(Stolen from The Huffington Post). Enjoy!
Americans love Halloween. We as a country spend over $5 billion a year celebrating it. But where did the holiday come from? And how did traditions like asking strangers for food and dressing up as ghosts develop?
Halloween has its roots in Samhain (pronounced sow-in), an ancient harvest festival held at the end of the Celtic year. The festival marked the end of summer and the beginning of the dark wintertime. It was believed the spirits of the dead returned on this eve to damage crops and play tricks on the living. It was also believed that the Celtic priests, or Druids, were able to make predictions about the future, which they did during large bonfire celebrations where they wore animal skins and sacrificed crops and animals to the spirits.
In early A.D., Romans came to the Celtic territories of modern day England, Scotland and Northern France, and were the first people to influence the celebration of Samhain. They brought their own holidays: Feralia, the Roman day to honor the dead in late October, as well as another holiday to honor Pomona, the Roman goddess of fruit and trees. It is possible that this Roman influence is the reason apples are given out and bobbed for on Halloween.
By 800 A.D., Christianity spread to the Celtic Territories and brought with it another holiday, "All Saints Day." Pope Boniface IV, the designator of All Saints Day, was likely trying to replace Samhain with a similar but holier holiday meant to honor saints and martyrs. Later on, All Saints Day was renamed "All Hallows" and thus the day of Samhain (Oct. 31st) began to be called "All Hallows Eve," and eventually shortened to "Hallowe'en."
All of the holidays that were melded together to create our modern version of Halloween involved dressing up in one way or another. The celebrators of Samhain wore animal skins at their bonfire celebrations and those that observed "All Saints Day" often dressed as saints or angels. Later on men in Scotland would impersonate the dead on the day, explaining the ghoulish tradition we still observe.
During the mid 1800's, Irish and English immigrants flooded the United States and brought Halloween with them. From these immigrants we received the Halloween traditions we recognize today, however skewed they are now. For instance, the first trick-or-treaters were far from today's smiling children with commercialized costumes. They lived in Medieval England, and practiced "souling," in which poor people would beg for sweet breads, in return for praying for the families' souls. Later, the immigrants who brought Halloween to America would develop their own version of trick-or-treating, but it didn't become popular here until the 1930s.
1) Halloween Is The Second Highest Grossing Commercial Holiday After Christmas
What used to be just a singular holiday with minimal things to purchase has turned into an entire "Halloween Season." Between decorative lights and lawn ornaments, elaborate costumes and loads of candy, the average American spends a pretty penny on this fall holiday. However popular Halloween has become, the recession has affected spending for this year's spooky night. Spending is down, according the the National Retail Federation. Shoppers will spend an average of $56.31 on the holiday compared to $66.54 in 2008. Some ways people are cutting down include making homemade costumes, using last year's decorations and buying less expensive candies. For the children's sake, let's hope everyone doesn't resort to giving out apples and pennies. Didn't you just hate that as a kid?
2) Harry Houdini Died On October 31, 1926
The famous magician was killed (accidentally) by a McGill University student named J. Gordon Whitehead who was hitting him in the stomach repeatedly as part of a stunt. A week later he died of peritonitis from a ruptured appendix. Despite acute appendicitis, Houdini refused to seek medical treatment.
3) There's A Phobia For That
Samhainophobia is an intense and persistent fear of Halloween that can cause panic attacks in sufferers. Other relevant phobias for this time of year: wiccaphobia (fear of witches), phasmophobia (fear of ghosts), and coimetrophobia (fear of cemeteries).
4) The First Jack-O-Lanterns Weren't Made Out Of Pumpkins
They were originally hollowed-out turnips. The modern practiced mutated from the Irish tradition of carving faces of the the dead onto the gourds and putting candles inside to make them glow. These days your Jack-O-Lantern is most made out of a pumpkin, which most likely came from Illinois--a state that grew 542 million pounds of pumpkin in 2007.
5) One Quarter Of All The Candy Sold Annually Is For Halloween Night
Yes, no matter how much we eat for Christmas and Thanksgiving, Halloween has corned the market on candy. As a country we consume 20 million pounds of candy corn a year. Handing out Halloween treats is the perfect excuse to eat some too, as four-in-ten (41%) adults admit that they sneak sweets from their own candy bowl. And if you're a kid, hang on to your basket, because home is where the candy thief is as 90% of parents admit to sneaking goodies from their kids' Halloween trick-or-treat bags. But whether your stealing some, handing out some or having yours stolen, chances are you'll get your hands (or miss getting your hands) on a Snickers bar, it has been the number 1 Halloween candy for years.
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Happy 14th Birthday to my Halloweenie, Nicholas.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Fridays are good days.
I love Fridays.
My husband works out of town, in California more specifically, Monday through Thursday. When he finally gets home on Fridays, I am positively overjoyed. I miss him so much during the week that it is almost unbearable.
It is really hard being apart so much. I feel almost...disconnected, for lack of a better word, from him when he is gone. We don't get to talk as often as I would like to. When we do, it is only a perfunctory conversation; the basics that include "hi, how are you?" and "how was your day?" Usually, the conversation doesn't go much beyond the "I'm fine" and "it was good". I know there is so much more than that for the both of us, but it is like neither one of us wants to burden the other with the mundane details.
When he gets home on Fridays, there is so much joy in this house. The kids are happy to see him. I am overcome with glee.
He works so hard Monday through Friday and then he has 8 hours worth of travel to get home. So, when he gets here, he is exhausted. He works from home on Fridays, so that day is usually spent. But, at least he is here, under our roof and in my arms.
Nothing more really matters.
My husband works out of town, in California more specifically, Monday through Thursday. When he finally gets home on Fridays, I am positively overjoyed. I miss him so much during the week that it is almost unbearable.
It is really hard being apart so much. I feel almost...disconnected, for lack of a better word, from him when he is gone. We don't get to talk as often as I would like to. When we do, it is only a perfunctory conversation; the basics that include "hi, how are you?" and "how was your day?" Usually, the conversation doesn't go much beyond the "I'm fine" and "it was good". I know there is so much more than that for the both of us, but it is like neither one of us wants to burden the other with the mundane details.
When he gets home on Fridays, there is so much joy in this house. The kids are happy to see him. I am overcome with glee.
He works so hard Monday through Friday and then he has 8 hours worth of travel to get home. So, when he gets here, he is exhausted. He works from home on Fridays, so that day is usually spent. But, at least he is here, under our roof and in my arms.
Nothing more really matters.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
When Rape Becomes Funny
I have been blogging for five years. I have shared the triumphs and tribulations of many bloggers during this time. There have been posts that make me laugh out loud. Some have even moved me to tears. Rarely there is anything that leaves me speechless...until now.
