Truth From the Stem

Why?

2010-07-19T01:53:00.001-05:00

a great reason to stay clean

Posted by Jeanne with her HTC Aria

The Comedown

2010-03-17T12:53:00.000-05:00

I’ve seen people pick apart their carpeting and pull up their floors because they think – just maybe – some crystal meth slid off the foil or an icy chunk of hard may be there waiting for them.

Some have scraped the bottom of a drawer from their dresser because at one time there was meth in that drawer and just maybe there will be enough sting in the nostril to let them know they did get some dope in their system (along with particles of unknown origin, possibly roach or rat droppings or glass or wood or chemicals of some sort).

A mother gave birth to her baby in a crack house that happened to be marked for a raid, unbeknownst to herself and the small, screaming newborn lying on the floor beside her, the umbilical cord still in place while she hit the pipe one more time . . . . A sergeant exited the crack house, sobbing loudly, cradling the newborn in his arms . . . .

I’ve seen people continuously walk up and down an alley at a meth house, bending over to scour the gravel drive for just one more piece, trying desperately to melt down rock after rock after rock after rock . . . . The rocks God made, not those made by methamphetamine manufacturers, unfortunately seen by the searchers . . . .

Straightening the semi-circular end of a wire coat hanger to poke the straightened wire down through the straw or Bic pen casing in order to scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape the residue from a used meth “snorkel,” as we called them, just to be able to snort or burn the dope again, or even inject it, or eat it - along with the plastic stringies dangling from the inside of the scraped pen casing . . . .

Merriam-Webster's Medical Dictionary: the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.

…to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.

Can’t ANYONE see that it may be impossible for some addicts to stop?!?

Hell, throw those junkies away, man! Let the Department of Corrections treat them . . . . Then, when they get out, they’ll be even sicker . . . . better . . . . sicker.

And if you think there aren’t any drugs in prison, you are fooled.

That’s my rant for the day.

Where I Lived

2010-03-10T09:17:00.000-06:00

I dread surfacing up into conscious thought,

Each morning that I wake up trapped and caught.

The panic that fills me; the cue that it is time;

The crude, unwarranted, murderous rhyme;

The damn fiends and ogres who feed on my smiles–

Dining and stockpiling; energized by my trials.

Searching for a connect weak enough to walk across,

To find out that my equal just equals a great loss.

Their bags are soon empty, the voids will need filled,

There, screams crawl the walls, in the pit where I live.

-Jeanne Sparks-Carreker
January, 2007

☻☺☺☻♥☻♥☻♥☻♥☻♥☻☺☺☻

Get HIGH tomorrow…. stay clean from meth TODAY!!

Possession, Anyone? Here’s the Catch-22 the Judge Throws at You

2010-03-10T06:55:00.000-06:00

WARNING: THIS POST MAY CAUSE A RELAPSE FOR THOSE IN RECOVERY FROM OXYCONTIN ABUSE – HELL, FORGET THE “MAY,” IT WILL CAUSE A RELAPSE! CLICK ON SOMETHING ELSE, TRICK! :)

Brian, a native of Birmingham, was pulled over by one of Jefferson County’s finest the other day. Though Brian specifically remembered flipping up the blinker arm to signal a right hand turn to the cop he knew was behind him and on the hunt, the big man gave the tried-and-true excuse that Brian failed to use his turn signal when taking a right-hand turn. Actually, cops in that area of Birmingham look for any excuse to pull over a motorist due to the drug activity there.

Unfortunately, the cop was correct in his assumption that Brian may be in the area to buy pills from the local dealer. Four OxyContin 40mg pills were slipped into the evidence department’s version of an authoritative Ziploc bag, and Brian could see the dark yellow color of each tiny OC from where he sat, handcuffed, in the back of the squad car.

Why didn’t I just eat those?!

Every addict, pill popper, fiend, and doper whose addiction has been or was active for more
than 2-3 years can relate to the sad reason that Brian didn’t eat those pills when he saw the blue lights twirl on.

When the panic and raw fear in the pit of his stomach began, before he gained control and appeared calm to the approaching deputy, it occurred to Brian that his window of opportunity was closing quickly. and he decided fast to - - -

- - - just hide them better because ingesting an OxyContin results in nothing close to the happiness caused by rubbing off the pill’s time-release coating, placing it on a hard, smooth surface then covering it with your cigarette pack’s cellophane wrapper to keep it all in place while crushing it with the butt-end of a Bic lighter; after that, rolling up a crisp $20 bill into a tight tube, and snorting it up his nose, hoping for a good, painful burn that shows how fresh – and thus more potent – the OC is, and being careful not to scrape the inside wall of the nostril because who knows what the freak could be on that money - - -

Do you see what I referred to as being a sad reason one realizes he/she is familiar with as an addict? If Brian had eaten the pills he would not have been arrested that day. But if he had eaten the pills, there would have been no chance whatsoever of being able to snort one when he got home.

The stranglehold of OCs is that strong – it holds a person that tight. In order to snort one rather than take it orally, I have also made the choice in the past to just hide an OC from a cop so that there was still at least a one-in-a-thousand chance that I’d be able to snort it in the very short distant future of that event. And being one of the fortunate addicts having a Class A felony on record ensures me of a complete shakedown any time a cop pulls me over, no matter who is driving the vehicle. So I was caught, also.

But here’s the thing: society wants me to stay clean. Is that a problem? Why, yes, it is. And it doesn’t seem to be a problem in which only I am the “perpetrator.” Listen up:

The American Psychological Association (APA) defines "addiction" as a habitual, psychological and physiological dependence on a substance or practice beyond one's voluntary control.

