos is normal. It teaches you to apologize for things you didn’t break. To shrink yourself so its shadow can stretch across the room. And to pretend you’re fine when your insides feel like shattered glass. And the cruelest part? Addiction doesn’t just take from the person struggling. It takes from everyone who loves them.
Families learn to tiptoe. Children learn to decode moods like weather patterns. Partners learn to carry burdens that were never meant for one set of shoulders. And the person battling addiction, learns to hide their pain behind a smile that fools everyone except the people who know them best. Addiction awareness isn’t about statistics or slogans. It’s about the people who wake up every day fighting a war no one else can see.
There are the battles fought in bathrooms, parked cars, and bedrooms with the door locked. The battles fought in silence because shame is louder than the truth. The battles fought by people who are terrified to ask for help because they don’t want to be judged. Dismissed. Or treated like a problem instead of a person.
Addiction awareness means saying, “You are not alone. You are not broken beyond repair. You are not the worst thing you’ve ever done.” It means recognizing that recovery isn’t linear. It’s messy. It’s painful. It’s full of relapses, restarts, and revelations. But it is possible. I tasted that freedom many years ago, during a moment in life that now seems like it never existed.
Let’s talk about the people that love them too. The ones who hold the line when the person they love can’t. The ones who pray. Cry. Scream. Hope. And repeat. Addiction awareness means honoring their resilience. Their heartbreak. Their bravery. Loving someone through addiction is its own kind of battle that deserves to be seen.
Addiction is not a moral failure. It is not a character flaw. It is not a sign of weakness. It’s a neurological hijacking. And once it gets inside, it takes the controls and refuses to give them back. It’s a thief. A liar. And a weight that no one should carry alone.
Awareness is the first step toward compassion. Compassion is the first step toward healing. Healing is the first step toward freedom. And freedom? Freedom is the birthright of every single person touched by addiction. It doesn’t matter whether they’re fighting it. Surviving it. Or loving someone through it.
I have been an addict in one form or another since I was a very young teen. That’s the part people don’t see. The way it starts before you even understand what “coping” means. Before your brain is fully formed. Before you know that one decision can echo for decades. Some things I let go of and never touched again. But others? Others I’m still married to. Still controlled by. And still waking up beside like a partner I never meant to vow my life to. I’ve stood on every side of this issue. I’ve been a patient, professional, survivor, and witness. I’ve buried friends and family. And I’ve found the bodies of patients. I’ve even sat in classrooms learning the science. And I’ve sat on bathroom floors learning the consequences.
One of the biggest debates is whether addiction is a disease. And honestly? I see both sides. But I can attest to this. What I know in my bones is that addiction will pick up exactly where it left off. It doesn’t forget you. It doesn’t forgive you. And it doesn’t loosen its grip just because you got tired.
It progresses like a slow-moving fire. Consuming everything until it shuts down every functioning cell in your body. It’s the lover that kisses your forehead while holding a knife behind your back. And it’s like trying to pet a rattlesnake and hoping it suddenly cares about your well-being.
There are no social crack users. No social heroin users. No social meth, fentanyl, or “just once in a while” users of the things that hollow you out from the inside. I’ve known too many who didn’t make it. Too many funerals. Too many empty chairs. Too many stories cut short. And the truth is brutal. Addicts are not the type who typically live to be 80. The statistics confirm what our hearts already know. That many have died. And many more will die.
And process addictions? Eating disorders, self-harm, gambling, sex addiction, etc. are not softer versions. They are simply different roads to the same grave. Addiction doesn’t care about the method. It cares about the destruction. And it will be done in totality emotionally, socially, spiritually, and physically.
It strips you down until you’re a shell of what once resembled a human being. It destroys your life and the lives orbiting yours. That’s the goal. It wants no interference. And no one slowing its roll. It wants you wrapped around its finger in a relationship so co-dependent it feels cellular. It doesn’t care how many relationships are ruined as a result. Addiction is about the next fix. Whatever that fix is. And you will chase it until the line between living and dying blurs.
The saddest part is that you don’t know you’re susceptible until you’re already in it. Addiction does not discriminate. It shows no mercy to clergy, billionaires, politicians, Hollywood actors, musicians, doctors, lawyers, nurses, or the people just trying to keep the lights on and food on the table.
