A Pessimistic's Guide to Overcoming Addiciton

 

How to overcome being weak, and prospering as a functional, not-so-useless human being:

Step one: Admit that you have a problem, it exists and it’s killing you. You have to face your addiction in one of two ways: easing off or going cold turkey. Easing off means you slowly stop; you have those few last sips, last puffs, snorts, needles, pills, kisses… Cold turkey means you just stop. Those objects don’t exist, those times never happened, that person is dead and gone. Come one, come all addicts…pick your poison.

Step two: Admit what you were doing was wrong. That everyone’s pain and suffering, including your own, is your fault. You’re to blame for all of this tragedy and you lost many loved ones because of it. Try not to fall off the wagon during this step.

Step three: Change your life drastically. It’s a fresh start and a new you. Every day is a task that will be daunting. Do you think you have the strength? Probably not, you think. Hence why changing your life might help; rearrange your furniture, run regularly, eat healthy, start dancing, read more, make new friends, stop dancing, watch television, get motivated! It’s all about motivation and positivity, until night falls and you’re reaching for them. You shake, you cry, you scream; “If I could just have them once more. Just one drag, scratch, taste, touch, I would never do it again. I promise,” you say aloud, as if there is a God that actually listens.

Step four: Destroy any memory or materials that could tempt you into going back. You say you have will power, but your “will power” was never there in the first place. Ergo, you became a pathetic addict and now you’re out of control. Your “will” will fail you. Flee from any temptation (this is why taking up running is a good idea. You’ll be doing a lot of it).

Step five: Learn from this. You were a dumbass for even getting involved with these shenanigans, at least learn something from it all. If not from the damage you inflicted upon yourself, from the pain you're feeling during this whole “overcoming” process. You probably won’t want to go through this all over again… then you're back at being a dumbass.

Finally, step six: Give yourself time. Those track marks in your arms and between your toes will heal eventually, your nose will stop bleeding, that sensation in your chest will stop (even if he is just two blocks down), and your mouth will stop salivating at the sight of a shot glass.  Time actually does heal all wounds, but waiting is the worst and most tempting part.

Keepin' it....safe!

*this post is a soap box I have stood on for a few years about the importance of sexual education of teens. I had this published in a bilingual newspaper as a column, so I thought I would keep spreading the "soap".

We all went through it, the “talk” with our moms and dads.  We sat there, uncomfortable, roling our eyes so far back, we could almost see our brains.  They said words like “intercourse” or “condoms” and we wanted to run away in embarrassment: “How do you know what that is?”, we would think to ourselves. But they know, they know every gruesome detail, and most likely, so do your teens.

                Like most things in life, education is key. No parent wants to become a grandparent while his kids are still in high school. It’s important that parents sit their teens down and explain to them the importance of safe sex and the responsibility that comes with it. Otherwise, they will figure it out on their own, and find out the hard way.

According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, in 2009 34% of teens had sex, and 39% of those teens had unprotected sex. Moreover, 14% of teens had more than four partners by the time they were seniors in high school, more than 8,000 people between the ages of 13-24 reported to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention had been infected with HIV, half of reported STDs are among 15-24 year olds, and over 400,000 babies were born from teenage girls 15-19 years old (http://www.cdc.gov/HealthyYouth/sexualbehaviors/).

The Illinois Department of Health reports that there are more than 20 diseases transmitted sexually; however, they go untreated because of a lack of getting tested and diagnosis. In such cases, many diseases, like chlamydia, have no symptoms but serious consequences.  For women, not treating chlamydia can lead to future miscarriages, infertility, pelvic inflammatory disease, and expectant mothers can infect their fetus.  For men, the symptoms are rare. The infection can spread throughout the penis and can cause fever, pain, arthritis, skin lesions, and sterility.  But many doctors say that this disease is on a lower level (http://www.idph.state.il.us/public/respect/hiv_fs.html).

The IDPH also reports that most high school teenagers throughout the U.S. had sex, the average age being 15.  Furthermore, at first, teenagers use condoms to seem mature and responsible.  But eventually stop when trust is built.  Fewer than half of men and women use condoms, and some teens reported using illegal substances before engaging in sexual activity (http://www.idph.state.il.us/public/respect/hiv_fs.html).

              There is no possible way to stop teens from engaging in sex or sex-related activities.  But there is a way to keep them informed and hope they stay safe.  The CDC’s website promotes sexual health amongst teens, and provides 11 ways to stay safe.  On the list, the CDC mentions: keeping teens informed of STDs, HIV/Aids, and ways to prevent pregnancy, the different methods of contraceptives, and risky behaviors to avoid. Good parents will do anything to protect your children from harm. Be responsible and teach your teens how to protect themselves.