…beyond one’s voluntary control.

And an even better definition of “addiction” can be found in Merriam-Webster's Medical Dictionary: the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.

…to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.

And standing in front of a judge who has a look on his face that seems to say, “I know you aren’t going to comply with the stipulations I place upon the basis of you remaining free. But this is the way it is done.”

I could speak words that cause anyone in the courtroom to believe in my attempts to make a change this time. I could utter phrases that cause everyone in the front row to shed a tear, and once, I was able to flow a few myself. But the bottom line is this: I really did want to make a change. I really did mean what I said.

And at the same time, I knew, down deep in my own reasoning, that it was a futile attempt. Both, And. Yes, No, Will, Won’t. All at the same time. Though everyone who has an IQ of that above a jar of mayonnaise knows that an addict will lie faster and better and all the time. But the honest truth, the absolute truth of the matter is, an addict lies to their self way more than to anyone else.

And the Catch-22 that the State throws at an addict standing before them fearing the cut-off from all the people they love, the children that depend on them to stay in a place where they can be touched and utilized as a parent, and fearing the place they may be sent to (because underneath it all, they are and want to be a good person) is to stay clean of a drug which will not let them go . . . . a drug that is, in fact, in possession of them.

Any Old Reason Will Do

2010-03-10T06:47:00.001-06:00

Any reason to get high on meth was a good reason for me when I was actively using drugs.

Good news, bad news, holidays, normal days, morning, noon, night, and even in between those times and for any reason whatsoever, and for no reason whatsoever, I wanted to smoke a bowl (use methamphetamine in a pipe) and snort an OC (a potent pain killer named OxyContin).

Since any old reason would do, the struggles of life or times when you receive a blow became completely impossible to face, unless I got high.

And it always progresses to unknown levels, and it’s always too late to turn back.

Got meth? Get help!

Sometimes Looks are Deceiving

2010-03-03T16:52:00.000-06:00

These days, fashion trends and the free expression of self is important to teenagers. I remember when my daughters went through the “gothic” stage, and I patiently waited on them to just grow tired of it rather than tell them they could not wear too much black eyeliner and buy XL hoodies to hide under.

They eventually did change their attire and have grown into strong, drug - free women who are also mothers now to my beautiful grandchildren.

But there were times that I worried about their choice of friends, and usually this was because the things they wore were just crazy. Their friends expressed themselves very uniquely, to say the least.

I was impressed to learn that their friends did not partake of drugs of any kind, however, and that they really did just enjoy a free expression of uniqueness in their appearance.

Throughout their teenage years, I learned that looks can truly be deceiving.

I’m happy I stuck it out, bit my tongue, and gave their friends the benefit of the doubt.

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>>fucking up your high....because we care<<

Bravery Is Bravery, No Matter Why It Is Summoned

2010-02-16T06:36:00.001-06:00

I was listening to the news this morning and heard the report on the small plane which crashed as it was attempting to land in New Jersey a few hours ago. A small snippet and link is included below, if you want to read about the plane crash.

I listened as the anchor told the story, and my heart sank when she said that a child was in the crash. There were five killed total, no survivors.

I guess I should feel my heart tug over any age being killed in the crash, but I could not help focusing on the child, wondering if the child was afraid, wondering if the child had time to think about death. That’s usually enough to make me cry, I’ll admit it.

Then I thought, it may not have been as frightening for the child as it sounded. I would like to think that the adults and teenager on board told the child everything was fine, not to be afraid. Love will do that.

Then I realized, what a brave and selfless thing – to overcome your own fear of death and comfort a child to lessen the terrifying aspect most people have about dying.

What does this have to do with Methamphetamine and the Truth From the Stem? It’s very simple, actually:

If you are currently active in your addiction by using meth or any drug, think of the bravery and rarity that such a selfless act would have in deciding that you are going to get clean for your child. Or your younger sibling, or niece, nephew, neighbor’s kid who thinks you’re cool – no matter who the beneficial and loved child is, get clean for him or her.

You would be just as heroic and just as brave because you made a sacrificial change for love. You can do it. Bravery is bravery, no matter why it is summoned.

Have a happy day :)
-Jeanne

By GEOFF MULVIHILL
Associated Press Writer

updated 9:47 p.m. CT, Mon., Feb. 15, 2010

WALL TOWNSHIP, N.J. - A small plane trying to land broke apart and tore through a snowy field next to a runway Monday afternoon, killing all five people aboard, including a teenager and a child, and scattering debris over 200 feet….

To continue reading this article, click HERE.

Image Credit:
Robert Ward / ASSOCIATED PRESS

Find the answers. Read the info. Locate the way. Truth From the Stem

Technorati Tags: plane crash,new jersey plane crash,five killed in plane crash,plane crashed while landing,no survivors

Crystal Meth: The Threshhold for Corrupting America's Youth

2010-02-15T20:09:00.002-06:00

Cold Med Rx Bills to Lower Number of Meth Labs?

2010-02-12T17:18:00.000-06:00

The following article can be found at:
Drugsense: Drug Law Reform Weekly News

The Senate on Tuesday sent to the governor House Bill 512, which supporters say is designed to curtail the state's escalating meth activity. The House earlier passed the bill. Gov. Haley Barbour said he would sign the bill.

The law would go into effect July 1. Oregon passed a similar law in 2006.

Barbour said the new law would "make it more difficult to obtain the ingredients for this drug that tears families apart and harms many of our communities. Meth labs threaten public safety, and I don't think there is any doubt we will see a drop in the number of labs in our state."

