The Pretty Blue Bows

Every now and then
I miss the lull
and low buzzing of a good high.
Wow!
What a thrill after you
plug it into your arm.
Liquid lightening climbing
through the empty spaces of
yourself.

All those spaces that mommy
dearest left deserted
void, cut up
like coupons in the garbage.
And father wasn’t much
help at all
taking it away himself
with a heavy load.

That incipient surge
that belts out,
all the while
making the eyes tumble
backwards,
staring off into
the tiny cranial stars
making up
tiny cranial constellations.

Of course I couldn’t
slip the steel into my
own arm at first.
He would tie such beautiful
tourniquets
that would make girl scouts
wet themselves.

Pretty rubber blue bows.

I was kneeling on the
bathroom floor,
bending over like a virgin.
Spreading my legs out
and panting out loud.
I couldn’t tie a pretty blue bow
but a decent one I did.
Minutes carried on and
I heard the child within myself
scream
before I got the guts
to inject it.

I guess it does make me
feel a little bit sad now.

Anyhow,
my hands were wet and
slippery.
I didn’t know what the fuck
I was doing
but knew what would happen
if I wasn’t doing it.
In it went and off I went
into this land where I
drool on the outside
but blissfully float internally.

Anyone that tells you that
drugs aren’t worth it
has never ridden the heroin dragon
over snowy peaks of china white.
And how lovely you become,
about thirty pounds lighter
than August,
eyes about five shades darker,
lips beautifully cracked, bleeding,
unkissable.

I am the Reverend
of my own ritual.
Delivering the wine into
my thirsty throat,
but the bread never comes.
I just kneel at the pew
and worship.
Prayer makes to forget .
Prayer is better than sleep.
The more saturated I become
the cleaner I become.

It takes away the sin.

I forget how I’ve been
torn apart limb by limb.
I forget the men that came by
the apartment to see me hazy-eyed,
panty-less
propped up in a cheerleader’s
costume.
I forget how he said to smile
and they exchanged money.
above the bed.

Here I go… nodding off.
Prayer is better than…

I forget how old he was
when he sat me on his lap and
pulled my hair back,
pushing into my prepubescence.
I forget how they all denied it
when I came crawling
out for help,
still raw.

Sometimes when I’m praying
I begin to feel that
I am more beautiful
when I am soggy with poison
and bruised from a grip
and broken into.
Kissable.

But then I begin to remember
when all of the fairy dust wears off.

6 Small Lines Worth of an Update


Rough couple of weeks.

Break up
Depression
Self harm
Bridge visits
Lost time
Relapse

Sigh.

Now I am finding some solid ground to set my feet on to.

In other news, I shall turn this pain into art.

now
I drink alone
at this malfunctioning
machine

as the shadows assume
shapes
I fight the slow
retreat

now
my once-promise
dwindling
dwindling

now
lighting more cigarettes
pouring new
drinks

it has been a beautiful
fight

still
is

Bukowski

24 Wishes That Will Never Matter

there are boxes on the seat of the bay window
I am a child. I know that the presents
are for my birthday.
in the blue box with the fat ribbon
there must be a horse play-set:
the one with the pink brush and the
tiny, silver pale.
wrapped up in a newspaper there
must be the journal I pointed out
in the display at the bookstore.
the kitchen is alive
with scented bursts of maple syrup.
I am wearing my favorite pink dress.
here I sit at the kitchen table.
my father contently reads the paper,
though he absorbs nothing new.
my mother presses the waffle iron.
their arms are clean, unmarked,
unpocked.
their eyes are wet
and white.
the time skirts by illogically
and I go to open my boxes
that have waited for me in March.
my small, bird-like heart trembles
as my hands unwrap my presents.
i am dreaming.
the earth swallows up my horse play-set,
along with the pink brush,
the tiny, silver pale.
the earth swallows my journal.
it eats my socks, my knees, my waist,
my breasts, my lips.
I am kidnapped from the kitchen table.
years later, I blink my eyes open
in front of an audience.
I am no less than twenty-four.
I am an adult. I know that it is my birthday.
the audience goes silent.
I take a deep breath, just as I’ve done for the
past years before,
I blow out the candles
and wish
that somewhere, in my real life,
my mother is making me waffles with her
wet, white eyes.
that my father is reading the paper with his
wet, white eyes.