On October 28th, a 15 year old child was gang raped by a group of five very disgusting men. This occured while a crowd of minimally 20 people stood idly by and watched this crime being committed. It is an utter disgrace and a tragic statement about our society and the lack of willingness to get involved. As far as I am concerned, the people sho stood there watching as this child was violated repeatedly are just as guilty as the offenders themselves.
Of course, I am talking from a personal stance.
Back to blogging. My dear friend, Avitable wrote about this situation. However, his take on it was one of a humorous perspective in his blogpost titled Gang Rape: Looking Deeper Basically, what he was attempting to do was make a statement about the onlookers and what could have possibly possessed them to just stand there and do nothing.
You will have to read the post to understand what I am referring to.
Anyway, if you read through the comments, you will find that many women were hurt by the post. Some accused him of making fun of the victim. He wasn't doing that at all. Rather, he was making commentary on the pathetic onlookers and their lack of vigilance when it came to helping this poor girl.
I get that. And, in some comments, I even stood up for him.
However, it doesn't negate the fact that making light of rape is never a funny issue, regardless of attempting to use humor to assuage the pain. I have to admit, as a survivor of a gang rape, I didn't find the post amusing. My ex-boyfriend, Tony, who I have written about countless times, passed me around to a few of his buddies. I was spit on. I was violated. I had my hair pulled. I was hit and battered. I was bit. And, this occurred while a few other people sat in my living room, not partaking...but rather, observing. No one stopped this. No one stepped in. Only ONE person "suggested" that they go get something to eat instead of continuing. It was said very passively and not for my benefit at all. I was left on the floor to rot. To cry. To curl up in a fetal position, wishing that the floor would suddenly open and my battered body would fall away freeing me from the utter pain and despair that I was feeling.
Last night, Avitable's post brought that all back to me. I read his post when he first put it up. I didn't fall asleep until several hours later. I was crying. I was shaken. I let him know that in a comment; that while I understood his intent, that he was sending me to bed in tears. Several other women expressed their pain upon reading his post. While I defend his freedom to write as he sees fit, I can't deny that I felt anger and disgust toward what he had chose to blog about. I posed the question if this had happened to his wife, would he still be able to bring himself to form a humorous post about it?
He didn't reply to that particular question...and that's okay. There would be no need for him to state the obvious.
Having said all this, I get the intent of his post. I know he wasn't out to hurt his female readers (though I must admit that the most angry comment that I read was from a man). However, he did pick open the scabs of old wounds for many of us.
I have been thinking about his post all day long. I can't shake it from my head.
There are some things in this life that should never be made light of and rape is one of them. It destroys lives. It shatters and demeans people. It is a crime that stays with you for the rest of your life. It strips you of your ability to trust human beings. It steals your faith in God. It rips you of your dignity. It is heinous and ruthless. In my eyes, it is worse than murder. You are left to live your life dead inside; a heap of damage and ruin.
Women have died at their own hand for being unable to live after being raped.
I love Adam. He is one of my dearest friends, online and off. I treasure his candor and his comedy. He is always out to find the humor in any situation and funny, for him, is the end all/be all. Anything for the laugh. I would never suggest to him that he censor his words. I wouldn't want anyone to tell me what I can and cannot write about. These are our blogs, our outlets. And, for Adam, humor was the way to deal with the pain of the situation. At least, that was his reasoning.
I choose to believe that because I trust him.
I can only hope that other women who have been his longtime readers can reach a place of understanding. I hope they don't hurt from his words. I hope that they can forgive him for this particular blogpost and that they know what is actually in his heart.
Most of all, I hope that he is NEVER put in the position of knowing that type of pain when it comes to the women in his life.
It would render him speechless.
On October 28th, a 15 year old child was gang raped by a group of five very disgusting men. This occured while a crowd of minimally 20 people stood idly by and watched this crime being committed. It is an utter disgrace and a tragic statement about our society and the lack of willingness to get involved. As far as I am concerned, the people sho stood there watching as this child was violated repeatedly are just as guilty as the offenders themselves.
Of course, I am talking from a personal stance.
Back to blogging. My dear friend, Avitable wrote about this situation. However, his take on it was one of a humorous perspective in his blogpost titled Gang Rape: Looking Deeper Basically, what he was attempting to do was make a statement about the onlookers and what could have possibly possessed them to just stand there and do nothing.
You will have to read the post to understand what I am referring to.
Anyway, if you read through the comments, you will find that many women were hurt by the post. Some accused him of making fun of the victim. He wasn't doing that at all. Rather, he was making commentary on the pathetic onlookers and their lack of vigilance when it came to helping this poor girl.
I get that. And, in some comments, I even stood up for him.
However, it doesn't negate the fact that making light of rape is never a funny issue, regardless of attempting to use humor to assuage the pain. I have to admit, as a survivor of a gang rape, I didn't find the post amusing. My ex-boyfriend, Tony, who I have written about countless times, passed me around to a few of his buddies. I was spit on. I was violated. I had my hair pulled. I was hit and battered. I was bit. And, this occurred while a few other people sat in my living room, not partaking...but rather, observing. No one stopped this. No one stepped in. Only ONE person "suggested" that they go get something to eat instead of continuing. It was said very passively and not for my benefit at all. I was left on the floor to rot. To cry. To curl up in a fetal position, wishing that the floor would suddenly open and my battered body would fall away freeing me from the utter pain and despair that I was feeling.
Last night, Avitable's post brought that all back to me. I read his post when he first put it up. I didn't fall asleep until several hours later. I was crying. I was shaken. I let him know that in a comment; that while I understood his intent, that he was sending me to bed in tears. Several other women expressed their pain upon reading his post. While I defend his freedom to write as he sees fit, I can't deny that I felt anger and disgust toward what he had chose to blog about. I posed the question if this had happened to his wife, would he still be able to bring himself to form a humorous post about it?
He didn't reply to that particular question...and that's okay. There would be no need for him to state the obvious.
Having said all this, I get the intent of his post. I know he wasn't out to hurt his female readers (though I must admit that the most angry comment that I read was from a man). However, he did pick open the scabs of old wounds for many of us.
I have been thinking about his post all day long. I can't shake it from my head.
There are some things in this life that should never be made light of and rape is one of them. It destroys lives. It shatters and demeans people. It is a crime that stays with you for the rest of your life. It strips you of your ability to trust human beings. It steals your faith in God. It rips you of your dignity. It is heinous and ruthless. In my eyes, it is worse than murder. You are left to live your life dead inside; a heap of damage and ruin.
Women have died at their own hand for being unable to live after being raped.
I love Adam. He is one of my dearest friends, online and off. I treasure his candor and his comedy. He is always out to find the humor in any situation and funny, for him, is the end all/be all. Anything for the laugh. I would never suggest to him that he censor his words. I wouldn't want anyone to tell me what I can and cannot write about. These are our blogs, our outlets. And, for Adam, humor was the way to deal with the pain of the situation. At least, that was his reasoning.