Not everyone is pleased about the bill. Letha Wiley, 62, of Sardis said putting the restrictions on pseudoephedrine, a decongestant, won't stop meth addicts.

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Everybody can't afford to go to the doctor," Wiley said. "( Addicts ) are going to do what they want to do. Lawmakers have got more important issues to deal with."

This is the thing… the fact that there will be fewer meth labs if cold meds can only be obtained by prescription is an absolute certainty. And though my friends at drugsense.org seem to think it is something the government should not do, the fewer meth labs, the better off we all are.

Except…. an addict will find drugs when they want to get high. “Shake and Bake” is nothing like the real meth from yesteryear, and the ice that is out and about is a freaking joke. But labs and cooks, unfortunately, will adapt, will find another source of pseudoephedrine, and we’ll all be back here talking about it next year or so.

Many crack addicts turned to Shake and Bake and have actually become a bit better, though I absolutely do not advocate its use. I simply believe there are more pressing issues. But anyhoo…. pseudo ban - - - coming to a state near you!!

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Veronica Scores a Gram

2010-02-03T22:37:00.001-06:00

     This is Veronica. A couple of years ago, if she had just known what crystal meth was really all about, she would have never found herself sitting alone there, trying to live through a shrieking moment of the
"WHAT THE F**K DID I JUST DO FOR THAT GRAM?!"
realization.

Maybe the next time she sleeps with someone to get high it will be easier for her to cope with afterward. And then the next time after that, and the next time. . . Hell, pretty soon, there won't be much Veronica left anyway, so it'll probably be smooth sailing for her conscious from here.

Besides, now Veronica has that little baggie and it's screaming her name - only this time, she dreads the new realization that she doesn't seem to be looking forward to getting high as much as she did this morning. This time, the escape will have to help get her through the new way she acquires an escape.

Too bad she didn't get some info about meth years ago. Too bad she didn't

find the answers. . .

A Bit of Demotivation Is a Good Thing

2010-02-03T22:31:00.000-06:00

I remember many times when I was high that I believed I was able to carry out a task better because I was high and "happy."

I was a better wife, mother, sister, friend....
Though I did not get into dancing while high, I absolutely can relate to the "awesome dancers" in the de-motivational poster above.

I even washed dishes better, man, and if you had been there to watch me, you probably would have seen me pausing the dish chore 10 or 15 times to start another completely different chore that I would then stop to go back to another or even to create another different chore again entirely and forget what I even set out to do in the first place and then would see a blouse that needed mending and stop everything to pick it up and study it and when I finally CRASHED . . . . the dish chore was not even half the way complete.

Yeah, man, I was better at it all!

And the silly-stupid-uncool way those dancers look is actually the brighter picture of methamphetamine addiction. It gets so ugly that it’s beyond stupid, beyond uncool, beyond regret.

Methamphetamine. The worst is yet to come.

Technorati Tags: methamphetamine,crystal meth,ice,snort,addiction,craving,what are withdrawals from meth like

When the Choices We Make Become the Choices That Decide Our Fate

2010-02-03T00:27:00.000-06:00

In the ‘90s I attended college and came close to obtaining an Associates’ Degree before drugs began taking center stage in my life. Upon obtaining a G.E.D. and registering for the fall quarter that first year, I remember saying, “Life is going to come no matter what you do. So I can put off the many years of college, and ten years down the road, I will just be ten years older. Or I can go back to school, and ten years down the road, not only will I definitely see ten years go by, but I will be somewhere.”

Had I stuck to that and stayed in college, I would now be where I wanted.

The same idea can be applied to kicking methamphetamine. Ten years, or five, or even just three, are going to come no matter what you do. And what you do today absolutely creates your future.

In this country, we make our own futures and are blessed with the freedom to live out our lives the way we want. But if you are still using in ten years, where is the gain?

A lot of good partying, you may think. But if you depend on meth, or any substance, to the degree that you can look ahead years into the future and see yourself holding that pipe or tin-foil or syringe or straw, you don’t get high like you use to. And pretty soon, you won’t be able to get high off any amount of meth you do.

Justify your desires any old way you see fit, that’s your choice. But that’s also my point.

Methamphetamine. The Worst Is Yet to Come.

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DrugSense.org "Letter of the Week"

2010-02-02T00:35:00.000-06:00

drugsense.org
“Letter of the Week”
By Kirk Muse

Dear Editor,
While Nebraska and many other states are trying to figure out how to close their massive budget shortfalls, the Dutch are trying to figure out what to do with their (unused, unfilled) prisons.

While the Netherlands has a total population of about 16.5 million, it has only about 12,000 prisoners. On the other hand, the United States has greater than 2,300,000 total prisoners.

If my math is correct, we in the U. S. have 18.2 fold the Dutch general population and 191.6 fold their prison population.

Why the glaring disparity? I suggest it's our drug policies.

In the Netherlands, adult citizens can use, buy and possess small amounts of marijuana without criminal sanctions. In the United States, adult citizens are subject to arrest, and jail or prison for buying, selling or possessing various amounts of marijuana.

Kirk Muse, Mesa, Arizona
Pubdate: Wed, 20 Jan 2010
Source: McCook Daily Gazette (NE)

The Hole In My Floor Beckons All Eavesdroppers

2010-02-01T08:41:00.001-06:00

WARNING!!! THIS POST WILL MOST DEFINITELY CAUSE A RECOVERING METH ADDICT TO RELAPSE!!!!!!

He was down there, again, hustling, dealing, smoking, laughing . . . . I could hear him from where I sat in our bedroom, facing the computer. I knew he was plotting against me while he passed the pipe to one of the “legends” within the circles of drug dealing here in Alabama.

