"Wan't Born To Follo" by the Byrds

So, I'm just sitting in front of this computer, gritting my teeth, and preparing to summon the energy to describe the manic episode I just experienced. Should've given up trying to resurrect my own computer and started this an hour ago, when my brain engaged my body with an impromptu faux meth high. And there it is. If only everyone in the world, for the purpose and ease of the explanation, had all done a big fat sloppy hit of methemphetamine so slippery and deathly shrine-like yet innocuous in sight. My legs tingle as that sentence's finished. For the sake of this explanation- I wish every potential reader had just overcome their own love affair with the Leviathan of Uppers, so fresh and recent they could taste the gasoline on their lips still, leaving each breath hot in your throat as your body tries to reconcile such a fucked up conception that you ever could have invited. Meth. That's a touch of its likeness. And I fucking hate that shit, so I must add, that as much as I would like to have thrown y'all in a time machine to experience a tweaked out downfall at light speed just to bring you back to me, stroke your cheeks letting you know it WILL be okay-it WILL, and be able to follow with the surprise condolence that in FACT, YOU now know how I feel sometimes, it would be an impartial truth in fact. I would be looking into your eyes, stroking some wrecked string bean's hollowed festering cardboard face, and turning the truth into a lie. Because the fucking truth is: I hate that shit, and as much as I fucking hate the uncalled for unabashed body high trip-fest which my mind pulls me into every so often- parts of it, I love. I love in a way so scary it makes me cry just letting my fingers emit, admit, forfeit that information.

How do I explain this to anyone NOT in my body? My mind? I imagine the pathetic confession above, jesus, ESPECIALLY to a group of tweaker/meth heads, going the worst of all! HA! Can you fucking imagine THAT- crumbling in front of a group of bloodthirsty seekers, who delegate ruin and cause pain because they so deeply and secretly hurt the most...Going to THEM? And shaking as I try to spit out all my fear, and astonishment and terror at the fact that the sensations that they sacrifice ALL for, are arising within my own body without touching a single drug. How would that go over. They might roll me up like a flavorless piece of gum, and waterboard my symptoms into their twitchy, emotionless hands. Part of me would give this away like a tired whore tick-ticks her life way. Part of me has feared this possibility, of mania, and psychosis, in every way possible because it has always been so fucking close. Possibly fucking imminent. And it's been 5 years no that I have felt like a free prisoner. Or a shackled dove.

It has been 5 years that my body has randomly plagued me with what I can only assume is the mania that haunted my mother as well. With what have finally been professionally described as manic episodes. Like the fucking meth. If you have graced my life in the flesh, and I yours, then you know already (maybe..) that I have struggled with drug addiction since I was 12, and forever on ad infinitum. Till' the day we die, we addicts die as such. This is an existence possible to be lived with the absence of judgement from ourselves. We are not REQUIRED to take the SHIT of others, nor do we have to bend to the ignorance, but...WHATEVER.

iiiii'm...fucking rambling. Manic rambling. Christ. Point being, I Dallas McMackin have floundered in the abyss, both beautiful and crude, in which drugs lead you and leave you. I've done a lot, and through THOROUGH "taste-testing" if you will, I discovered that uppers (such as aforementioned METH) were NOT my jazz. Nah uh. Slipped some hits into a short period of my life and fucked like a banshee, yes, but I of all people was not made to mass produce those chemicals for myself. Heroin was my cruel cool crusade. Uppers ere a trip I'd gladly leave by their lonesome along the side of the road somewhere.

Spoiler alert: I may NEVER get to the part where I wrap this all neatly together in a pretty bow; all points relating, buckle up.

My evil, obscene charade with uppers consisted of nightmares of such reality, they are not even spoken of with the survivors left who were their with me. When you survive people and things like that, they're easily fragmented into enough pieces in forgotten caverns within the mind, they never have to be real again. Heroin was different, but not much.

But as much as that is all one in the same, and worlds apart all in the same moment, all I can do is try to relay the wavelength in which my mind is rattling off at this very minute. *Mental shrug* <- a="" boy..="" for="" haha..="" my="" now-="" ohhh="" okay="" p="" sake="" that="" thing="">

Oh How I WISH I Had Headphones Right Now...

SPLURGE! Okay, so things have been pretty nuts/interesting right about now. Right about the last week actually, or shall I be completely honest and say right abouttttt: mm, the last 41 days about.

I have 41 days clean and sober off of drugs and alcohol -okay, fine, I smoke weed every now and then. Fucking shoot me, it's fuckin' LEGAL now! I mean shite can you even believe it America?! Back to my point: I, am clean and serene to my own liking and standards, and the standards of the clinic which helped me get to where I am today. BOOM-THE BIG 4-1! ALSO, to add to my little list/book/entourage of accomplishments, I quit smoking *golf claaaaap* !!!