I choose to believe that because I trust him.
I can only hope that other women who have been his longtime readers can reach a place of understanding. I hope they don't hurt from his words. I hope that they can forgive him for this particular blogpost and that they know what is actually in his heart.
Most of all, I hope that he is NEVER put in the position of knowing that type of pain when it comes to the women in his life.
It would render him speechless.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Nick...in love.
My son has just recently fell in love.
The whole concept of it...I can't wrap my head around it. He's a sweet and sensitive boy. Very caring despite his somewhat aggressive demeanor. In other words, he is very much his mothers son. He is pretty hardcore, tough...but underneath it all, he has a very nurturing nature. He doesn't like people to hurt others and he sure as hell doesn't like it when people hurt him.
He's known this girl for a very long time. They were very close friends. Recently, on a school trip, he decided to ask her out. Now, five days later, they are hugging up on each other, texting until all hours of the night and...much to my dismay, telling each other that they love each other. It's not that I doubt his feelings. I just don't know that he knows exactly what love is.
I sure as hell didn't at 13 years old...but I had an idea.
I fell in love with a guy from my neighborhood when I was about that age. He was older, lanky and outright funny. He made me laugh all the time with his carefree ways and his "I don't give a shit" attitude. I followed him around like a puppy dog. To me, he was the epitome of what a first boyfriend should be. Not that he was ever my boyfriend...it was more a "hooking up" thing, as the kids nowadays call it. (How old did that make ME sound?) I remember when he first kissed me. I felt all this crazy shit I never felt before. I doodled his name all over the walls of my room, notebooks, napkins...whatever I could take a pen to, it had his name on it.
And, of course, I remember the first time I slept with him. He seemed so self-assured, like he knew what he was doing. I was completely lost, but I let him guide me through it. We stayed really good friends after that, but it was never the same for me. I never had the love that went along with a "first time". I knew he cared about me and thought I was a great "kid". Still, my heart ached for so much more that I never received from him.
God, I can even remember what song was playing. "Mind Games", by John Lennon.
I think of him whenever I hear that song. Sometimes, I play it on purpose, just to reconnect with the memory.
I believe a part of me is always going to love him, even now, 30 years later.
Recently having reconnected with this person on Facebook and at my Junior High reunion has reminded me how special a moment it was. This kid, this man...he made something awkward and strange into a memory that has lasted me for a lifetime. He's still a very special guy. Very special to me. We have a connection that has sort of transcended time. And while we joke and kid around like we did in the old days, I know he still has a soft spot for me in his heart as well.
It's the coolest thing I have ever experienced.
I was at a party the other night and got into a conversation with a VERY drunk 15 year old kid. He was going on and on about all the "bitches" that he fucked. And while it was morbidly amusing to hear a 15 year olds take on fucking bitches, there was a part of me that was extremely sad. This kid doesn't get it. He doesn't realize that there is so much more behind making love to someone. Then again, maybe he is doing it right...staying detached and uninvolved. Who knows.
He told me, in his drunken state, that if my son was even kind of good looking (which he ABSOLUTELY is) that he is probably "fucking bitches". I told this kid that my son was not "fucking bitches" at all. As a matter of fact, he hasn't even had his first kiss yet. I know he is eagerly waiting for it...but it just hasn't happened for him.
But, I hope when it does, it is something that he will look back on fondly and with great affection. I hope it is an amazing experience for him. I hope that when he is my age, he will be able to play a love song that will transport him back to a time when he was innocent and untouched by the world. Unscathed and not jaded. I hope it's with a person that he will always think back on and nod his head, smiling.
I had that. I pray he will have it someday too.
Is that too much for a mother to ask for?
The whole concept of it...I can't wrap my head around it. He's a sweet and sensitive boy. Very caring despite his somewhat aggressive demeanor. In other words, he is very much his mothers son. He is pretty hardcore, tough...but underneath it all, he has a very nurturing nature. He doesn't like people to hurt others and he sure as hell doesn't like it when people hurt him.
He's known this girl for a very long time. They were very close friends. Recently, on a school trip, he decided to ask her out. Now, five days later, they are hugging up on each other, texting until all hours of the night and...much to my dismay, telling each other that they love each other. It's not that I doubt his feelings. I just don't know that he knows exactly what love is.
I sure as hell didn't at 13 years old...but I had an idea.
I fell in love with a guy from my neighborhood when I was about that age. He was older, lanky and outright funny. He made me laugh all the time with his carefree ways and his "I don't give a shit" attitude. I followed him around like a puppy dog. To me, he was the epitome of what a first boyfriend should be. Not that he was ever my boyfriend...it was more a "hooking up" thing, as the kids nowadays call it. (How old did that make ME sound?) I remember when he first kissed me. I felt all this crazy shit I never felt before. I doodled his name all over the walls of my room, notebooks, napkins...whatever I could take a pen to, it had his name on it.
And, of course, I remember the first time I slept with him. He seemed so self-assured, like he knew what he was doing. I was completely lost, but I let him guide me through it. We stayed really good friends after that, but it was never the same for me. I never had the love that went along with a "first time". I knew he cared about me and thought I was a great "kid". Still, my heart ached for so much more that I never received from him.
God, I can even remember what song was playing. "Mind Games", by John Lennon.
I think of him whenever I hear that song. Sometimes, I play it on purpose, just to reconnect with the memory.
I believe a part of me is always going to love him, even now, 30 years later.
Recently having reconnected with this person on Facebook and at my Junior High reunion has reminded me how special a moment it was. This kid, this man...he made something awkward and strange into a memory that has lasted me for a lifetime. He's still a very special guy. Very special to me. We have a connection that has sort of transcended time. And while we joke and kid around like we did in the old days, I know he still has a soft spot for me in his heart as well.
It's the coolest thing I have ever experienced.
I was at a party the other night and got into a conversation with a VERY drunk 15 year old kid. He was going on and on about all the "bitches" that he fucked. And while it was morbidly amusing to hear a 15 year olds take on fucking bitches, there was a part of me that was extremely sad. This kid doesn't get it. He doesn't realize that there is so much more behind making love to someone. Then again, maybe he is doing it right...staying detached and uninvolved. Who knows.
He told me, in his drunken state, that if my son was even kind of good looking (which he ABSOLUTELY is) that he is probably "fucking bitches". I told this kid that my son was not "fucking bitches" at all. As a matter of fact, he hasn't even had his first kiss yet. I know he is eagerly waiting for it...but it just hasn't happened for him.