Though the “Legend” had come to me in the middle of the night hysterical, begging me to help him cover his track marks from banging Cocaine before he went home to his understandably angry wife, we clashed and stayed at odds for years. He was everything I didn’t want to become, and more like me than I ever realized then.

I had drilled a hole in the floor of our bedroom while my husband had been away one day, to better hear the planning and plotting that I was convinced was being carried out down there. On some days, it happened more than once or twice a day. “Just overdose her, Dude,” I heard one fiend whisper. Of course, when confronted with this revelation, my husband looked not only confused, but even fearful (which I instantly decided was due to the realization that he must have had then: “She knows!”). His attempts at an explanation had been immediately met with more suspicion. He had explained that the man’s mother-in-law had overdosed the previous night, and was unclear as to exactly which part of the conversation I had misunderstood, being that he had been counting and weighing, thus only half-listening to the man’s story.

That and other confusing instances of knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that my husband wanted me dead so he could be with someone else (though we were together almost twenty-four hours a day) is what pulled me to the small hole. I had sliced the carpet and padding in an obscure area, so I carefully pulled this back and lay down, turning my ear to the floor.

I am of the belief that if one whispers something to someone else, they intend for only that person to hear what they have to say. Furthermore, they intend on others to not hear whatever it may be they have to say. Someone was whispering down there, and the frustration, anger, and hurt welled up in me, causing my eyes to water as my mind swept through the thousands of possible scenarios. For a split second, a shuffling was heard, a piece of paper moved about, or perhaps money sliding against other bills, and I had a clear, rational thought: maybe no one is whispering, after all. Maybe it’s the usual, covert sounds of a drug transaction. As quickly as that thought dawned on me, it was replaced by outlandish notions of pending death, a memorized inventory on signs of adultery, and the mental check notes I had been keeping. They contained memories of my husband’s actions and reactions, body language clues, and the all-too-famous mental list: “If He Thought This About Me, I Would React Differently Than He Does, In the Following Ways.”

Tearfully, I forced myself away from the hole in the floor, believing that whatever they were saying was definitely not going to be discovered that day. I needed to get high, anyway. On the desk lay a small, clear bag, a heavy duty torch-type lighter, and a glass pipe. I pulled the digital postal scales from a drawer and turned them on, the setting already on a “gram” measurement, hit the “tare” button to make sure the display read “0.00,” and dropped the baggie in the center of the holding tray. Had I really smoked that much? I remembered there being almost four grams! I picked up the baggie, replaced it with a nickel to test the accuracy of my scales, noted that the scales did not need to be calibrated, and weighed the dope again. 2.2? There was no way! Why was he taking from my bag?

Laughter erupted from the basement. The “Legend” had brought his newest fling with him, another “Chickenhead,” as we called them. She must have said something bland and stupid, but the guys laughed anyway because she was female . . . and because she was a “Chickenhead.”

I had seen her kind too many times at other people’s places of business, which was generally their homes. It was widely known that her kind was not allowed at our place, but this was the Chickenhead of a powerful man. She had looked willing to do anything for drugs, and probably had. I never understood that, though pain and the frustration of filling a void had been felt in my own life, as well. I had always said I would withdraw from a drug before doing anything for it. I guess that was easy to say when you hardly ever ran out of the drug, though.

I was certain the conversation was something about me, perhaps different ways my husband could have a secret affair and get it past me finding out, and the laughter created from it had betrayed my very soul. I loaded the bowl at the end of the clear, clean, glass pipe with enough uncut, imported Methamphetamine to jump-start five of Hitler’s largest Nazi soldiers. Igniting the torch-lighter and turning down the small wheel that controlled the valve allowing butane fuel to increase or decrease the amount of heat needed, I melted down the icy chunks and continued crying. Then all the world paused. Nothing else existed for the few moments that I concentrated on inhaling, heating, rolling the pipe in short, quick movements so the melted crystals would not get too hot in one place, feeling the door to my euphoric place of fulfillment opening, beckoning, always calling.

Through that door was everything wonderful and positive and peaceful that my life was not. Though the choices I had made were the only contributors to the hell I had endured and thus felt self-pity over, my euphoric place was an escape from the knowledge that I had made a mess of too many lives. I am a firm believer that guilt which is not dealt with appropriately can ultimately kill you, even without the selfish lure of suicide. Through that door was a world as I wanted it, where one could have it both ways, where a person, if they so fancied, could have their cake and eat it, too. There were no neglected grandparents who passed away while a person was too busy seeking out their drug of choice to be bothered with telling them goodbye on their deathbed. There were no forgotten spans of time where one missed their children’s school play, or forgot that the groceries were dwindling in the kitchen. In that world, there was no terrorist threats to the nation’s security, no plane-dropping on any towers, no threats of any kind. As well, there were no beloved pets who went unfed all day because one was too busy “tweaking” on some useless, insane project like finding the listening device that perhaps a narcotics agent had snuck in one day and planted in the family vacuum cleaner. No, this world was one where the laws of physics allowed for everything to just come about as having been completed already. It was one which allowed good intention to be enough for an appropriate action to follow without someone actually seeing to the task. It was a world without Chickenheads, as well, because no one had an unfilled void. No one had a life of abusive treatment, no one had endured emotional damage. No one hated, cried, hungered, or ever even frowned. No one judged me as being only a despicable drug addict and nothing more, the way I thought of myself every single hour in the real world.