Yep, that's right, I haven't sucked the life out of a beautifully rolled up, life taker of a tobacco cigarette innnn... exactly 23 days, 14 hours, and 13 minutes (according to my app). I am in COMPLETE awe of THAT one.

I can't lie, I seriously fucking crave a cigarette for what I feel is every moment, of every day, all the time. Actually, that IS a lie, because I think it was YESTERDAY that I felt that intense craving, urge, and consistent desire for a disgusting, delicious cigarette to degrade my lungs and lips-at a LOWER intensity than per usual. So, I felt a tiiiiiiny bit less desperate than the normal "caged-animal ready to claw any and all living thing's eyes out if I don't get this invisible elephant sitting on my chest feeling OVER with". Yeah, I felt a little less THAT! *celebratory tap dance*

SO- how can I describe to you how I have been feeling...?

I have been FEELING...Like I miss being a child. Like I am an old toaster, cool on the outside, but void of electricity, thus void of life when it comes to my innards, loves. Isn't that what matters? Rhetorical of course, because of COURSE that's what fucking MATTERS! The INSIDE! That's the shit that our "outsides" even EXIST FOR! Think about it, right? So other than the physical neccesity of skin, and keeping our blood and organs and mishy-mashyness all consumed together and laid out properly so that each part of us can function the way that it needs, and ought to, for us to survive-we decorate our outsides, and we take care of our outsides, and we nourish and nurture our outsides, all in cohesion with the well-being of our insides. The depths of our minds and brains, that's what decides if you shower everyday, if you want pink fucking hair, if you wear ONLY fair-trade materials from needy countries, or whether you fake and bake until Crayola has to invent a new name for the shade of orange that your skin turned into (because as many pumpkins, oranges, crayons, markers, and recipes that people have seen and MAY exist, no one has ever seen the orange'y hue of the new "you").

What a CANVAS we are! Oh the ART our mind is! Splatter all OVER yourself! Let that canvas not be the result of what you think everyone else wants to LOOK at-let it be what you decided to create and master, and invest your creative, loving time into, because THAT is what makes you smile every morning. That is why I love clothes so much. I always have, even when I was going through my awkward chunky stage in middle school. I remember being a tomboy even, and yes I might've been shopping in the Abercrombie MEN'S section, but god DAMN it I was still shopping! My insides at that time, they were so fucking tumultuous, and uncomfortable, and I couldn't seem to change the manufacturing process that kept making that happen in my mind, so I did what I could, and I made that canvas a WORLD of comfort. I swept giant worn-in sweatshirts five sizes too big, up and over my interrupted little girl head, and I consumed myself, I let my mind run wild in the field of memories and ideas that swarmed my brainwaves and the chemical connections happening at rates I couldn't fathom-the scents consumed me (Mama Was A Fragrance Model/Daddy Was A Cigarette Smoking Trucker). The hint of motor oil in the air sent me away to a time I was 6 years old, asleep with my little head out the window of my dad//s dodge ram truck. The smell of oil, stamping it's ironic right of passage into my mind while "Royal Oil" by the Mighty Mighty Bosstone's permanently etched their lyrics into the sides of my skull, and randomly along the cannals of tiny ears like lovers lost temporarily in the here and now. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing purer. I think that's what God expected of us. But we always seem to choose everyone elses expectations when we grow up and try to decide what really matters, right...

So, here I am, 26 years young/old/wise/HERE and I am back to being in the here and now, as often as possible. Isn't it FUNNY/SAD/MADDENING-that as a young child we are trained, and badgered to "snap out" of our little dreamlands within our minds and imagination that we're so easily lost in, and our parents/teachers/friends/SELVES, we coax ourselves slowly over time to pay attention to all the expectations. We tell ourselves that what "they" think is what we need to figure out right now, we need to determine how to please others, or ourselves, we need to DELVE so so deeply into the depths of everything everyone else is saying, and doing, and one day eventually after ALL this training, somone BITCH slaps us and says: "so yeah in the middle of ALL of everyone else's shit that we've got you in now, we need you to find yourSELF". And you were there wayyyyy back when in the first place, when you were day dreaming, so easily lost in your own mind and dreams- THAT'S where you suddenly need to get back to.

So, you wake up in your mid to late 20's one day and realize that your next mission is spending the next, however many, years to try and get back to where you started. To where God left you, with the purity of yourself, and your imagination, and your gifts, and your Truth's. You get to hash ALLLLL of that on this beautiful canvas that He's contained us in. He gets to watch you blossom in chapters, all over ourselves. To orgasm the essence of us, over and over, time and again, from the inside out.