Cobra- a Group Writing Assignment

Dear child, dear you:

Grown from a mellifluous poison.
How strong you were on the trapeze…
turning, twisting, suspended for so long
above the cavern of your inevitable demise.

Remember your disguise?
And the glass scintillating and splintering
on your bedroom door?

Combat.

Like a serpent weaving through a
labryinth of a marred childhood.
This saurian idol has wrapped
its black, cold form around
your ankles, your knees, your own tongue.

Its venom filters through your marrow;
like his, like hers, like ours.

Dear child:

You are your golden snake.

Checking In, Checking Out- Back to PHP I Go

From the lobby into the evaluation room. Picking at my sweater… takes my blood pressure. I check out.

I’m sitting on the chair. She pushes her bracelets further up her arm. “Victoria? I asked you if you are suicidal currently?” I nod yes, but say no. She scribbles something down.

I’ve answered these questions hundreds of times before. Yes, I was traumatized. I was raped, beaten, father killed himself… well, no, see my mom abandoned me and I just met her 3 years ago- well, I didn’t really meet her.. Yes, I’ve attempted suicide. I suddenly feel that I’m on top of building.

“And how did your family members commit suicide?”

I check out again. I start feeling panicky. I smile, slightly shake my head and say, “I like your necklace.”

She responds, “Thank you. How long were you abused in the Church?” My lips go numb. I wasn’t talking about a church. I ask her, “Which church?”

She looks confused. “You had just told me that you had been physically abused in the Church of Scientology. How long did that last would you say?”

I check out again.

“Do you dissociate often?”

My heart is racing and my eyes are burning with tears that have refused to unfasten themselves. We talk more about medication compliance, self-harm. She asks me if I have an appetite. I stare down at my wrists…

“Last time you used heroin?”

Before I knew it, I was out in a flash. I just now heard from the hospital and my insurance has granted me 4 days of partial hospitalization for now. Hopefully, they will give me more once they witness my basketcasery.

I’m on the verge of a panic attack as it seems right now.

Waste Basket- Triggers

My thoughts this morning as I lay crumpled in tears next to my sleepy girlfriend: (not for the faint of heart. suicide, drugs, self mutilation)

1. I wonder what was going through my father’s mind as he injected himself one last time with his lethal opiate cocktail. I wonder what he was thinking when he wrote his last letter, his farewell memo. Did he see my face, my brother’s, or sister’s? Did he really think the world would shine brighter without him in it? I wish I could remember what he smelled like, how his arm muscles felt when he picked me up, or how his face wrinkled when he smiled. I wish I could remember his voice. Remember, Dad, when you wrote me my first birthday card? How you said you’d always be there for me and I was your little sweetheart?

2. My grandfather. His Alzheimer’s took over. He had always been my dad; taught me how to ride a bike, how to build with nails and wood, how to weld metal, how to dance Cumbia and Salsa. He taught me about music like Glenn Miller, Arite Shaw, Frank Sinatra. He showed me my culture, the language, the passion. When the family first found out that I had been cutting and had become suicidal, he looked at me with a heavy heart and said, “What happened to my little girl? You used to follow me around like a puppy. Now, you barely even say goodnight to me.” I had hit that teen angst, and I was sucked into solitude. It had hurt him that I had become apathetic and unresponsive. Fast forward a few years when his memory was being eaten alive. I called my grandparents house. He answered with a shaky voice, “Mija, when are you coming back?” I had moved out of the house at that point. I was impatient on the phone… “Soon, Tata, soon…” The regrets I bare now are unbearable.

3. Am I a selfish person? Like my father? My grandfather, in his own and old way was begging to see me before he forgot my face. I was so wrapped up in my own selfish little world. Why couldn’t I have looked past my irrelevant bubble to see his human desperation?

4. I must have felt what my dad felt the moment he boiled his tar. Years ago, I too sat in my bedroom, saturated with benzos. I relived it this morning whilst thinking of it. I had clutched these bottles of pills in my hands, thoroughly weighing the pros and cons of my suicide. In the past, it had hurt to realize there were more pros. This time, however, something terrible had shifted within me and I felt peace. Everything would be okay. I hope to never lose myself again to the irreparable ideation. What a terrifying place to be… no longer able to feel emotion, ready to pull the trigger, to jump, to inject, to inhale, to swallow and hang.

5. I want drugs. Anything I can snort. I want to sift through all the drawers here and find as many hydrocodones and I can. Crush, snort, repeat.