I placed the glass pipe down in an ashtray to cool enough to be hidden in a drawer without causing anything to scar from a burn by the hot bowl. Thinking better of it, lest the police run in and see it sitting on the desk, I placed the ashtray itself in the drawer, pipe resting upon it, and closed the drawer carefully, so as not to knock the pipe around. I never allowed the thought to carry further and deal with the knowledge that if the police came running in, they would be legally and intelligently prepared to open a drawer or anything else they so desired, to find whatever they could. I never dealt with that question because there was no answer that allowed me to keep using and also keep paraphernalia away from my home. So the drawer was the solution for the time being, and I turned on the monitor to an outside camera which perched on the awning above our cars, giving a view of the driveway entrance to our home.

Knowing I could see them coming gave me satisfaction, and again the thought was not carried further into the knowledge of “so, if you see them coming, then what?” The world in which I decided to stay did not allow cops to gain entrance to any place I inhabited. So, listening to the sounds coming through the monitor’s speaker from the surveillance equipment’s microphone outside, I ascertained that there was momentarily no threat from the tri-county vice squad that hunted down suspected Methamphetamine dealers. I turned back to the desk and pushed the power button on my computer, satisfied with how my world seemed intelligently constructed, pompous and conceited that I was momentarily outsmarting the authority figures set against me.

Feeling inspired due to the high, I rolled the mouse’s pointer to the word-processing program and double-clicked the left mouse button. I adjusted the margin placement, my mind racing ahead of me into nonessential ramblings, and found myself continuing to stare at the blank, white screen before me.

The door leading from the basement to the den downstairs opened, and simultaneously, the door leading to the driveway area did, also. Voices flowed through the surveillance microphone and into my room upstairs, and I turned to see if the “Legend” and his Chickenhead were leaving. No, they merely retrieved something from their car and then returned to the basement as my husband could be heard climbing the stairs to our bedroom. I turned back to the computer quickly as he entered so as not to have him aware that I was listening to his adventures. The sliced carpet had been adjusted, my secret listening post safely obscured from his awareness.

“Whatcha doin’, Baby?” He was so very cunning, my husband. He was so very talented at covering up his real thoughts, his true actions and intentions. I answered with a mumbled “Nothing,” and he came over to the desk and leaned against it. I was immediately reminded of the great colossal of a man that he was to me, his cologne permeating my heart and aching it with a desire for the couple that existed before drug addiction. I had come back through the door from my euphoric place then, because in the other world, we had never changed and grown apart. But in this world, I yearned for him though he was always before me already.

“You want to come smoke a bowl with us?” His eyes were still captivating, had been so even during the strung-out periods. They were the bluest and brightest of anyone I had ever seen before, until our oldest daughter was born. She had acquired them and this had made his even more beautiful to me.

“I don’t know. I haven’t even had a shower, yet,” I answered, curtly. He saw that something was amiss, and I knew he realized I may have heard the secret whispers of evil plotting. I feigned a happy smile, apologized for my shortness with him, and hoped he bought the counterfeit emotion I displayed. If I had allowed him to see that I knew what was really going on, my little baggie would have disappeared entirely, perhaps. Or maybe he would have sped up the search for a wife-killing assassin. “Just tell them I said ‘Hey,’ and that I’m not being rude, I just have to write something for a little while.”

“Aww, Baby,” he said, his Southern drawl being music to my soul that then pierced my whole being with pain from knowledge of the betrayal, “why don’t you get dressed and come down?” I suppose my absent look and the shake of my head when I declined the invitation hurt his feelings. I didn’t know that then. He made his way back across the room to the doorway, and again asked “Baby, why don’t you get dressed and come down?” I didn’t answer.

Why Don't You Get Dressed and Come Down?

Picking up pieces of myself after crashing, becoming new, and
The indication you endlessly display leaves me with only one truth.
The dilemma I always allow me to face gives rise to obsolete excuse:
Your problem's not a lack of concern, but that aroma, that will confuse.

Why don't you get dressed and come down here,
With these adversaries, these rivals, these foes, these
Merciless creatures, come here to hunt, come here to wrinkle your nose?
I can't understand why I just don't want their patronizing time!

They're legends, like us, who've been through the game,
Who've stretched the austere, fucking limits of their mind.
You'd think we'd put as much into healing the world as we put into the find!
But sure as Satan sits upon a throne, I will come down, in time.

Under the hour glass of ice again, and I eagerly bury the awareness.
A single truth reiterates fear, just reminds me, more or less,
That I've been here before, a deja' voo, an overexposed picture in time–
A blurry representation of who I once was, outlined in murderous rhyme.

Oh, why won't I get dressed and go down there? Each time has been so cruel.
Hardhearted trolls searching for substance that they then swathe like fools.
I can't imagine why I don't want to go down there, drawn to what is untrue, and
This constant lust for your freezing touch though every puff splits me in two.

So I put on my most elegant falsetto, and beat myself inward with each step.
When and where will I find myself then, and were you asleep as I slept?
Every day leaves me breathless from voicing the questions that always remain.
Every time I go down there, I wind up here, still sitting, still the same.
-Jeanne Sparks-Carreker

Just For Pot?!?

2010-01-30T02:08:00.000-06:00

BROOKLYN-Michael Mineo took the stand yesterday in the State Supreme Court to tell in detail about the horrible event in a Brooklyn subway station in 2008, where he was held down by three New York City police officers and sodomized with a foreign object.

WHY?!? He was smoking pot.

Cops chased Michael into the subway station after they noticed him smoking marijuana. Michael said the cops tackled him and that one of the officers sodomized him with a baton. The cops then gave him a summons, and stated that they would go to his house and serve him with a felony charge if he went to the hospital for treatment or the police station to report what happened.