But, I hope when it does, it is something that he will look back on fondly and with great affection. I hope it is an amazing experience for him. I hope that when he is my age, he will be able to play a love song that will transport him back to a time when he was innocent and untouched by the world. Unscathed and not jaded. I hope it's with a person that he will always think back on and nod his head, smiling.
I had that. I pray he will have it someday too.
Is that too much for a mother to ask for?
Saturday, October 24, 2009
We're SO outta here!!!
Well, this is it.
The night of the huge bash in Altamonte Springs, FL, affectionately known as "Avitaween". This will be our third year attending his incredible Halloween get together. Every year gets a bit more massive than the next. If you ever get the chance to come to Florida around Halloween, I would highly suggest you manage to get yourself invited to this event.
Here's a good reason why!
Tons of food, open bar, amazing conversations with bloggers from all over the country, karaoke, great costumes, fantastic decorations. Every year, this party never fails to disappoint. I look forward to it all year long.
I didn't even mention the big orgy at the end of the night. It's a real DNA fest.
The night of the huge bash in Altamonte Springs, FL, affectionately known as "Avitaween". This will be our third year attending his incredible Halloween get together. Every year gets a bit more massive than the next. If you ever get the chance to come to Florida around Halloween, I would highly suggest you manage to get yourself invited to this event.
Here's a good reason why!
Tons of food, open bar, amazing conversations with bloggers from all over the country, karaoke, great costumes, fantastic decorations. Every year, this party never fails to disappoint. I look forward to it all year long.
I didn't even mention the big orgy at the end of the night. It's a real DNA fest.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
And then came Jessica.
Let me preface this post by saying the following:
I understand the disease of addiction. I know it makes you say and do things you would not normally do. I understand that it grabs you and refuses to let go, even when you will it to. It is a disease that has no "cure". It is an affliction you live with for the rest of your life. I get it. I understand it. And, of course, I empathize with it, not just as a nurse but someone in active recovery.
That said, all empathy went out the proverbial window tonight when I met Jessica.
I've seen Jessica before. She's been to my outpatient therapy classes a few times. Everytime she was there, I would watch her. She would nod out. She would roll her eyes. She would scratch her skin incessantly; something that opiate addicts do when their drug levels are pretty high. I knew she was an addict. I mean, everyone there is at varying stages of recovery.
Jessica is there voluntarily. She was not court appointed. She was not mandated to go there by her job or anything like that. Rather, Jessica was there on the advice of her attorney. Jessica was busted by the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency) for trafficking drugs. She was caught with approximately $20,000 worth of opiates in her home. They had been taping her and her boyfriend for months, under their ever watchful scrutiny, just waiting for her to fuck up. And, as all addicts, fuck up she did. She sold some opiates to an agent who was wearing a wire. In an instant, a swarm of undercover agents busted open her door and infested her house. They tore the place apart finding her entire stash, guns and a shitload of cash. Everything was confiscated and Jessica, along with her boyfriend, were taken to jail.
She was released to the custody of her grandparents with a bond of $125,000 dollars.
Jessica is looking at approximately 9-20 years in prison. She is 21 years old and basically, she has thrown her entire life away. Her story broke my heart. She is only a couple of years younger than my own daughter. She's in a huge amount of trouble. Huge.
Tonight, Jessica came into group, high again and proceeded to tell us how much she "misses the lifestyle" that her drug dealing afforded her.
"I had a Jaguar with only one payment left on it," she said. "I had my own home. I never had to work a day in my life."
Slowly, I felt my empathy wasting away. I took a few deep, cleansing breaths to try to calm down my contempt. Okay. She misses the money. Alright. Fine. Not for me to judge. I opted to stay silent and let her finish talking.
"I really don't HAVE to be here," she continued, "it will just look good to the judge if I show him that I am getting help."
10...9...8...
"I'm really only here because I sold drugs. I'm not an addict."
7...6...5...another cleansing breath...
"You all are here because you have to be. I don't have to be here. My lawyer said I should come."
4...3...2...BREATH, CP, BREATH.
"I'm in the middle of school, getting my Associates Degree right now. I'm graduating in December."
And inside, I had reached DEFCOM ONE.
"Jessica," I said, pointedly, "May I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Did your drug money pay for school?"
"No," she said with the slightest smirk on her face. "I got financial aid."
HOUSTON...WE HAVE LIFT OFF!
"So, you are telling me that you could afford a Jaguar, your own home, didn't have to work a day in your life, but you applied and received financial aid?"
"Yep."
Now, I am fuming. If you're an addict, you're an addict. You want to kill yourself in the process with the drugs, by all means, kill yourself with the drugs. It's your choice what to do with your own body, your own life. But I am listening to this CHILD tell me how she made nearly a hundred thousand dollars by dealing to others. Then, on top of this, she steals the financial aid out of the pockets of kids who are earnestly trying to make something out of themselves.
"Didn't you make enough money to pay your tuition?"
"Yes, but why should I pay for it if I could get financial aid?"
This is about the time that CP lost her fucking mind.
"What's the matter, CP," my counselor inquires. He knows damn fucking well what's the matter with me. He is just encouraging me to blow up on this kid. He wants her to get it both barrels, not just from me, but from every member of the group.
"What's the matter with me? The matter with me is that I broke my fucking ass to get my child her college education. I worked double shifts at the hospital. My husband took an extra job to supplement us. She didn't qualify for financial aid because, on paper, it looked like my husband made too much money. We scrimped and saved for her to be able to go...and this...this...ARGH!"
I couldn't even get the words out of my mouth. For the first time in a very long time, I flipped out. Lost my patience. And then, I turned inward. I had no business yelling at her. But, in that moment, I hated her. I absolutely hated this girl because she represented every single thing that I can't stand. People that suck the system dry. People who callously abuse the privilege of financial aid...taking from the "have nots". I detest that.
But, I shut up. I stopped talking.
Thankfully, the rest of the group felt exactly the same way I did. They took turns admonishing her for various things. Her abuse of the financial aid system. The fact that she was coming to counseling for the show of it all. The fact that she came in there completely fucked up on drugs...because she could.
To see her there swaying back and forth, scratching her arms and legs, her eyes rolling back in her head? Huge trigger factor for many in the group. Not a good thing for a room full of addicts to be privy to. It's unfair to the rest of us to have to sit there, actively trying to recover, while this little one comes in because it looks good to the court.
Our counselor asked us if this was upsetting us, seeing her like this, listening to what she was saying. We all agreed that it did. It bothered us all immensely for various reasons. We have all been there. We all know what it is like to fall asleep in the middle of whatever we were doing. No judgment there. But in this situation, there are people who are struggling to stay clean. They are submitting to drug testing. They are in danger of dying if they don't do everything they can to get well. And these people should be the top priority.