6. Will I ever meet my mom? Do I even care anymore? I’m embarrassed to admit to anyone that nearly every time I call her, she sounds high. Sometimes it doesn’t even register to her that she’s talking to me. I call her on my way home from work, she blames it on her exhaustion. Until I hear her husband in the background, “Come back baby, one more hit.” I stay on the phone, pushing back tears. I just want her to talk to me. I just want to tell her about my day. Mom, I’m having a hard time, please for fucks sakes, can you please just listen to my problems for once? Even if you don’t care? I hang the phone up, left to my own thoughts, feelings, fear. I go home, panicked because I’m home alone. I’m drawn to the bathroom cabinet like a moth to a flame. I fill the bathroom sink up with water, take out a razor blade, and hold my wrist under the faucet. This is not the answer…. put the blade away. I crawl under my sheets, text my girlfriend and cry.

7. How much more of this can I hold on to? I’ve lived my entire life with the magnificent ability to control my emotions, to eat them like air. Down they go to lie. I am beginning to feel sick and one by one, they come bellowing out from my stomach. I feel too humiliated to ask for help. “It’s always something, isn’t it? You should be better by now. Come on, we’re all going through something.” I’m just sad. I’m sad about Father’s Day, I’m sad that my mom can’t even hold a sober conversation with me, I’m sad that I’m sad.

8. Okay, Lazarus, that’s enough emotion for you now. Suck it back down

down

down

down

When My Mother Bailed Her Abusive Husband Out of Jail

I called my mom yesterday. Charlie, her husband, answered the phone to my surprise. Charlie has been in jail on a domestic abuse charge and possession of marijuana. It’s a miracle he didn’t have crack or meth on his person..

So, he answered the phone, I stumbled a bit, then I asked him if my mom was there. He told me to hang on. My mom came to phone and answered very monotonously, “Hello…who is this?”

She has never asked me who I am. She knows my voice. Not only that, but she always perks up when she hears my voice. 

I told her it was me. She said, “Oh…hi. What’s goin on?” As if I was bothering her, as if I didn’t matter. Her speech was slow and distracted. I could hear Charlie in the background. I asked her several times, “Why do you sound like that? Are you high?” No answer. We got off the phone.

A few hours later, I was driving home and she gave me a call. She apologized for earlier and she said she couldn’t talk because Charlie was breathing down her neck. She admitted to popping opiates, hence her grogginess. I asked her how and why Charlie has been out. “I helped with this bail,” she explained. 

My mom lives in the south. She is currently holding residence in a small Travel Lodge room. Her income is $2.70/hour. She lives off of an allotment of $40 worth of food stamps. How in Christ’s name could she afford a contribution towards his bail?

“This is our year, babe.” My mom has continually reassured me that this is the year we meet. Her soul cannot bare to be without having me another year. In the beginning of year, she created a secret stash of money dedicated to our reunion. 

My mother spent all of her savings to bail out her ex convict husband. This same husband that controls her communication, her money, her schedule, her transportation. This same husband that has supplied her with heroin and crack after she spent countless years in rehab. This same husband that calls her a fat bitch and slaps her across the face.

How can it be that this same monster of a man takes precedence over her daughter that DESPITE feeling abandoned for 23 years of her life STILL forgives her and accepts all of her??? 

I feel so goddamn stupid for having faith in her in the first place. I understand she has her own battles. She is a codependent addict with C-PTSD. I’ve been understanding. But what about me? I just want my mom. Even if she’s in the south and I can only call her and talk to her. Which in itself is a challenge not only because of the fact that she’s literally across the country, but because she doesn’t remember the majority of things that I tell her. Years of drug use has impaired her memory. I feel almost as if there is no point discussing the complex and convoluted parts of my life. God knows I’ve been doing it anyways.

I am hurt. I feel small. She is choosing drugs over me, her only child. If you have been reconnected with your child after 21 years, wouldn’t you do everything in your power to reunite? Am I thinking too irrationally? 

This also makes me ponder the idea of my own prognosis in terms of addiction. I hope to never become so torn down and tethered by drugs and alcohol. 

GOD I am so incredibly angry and hurt. 

When Lazarus Was Homeless

This evening’s topic: When Lazarus Was Homeless.

Albeit, not for long- but homeless, nevertheless.

Jotting back a few years ago…I was doing well (alright….poorly) in my 17 year old existence. My home life was in shambles due to my alcoholic brother, and my ever growing drug addiction in general. I had been pissing my entire family off because of my failing grades, my complete and utter discord for school.