Michael’s claims are confirmed by eyewitnesses, one of whom is a transit police officer. The three officers charged in the attack are now on trial in a case that recalls that of Abner Louima, who was brutally sodomized by police in 1997.

The NYPD’s obsession with marijuana possession has led to tens of thousands of New Yorkers every year being caught up in the criminal justice system. Most spend a few days in jail. Some, like Michael, suffer greatly.

Entire Article HERE

I Won’t Be Set On Fire Anytime Soon

2010-01-28T19:27:00.000-06:00

PORTLAND-A man set himself on fire Wednesday morning in front of Nicholas Ungar Furs in Portland, Oregon. KOMO 4 News, among others, reported on the incident and their story can be read on the KOMOnews.com site.

According to the Multnomah County medical examiner, the man was identified as 26-year-old Daniel Shaull from Kansas.

It is not clear if Daniel was protesting the use of animals in the making of fur coats, though according to KOMO 4 news, witnesses did hear the man screaming, “Animals are dying!” He screamed this as fire lapped around him and soared above his head.

He had doused himself with gasoline, and then set himself ablaze. Cops at the scene put out the flames with fire extinguishers. He later died from those injuries at the hospital.

I will protest with signs bouncing and scream right along with the others when it is a cause I believe in. Be it finding alternative measures than prison for helping drug addicts, saving animals, saving kids, saving undeveloped forest land, if I believe it worthy of my protests, I’m gung-ho and pack a lunch.

But setting myself on fire is something I would never even think of doing, much less follow through with.

I love small, furry, cute, ugly, and even smelly animals. To me, they are one of the blessings God has given us to enjoy on His planet. But lighting myself afire to save them is something I would never do.

Am I just not as committed as I should be? I’ll admit that being on fire scares me to no end. So am I a coward for not supporting Daniel’s efforts to save innocent animals?

I believe, sadly enough, Daniel may be a victim of some sort of mental disorder. He went to lengths most activists will not go, but certainly not for the saving of animals when there are issues on the table right now having to do with things so much more important.

And even those issues, I’ll admit, will not receive my charred support.

Am I wrong for believing I can do much more for a cause alive and healthy than burnt and dying?

I think not, but what are your thoughts?

Technorati Tags: set himself on fire,activism,activist,fur,animals used in the making of fur,animal rights activist,Nicholas Ungar Furs,Portland,set himself ablaze,Daniel Shaull

Linking problems caused the spam

2010-01-25T21:49:00.000-06:00

I am fairly ignorant, it seems, to the whole posting deal on a blog, in that I sometimes pull up the site to post, thinking along the lines of facebook or twitter. It won't happen again, though, I assure you, so forgive the "link post" a few minutes ago! I wish you a blessed, sober evening filled with Will Farrell or Jim Carrey movies and a nice big bowl of egg custard, a strawberry jam biscuit, and about a half cup of lasagne leftovers (Yes, that is really what I grabbed from the fridge for dinner and ate - in that order. It's a wonderful life, folks. Well, at any rate, smile tonight - we're almost home :)

Link | E-Finance Ways

2010-01-25T21:37:00.000-06:00

Link E-Finance Ways

A Comparison: The Fear of Being Without

2010-01-22T01:39:00.004-06:00

Considering that when something is too good to be true, it normally is, compare this analogy of a girl's life before and after a witch's potion to an addict's life before and after substance abuse:

Nancy was always afraid of heights, grew excited when holdidays approached, jumped over loud bumps or thuds in the night, and could remember being nervous when first obtaining her drivers' license. She was a normal, patriotic, happy girl. Her life was full of smiles and laughter, family and fun-filled summers year after year.

One day, however, Nancy met a strange, old woman while hiking through the woods. The woman smiled and was kind to Nancy, and told her that she could make her life extremely happy. She told Nancy she could give her a happiness that would last all day, every day, and that she would never be afraid of anything, ever again. She said she could teach her to fly without fear.

At first, of course, Nancy was skeptical, but the more the old woman spoke, the more intrigued Nancy became. Her curiosity won, and the old woman gave Nancy a small bottle of sweet liquid. Nancy tasted it, and immediately was changed. She felt like a superhero. She drank the liquid, and soared high above the tree tops, across her home town, above the clouds, flying without fear, dipping and diving and laughing as she never had before.

This new happiness was something she never had known before, and had never even heard about. She never knew such happiness was possible before tasting the old woman's liquid.

For a while, Nancy visited the old woman on a regular basis, and the old woman told her the liquid would be available forever. Nancy created her whole life around it, becoming another person entirely.

Then one day, Nancy could not find the old woman. She searched everywhere for her, going days without even stopping to rest, looking and calling out to her. She realized the woman was gone, and with her, the magical, beautiful liquid. She dropped to her knees in the forest and felt as if she would die.

What would life be like, now? Where was the joy? How could she fly so high and so far, then just sit in an existence that held nothingness? The comparison of how happy she had been with the liquid to the reality of lifelessness without it was just too much for her to bear. She lay there in the woods and died, choosing death as a far better alternative to facing a reality of bitter depression.

And when facing a life without drugs, an addict feels and experiences the same fears, the same loss of hope for the future. Of course, with enough clean time (the period of time an addict experiences without substances), a natural joy for life will return, and hope for the future will come again.

Drugs? Not even once.

"I'm Without" - Withdrawals From Ice

2010-01-21T20:38:00.000-06:00

So, my connections hit a temporary "drought" of sorts, due to a huge bust that had been making its way into Alabama from Texas. We'd be down for about a week and a half, probably, they had said.

