Saturday, March 27, 2010


I slept hard all night long until my alarm goes off and rushes me out of that sleep with loud "BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. I open my eyes and find myself in my small bedroom on my twin bed inside our small trailer. My feet are cold, I remember turning down the heat last night after getting a bloody nose.

I get up out of bed, and outside the window the sky's are grey with the morning sun not yet over the horizon. I prey for a gray sky all day. The sunlight makes the hole inside me bigger. When the sun is out I pull my black curtains tightly closed, and curl into a ball and read until my eyes wont stay open. With sun over head I feel wounded, like a deer hit by a car with internal injures, and who wants to survive, but can feel its self weakening. Shock setting in, cold, tired. If it falls asleep death will over take the deer. When the sky's are grey and its raining I still feel the hole, but at that moment everyone around me is lazy, and feels like there is no end to the suffering that surrounds them, the suffering that is them.

I know with a new day means a long ride in the Jeep to get my dose of Methadone. I pull on some clean clothes. Clean but not nice. A pair of black pants, a white t-shirt, and my mothers hooded sweat jacket with her name on it, and her rank as a nurse (Erin RN). A sweatshirt she got while working in Hawaii. A city I miss because of the nostalgia that overtakes all my memories the moment something changes. I miss the city. This living in the country in a trailer wears on my moods, my creativity is blocked. Too much overlapping of my life and that of my parents lives.

I'm the only one awake, as I walk out the door. I take in a deep breath of the morning air. Its cold, and hurts my lungs. The birds are chirping, and the horses are up by the house waiting for my father to come out and give them their grains. I walk to the Jeep, and climb inside. I'm glad I put on my mittens. The steering wheel is cold. I turn on the car, and turn the heat all the way up, and the search for my radio station 106.7 the Zone. I hope to hear Nirvana, or Weezer, something good. Instead its new songs, songs that just don't touch me in anyway. I can tell I'm getting old and set in my ways when I listen to new music, only a few songs measure up to what I consider good music. I listen to the bad songs, because with bad come the good, and after so many bad songs a good one is even better than it normally would be.

I'm not paying any attention to how fast I'm going until a little white car passes me. I'm only doing 35 mph in a 55 zone. I'm lost in thought. Yesterday my family and myself quit smoking. I cheated yesterday, but this morning I don't have any cigarettes to cheat with. I have my elbow on the middle console where my parents keep there Merle Haggard, and Patsy Cline CD's. It feels like there is an extra CD in there that is keeping it from shutting all the way. I open it to adjust the CD, and to my surprise I find a pack of my dad cigarettes. He cheated too. I wonder how I'm going to handle this. My mom is the only one of us who actually went without a cigarette yesterday. Yesterday March 26th, it would have been my sister Angie's golden birthday. 26 years old, I think to myself, "God Ang we are getting old." I apologize for cheating on quiting smoking on her golden birthday.

After finding the smokes, I figure I will write a little note on the back of a receipt telling my dad that I found them. Then I take a cigarette from the pack, I have no lighter so I use the car lighter, and light the first cigarette of this morning. I feel a slight pang of guilt, but it passes quickly. I can blackmail my dad with this nugget of information. Something I love to do. Call me evil, call me selfish, call every name in the book and you've hit me on the head. I am all of these things. I look at the speedometer and I'm doing close to 80MPH. I'm already in Green Bay only a few more miles and I'm at the clinic.

Before I get my dose, I have to eat something. As of late I have started a diet. That diet consists of five low fat penutbutter and honey sandwiches on whole grain bread. It works, and its cheap. I only drink skim milk, and I have one Mocha Frappe a week. As I take the exit to the Methadone clinic, I pull into the gas station across the street from the clinic. I grab some skim milk, and a small package of Little Debbie powdered donuts. I would have eatin at home, but we are out of Whole grain bread. I have to eat something before I take the Methadone. If I don't it won't last as long. I'd go to any lenght to keep the Methadone's half life longer.