I left the office feeling very angry, hurt and confused. There was no regret in her voice. She isn't taking responsibility for anything. She's not interested in getting clean. She's interested in not doing 9-20 years for trafficking. She's interested in getting felony probation. She's interested in getting the hell out of our class so she can go home and keep using.
And, unfortunately and much to my dismay, she left me feeling the same way.
I won't pick up. I won't use. My life and sobriety is too important to me. I have come way too far to allow this to shake me, to bring me to my knees. But, she put it in the back of my mind, my addicted mind and I don't like the way it feels. It's uncomfortable to sit with this feeling in my chest and in my mind. I haven't been triggered to want to use in a long time.
Then came Jessica.
And I hate her for leaving me alone with this monster.
I understand the disease of addiction. I know it makes you say and do things you would not normally do. I understand that it grabs you and refuses to let go, even when you will it to. It is a disease that has no "cure". It is an affliction you live with for the rest of your life. I get it. I understand it. And, of course, I empathize with it, not just as a nurse but someone in active recovery.
That said, all empathy went out the proverbial window tonight when I met Jessica.
I've seen Jessica before. She's been to my outpatient therapy classes a few times. Everytime she was there, I would watch her. She would nod out. She would roll her eyes. She would scratch her skin incessantly; something that opiate addicts do when their drug levels are pretty high. I knew she was an addict. I mean, everyone there is at varying stages of recovery.
Jessica is there voluntarily. She was not court appointed. She was not mandated to go there by her job or anything like that. Rather, Jessica was there on the advice of her attorney. Jessica was busted by the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency) for trafficking drugs. She was caught with approximately $20,000 worth of opiates in her home. They had been taping her and her boyfriend for months, under their ever watchful scrutiny, just waiting for her to fuck up. And, as all addicts, fuck up she did. She sold some opiates to an agent who was wearing a wire. In an instant, a swarm of undercover agents busted open her door and infested her house. They tore the place apart finding her entire stash, guns and a shitload of cash. Everything was confiscated and Jessica, along with her boyfriend, were taken to jail.
She was released to the custody of her grandparents with a bond of $125,000 dollars.
Jessica is looking at approximately 9-20 years in prison. She is 21 years old and basically, she has thrown her entire life away. Her story broke my heart. She is only a couple of years younger than my own daughter. She's in a huge amount of trouble. Huge.
Tonight, Jessica came into group, high again and proceeded to tell us how much she "misses the lifestyle" that her drug dealing afforded her.
"I had a Jaguar with only one payment left on it," she said. "I had my own home. I never had to work a day in my life."
Slowly, I felt my empathy wasting away. I took a few deep, cleansing breaths to try to calm down my contempt. Okay. She misses the money. Alright. Fine. Not for me to judge. I opted to stay silent and let her finish talking.
"I really don't HAVE to be here," she continued, "it will just look good to the judge if I show him that I am getting help."
10...9...8...
"I'm really only here because I sold drugs. I'm not an addict."
7...6...5...another cleansing breath...
"You all are here because you have to be. I don't have to be here. My lawyer said I should come."
4...3...2...BREATH, CP, BREATH.
"I'm in the middle of school, getting my Associates Degree right now. I'm graduating in December."
And inside, I had reached DEFCOM ONE.
"Jessica," I said, pointedly, "May I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Did your drug money pay for school?"
"No," she said with the slightest smirk on her face. "I got financial aid."
HOUSTON...WE HAVE LIFT OFF!
"So, you are telling me that you could afford a Jaguar, your own home, didn't have to work a day in your life, but you applied and received financial aid?"
"Yep."
Now, I am fuming. If you're an addict, you're an addict. You want to kill yourself in the process with the drugs, by all means, kill yourself with the drugs. It's your choice what to do with your own body, your own life. But I am listening to this CHILD tell me how she made nearly a hundred thousand dollars by dealing to others. Then, on top of this, she steals the financial aid out of the pockets of kids who are earnestly trying to make something out of themselves.
"Didn't you make enough money to pay your tuition?"
"Yes, but why should I pay for it if I could get financial aid?"
This is about the time that CP lost her fucking mind.
"What's the matter, CP," my counselor inquires. He knows damn fucking well what's the matter with me. He is just encouraging me to blow up on this kid. He wants her to get it both barrels, not just from me, but from every member of the group.
"What's the matter with me? The matter with me is that I broke my fucking ass to get my child her college education. I worked double shifts at the hospital. My husband took an extra job to supplement us. She didn't qualify for financial aid because, on paper, it looked like my husband made too much money. We scrimped and saved for her to be able to go...and this...this...ARGH!"
I couldn't even get the words out of my mouth. For the first time in a very long time, I flipped out. Lost my patience. And then, I turned inward. I had no business yelling at her. But, in that moment, I hated her. I absolutely hated this girl because she represented every single thing that I can't stand. People that suck the system dry. People who callously abuse the privilege of financial aid...taking from the "have nots". I detest that.
But, I shut up. I stopped talking.
Thankfully, the rest of the group felt exactly the same way I did. They took turns admonishing her for various things. Her abuse of the financial aid system. The fact that she was coming to counseling for the show of it all. The fact that she came in there completely fucked up on drugs...because she could.
To see her there swaying back and forth, scratching her arms and legs, her eyes rolling back in her head? Huge trigger factor for many in the group. Not a good thing for a room full of addicts to be privy to. It's unfair to the rest of us to have to sit there, actively trying to recover, while this little one comes in because it looks good to the court.
Our counselor asked us if this was upsetting us, seeing her like this, listening to what she was saying. We all agreed that it did. It bothered us all immensely for various reasons. We have all been there. We all know what it is like to fall asleep in the middle of whatever we were doing. No judgment there. But in this situation, there are people who are struggling to stay clean. They are submitting to drug testing. They are in danger of dying if they don't do everything they can to get well. And these people should be the top priority.
I left the office feeling very angry, hurt and confused. There was no regret in her voice. She isn't taking responsibility for anything. She's not interested in getting clean. She's interested in not doing 9-20 years for trafficking. She's interested in getting felony probation. She's interested in getting the hell out of our class so she can go home and keep using.
And, unfortunately and much to my dismay, she left me feeling the same way.
I won't pick up. I won't use. My life and sobriety is too important to me. I have come way too far to allow this to shake me, to bring me to my knees. But, she put it in the back of my mind, my addicted mind and I don't like the way it feels. It's uncomfortable to sit with this feeling in my chest and in my mind. I haven't been triggered to want to use in a long time.
Then came Jessica.
And I hate her for leaving me alone with this monster.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Okay. Enough of the depressive bullshit.
I am reading my own blog and discovering something about myself.
I have been, for the past two months, pretty fucking boring.
What the hell? Read my archives! I am so NOT boring, so what the hell is going on with me.