And the idea that you can outthink addiction? Outsmart the chemical, emotional, and neurological machinery it hijacks? That’s the thinking of fools. And I say that with compassion. Not judgment. There is nothing more heartbreaking than watching someone, yourself included, need their “drug” so badly that they would burn down every good thing in their life for another taste of something that is killing them.
Let the truth rise with the smoke. Addiction is not romance. It is not rebellion. It is not escape. It is suicide on an installment plan. And for every person who struggles, it has a bullet with their name on it. Even mine. Speaking the truth out loud is how we start breaking the cycle that wants us silent. Awareness is the first crack of light. Awareness is the first act of rebellion. Awareness is the first step toward choosing life. Even when the addiction whispers otherwise. It’s a story of survival in a world that doesn’t teach us how to hold our pain.
Your days of hiding in silence are over. We’re speaking your name. Shine light in your corners. And refusing to let shame be your shield. This is awareness. This is courage. This is the moment we stop whispering and start healing. And it’s for every soul who deserves a life bigger than their battle. Thanks for reading! And ask for what you need.
Affirmation: I honor the battles I’ve survived, and I refuse to let the shadows that once claimed me write the rest of my story. I rise with clarity, courage, and a spine made of truth.
“At first, addiction is maintained by pleasure, but the intensity of this pleasure gradually diminishes and the addiction is then maintained by the avoidance of pain.”
-Frank Tallis
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Okie dokie! Today I want to talk to you about a topic that is very near and dear to me. The topic is Addiction. I have been on all sides of this issue. I have been an addict that began to struggle early on in my teen years. I eventually went to get my bachelor’s degree in Psychology. Then onto getting my Master’s degree in counseling. And then went on to work in the field of addiction. And I have seen the havoc this problem has caused both in my own family and in other’s as well.
As a thirteen year-old, I was subjected to horrible verbal and emotional abuse at the hands of a teacher. The abuse was absolutely the most stressful time of my life up until that point. I was given a set of rules that I had to follow that was not reciprocated by the adults who set them. I can’t tell you how emotionally and physically trapped I felt sitting in that closet and berated every single day for a year. I was also humiliated in front of my class of peers. I was also sent to the office with disciplinary forms for things that I did not do. That’s not to say that I was completely innocent. I would verbally strike out at that teacher a few times intentionally in order to get in-school suspension just to get a day or two break from her verbal aggression. Knowing now how underdeveloped a child’s brain is in this time period helps me understand the whys and hows of this horrible behavior and how it begins and continues.
My first time using it was during an emotional time that was so chaotic for me. The “perfect storm” had started brewing previously for approximately two years before I ever began. And as it appears, I wasn’t the only teen in my graduating class who would have some of the same struggles. I had suppressed a lot of the memories about my molestation at an early age. I always had a smile on my face and was laughing as much as possible. However, the underpinnings of addiction were looking for a way into my soul. And it would be the disaster that would follow me into my adult years.
In my life, addiction would not begin as a few substances here and there recreationally like some stories. My situation presented itself at a time where I could no longer handle both the wait of depression and ongoing trauma. I felt emotionally that I was trapped and that no one was there for me in any way. So, I took my first opiates and I was in love. I would be in this type of committed relationship for many years to come. I didn’t see the horns and pitchfork that it carried. I saw it as the best friend that always provided relief and was non-judgmental. It was there to comfort me when comfort was not around. And for the moment, the evil words and actions of that teacher would be drowned out even if it was only for an hour.
I have had several people since then say to me, “Why didn’t you tell someone about what was going on?” The truth is I did and no one believed me. I told my principals but my reputation for being a “class clown” was apparently stronger than the actual truth. When the teacher received word that I had told them, nothing was resolved. The abuse only got worse. Eventually not only would I develop a chemical addiction, I would also have a process of addiction by way of self-harm and eating disorders.