I leave the gas station, and pull into the clinic parking lot. I quickly eat three of the small powdered donuts, and take a big gulp of my skim milk. I shut off the Jeep, thinking to myself I'll probably miss a good song that will come on while I'm in the clinic. The parking lot is full, which means the clinic is full of people. I'm glad I brought along my book. Still reading Wurthering Heights. Pathetic!

I walk into the clinic, and first I notice the warmth. Body heat coming off all of us waiting to get juiced. Then the smell, such a familiar smell, a smell that I like because it means I'm getting my fix for the day. Every now and again that smell will bring back the memory of the smells that come from a spoon filled with Heroin and water being boiled, this is a smell that absolutely love. To me it smells better than that of a newborns smell of sweet milk and a hint of honey. I can't let myself dwell on such things. Heroin won't touch my brains chemistry after being on Methadone for three years. No highs, no heavenly delights for me. Not unless I get off the Methadone and let myself slide down that slippery hill. Have I learned nothing from my past?

I can't pay attention to the words on the pages of the novel. Thoughts of using swirling around my head like sugar plumbs swirling through a child's mind some 80 years ago on Christmas eve. I sit in my chair, waiting for number to ring for my chance to dose. My eyes are pressed shut, my book open on my lap, my mind wondering. Times seems to fly by. Suddenly I'm startled back to reality, I hear people calling out, "who has number four, does anybody have number four"? I have number four, I jump up. Putting my book back in my purse, pulling out my take home box that is required for my Sunday take home.

I'm at the window where the nurse doles out our doses, and I'm waiting for my dose. She puts in front of me and I grab it fast and swift. I open my mouth, doors to breath, and I inhale the Methadone. I take my rinse and walk away from the window, out the door, and to the Jeep.

I race home, thinking only of writing. Writing this blog, writing another chapter to my book. My book, the only thing I can leave behind, the one thing that will say I lived, I was here on this planet, I existed. If only for a moment, if only to suffer most of the time, sweat blood and tears while writing a book. But after all the suffering, when something good happens it makes it all the more sweeter.

The sky was gray until I pulled into my driveway. Suddenly I was being swallowed whole by the hole. Ripping out my ideas, burning out my desire. I had to run inside, get into my room and shut the curtins tight. Making it black. Pull out the laptop, put a sad movie in, a love story, Eternal Sunshine of the spotless mind, I wished that I had Trainspotting. Eternal Sunshine would have to do. I put it in, but before I watch it, I sign in to my blog and see if I can write at least a bit better than my usual drivel.

I'm not sure how I did. At least I captured a moment. Not a shared moment, until I wrote it down and published the post. Today is not unlike most other days, the majority of my days. The feelings differ from moment to moment, day to day. I hope you enjoyed the narration of my morning.


Anonymous said...

Anna I really love your writing.
You describe things in a special kind of way, your blog is the most interesting one I have found (I'm not kidding)
Take care Anna
keep writing
you are good at it!

Anna Grace said...

I've seen and been around more suicides than Anonymous will ever have to.
Age 7, Grandfather dad's side, kills himself at our house in our gragage by carbon dioxide.
Age 7 watched my father hang hiself, and get cut down by my mother
Age 12, Babysitter shoots himself in front of me and my little sister. Had his brains on our clothes.

Age 26, uncle pills, and drowned, suicide note sent to my mom. Body found by my mom, and myself.

My family is suicideing themselves out of existanse. I don't find suicide funny. Alot of people write about what they are going to do before they do it. I don't know a single person on this blog, no one is going to call the cops if I stop blogging.

Why don't you just not read my poor me Anna blog, wouldn't that be much easier?
If Anonymous douchebag would just kill him/herself my life wouldn't change a single bit.
Anonymous has not read the blogs where blogged about all the suicides in my family on myspace. So Anon you have no idea who I am or what I'm going to myself, or you.

I know replying to an penut brain like anon is pointless and egging him or her on, but fuck makes me feel better.

