Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, my worst nightmare has come true. My mom lost her fucking job in Hawaii. We have until Feb. 28th to be out of our apartment. My parents want to go back to Wisconsin. Where they can get an apartment, and wait for the house my dad is building on Triple C in Oconto Fall to be finished. From there, we have a “home base” so when my mom get a traveling job, they can pick up and leave, and not have to worry about something like this happening.
My parents lucked out, due to it's Tax season, because since my dad is 100% disabled vet, and my mom is a nurse, and I’m still a dependent child they get around 7 grand back every year. Plus, I believe my parents have saved up some money while living hear, so getting plane tickets, and an apartment in Wisconsin will be fairly easy. My dad will go first, and then my mom.
I am not going back to Wisconsin. I would like to go to New York City, but unfourtanlly NYC is a bit too expensive for my budget. I will have to move to the West Coast instead. I want to move to Olympia Washington, or Seattle. I’d rather Olympia, because it’s a smaller city, and rent would be cheaper. I’d even be willing to get a job.
I know, I know, I said I would never work at a job I hate, just to buy things I don’t need. Well, I won’t be buying things I don’t need, I’ll be paying for roof over my head, until I can save up enough money to move to New York.
My parents pretty much told me they don’t believe my book will ever be published, and that even if it were, I would not make a living as a writer. They want me to stay with them. Live with them until they die.
I got to give them credit, its not their fault that my mom’s contract was not extended. They have been willing to move to NYC, because I said I wanted to live their since I was a little kid. I didn’t want to go their and become a movie star, or a dancer, I just wanted to live in New York, the city that never sleeps. When I was in High school I made a promise to myself that I would live in NYC by the time I was 25. I’m 26 in two weeks, and not even close to NYC. We were suppose to go in Sept. My dad would move back to Wisco in April, and get the house built, and me and mom would live here in Hawaii, until Sept, and then we would move to NYC. Our new house in Wisco would be our home base. So if something like this ever happened again, they would have a place to go.
I don’t want to go with them. I lived in Wisconsin for most of my life, and I’ve done all I can there. Its time for me to move on. The point of having children is raise them so they can make a life for themselves when they become adults. All you can do is hope and pray that their lives are good lives.
How many millions of people go New York on a daily basis to “make their dreams come true.” Probably thousands, and that’s on a daily basis. Yearly, OMG that’s millions. Probably only 5 out of those thousands will make their dreams come true. My dream of course is to become a published writer. Far Fetched as it is, its still my dream. This is still America the land where dreams come true. Right? As long as you have the will, and the fight in you to make it thru all the rejections, and all the kicks you’ll get then you have a chance. If I write, and write, and read and read, then why oh why can’t I at least have my chance.
Because my parents don’t want to lose me like they lost Angie. So now they hang on so tight, they suffocate me. I have to ask to leave the house.
I moved out of my parents house and in with a boyfriend when I was 17. Of course I didn’t work, well except at a bar, and I did that because I was underage to drink at the bar, but I could still work their and have fun. I’ve been on my own before, I was on my own until Angie died. Then suddenly Pete and I couldn’t make ends meet, and my parents where always bailing us out, and letting us move in with them until we found a place of our own. Which we always did.
Then I got into legal trouble, and of course became an Opiate addict. My life fell apart. Pete left, and I was homeless, in and out of rehab, and all over. Fuck I didn’t mind homelessness, as long as I was high. Coming across money was hard because I wasn’t working. So family started to help me out with bills. This is after I finally did get an apartment in this building that rented out to recovering addicts, but most of us were not recovering we were still using, just keeping it under wraps.
Whatever, I’m just ranting now.
The book I wrote was not only about my addiction and how I got thru it, but it is about how dysfunctional our family was/is, and how much worse it became after my little sister died.
It is estimated that there are 3 million addiction is the USA alone. There are 300 million people in America. Which means ten percent of our population has an addiction of some sort. Which means Million upon millions of families are going thru exactly what I went thru, what my family went thru when I was an active user. Right now I’m not an active user. I’m not going and buying Heroin off the streets and injecting it into my veins. I’m in a recovery program that uses Methadone to stop me from being an active addict.
All this means, if I can get my book perfect, the story or theme or whatever, the book will relate to million upon million if not billions of people world wide.
I know I’m a junky, and I read every single junky book I can find in book stores, or libraries. I read every blog a junky writes, because its all I think about. I want that high forever. Now that I’m on methadone and cannot achieve that high, I need to read or watch…be entertained by someone else’s addiction.
Car buffs like to read car shit, clothes buffs like to read clothes shit, and heroin buffs like read heroin shit.
Its how the world works. We all want the story to relate to us in some way. Just like I want Kurt Cobain’s life to parallel my life in almost every way, but that is impossible, we grew up at totally different times, and he was a musician, who could get his message out easier to the masses, because everyone likes good music, and Nirvana made good music, that spoke to a lot of people.
I hope someday, when I become a much better write, my words will speak to the masses, and change the way people write books, and how a generation feels about themselves.
So what the fuck I may as well try. I’m not going back to Wisconsin. NO matter what. No one can force me. I’m almost 30 years old. Well 4 more years and I’ll be 30, and I want to be published before I am 30 years old.
May the universes will be done unto me. May God’s will be done onto me.