When I began self-harming I was, once again, sent to the office only for the object that I had been stuck into my hand to be covered up and sent back to class. Once I got back to class, I was put on display in front of the class and made to feel less than once again. To those that always say that self-harm is “attention seeking” behavior I can tell you this. I never wanted a trophy for the number of scars that I wear on my body today. I wanted the pain to stop. Not every behavior is about a Tik-Tok or Facebook challenge. And it certainly wasn’t for me. Maybe it was a cry for help. However, those cries fell on deaf ears.
I had begun to notice the amount of anger that was building inside of me daily. And I was scared to death of what that might look like if it ever got free. Sitting with those intense emotions might get buried for the moment, but they will surface. And no matter how much you try to further suppress them, they come out on whoever happens to be around when the “straw that breaks the camel’s back” gets laid down. The scars that you can now see are plentiful. But it’s the scars that you can’t see that outnumber the others by a long shot.
I continue to struggle hard with addiction despite a vast knowledge and experience working with other addicts. Addiction isn’t something that you can outthink. And to those that think it’s about “willpower,” consider it “willpower” the next time you struggle with diarrhea. You cannot imagine the hold that it can have on you if you’ve never had that hold on you. And if you can socially drink and use and it doesn’t reach the point of addiction consider yourself lucky. The bad part is that you don’t know if you’ll become addicted until you try it. And I cannot think of a more perfect game of russian roulette to play. A little felt good. And a lot was not enough.
The fact that I have not died of addiction and others have left me in utter bewilderment. And yet I know that there is a bullet with my name on it each time I pull that trigger trying once again to just be comfortable in my own skin. Addiction is so cunning, baffling and powerful in ways that many don’t understand. And I have seen it ravage the lives of people and those they love to a point where my jaw drops. Even with all of that being said, I still don’t have a healthy fear of addiction. And I’m not sure that I ever will.
As a parent, I can only hope that my own children will choose a way that is more healthy even when times are difficult. And that if they are in some way being harmed that they won’t stay quiet and be covered in shame the way that bullies and perpetrators expect them to be. Get help immediately if you see that you or someone you love has an addiction. I have been in therapy for several years now and I still struggle with this horrible thing called addiction. The name just the label that is given to the substance or behavior that presents itself as a caring and compassionate friend that is waiting to cut our throats.
“Recovery is not a race.You don’t have to feel guilty if it takes you longer than you thought it would.”
“What” and “If” are to words as non-threatening as words can be. But put them together Side-by-side and they have the power to haunt you for The rest of your life.” —Unknown
These are two words that haunt me day in and day out. I think “what if” I had never tasted abuse in any kind of way. “What if” I had never crossed paths with likewise hurt individuals who decided to keep the cycle of abuse going? “What if” my career had never ended? “What if” I had never been exposed sexually in ways that make me wretch at just the thought? What if I had never met Sarah? What if I was never was able to be privileged enough to call myself a parent? What if? What if? What if?!!!!!!
Recently, coach has asked me to think about a few things. How am I exhibiting behavior showing that I’m still a victim and still under the control of my perpetrators? This is a very loaded question. Every day I seem to allow myself to be chained to a past that wants me more than I want it. However, I’m an addict in ever since of the definition and word. I still struggle with eating and self-harm issues. Every meal I skip, every time I purge and every time I engage in any kind of maladaptive behavior, I am still being their prisoner.
Do I consciously want to remain there’s? Hell no. The addict in me still wants the comfort of the blades and the pain as justification for what they did and for mistakes I have made. God how sick does that sound? These behaviors are what have always been there for me. With them I’ve never been lonely. I gain absolutely nothing more than additional isolation by staying chained to them so why do it?
So now I sit and ponder what life could be like IF I wasn’t still their victim? The only way to look at that is the direct opposite to how I feel living now. I would be one that lived life with passion. Life would be such a gift. I wouldn’t be living life scared and tortured by my memories and feelings. I could live life enjoying being around my wife and children. I would simply be an active member of society instead of a prisoner of my past.
I still have a lot of hurdles to overcome and self-harm in many different forms are behaviors that still stick with me. When the adults ganged up on me? My razors were there. When I was raped repeatedly. My razors were there. When I was put on display to be made fun of a belittled….my razors were there. I get up every morning just to try again. So, if I continue to engage in addictive behaviors and thinking I’ll remain their slave…BUT WHAT IF?