All my love to you anon. Now go the fuck away, I'll just delete you comments. LOL!

What was done said...

Getting old is only in our mind.
Age never prevented people from doing things:

Anonymous said...

Was that comment directed to me?
I was saying what I thought of your writing, that I liked it... XD
if that bothers you well...
I wont read it anymore lol

Anna Grace said...

I was talking about the anonymous who said that I cry wolf too much, and that I don't really know what depressions is. I think he commented on my garden blog. I'm not sure, but he or she is an asshole.

You Anon, thank you very much for the encourgment. I can't believe you think my blog is interesting at all. I'll keep writing. I should always respond to the nice comments instead giving the mean ones encourgment.

Anonymous said...

anonymouses should label themselves to keep track of whose who.

Anonymous said...

You've been thru more suicides that me?? Half the time you can't even fucking SPELL it right you dumb fugly ass cunt. Mom, both her parents, sister, brother AND TWO DIFFERENT best friends,. ALL DIED OF SUICIDE. Now you may understand why I CANNOT STAND people running around on the internet 'crying wolf', like youself, about something so not fucking serious like suicide. You're what? Like 27? Don't you think it's time you get your shit together by now??

Anonymous said...

Oh, yes Anna, I HAVE read all of your blogs on Myspace. And peanut brain? Please, I do everything I do ON MY OWN, before you start calling any names, you need to get your own shit together. And honestly, yes, i could stop reading your blogs. But I don't think that anyone has given it to you straight like myself, and I think you NEED to hear it. Besides, it makes me feel better about my own life, honestly.

Anna Grace said...

I'm sorry for your losses. Suicide hurts everyone around the one that has completed the act of killing themselves.

I do want to die. I honestly do. The only reason I don't do it is because of my parents. I can't be that selfish. If my sister had lived, and my father hadn't told me out right the reason that he doesn't kill himself right now is because I'm alive. I know that when I kill myself I'll be taking anothers life. I have his life in my hands. I'm trying to out live him and my mother. Although mostly my father, my mom could deal with our deaths. Still it would wound her irrepearably.

Give me all you got. Tell me like is all you want. Your not going to change the fact that I can and I will take my own life. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

Oh yes, and I'm so sorry my spelling doesn't stand up to your supior standards. Oh did spell that wrong?

I'm glad that my blog makes you feel much better about your life. I'm glad that your alive. I don't expect you to cry for all the reasons I have to die, and don't expect me to lie.

Sarcastic Bastard said...

Anna you are a good writer. You have talent.

Love you.


Marty 144 said...

Excellent Post, Anna. I love it when you wax literary. keep it up.

Anonymous said...

Anna Bell! This was a great blog!
luv you kaycee casim top 40

Anonymous said...

This is the best thing you've ever blogged. Great work.

Kelley said...

Hey Anna, I haven't been on blogger for a very long time. Started reading Melody's, then got back to your's. You and I were friends on Myspace (Kelley) don't know if you rememberme or not, I deleted my account after I got a facebook, yeah, I know lame, haha. Just wanted to let you know that all this shit Anon's is writing, the really mean stuff, I love what you came back and said, especially in your comment here. That's why i posted it here instead of your newer stuff. You may want to die, and trust me sweetie, everyday my eyes open, I sometimes find myself cursing God too. I talked of committing suicide and tried way too many times to count when I was a younger teen, and my dad always said the same thing to me. 'Today may be bad, and tomorrow may be worse, but it wont be this bad forever no matter how bad you feel. It'll get better. It somehow always does.' And he's right. Especially when you least expect it. I'm in the meth clinic, yet again! Before when I was in the clinic I was still steady using everyday, but now it's sorta different. I started out with one day in between of not using. And I haden't had a single day in YEARS!! Then two days, then three. That's as far as I've made it so far, three days. But it's something, ya know? It gives me a little hope. So if I gotta little faith, sweetie I'm hoping that it'll come to you too!! Very soon!! Sorry this was so long, just wanted to get it all out!


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