Then, the night happened where my brother became so inebriated with tequila, he pushed me up against our second story bay window, choked me and with a great red, angry face, sputtered the words, “Do you want me to fucking kill you?”

This anger, of course, was brought upon by his default slurred statement, “You’re just like Dad.” I’d seen it before, and unfortunately, I would see it again.

So, I packed up some clothes, my ID, and left.

I meant to only be gone for a night, two at most. He wouldn’t let me back in the house because I had called the cops on him. I didn’t really have anywhere to go. So, I slept behind a church. I slept behind a church for 16 nights. This was the beginning of my heroin relationship. I had met my dealer/ex-boyfriend here in the soggy gutters- who, coincidentally became a gang member soon after we broke up.

I ambled around aimlessly during the days, strung out and euphoric. I met up with a few people from middle school as I dealt coke and pot as a means to get by. It was a time of a rather grandiose “fuck you” to the world, looking out from my illogical teen eyes.

Thankfully, one of my best friends at the time had found me and allowed me to stay with her for two nights to wash my clothes, to get myself together. I returned to my home, no questions asked to my astonishment. All of my belongings were gone from my bedroom. My brother had poured water on my mattress- why? I have no idea why he did anything.

I made it out alive, obviously. Relatively untouched, unscathed- sans the drug dependency I created for myself. Moral of the story? Don’t stick in a needle in your arm if you ever find yourself homeless. And don’t get stranded in a crime-ridden part of town.

I’m a badass motherfucker now. Nice to meet you.

PS- Look what my girlfriend made me for my birthday. BEST girlfriend, EVER.

1385728_10206525493202571_8857666476753992123_nContents include: My Little Pony Rainbow Tutu, Adventure Time undies, Pocky sticks, 3 books including my Hyperbole and a Half book!!! a worry doll, and a sunflower to grow!

Marla Knows Me Best

 Young lady, 5’2, brunette, 104 pounds, goes by the name of Lazarus.
Last seen blogging and happily snacking.
No reward if found.

Mother, what’s wrong with me?

I feel so detached from everything and everyone. I’ve been isolating.

Mood swings? Forget about it. I’m snapping at everyone, left and right. My anger and irritability is through the roof. Perhaps the irritability is just another symptom of the depression?

I’ve been crying on and off throughout this weekend. No word from my mom. However, I got a missed call on Friday afternoon. I googled the number and it belongs to a psychiatric hospital. So, I’m holding on to the idea that she was admitted and I will hopefully hear from her soon.

My appetite has left, along with my grasp on the world. I’m not even thirsty. If it were up to me, I’d pump myself with a euphoric drug- with a needle. A really sharp, silver, cold needle.

This week. I have to hold out to bump my meds up. I’m tired of feeling like I’m on everyone’s nerves. I’m tired of constantly being a problem for her. I’m whiny, I’m not positive. I keep lusting after passive suicidal fantasies. She doesn’t deserve that. She has her own shit going on. But here I am! Unable to come out of this depression-coma.

The Farewell Series; When Your Mom Threatens Suicide

I don’t even know where to begin with this post, so I suppose I’ll start at the place that sucks ass the hardest.

A phone call from my mother today:
ME: Hello?
MOM: I…sweetheart…I just (drops phone)..I called to tell you….shut up ch-…honey…I want to say goodbye.
ME:….what are you talking about?
MOM: I don’t want to live anymore…I don’t want to live anymore…I want to kill myself…

I could tell she was high. She was in hysterics, slurring her speech, etc, etc.

At the moment, it didn’t upset me nearly as much as I would have thought. However, a few minutes later, I was in tears. The thoughts inside my head:

I don’t want to lose two parents to suicide. If she never gets better, does that mean there’s no hope for me? No one loves me. Even my own parents don’t want me. What’s wrong with me? Am I unloveable? 

So on and so forth. I’ve been in tears off and on about my dad and her all day.

On another note, my doctor was happy to hear that the meds are working in regards to the hallucinations. It’s been 4 days I think?) with none of them. My mood is ALL OVER THE PLACE. Mostly, I feel very depressed- so depressed that I cannot kick the suicidal ideation out of my head.

Well I’m just a bucket of fun, aren’t i??

My body is giving out due to the seroquel, so I’m going to go. Thanks for reading!