#thispuzzledlife
“Addiction is committing suicide on the installment plan.” –Anonymous
In the year 2019, I feel confident in saying that most people and families have been affected by addiction in some way. Whether it be a family member, close friends or possible yourself who has been touched in one way or another by this terrible and very progressive disease. Personally, I’ve seen addiction run through the lives of many families and individuals leaving a path of destruction that Hurricane Katrina herself couldn’t hold a candle against. And addictions of various kind continue to devastate both my mind and body.
Often people relate addiction to only chemicals be it drugs or alcohol. A lot of times it is the assumption that physical dependence compounded by withdrawal symptoms is required for someone to be diagnosed with an addiction disorder. With chemical addiction this is true. In behavioral addictions i.e. gambling, sex, shopping, internet, self-harm, workaholism, etc. the behavior also progresses until negative consequences occur as well. Specific process addictions, in my life, are anorexia, bulimia and self-harm. I’m sure there are others but currently these are my biggest and most destructive. Where the mentioned behaviors are and have been a problem since childhood.
Education about addictions, in general, has come quite far from the days of the Temperance Movement specifically due to alcohol consumption of the early 19th century. Stigmas have lessened since then. However, process addictions still have a pretty heavy stigma attached to them due to pure ignorance. One of the things that I do that keeps me sick in my disease is my uncanny ability to minimize any and all addictive behaviors that I engage in. I can tell that I have nerve damage in my forearms from 30+ years of cutting them with razor blades. My left shoulder has nerve damage from a self-inflicted gunshot wound several years ago. My internal systems have no telling what wrong with them from all the years of purging and heavy restricting by starving my body and ridding it of food.
Other behaviors that are considered an addiction for me are shopping, huffing chemicals and using belts to play “The Choking Game” until I pass out. All the addictions mentioned are ones that can individually kill me at any point. I will minimize them to justify to myself another reason to do it again just like any drug addict or alcoholic. I will come up with any reason to engage in these behaviors just to be able to get through a moment of uncomfortable feelings. I truly do my best trying to cope with all these things, but coach won’t let me slide unlike my internal addict that justifies yet another reason to keep going.
I have struggled many years and have kept my addiction alive. No matter the reason, there is always at time and a number that has my name written on it when it will be my last. It’s almost like dodging bullets knowing that one has your name on it. I wish I had a healthy fear of these behaviors, but I don’t. I fear the uncomfortable feelings and visions more than I fear dying from addiction. Each day I pray and yearn for the day that I’ll be able to live life without such horrible feelings. Who knows? Maybe the life I have dreams about being a part of could one day be possible if I would just get out of my own way.
“Every habit he’s ever had is still there in his body, lying dormant like flowers in the desert.” —-Margaret Atwood
Enjoying school and playing sports
Dripping with sweat on shirts and shorts.
A dollar bill would be burning a hole in my pocket
She was only a number, but she was also the girl in the closet.
Most knew her name but not her number
She made them laugh even before Tumblr
The teacher never smiled, and we never knew why
Was someone mean to her? Did they make her cry?
The evilness she shot through her eyes made them want to vomit
She was only a number the girl in the closet.
The clown she was in those days
That happiness quickly became dark, ugly hate.
That closet was to teach me lessons.
And lessons it did…I learned how to drink, take pills, cut on my arms and put on gauze dressings
Because I was only a number and the girl in the closet.
Please!!!!I cried for someone to get me out of there
But they were being told different stories and I started pulling out my hair.
How could you not see that which was in front of you?
You questioned my parents and they questioned you.
What’s happened to my child and why is her heart so hurt
But I was just a number and the little girl in the closet.
They all knew and could see my spirit breaking day after day.
The hate would develop with words she would hear between September and May.
She was being changed from the inside out
She always had a practice where her aggression could be let out.
Her pills were quite the comfort and the razors were too
Because she had certainly learned some less and she hates herself and wants to turn blue.
She can’t breathe without thinking that finally someone must listen to what I say
The mental torture that continues day after day.
Now it’s my turn to tell you how we will play.
You didn’t even remember my number only that “I was the girl in the closet.”