        

http://www.cdc.gov/teenpregnancy/AboutTeenPreg.html

http://www.idph.state.il.us/public/respect/hiv_fs.html

http://www.cdc.gov/HealthyYouth/sexualbehaviors/

http://www.std-gov.org/stds/chlamydia.html

       

Anything you can do, I can do better...

The objectification of women has always been a hot-button issue. For men, some agree that women should have more respect for themselves, while others see a half naked female pining for any attention she can get and they use it to their advantage. It’s scary but, unfortunately, true.

When it comes to women, there are the few that love the attention and have some “issue” in their life to blame their less-than-respectful-ways upon…insert daddy issues here. Or there are the feminists who fight for gender equality, respect from men, and work hard to be “one of the boys”. Those women look down on the attention-seeking women and cringe.

Then there are women like myself, who are intelligent enough to use men’s stupidity to my advantage. I am objectified on a nightly basis as a bar tender on Bourbon Street. As soon as I smile at a male customer and he tells me how hot he thinks I am or other not so polite comments, I know I own him. Or at least his wallet. I’ll get him to buy me shots to increase my sales and keep reaching in his pockets for more tips. And all I have to do is smile, bat my eyelashes, flirt, or shake my hips when I walk. These hips are made for shakin’… Sure, there are times I lean over the cooler so they can check out my butt, but I have bills to pay and Loyola is NOT cheap.

My mentality on this is men will objectify me no matter what I do or how I act. As a woman, I have what they want and therefore, I am an object. It’s a disgusting and less than flattering theory because I know I’m more than that. I’m an intellectual and responsible female, and just because I have a vagina doesn’t mean I’m less than that. But since nothing really can be done, why not play the game right back? Why not use this knowledge to my advantage? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t take off my clothes or let anyone touch me (I usually threaten them if they try); I respect myself way too much for that. But if they can look at me and make sexually explicit comments, manipulation means pay back.  

Christmas trees and Shot glasses

When I think of Christmas, I think about three things: too much food, a miserable family gathering, and my siblings and I gather round three shot glasses filled with rum to prepare for all of this. We all sit around my grandmother’s kitchen table and things get loud and petty really quick. It doesn’t take long before someone is angry and storms off and we don’t hear from them for months, or my aunt says something vicious and childish. Ho, ho, ho…Either way, that part of Christmas is not fun. Do you see why the shots are necessary?

It’s not all bad though. Before all the crazy people come over, we do our own traditional “opening of the gifts” part. My siblings, dogs, and I wait at the top of the stairs until our mom calls us down to see what Santa brought us. We sit in a circle in front of the tree and begin opening gifts. First the pups. (Yes, I’m serious. Our dogs literally unwrap presents). They unwrap rawhide bones, squeaky toys, and other stuffed toys that won’t make it until New Years.

Then my mom crawls under the tree and pulls out an array of presents; “From Aunt Liz to Jessica. From Adam to Grandma…” My favorite part is watching my mom open her gifts. Any chance my siblings and I can show my mom how much we appreciate her, we’ll take.

For years, my mom struggled being a single mom of three. She provided for us, giving us everything we needed and tried to give us some semblance of a normal childhood. We did without a lot of things growing up, and that greatly affected my mom. She still questions her value as a mom and it saddens her that we weren’t raised like the “other kids”. But she doesn’t realize how grateful we are to have been raised the way we were. My mom, brother and sister are my world, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I know most people say this, but I have the greatest mom in the world. She never put herself first and sacrificed so much to make sure we were happy kids. She was, and still is, always there for me, and I wouldn’t be half the person I was without my mom. So Christmas, for me, means giving back to her. She never bought anything “nice” for herself; from clothes, shoes, jewelry, books, movies, perfume, make up, we try to spoil our best to spoil our mom. Giving her everything she’s ever wanted and thanking her for being selfless. This Christmas, go above and beyond for your mothers or fathers (or whomever raised you), because without them, Christmas wouldn’t be nearly as special. Merry Christmas!

On the surface is deeper than you think...

They make my mom cringe, my lover’s eyes widen, and customers usually tip me extra if I show them off. I’m speaking, of course, about my tattoos.

I got my first tattoo when I was 17 and stupid. I didn’t know what I wanted, but it was cheap and I was underage. It was perfect. They’re two black and white sparrows on my lower abdomen, with tiny stars on their tails. I appropriately named them Lucy and Ethel, because I was in so much trouble when my mom saw them two weeks after. They aren’t the perfect tattoo; lines are off and they aren’t exactly equivalent, but they are my first attempt at being a rebel.