I have been feeling pretty intensily lately. I was fearful that I was slippinng back into a depression of sorts. I lost energy for awhile there, which is always scary for me because oh, well, I NEED IT. Yep. But it seems to be back. For now at least. RIGHT NOW-which is just good enough for me.

I was awoken by a call regarding my little sister yesterday, my grandpa called me and asked me to please drive over there and check on my little sister, because she had taken a "bunch of pills" and was "freaking out still" (we'd had a pretty messy scenario the night before between my little sister, mum, and somehow I ended up being involved).

A quick re-cap, so that you can even PARTIALLY understand what the FUCK was going on: my little sister is 18, my mum is like 52 or so, I am the oldest of 3 siblings who all get tired of the fact that my mom is a late stage heroin addict, previous pill-popper). I had stopped by my mother's house (whom my little sister lives with) to hang OUT with my little sister, because we just DON'T hang out enough, and she's never wanted to come and hangout with ME, so yes I traveled to try to have her realize it really ISN'T so bad hanging out with your big sis... *le sighhhh* SO- my mother leaves for lunch with a friend, and I proceed to discuss with my little sister that I think my mum is "using" (using DRUGS, that is. Or alcohol, or whatever happens to be the flavor of the week with my mum). My sister seems a little surprised, but then makes a comment eluding to the fact that a few things seem to make sense now, with the assumption that my mother IS in fact using again like we suppose. No big deal. it is what it is, a bummer really if you think about it but it's just part of us kid's lives nowadays, and so we move on and talk of other things. No tears were had, our conversation regarding my mum was pretty damn short, no one was blown out of the water or anything, this kind of thing has happened before. It's called relapse, and fucking a' are we the king's and queen's of that shit in our household (smh...!!!!). The comment I made ABOUT my mother probably using again was MADE< because the last time that I was over at my mother/sister's house (like a week prior), my mother's eyes became crossed and she essentially nodded off in the middle of me discussing something with her. It was typical. Not necessarily ALARMING when it comes to past experiences with my mother and her on and off again drug-use, BUT, because of the fact that she'd had me under the assumption that she WASN'T using, and because she'd NEVER showed me any sort of HINTS that she might BE using, or had gone and gotten high, yes I was a bit surprised and exasperated. I just said "Mom!.." and kind of let out an exasperated laugh, more so AT her, than WITH her at all, looked over at my little sister and just kept on with my conversation that I was TRYING to have. Nothing had come of anything that night, nobody brought it up again. That moment, of her nodding off, was what I was referencing when I spoke to my sister of my concerns that mom was indeed using again, and my sister was THERE for that, so what happened the night I was at my mother's last, to visit my sister-came as a shock to me.

Like I mentioned before, NOTHING had come of my mother "dozing off" in the middle of our "conversation" if that's even what you want to call it at that point, but my next visit there, about 2-3 minutes after I walked out my mom's front door and got into my car to leave back home from visiting them, I got a call. It was my mum, and I missed it, She then called back again, I fumbled for my phone, and irritated asked my boyfriend who had come with me to visit them, if he would answer the phone for me since I was driving and my mom KNOWS I don't talk while I'm driving. My bf holds the phone out to my ear and I hear "WHYYY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!?..". It's mum. She's a fucking audible, emotional MESS. FUCK. Seriously? I swear to God they never even give me time to hit another main STREET before the shit show begins!.. My sister had asked my mother to help her clean the carpets in her room as soon as my mom had gotten home, which was right about when I had left basically. My mom might have said something that amounted to something along the lines of no, and my sister decided that the next best course of action would be to do this: Tell my mum that I said she was using, and then call my GRANDPARENTS (they take care of my mother financially) and TELL THEM THAT DALLAS SAID MOM'S USING. Wham bam, thank you ma'am, suffering city-ohhhh yeah. So, suddenly, an honest, sister-to-sister conversation based on each of our blatant observations the week before or whatever, is FLIPPED around on me to become a voilently, manipulative WEAPON against my mother, BY my sister who, by the way. has decided to bring up the fact that this is ALL, in truth, MY fault, because I was the one who said mom was using-she just REPEATED it. Ahem. Yeah.