I Started out as a tiny little seed
Not knowing there would be adults I would need.
I grew and grew as a little baby girl
Eventually having hair that she was supposed to curl.
When I was born, she gave me away
Why was it then that she chose not to stay?
That was a pain I would never forget
Hoping that she hadn’t really left.
In my soul she left a “mommy hole”
Not knowing that her decision would forever affect my soul
I looked for her left and looked for her right
But something also never felt right.
This hole was gaping, and I just couldn’t see
What I could’ve possibly done to make her leave me?
The hole would be filled with all things bad
Drugs, alcohol, razors and belts were now what I had.
My mom and dad there was nothing they could do
Because this was a struggle between only two.
My dream was to find her and to patch that awful wound.
But that wouldn’t happen anytime soon.
I tried to find her for the answers I needed.
My heart was scared, and warnings weren’t heeded.
The day finally came when we would meet face-to-face.
Please dear birth mom doesn’t do it twice
The answers were given and not what I wanted.
And now, as an adult, I would forever be haunted.
She didn’t love me like everyone said she did
How could you possibly hate you overgrown kid?
The cold blew over me and froze my beating heart
Making it difficult for anyone to soften that which had hardened.
And today I sit before you as a 43-year-old adult child
Still wanting and needing to be softened and nowhere near meek and mild.
You gave me life and that’s all you did
But you still have love waiting for you by your lost adult kid.
“You’re gonna have to go through hell, worse than any nightmare you’ve ever dreamed.But when it’s over, I know you’ll be the one standing. You know what you have to do. Do it!”
—Coach Duke, Creed
In my blog I repeat several different views about the abuse I went through. It might be from a different angle but repeating will inevitably happen. If this is a problem then read elsewhere because this blog is about MY healing and when I’m struggling or laughing about something worth sharing, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
This is a great therapeutic tool that I developed out of necessity several years ago. At that time, it seemed to be just what I needed that listened and was non-judgmental to whatever problem I would write about. Whatever the issue was, I wanted and searched for my answers to some of my strange behavior at times. I was simply searching for where the “old Dana” went and who in the heck was this “new Dana” in many different pieces that is trying to emerge?
The one part of life that I’m very strong in is protective instincts. This means protecting those I love even if the protection is from me. I can’t say that I love someone and then when the situation calls for this protection I not be willing to do just that. I’ve ended a relationship recently for this very reason and it has been one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.
Looking for answers as I’ve always done, I went to the library to see what I can find about a topic that has been bothering me “Bullying at school by teachers.” Most books on this topic usually lead to bullying from other students. But this day, I found a book that would seemingly have some much needed answers and validation that has been lacking. The book is titled, “Teen Torment by Patricia Evans.”
I opened the book to a random page with the title…..
In this passage I found this….”In a culture that overlooks verbal abuse, teens who are tormented by it face difficulties accomplishing developmental tasks such as independence, identity, and career goals. When teachers put them down or rage at them these students lose the confidence to become independent. And one of the long-term consequences of verbal abuse is that it disconnects teens from their emotional self.” Essentially, what happens is that the teen learns how to feel nothing in order to withstand the abuse. “The teen then can’t figure out who they really are versus who they’re told they are. Consequently, they look for their identity outside of themselves making up an image that seems more acceptable since they’ve already been told many times that who they are is not adequate as a human being. They might develop an appearance so that no one really knows what has happened to them as a safety measure. They will go to any lengths to maintain this image which to them seems safe. Instead they end up losing their own interests and talents because all of their thoughts about who they thought they were have been told time and time again that they’re wrong.”
Indicators of Verbal Abuse
Show a noticeable change in behavior
Become isolated and withdrawn
Pull away and refuse to talk
Seem depressed
Cry easily or often
Not have close friends
Have bad dreams
Complain about going to school
Cut classes at school
Refuse to go to school
Throw up before school
Seem to daydream a lot
Have trouble concentrating
Get much lower grade than usual
Seem to have lost enthusiasm for anything
Become self-critical
Hurt themselves, cut themselves, eating disorders and pull their hair
Act aggressively towards siblings, peers or parents
Get angry often
Lash out at others
Get in many fights (Teen Torment, 2003).