I have a few theories:
1) My husband is now working in California. This means I am not getting laid NEARLY as much as I used to. Since most of the stories in my archives revolves around the interesting things we did (read:stupid) sexually, I find myself with very little to say. As a matter of fact, my orgasms have been pretty mediocre as of late. Who do I speak to to rectify this situation?
2) My son has swine flu. It's hard to be witty when your son has a potentially life threatening pig virus. He thinks it's hysterical and refers to himself as a "Swiner". He has been yelling it out in school as well, making his teacher think that Tourette's is a side effect of swine flu. My child is one genetic marker away from retarded* as it is. He gets it from me.
(*Yes...I realize that this is politcally incorrect. I care not. Move on.)
3) Did I mention that I am not getting laid near enough?
4) Avitable's Halloween party is coming up this weekend. Anything else will therefore pale in comparison. Basically, you have two things to look forward to this time of year. The first is anticipation of his party. And the second is the subsequent depression you will go through when it is over. The depression lasts about a full year until the next party. I am stockpiling Cymbalta for the aftermath.
5) I have come to the conclusion that I have gotten fat. Not voluptuous. Not "curvy" or all the other cute things I always referred to myself as. No. This is downright fucking fat. I always said if the day ever came that my stomach stuck out further than my tits, it would be time to diet. Guess what, Fuckers? Yeah. No time like the present.
6) Dieting depresses me. Depression makes for shitty blog posts. In order to serve you better, I shall refrain from dieting. I will take one for the team. I will get fat in order to preserve the sanctity and harmony of this blog. I will be 300 pounds...but you will be amused and frankly, that's all that matters.
7) Yeah. I really need more sex. More sex=less dieting=happier blogposts. So, in essence, my entire blog existance rests firmly on my husbands penis. That's a heavy burden to bear. Hope he's up for the challenge.
I have been, for the past two months, pretty fucking boring.
What the hell? Read my archives! I am so NOT boring, so what the hell is going on with me.
I have a few theories:
1) My husband is now working in California. This means I am not getting laid NEARLY as much as I used to. Since most of the stories in my archives revolves around the interesting things we did (read:stupid) sexually, I find myself with very little to say. As a matter of fact, my orgasms have been pretty mediocre as of late. Who do I speak to to rectify this situation?
2) My son has swine flu. It's hard to be witty when your son has a potentially life threatening pig virus. He thinks it's hysterical and refers to himself as a "Swiner". He has been yelling it out in school as well, making his teacher think that Tourette's is a side effect of swine flu. My child is one genetic marker away from retarded* as it is. He gets it from me.
(*Yes...I realize that this is politcally incorrect. I care not. Move on.)
3) Did I mention that I am not getting laid near enough?
4) Avitable's Halloween party is coming up this weekend. Anything else will therefore pale in comparison. Basically, you have two things to look forward to this time of year. The first is anticipation of his party. And the second is the subsequent depression you will go through when it is over. The depression lasts about a full year until the next party. I am stockpiling Cymbalta for the aftermath.
5) I have come to the conclusion that I have gotten fat. Not voluptuous. Not "curvy" or all the other cute things I always referred to myself as. No. This is downright fucking fat. I always said if the day ever came that my stomach stuck out further than my tits, it would be time to diet. Guess what, Fuckers? Yeah. No time like the present.
6) Dieting depresses me. Depression makes for shitty blog posts. In order to serve you better, I shall refrain from dieting. I will take one for the team. I will get fat in order to preserve the sanctity and harmony of this blog. I will be 300 pounds...but you will be amused and frankly, that's all that matters.
7) Yeah. I really need more sex. More sex=less dieting=happier blogposts. So, in essence, my entire blog existance rests firmly on my husbands penis. That's a heavy burden to bear. Hope he's up for the challenge.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Long time since the last time...
It's been 52 days since I relapsed. It sure feels like a lot longer. Not really sure why. I thought, when I checked the dates that it would surely be past 60 days by now. For some reason, addicts use 60 days as a target goal. So, I guess that's the direction I am heading in.
Admittedly, it's been hard. Talking so much about Tony has been a huge trigger for me. I have a hard time talking about him without wanting to use. I told my counselor this. When we did the EMDR (see last post) it had me completely frazzled. I was able to hear him, feel him...like I could feel his breath on my skin all over again.
Is it insane to think that there is a part of me that misses him? I guess that sounds nuts to many people. But, there were good things about him, when I wasn't so scared of him. He made me feel protected for a long time. Ironic, because the one person I didn't feel safe from was him. It's crazy the way the mind works. I don't discuss this with anyone, except here, in the safety of my blog. I know people would think I was nuts if I revealed this. I don't mind you guys thinking I'm nuts.
I have 5 years worth of documentation on this site to prove that I am.
I can't help but think of him though, especially lately. I have to admit...I do wonder where he is and how he is. Not necessarily in a good way, the way we wonder about old friends we haven't seen in a long time. More in a curiousity sort of way. Is he still beating other women? Is he in prison? Has he learned his lesson finally? Did some woman finally reign him in? Has she learned how to control his temper?
And mostly, what did I do wrong that I wasn't the one to be able to "fix" him?
I am a bit of a drama queen. This is nothing that people don't know about me. I thrive on the adrenaline of the moment. With Tony, there was nothing but drama...and after awhile, it defined me. I couldn't live without it, but I couldn't live with it either.
People tell me to get over it. After all, it was 1991 when that baseball bat made contact with my head. It should be over now. I am in a better place. Much better. I am with a man who loves me, adores me, in fact. My children are safe. They are protected and secure. They have a father who loves them and a stepfather who worships them as though they were his own. I am a fortunate woman, no doubt.
But, there's always those times. Those times I can smell that cologne...and it takes me away. Takes me back. And I dream. No nightmares. Just dreaming.
And I wonder...
Admittedly, it's been hard. Talking so much about Tony has been a huge trigger for me. I have a hard time talking about him without wanting to use. I told my counselor this. When we did the EMDR (see last post) it had me completely frazzled. I was able to hear him, feel him...like I could feel his breath on my skin all over again.
Is it insane to think that there is a part of me that misses him? I guess that sounds nuts to many people. But, there were good things about him, when I wasn't so scared of him. He made me feel protected for a long time. Ironic, because the one person I didn't feel safe from was him. It's crazy the way the mind works. I don't discuss this with anyone, except here, in the safety of my blog. I know people would think I was nuts if I revealed this. I don't mind you guys thinking I'm nuts.
I have 5 years worth of documentation on this site to prove that I am.
I can't help but think of him though, especially lately. I have to admit...I do wonder where he is and how he is. Not necessarily in a good way, the way we wonder about old friends we haven't seen in a long time. More in a curiousity sort of way. Is he still beating other women? Is he in prison? Has he learned his lesson finally? Did some woman finally reign him in? Has she learned how to control his temper?