I just wanted to spend time with my baby sister. I just wanted (kind of, not really, if I'm being honest) to see my mom. If I'm being a thousand percent real I just wanted to see the OLD version of my mom that I'd once known, that was always kind (at least AFTERWARDS haha), and a pretty great mom at times. A sweet, sweet woman that could be very selfless if you made it clear enough that you needed her in that moment. That woman really isn't even visible anymore. I can't even really recognize her anymore if you look really hard into my mum's eyes, she's just gone. It happens. It's horrifyingly lonely for a daughter, because it's a tease. My mother's canvas is there-but it's an empty picture. There's nothing, at all, in the center of it. Completely void where the important stuff should be. Empty where you really are looking for true content, and creativity. Nothing where you thought you might be moved. Just old art surrounding a new void. Parts of that are splattered onto my canvas too, I'm sure of it. it was a heavy happening. Anyways, back to the shit-show at hand.

I wound up arriving (mind you this is at 8am) to my sister crying, hunched over in her own lap alone in her dark room, scented of cat urine that errupts from her only closet and destroys any amobiance within the REST of her room. Her arm is covered in a wash-cloth that once was white, and now is soaked in blood and SHOULD be used to mop up some of the snot that is dragging its way in and out of my sisters nose with each uneven exhale. She is a mess. This whole fucking THING is a mess man. I've been there too, and I am so hurt to admit that I STILL cannot fucking find a GOD damn thing to say really, not anything that I am HAPPY with, when it comes to trying to comfort my little sister.I have BEEN 18, I have ENDURED my mother's insanity (truly, she's bi-polar). I AM a young woman, and have been through stages that she's going through, and have NEEDED some of the things that she was NEEDING in that moment-and I Couldn't hardly fucking summon it. I couldn't believe myself, you know? I mean FUCK, I'm staring into the big black dank darkness of my mind and there is just an eternity of NOTHING in front of me when it comes to WHAT THE FUCK I NEED TO SAY TO MY LITTLE SISTER IN THIS MOMENT. I say things, don't get me wrong I don't just SIT there like an idiot, and drool into my lap leaving my sister with another instant problem, but despite my best effort of throwing together some questions, explanations, and some insight-I just couldn't shake the feeling that what I had wasn't enough. It wasn't fucking good enough.

ALL I wanted her to fucking KNOW was that ONE of the lies her mind was generating, and had BEEN generating for a long, sad time, was bullshit. It WAS a lie. A lie lielielielie. FUCKING LIE. Her dad had won when it came to this; my baby fucking sister, truly, deep down, thought that I fucking hated her.

How can I even EXPLAIN to you the sensation this misperception of her's brings up in me. It starkly resemble's the possibility that everything I intentionally endured from my evil fucking step-dad, for the purpose that my little sister, and brother wouldn't ever HAVE to-was for nothing, and didn't work in the least. My stepdad always used Leah "against" me, and my brother too, but always, ESPECIALLY, Me. He hated me, for whatever reasons Narcissists do ANYTHING. The second he learned my mother was pregnant, with HIS child-what better way to belittle me than to try and use his child as the BEST way to make me feel unwanted, not good enough, and less-than. She was his "Princess" and was coddled, favored, and wielded unabashedly, like a sword, not a sister.

Despite his best efforts, I adored my Leah "Jane" Frankel since day 1. She was my sister, I had a sister FINALLY (at SEVEN haha). But, in a way, he got through. To her, and that's all its taken.

How do you convince your little sister-your ONLY sister, that you adore and think is so fucking cool-that you LOVE her??? How do you manage to remind her, the truth that she may have NEVER even been allowed to know?

Anyone have some 3D fucking glasses I can lend the kid so she can see right THROUGH the canvas to the soul of the art. To the pinnacle of substance. So she could just see with her own eyes, the amount of love that I've always had for her and my brother. Only EVER them, and the unchangeable infinity which it takes up... How do you even PAINT that, in laments terms?

BrUiSeD*

*Literally. My face. First black eye ;o

Anyways I had a whole big pile of mushy "truth-ness"- 3 days worth of life and memories, goods vs. bads and my SHIT computer didn't save it/post it after 30 million exaggerated punches to that obnoxiously orange [Publish] button.

Liar...
*crosses arms*

Billie Holiday says I'm a fool to love you,

<Written in March? I'm not quite sure of the exact time frame now-accidentally saved this as a draft because I prematurely ended it, but as sadly ironic as this is now, my desire to keep this blog nakedly truthful and starkly honest will have me posting it tonight 5.31.15 >

But I am a fool in many ways.

How I wish I could write this/type this on my bed 10 ft from where I sit now, barefeet nestled in the dirt outside my door, warm in my bed, I wish I could sit there, and smoke, and just be.
But like my existance has been for as long as I can remember,
I will struggle through this.