There was no ice to be found anywhere, and the gnawing in the pit of my stomach spelled out a fear that, for me, was every bit as frightful as the fear some people experience when faced with losing everything they own or even when first hearing that our nation is going to war.

Withdrawals were coming. I could taste them, smell them, and dread them in a way one dreads entering a courtroom in order to be sentenced after a guilty verdict. I didn’t want to go through it. I didn’t want to stop using.

The routine had become second nature to me. I was definitely a meth junkie, and though shameful of the fact many times, escaping into that little glass bowl at the end of my pipe wiped away all the guilt and anxiety of neglected parenthood.

But this time it wouldn’t matter how hard I searched. Everyone was out. A strange and complete drought had come to Alabama, and I had never been one who was able to “put back for a rainy day.” Oh, I had tried to before, just for times like this, but I always ended up smoking it, wanting to be higher, wanting more and more until finally I ruined relationships further due to meth psychosis and having been up way too many days without sleep.

The meth I had just ran out of was very strong, and it carried me throughout the night and into the next morning while I picked through the carpet in the floor of the room I had smoked in, searching for just another crumb, another decently sized shard of crystallized peace. The cravings for more had set in hard. If I didn’t crash soon, I would find myself hysterically crying and cursing, throwing a fit that could not be justifiably termed "emotional breakdown."

I searched for a pill, anything to placate the gnawing fear of being without. It’s so incredibly unbearable. I wanted to be knocked out, but my body was not tired yet. And there was a faint hope that someone somewhere would find some more for me to buy or deal out in order to have some of my own. I remained in this state for about half a day. Then I dropped.

When crashing after a four or five day stretch with no sleep, it’s as if I am in a coma. Nothing really wakes me at all. If I am aroused, it is only to a slightly coherent state where nothing makes sense to me. “Mama, the house is on fire,” would be answered with “Okay, sweetie, but not for too long because you have homework to finish.” That deep crashing sleep lasts, for me, about 12 to 15 hours.

After that, there is a period of normal sleep, lasting about 2 to 5 days. I can wake normally, eat, understand things during that 2 to 4 day sleep time, but I am so drained and drowsy that I want to do nothing more than sleep. And of course, faced with the knowledge that I have no dope, sleep is preferred to being awake.

About the fourth or fifth day without crystal meth, I abruptly awake in the middle of the night, my kidneys burning, perhaps because I am dehydrated, perhaps because I have laid on them for five days without getting up and moving around much. My spine is tingling with an uncomfortable twisting sensation and every hair on my body is standing on end. I just want to go back to sleep, but cannot. I’m awake. And nothing helps.
I need a sleep aid. I search the house for something, anything, and come up with a nighttime allergy medication that helps induce sleep. I take as many as I can find, about 6 or 7, and wait for the blissful waves of sleep to engulf me and save me from the twisting grip something has on my spine.

Cold sweats grip down into my bones, it seems, and I try not to think about anything because the anxiety and outright fear creates monsters of problems within my worrying mind out of anything I dwell upon for very long. Faces of people who love me and want me to love them again flood my mind and before I drift off to sleep to be free from this wave of withdrawals, I cry hard and long for my children.

I think about how they must feel. I think about the time I have wasted, the looks on their faces when they want me to spend time with them but I am too busy looking for my next high. After the long cry, I am off to dream about the same things, though now they are horribly twisted into unreal pictures in my dream world, pictures of my daughters drowning and me not being able to save them.
I have always believed in God. I have known Him from the very earliest memories I have in life. I have known Him in a personal, friendly, Fatherly way for as long as I can remember. And His enemy knows this. His enemy loves to plague me with things, and I suppose I make it easy for him to, considering the ways I choose to live my life.

So, interspersed with the “my kids are dying and I sit helpless” dreams, come the occasional “there’s something evil in the room it must be Satan he is here growling and holding you down” dreams.
About five hours into the allergy medication induced sleep, the dreams have made me wake up fully, and I cannot get back to sleep. Kidneys burning, no position comfortable, spine screaming and twisting, mind racing. Just a few more days, I pray. Just a few more.
What then - the depression? Will the cravings end? How long will this go on? I know enough about withdrawals to know that some doctors mark the length of post acute methamphetamine withdrawal for up to two years. Did I dream that? No, it is so, as crazy as it sounds.
My God, why did I ever start this horrible, frightfully terrible relationship with crystal meth? I would smoke more right now, even in the middle of this epiphany! But what on earth could I have been thinking with that first taste of hell?
I start to blame everyone from the President on down to the mayor of our little town for allowing such a horrible epidemic to find its way to our country. Still, I know I am the one to blame for having tried it. I know it is my fault that I am in the uncomfortable, strange, frightening, sad, hopeless, sick position I am in.

And I know it is going to get worse. I know that very soon, I will feel displaced, out of my own skin, and fully awake to enjoy every hideous moment.
And if the person who had originally handed me the straw to snort a try of it years and years ago could have instead shown me this day, I would have ran away screaming “No!" And I would have never searched for an escape from the beautifully welcoming small problems I once believed I could not handle sober.

Drug Dealers Can Have Ethics, Too

2010-01-19T21:39:00.000-06:00

I was closing the glass sliding door in our den and making sure it was locked before my husband and I retreated to the bedroom to smoke a bowl when he said the most interesting thing to me. He said, “I don’t know why you lock everything so tight, Jeanne. We are the bad ones. We are the dangerous ones everybody locks up for.”