When I was abused by this teacher everything that I was being taught, by my parents, about respect of another human being was confusing to say the least. She told me so many negative things about myself as a human being and through negative body image that I was almost guaranteed to sprout the eating disorders anorexia and bulimia that I still struggle with daily after 30 years. I’m tormented by her words and actions daily. I can hear them as clearly as the day she said them. And as sad as it seems, I hold onto my eating disorders and other self-harming behaviors with a death grip because somewhere along the way they were the only part of my life that seemed safe and something I can control. But this “control” is a false control just like addiction to a chemical. It’s also behaviors that pretend to be your friend until you realize that that “safe friend” has taken everything away mainly your sanity. Self-harming behaviors of any kind have negative social implications which have made me a prisoner of my bedroom. Most people don’t want to hear excuses for why you don’t want to eat. They just see it as a disrespectful gesture and will think twice before inviting you again. And God forbid if they happen to see your scars from cutting. They think they’re hanging out with a psychotic monster that has the possibility to lunge at them with a razor blade at the dinner table. My thoughts have always been, “If you only knew what caused these scars to appear, you’d think before judging next time.”
When I finished reading only about 10 pages of information I laid my book down in my lap and began sobbing. Finally, I had found some information that spoke for me what I couldn’t. I saw on those pages validation for that horrible year of abuse with information about what it did to me. I was called all the names and was told that I was stupid and fat among other things that children should never have directed at them by anyone much less from a “safe person” in a position of authority. That year affected me in ways that I still can’t fully understand. This book and it’s passages tend to make me retract from some of the information because of how close to home it all is.
As a teenager, I had much difficulty with emotion regulation. I’m torment by her words and actions of that year. Her negative body image comments have me fearing everything related to the topic. I can still feel the bullets of her malignant words she shot my way directly into my still developing brain. And to her I can say this, “You don’t matter and you never did. I’m succeeding despite what you did.” And for you I have a surprise. What if it’s simply calling you and confronting you about what was done? This kind of discussion needs to be in public where we both feel safe and can speak openly. It could be that simple. Would you listen and deny any wrong doing? Either way a surprise there will be because every day I wake up I’m bruised inside and you are the only one who can heal that wound. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise?! Maybe that’s the surprise I’m waiting to hear and hold on to. Maybe the surprise is something different. Only I know.
Every single day I choose to work on some type of behavior or action that most people take for granted. As much as I would like to re-gift this “gift” of surviving apparently it was meant for me. And I’ll carry this burden with the hopes that my own children don’t have to taste this type of life and that monsters are just pretend instead of real as I and many others know them. Carrying the trauma of the boys that molested me, my teacher, my ex-husband and his brother, a trusted therapist will end with me. I will either win or die trying because when it comes down to it it’s all about leaving everything you’ve got physically and mentally in the ring, on the field or on the court. Whatever happens my wife and boys will know that I gave everything I had until I couldn’t. I wasn’t coached to give up until I had left it all on the field and could feel proud of my efforts whenever that day comes.
Rocky Balboa talking to Adonis Creed before his first fight….
You’ve never been in front of this many people….that don’t matter.
You’ve never been this far away from home….that doesn’t matter either.
What matters is what you leave in the ring
And what you take back with you is……PRIDE.
And knowing that you did your best and you did it for yourself.
You didn’t do it for me; Not for your friend’s memory but for you.
I can see in your eyes you’re going to do it…..Go Do This Champ!
“…Being separated from their birth mothers and handed over to strangers in the adoption process is the only trauma where the victims are expected by the whole of society to be grateful…”
Nancy Verrier, The Primal Wound
Even as a young child my parents can tell you that I was a very inquisitive. I was also the child that questioned EVERYTHING. There was no accepting because someone said to. I had to know the “whys.” This has often led to difficult roads and battle wounds as a result. As an adult with a very difficult diagnosis to comprehend much less to ask someone else to understand, I still question everything. Maybe it’s normal to question these things. Keep in mind that I function most of the time as a “teenager with an attitude” and you know how much ego, time and energy that requires. Sometimes it’s just like having annoying bags of hell that can suck the life out of everything it touches including my body attached to me like appendages. But sometimes the internal conversations are better than any comedy routine I’ve ever witnessed including the questions.