I don't know who fucking reads this stuff I write,
I presume no one outside Steve, my best friend,
and possibly my only true friend.
The only one that withholds judgement when I flounder and expose my truths,
and my struggle, and the hurt in my journeys,
The only one who calls,
and talks,
and laughs,
without expectation.
Except maybe the expectation, of hopefully the same in return.
25 years andd I have found one such friend,
and thank the fucking Universe that I ran into such a soul.

Welcoming Spring Committee

A fine day it is.
I'm gunna walk it out.
I'm waiting for Randy to rumble on in with that dusty, dirty, dilapidated diesel-doused pile of steel bones he calls "A Truck".
I love that truck. Fuck his beemer.

Anywho,
Keizer,
Randy,
and I
are going to go on a hike. Through the emerald forest that spikes and dips its way, in a thoughtful pattern, to Jason's mother's house.

I can't wait to see my puppy,
my mid-sized pile of fun.
My stupid, slobbering idiot of a love bug.
My biggest, silliest, twerkiest fan.
I'd say "quirkiest" but given a few years of my own past I do happen to know some tweakers and perma-fries.

Steve if you're reading this I miss you pal and I am sorry I didn't make a better effort to ditch what I was doing and come say goodbye. I think I was a little resentful given my current situation at that given time, and my out pour of effort into the program, which a jokes worth of a return when it came to social support from meetings. Also, you seem to be in a very different place, meeting different people, trying different things. Time always has time, and fortunately so do we, so I truly think that if it's all copacetic and meant to be we'll chat again, maybe even see eachother. It's happened to me with much less important folk.

Well the point of this post was for no one other than me (and Steve), and just the mere fact that I need to write more. I must, I should, I will, and I can. So here it is. For no other reason.

We've all got to start some where, right?

Born Bad

I am dying,
dying slowly in a pile of milky flesh warm and cynical like white velvet left behind.
I am crying in the room I tried to make into a home,
i crammed, and scooted furniture, i read magazines that were recycled, i painted blood in and out of myself. I fucked and fought and cried in that room, THIS room, and I still can't find enough room ANYWHERE where I might fit.
Except for inside his hands,
in the crease of his palms.
Tucked away between the bristles of your tongue, as they part way for the smooth of your voice.

"I love you Mallory", you hint-you slide it out there with the intention and force of food handed through a door for an inmate. Like the best food they could have never expected-and you stand there intensely, watching me inhale those words, those consonants and vowels sweet like sustenance.

and I coo back to you with all the honor, joy, comfort, and warmth of the world that goddammit "I love you too Mickey". I roll the truth from the tip of my tongue, with all its hundred thousand bristles gently releasing my words back to you, so you can live off the sustenance of my love.

You are the only one I love. You are the only one I love. You are the only one I love to love...
And we eat together like fever hounds-lapping up the energy buzzing off of your aura-you nibble lovingly on the electric pain reliever I hope my love is for you. And it is. You paint my eyelids with scenarios of tremendous horrors, and all the terrible happenings that might make someone lose hope or hate themselves; you say "darling, if you lost all your arms and legs no one could take my love from you-even then, no one could pry my grip". You cry this to me, with your phantom limbs tracing the grooves where I've cried a generations worth of tearful rivers, deep into the lines of my face.

How could I not be lonely without you? You are the only Truth I've known that could stand the test of time-you never left me, you stayed, tattooed behind my lips. You lay nestled among my fingertips, reminding me of our journeys and adventures. Wherever I went there you were-more Truthful than the Sun and Moon. You were the laughter deep inside of me waiting to escape, while I tried to swim from your impostors. Some said I was Cool, some kept me trapped like a shivering bunny in a cage. Some mocked me, joking I was just like allll the other baby birds that had fallen from their nests.

But here you are, where we last were. Here you have been waiting, to give thanks with love letters of the mouth, and we lay muddled and excited as we drew near and canvassed adventures across each others necks. I could lay here forever with you, never blink, and never atrophy. Only the Truth can make you whole again like that.

And I couldn't bear it in my soul if I ever had to miss you again. Together, forever, until we die, and die, and die again.

See You Soon Mickey

rock hard.

"How Hard Is It To Love Someone"

How hard is it to love someone?
To stay feverishly in the wake of it all
Together,

How hard is it to love someone?
Wouldn't it be easier if you'd cupped your hands together too? 
to find the pattern in the tears we catch.
Or do our hands differ too much?
Is this such a dexterous job of self-that which I have scheduled too many workers to, without even the means to pay them?

How hard is it to love someone...
Because of, and despite it all?

Easier it is to give your love away, I've sadly found;
than it is to fight to keep it your own.
That which we were born to accept.

How hard is it to love yourself?
The question is,
Why do I resist fighting for myself,
and wonder why no one else can?