And mostly, what did I do wrong that I wasn't the one to be able to "fix" him?
I am a bit of a drama queen. This is nothing that people don't know about me. I thrive on the adrenaline of the moment. With Tony, there was nothing but drama...and after awhile, it defined me. I couldn't live without it, but I couldn't live with it either.
People tell me to get over it. After all, it was 1991 when that baseball bat made contact with my head. It should be over now. I am in a better place. Much better. I am with a man who loves me, adores me, in fact. My children are safe. They are protected and secure. They have a father who loves them and a stepfather who worships them as though they were his own. I am a fortunate woman, no doubt.
But, there's always those times. Those times I can smell that cologne...and it takes me away. Takes me back. And I dream. No nightmares. Just dreaming.
And I wonder...
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Therapy went well...
I didn't lose my mind while relaying my story.
I told the Cliff Note version. It was succinct and to the point. I got out what I needed to in order to open the proverbial door to help. I reached out. We spent the hour and a half just allowing me to talk while he listened.
He told me that I was battering the "little girl" inside me...by refusing to acknowledge her pain. Told me that I was hurting her no different than Tony hurt "her". Only until I acknowledge her existance and pain will I begin to heal.
I am going to undergo a process called "EMDR" which has been found to be very helpful in extracting feelings in those who have suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
A Brief Description of EMDR
To me, it seems kind of hokey, almost like hypnosis, but I am willing to give it a shot. Whatever it takes at this time, I promised myself to stay open to it.
We'll see how it goes.
I told the Cliff Note version. It was succinct and to the point. I got out what I needed to in order to open the proverbial door to help. I reached out. We spent the hour and a half just allowing me to talk while he listened.
He told me that I was battering the "little girl" inside me...by refusing to acknowledge her pain. Told me that I was hurting her no different than Tony hurt "her". Only until I acknowledge her existance and pain will I begin to heal.
I am going to undergo a process called "EMDR" which has been found to be very helpful in extracting feelings in those who have suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
A Brief Description of EMDR
To me, it seems kind of hokey, almost like hypnosis, but I am willing to give it a shot. Whatever it takes at this time, I promised myself to stay open to it.
We'll see how it goes.
Friday, October 09, 2009
Reopening the wound.
None of this is going to make sense to you if you don't read these first:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
I have a hard time reading these posts without recalling the absolute anguish I felt while writing them. And, I can't help dying a little everytime I think about that part of my life. It seems like I am a million miles away from that point of my life. I am so happy with my husband, my family and my life in general. Sure, it has it's ups and downs. A lot of hard times. But, that's part of living.
This portion of my life reflects a time when I was dying. Not just physically, but emotionally. I lost a huge part of me during this time. It's time I can never recapture. I feel a great deal of loss when I read these posts...like a part of me was stolen. And tomorrow, I get to pick that scab back open.
My therapist wants us to "explore" this part of my life. I am not sure how open I am to this exploration. The way I have coped with all the physical and mental abuse inflicted upon me during that time was to vomit it all up on my blog. To have the words there, in black and white, forevermore. If I want to revisit it, I know where to find it. I literally bled on the pages of my blog. I revealed the worst part of my life to people. Basically, I handled it the best way I could...the only way I could see to cope. I supressed a lot of emotion for a long time, let it fester under the surface of my skin.
I feel I have done a lot of suffering at the hands of this man. I don't want it to continue by revisiting it every so often. However, I know if I don't deal with it in a more constructive manner, it will continue to own me...to define me.
I can't have that.
So, tomorrow, in therapy, we are going to start peeling back the layers. I am dreading this session. Literally squirming at the thought of having to tell this story yet again. But, he seems convinced that a lot of the self-destruction I have caused myself as of late is in direct correlation with the abuse I suffered at the hands of this man. His theory is that I became addicted to the pain and the drama, ergo, I am always seeking to replace it in my life.
I disagree...but, on some levels, he may have a valid point.
I never really handled what happened between Tony and myself. Never really dealt with it. I packed it neatly away as just another chapter in my life. I take it out when I feel the need to examine it, but that doesn't happen often. And, as of late, it hasn't happened at all.
But it's always there, just below the surface. And, I do get in touch with it in different ways. Sometimes, a voice, a certain place, a scent...it will transport me back to that time. There is music I can't listen to because it reminds me of Tony and those years of abuse. There is a certain actor who I can't bear to look at because he looks so much like Tony. I am very quick tempered when I see a man even get remotely angry with a woman. It makes me insane, fires me up like a rocket. I have no control over it. I have no tolerance for it.
I understand that I was left damaged. The strong woman in me doesn't care to admit that...but the frail and frightened girl in me knows that I need help in dealing with the monster in my head.
Tomorrow will open up the wound all over again. More than likely, I will cry, which will infuriate me. I will become angry. I know I will become defensive and will probably argue with my therapist at some point. He will try to keep me calm and in my mind, I will feel like I am being manipulated by yet another man. I don't do very well with men because I always feel they have ulterior motives in everything they say and do. Tony did that to me.
And I hate that after all these years, he still has the power to make me cry.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
I have a hard time reading these posts without recalling the absolute anguish I felt while writing them. And, I can't help dying a little everytime I think about that part of my life. It seems like I am a million miles away from that point of my life. I am so happy with my husband, my family and my life in general. Sure, it has it's ups and downs. A lot of hard times. But, that's part of living.
This portion of my life reflects a time when I was dying. Not just physically, but emotionally. I lost a huge part of me during this time. It's time I can never recapture. I feel a great deal of loss when I read these posts...like a part of me was stolen. And tomorrow, I get to pick that scab back open.
My therapist wants us to "explore" this part of my life. I am not sure how open I am to this exploration. The way I have coped with all the physical and mental abuse inflicted upon me during that time was to vomit it all up on my blog. To have the words there, in black and white, forevermore. If I want to revisit it, I know where to find it. I literally bled on the pages of my blog. I revealed the worst part of my life to people. Basically, I handled it the best way I could...the only way I could see to cope. I supressed a lot of emotion for a long time, let it fester under the surface of my skin.
I feel I have done a lot of suffering at the hands of this man. I don't want it to continue by revisiting it every so often. However, I know if I don't deal with it in a more constructive manner, it will continue to own me...to define me.
I can't have that.
So, tomorrow, in therapy, we are going to start peeling back the layers. I am dreading this session. Literally squirming at the thought of having to tell this story yet again. But, he seems convinced that a lot of the self-destruction I have caused myself as of late is in direct correlation with the abuse I suffered at the hands of this man. His theory is that I became addicted to the pain and the drama, ergo, I am always seeking to replace it in my life.
I disagree...but, on some levels, he may have a valid point.