I question every person’s motives, practitioners, governments, my adoption, abusive behaviors and, yes, I still question my diagnosis A LOT! Being on disability, currently, allows me time to search for answers about my puzzled life. As you’ve read throughout my blog, my connection to adoption and why it’s so painful for me has led me to some obsessive days and nights searching online for something to explain the pain in my soul that I’ve never been able to accurately paint a picture of with words.
On an Attachment and Parenting blog, one adoptive parent is quoted as saying….
“Scientific research now reveals that as early as the second trimester, the human fetus is capable of auditory processing and in fact, is capable of processing rejection in utero. In addition to the rejection and abandonment felt by the newborn adoptee or any age adoptee for that matter, it must be recognized that the far greater trauma often times occurs in the way in which the mind and body system of the newborn is incapable of processing the loss of the biological figure. Far beyond any cognitive awareness, this experience is stored deep within the cells of the body, routinely leading to states of anxiety and depression for the adopted child later in life.”
I now have a simple explanation for the type of feelings that can destroy me to deal with. The rejection and separation process can still be felt deeper than any other sensation I’ve personally felt. These words gave me an instant reaction and all internal members on guard and children/teens to safety. I realize that the intensity felt by other adoptees is on a continuum of variance. The intensity I feel today is the same intensity I felt as a infant, child and teen. And as an adult, it can still be very crippling as the loss is for both me and my birth mom is extremely powerful.
In Nancy Verrier’s book The Primal Wound: Understanding the Adopted Child, 1993, she describes the Primal Wound Theory by saying, ” that develops when a mother and child are separated by adoption shortly after childbirth. It describes the mother and child as having a vital connected relationship which is physical, psychological and physiological, and examines the effects of disrupting such bonds.” I still haven’t been able to read that book because of how much the topic really disturbs me. The Nature vs. Nurture debate is another avenue in continuous research. I see myself both sides of the debate which as people we are a constantly evolving through that very mixture.
As an adopted child, I needed and wanted to find parts of my identity. I was always the kid that looked nothing like my parents but I did have some behavioral traits. I was raised around some comedy goodness with both my daddy and Nannie. Their individual humor is enough to sit and tell stories for several hours. My environmental and social interactions helped to shape beliefs both about myself and other people. There’s a much longer discussion for that debate. Genetically, my skin color, facial characteristics, bone structure, eye color, etc. is the Nature side of the debate. The debate often centers around the effect genetics have on human personalities as opposed to the influences that environment and development might have. So you can see that this will probably on for infiniti + infiniti.
As a developing child, not being able to look in the stands at my ballgames or in a crowd at the mall and not see anyone that I looked like was torture. I love my adoptive parents no less. Unless you’re an adopted child with this strong need to just know “why” you can’t understand the obsession. At major life events birthdays, weddings, graduations, birth of a child, etc. while I tried to enjoy everything in the moment, I couldn’t help but to feel the loss for people who I originally belonged to. This has also been a big source of guilt and shame from just wanting to know.
My parents were always very supportive in my efforts to find my answers and truth about this situation. My birth mom, father, full brother, aunts, uncles, paternal grandmother, half brothers, half sisters, step-mom and some cousins eventually met but not on the same turf. As an adopted child, I had to accept prior to going to meet them all that I would be rejected again. This time the rejection would be felt as an adult. I needed that one-on-one time with my mom to ask her the “whys” that continue to haunt me after my answers were received. But, first, the willingness to feel that incredible lifelong wound gaped open even further if the universe saw fit and it did. Not the Lifetime ending I was looking for.
What I have done to deal with this wound in the past was to shove anything I could into that big, dark hole in my soul. I poured alcohol, pills, razors, purging, restricting, perfectionism in certain areas, people pleasing, etc. into this insatiable appetite for something only she could fill. I guess we can just call this particular therapy topic a work in progress. And maybe, in time, with COACH by my side, I’ll attain some resolve and peace. The whole purpose for moving to Texas was to get some healing. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.
This Puzzled Life 