Until that very moment, I had never truly considered myself a criminal. Even through years and years of dealing, trafficking, buying, and using drugs, I had not realized how civil, law-abiding Americans view us.

That was years ago, of course. I’ve come a long way since then, too. But there are still drug dealers, traffickers, buyers and users still out there, by the millions. And I think one reason I never really saw us as “bad” is because we maintained ethics and morality through it all. Concerning children, mainly.

If a girl became pregnant, she was cut off from purchasing drugs, and the word was spread that if anyone sold or gave to her, they would be too. I know it didn’t solve everything for that child or even make the mother go straight, but it helped, I witnessed that.

If someone’s utilities were being cut off and they had kids in the home, we cut them down to enough to keep from withdrawing and would not sell them anything until they brought us a receipt from the power company.

If someone hurt their family physically, they were cut off and never were dealt with again. And usually, they got a visit from someone in our circle.

I’m writing this post because there are so very many dealers who are so very corrupt, so very bad. Are they reachable? I don’t know, I doubt it. But just maybe…. they will keep ethics about them until the light shines through and they recover. Until the light of understanding comes to you, brother, sister, be good to the children. Any way you can, do good for the kids.

Recovery Art: Tattoos

2010-01-12T18:11:00.000-06:00

I’ve heard many people in group meetings say, “Do anything that will help you stay clean.”

Personally, I don’t get in to the whole tattoo craze. I think anything permanent is a serious decision, and I’m just not good with serious decisions (grin).

No, the truth is, I guess I think of getting a tattoo and then think ahead thirty years, and envision myself being given a bath by some big, hairy nurse (which is bad enough), who looks at my sagging, wrinkled, faded tattoo and hollers, “What the hell is that?!?”

But for those of you who are in favor of a sagging, wrinkled, faded tattoo when you’re old, here’s a few “Recovery Tattoos” to getcha started. Oh yeah, and I guess you have to be an addict, recovering from either drug addiction or alcoholism.

I'm Happy to Become an Old Hag! Get Over It!

2010-01-06T19:20:00.001-06:00

Sometimes it stresses a woman beyond the point of crazy to know she is about to be in a confrontation. Now there are those who are pathetic with the “keep the peace” mindset which actually translates as “walk all over me just as long as we both smile and act happy.” I’m not speaking to you. You seem like a coward to me.

I am speaking to the women who believe anger in and of itself is not wrong. It's even a tool sometimes. It’s what you do with the anger that determines right or wrong - as well as what you’ll immediately face. And here lately, it seems by that point I’m already swinging.

Some of us are slow to anger. Nothing wrong with that, I fit in this category as well. No, I do! Problem is, when I finally get to the angry point, I boil over and end up telling off the customer service chic who won’t return the freakin’ present I didn’t want anyway, letting loose a typhoon that started the day before with the lawn care guy.

She begins to look confused around the “When I specifically said NOT to cut over the monkey grass, it’s all that I can keep *#$$*@! alive in the whole #%$@ yard!”

I have become easier to be around, I think. I am growing more tolerant to . . . . Okay, I’m sugar–coating. No, I’m down–right lying. The truth is, the older I get, the less tolerance I have to idiots who have the IQ of a jar of mayonnaise. I believe in a give & take type set-up within relationships, and the very few women I believe deserve my complete loyalty and upmost respect as my true friends will tell you I’m right. They smirk when they say it, but they freakin’ say it.

I don’t know, Girls, give me some input. Is it so wrong to realize that being a high – riding bitch keeps the morons away from your house? I mean they even cross to the other side of the street when walking their idiot dogs! And turning thirty-nine next month, I think I’m about to decide my future as a mean old hag! And no, I do not mean I am prejudice when I say “less tolerant.” I mean there are idiots in my race, your race, his race, her race, and I just can’t seem to get along with the member of any race here lately!

Don’t hold back, Ladies, I’m very opinionated and value truthful opinions from others. Weak, sniffling “you hurt my feewings” people are useless to me, so don’t think I’ll lose sleep over you speaking your mind. I need to know . . . . am I too much of a bitch?

’Cause I see being too much of a bitch as “never can have too much of a good thing, Darlin!”

Attempting to Give a Damn

2010-01-04T23:25:00.002-06:00

Most of the time, this is what we are met with in society.

Nobody gives a damn.

Truth From the Stem
The Toxicity of Drug Addiction
Drug Awareness Resources and Art

WHAT ABOUT YOU???

The Incarceration Cure?

2010-01-02T23:57:00.000-06:00

Locking Up The Chemically Dependant

BIRMINGHAM-The gavel lifts and slams, papers are shuffled, signed, placed in a folder, and a bailiff instructs a twenty-two year old African American male who is seated temporarily in the juror box with other Jefferson County inmates awaiting a hearing in Circuit Court.

Having pled guilty to a possession charge, Roy listens to the bailiff explain the process of entering the Alabama Department of Corrections' Processing Location, Kilby Correctional Facility. Serving a year and a day actually becomes around three months when tallying time off for good behavior, and is defined as "you'll be there for a minute," by those handcuffed to each of Roy's hands.

Roy's mother is in the courtroom, self-conscious about the tears streaming down her cheeks, watching the judge with a desperate look. It's as if she is waiting for the judge to suddenly pull back the papers he has just signed that will send her son to hell with monsters. Maybe he will rewind everything, and even take back what he said to her son that had shaken her to the very core: "Well, obviously you don't like getting up and making a sandwich whenever you want, Son - I guess you just don't like freedom. You didn't even try to go to support group meetings, did you? I don't really think you can be helped. And Alabama wants you off its streets."

Entire Article HERE