I never really handled what happened between Tony and myself. Never really dealt with it. I packed it neatly away as just another chapter in my life. I take it out when I feel the need to examine it, but that doesn't happen often. And, as of late, it hasn't happened at all.
But it's always there, just below the surface. And, I do get in touch with it in different ways. Sometimes, a voice, a certain place, a scent...it will transport me back to that time. There is music I can't listen to because it reminds me of Tony and those years of abuse. There is a certain actor who I can't bear to look at because he looks so much like Tony. I am very quick tempered when I see a man even get remotely angry with a woman. It makes me insane, fires me up like a rocket. I have no control over it. I have no tolerance for it.
I understand that I was left damaged. The strong woman in me doesn't care to admit that...but the frail and frightened girl in me knows that I need help in dealing with the monster in my head.
Tomorrow will open up the wound all over again. More than likely, I will cry, which will infuriate me. I will become angry. I know I will become defensive and will probably argue with my therapist at some point. He will try to keep me calm and in my mind, I will feel like I am being manipulated by yet another man. I don't do very well with men because I always feel they have ulterior motives in everything they say and do. Tony did that to me.
And I hate that after all these years, he still has the power to make me cry.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
I am a Democrat...
tried and true. I have always supported the Democratic Party since the time I could first vote, going back to the Reagan era. I have never wavered. Since that time, however, I have found that I am getting a bit more conservative. I used to denote myself as a "liberal". But now, I don't know. As I am getting older, I don't believe in the "live and let live" theory so much any more. What am I floundering on all of a sudden?
The death penalty.
I used to be dead set against it...even in the most heinous of cases. After all, taking one life for taking another somehow doesn't even the score. I truly believed that, once upon a time, most criminals could be rehabilitated. I believed that more money should have went toward the rehabilitation of these criminals and possibly turn them into productive members of society.
Yet now, I have to admit...my feelings have changed.
I find myself adamently in favor of the death penalty. Not sure where that puts me as a liberal any longer. I suppose the label no longer fits. At least, not as snugly as it used to. I watch all these cases about murder and rape and I find myself wanting these animals put to death. Increasingly, I am adhering to the principles of an eye for an eye. For example, you rape? You get raped. You sodomize? You get sodomized. And, of course, if you commit murder...you die. Plain and simple.
Naturally, the nurse in me wants at very least 99% DNA proof of this before you are mandated to die. There has to be guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt, not reasonable doubt. That's simply not enough for me.
I have to admit that I feel badly for feeling this way. Maybe it is ever since becoming a grandmother. I don't want my grandchild brought up in a society full of animals who, with one good defense lawyer, will be released back onto the streets.
A long time ago, I believed that Roman Polanski should be left alone from his crime. The victim had since forgiven him for his transgression some 40 years earlier and there was a monetary settlement reached. Let's leave it alone. However, now I feel that he has been parading around all through Europe without a care in the world. Frankly, the man is a fugitive and needs to be treated as such. I have watched his Hollywood cohorts hail him as a hero of the film industry. While that may be true, it is also true that he plied a 13 year old girl full of alcohol and quaaludes. He fled the country before ever serving his sentence. I can't help but wonder if it were Joe Schmoe from Buttfuck, Idaho, would we be satisfied with time served?
As I age, I no longer feel this is justice.
What scares me so much is that I feel like I am losing grip of my liberal self. I want people to be able to live freely with all their rights afforded to them, but at the same time, I think we are giving too much leeway to hardened criminals. It strikes me as odd that people commit DUI manslaughter and receive 3 years in prison.
What really has me a little bitter are the people in my intensive outpatient therapy group. Some of them have committed multiple DUI's and are relegated to 12 weeks of outpatient therapy. 12 weeks for the potential of having killed themselves or more importantly, someone else. Something just doesn't feel right about that. I can't help being a little angry at those members of the group. You can tell which ones are truly remorseful and which ones are just rolling with the punches and jumping through the proverbial legal hoops. It's frustrating. I want to shake each one of them and tell them that if they are to ever hurt my daughter, son or grandchild, that I will personally kill them myself.
So, I am questioning my commitment toward liberalism now more than ever. And quite frankly, it really has me bothered.
The death penalty.
I used to be dead set against it...even in the most heinous of cases. After all, taking one life for taking another somehow doesn't even the score. I truly believed that, once upon a time, most criminals could be rehabilitated. I believed that more money should have went toward the rehabilitation of these criminals and possibly turn them into productive members of society.
Yet now, I have to admit...my feelings have changed.
I find myself adamently in favor of the death penalty. Not sure where that puts me as a liberal any longer. I suppose the label no longer fits. At least, not as snugly as it used to. I watch all these cases about murder and rape and I find myself wanting these animals put to death. Increasingly, I am adhering to the principles of an eye for an eye. For example, you rape? You get raped. You sodomize? You get sodomized. And, of course, if you commit murder...you die. Plain and simple.
Naturally, the nurse in me wants at very least 99% DNA proof of this before you are mandated to die. There has to be guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt, not reasonable doubt. That's simply not enough for me.
I have to admit that I feel badly for feeling this way. Maybe it is ever since becoming a grandmother. I don't want my grandchild brought up in a society full of animals who, with one good defense lawyer, will be released back onto the streets.
A long time ago, I believed that Roman Polanski should be left alone from his crime. The victim had since forgiven him for his transgression some 40 years earlier and there was a monetary settlement reached. Let's leave it alone. However, now I feel that he has been parading around all through Europe without a care in the world. Frankly, the man is a fugitive and needs to be treated as such. I have watched his Hollywood cohorts hail him as a hero of the film industry. While that may be true, it is also true that he plied a 13 year old girl full of alcohol and quaaludes. He fled the country before ever serving his sentence. I can't help but wonder if it were Joe Schmoe from Buttfuck, Idaho, would we be satisfied with time served?
As I age, I no longer feel this is justice.
What scares me so much is that I feel like I am losing grip of my liberal self. I want people to be able to live freely with all their rights afforded to them, but at the same time, I think we are giving too much leeway to hardened criminals. It strikes me as odd that people commit DUI manslaughter and receive 3 years in prison.
What really has me a little bitter are the people in my intensive outpatient therapy group. Some of them have committed multiple DUI's and are relegated to 12 weeks of outpatient therapy. 12 weeks for the potential of having killed themselves or more importantly, someone else. Something just doesn't feel right about that. I can't help being a little angry at those members of the group. You can tell which ones are truly remorseful and which ones are just rolling with the punches and jumping through the proverbial legal hoops. It's frustrating. I want to shake each one of them and tell them that if they are to ever hurt my daughter, son or grandchild, that I will personally kill them myself.
So, I am questioning my commitment toward liberalism now more than ever. And quite frankly, it really has me bothered.
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