My second tattoo is sort of an ode to my favorite Batman villain, Harley Quinn (the Joker’s sidekick). It’s not the character herself, but it’s a harlequin face with a spike crashing through it. Located on my lower back, I love this tattoo because of the memory that goes with it; life kept throwing curveballs at me and I was in a very dark place, and I needed to feel something more than just numbness. My sister and I went together and she held my head in her arms, while Henry (my forever tattoo artist) tattooed away all my problems. It’s strange how a needles driving through your skin can be so therapeutic.

My third is a tribute to my late music teacher/grandfather figure on my left hip. It’s the beginning of Moonlight Sonata, surrounded by red lilies. My very first clarinet lesson, Mr. Mannino played music while I set up. He said it was his favorite and because of him, it’s one of my favorites too. I know, it’s cliché, but being cheesy every now and again is fine. This man meant the world to me; there’s no reason I couldn’t suffer for four hours for him.

My fourth tattoo is an extension from my harlequin tattoo. It is vine work, wrapped around my hips; one side lighter than the other to give it some character. This tattoo was a self-esteem booster. It covers “imperfections” I had and now my hips are beautiful. I gave Henry free range with my body with this project. I told him he could go as artistic as he wanted. As always, he did a great job.

My fifth, and certainly not the last, tattoo is probably my favorite (for now). I had the worst things happen to me simultaneously and somehow managed to pull through. It’s on my right shoulder blade, and it says, “Je suis ne pour etre courageux” (with the accents where necessary). Translated to, “I was born to be brave”, because I was. I’m stronger and wiser now than I was even a few months ago and this tattoo is a reminder of my battles and overcoming them. And yes, it is a Lady Gaga reference.

My tattoos are a part of me like any of my limbs or organs. They don’t define who I am, but they are little colorful anecdotes of my life.

Not for our younger viewers....

*WARNING: This post is not for the sexually timid, prude, or close-minded. Read with caution.

I see your eyes piercing through me with that intimidating stare. My knees buckle. I’m trying to resist. I’m trying to hold back. But it’s hard to control my animalistic nature. “Touch me,” I want to whisper.

I reach for you in my sleep. Not the kind of reach that I’m searching for you, but the kind where I want to pull you closer. The kind of reach where I grab at my sheets and bite my lower lip; my toes curl, back arches, heart pounds, body quivers. Dripping…

I want your body on mine; the taste of your sweat on my tongue, your nails down my back, and your hands gripping my hips. Bite marks and bruises. Breathlessly I say your name.

It might sound like lust, it feels like it too. But my mind wonders to places beyond your bedroom. Like your kitchen, cooking breakfast in the morning. Or your sofa, watching TV and talking about our day. Your arms wrapped around me, holding tightly. Your heart; I want to be “your girl”.

Only time can tell what your heart decides; stay and bare the pain. Or start over, and have a chance at happiness and peace. Only time can heal your wounds, but I’d love to help you bandage them. It’s not about forgiveness; it’s about moving on.

Control can only go so far when I know you deserve better. When I know how badly you’re hurting and I want to comfort you. When I know how she failed you.

But for now, I wait patiently. Hoping you see the good person I am, and the respect I have for you. And I hope one day, I can give you all of me; my heart, body, and soul.

What's in a name?

I grew up ‘Erica Lauren Colbenson’, but my family called me ‘Emma’ or ‘M’ for short. The nickname was given to me by my grandmother who has four daughters and an array of granddaughters. When angry, she would yell at us from the bottom of the stairs; “Mary, Liz, Annette, Judy, Jessica, Erica…God damnit!” We referred to it as “role call”.

One particular evening she yelled at me to go pick up my back pack and mess from the kitchen table. Insert role call here. Finally flabbergasted, she said, “For Christs’ sake, your name is Emma.” It stuck. Everyone in my family calls me Emma. It doesn’t help with role call; if anything, it makes it longer. But it makes me feel special. And the best part is, I can always tell when I’m in trouble. With “Emma”, I’m safe. With “Erica Lauren”, I’m not so safe.

My name also says, “Erica Colbenson is NOT a daddy’s girl.” My father’s name is a part of who I am, but that’s all he has ever given me.  I’ve considered changing my name to “Erica St. James” or “Erica Lauren” and just not have a middle name.  But changing my name does not change me identity. It does not change my lifeline or my past. And it certainly does not give me my father back­­. My name represents everything that I am and everything I’m not. Everything I have and everything I never had.