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.

How to save a life....

I never considered myself a good role model. I drink, I party, I have tattoos, I have sex, yadda, yadda, yadda… Needless to say, I am not a Catholic Churchs’ favorite person. But I do stand by myself when I say, I’m a good person. Borderline decent. With that being said, my latest “get me into heaven” project has been to take the girl who sort of ended my most recent relationship, and fix her.

She’s a beautiful girl (when her mouth is shut), but otherwise, she’s childish, obsessive, tactless, and has no respect for herself.  Don’t get me wrong, she is a good person, just lost. As a high-heeled feminist, I pity her because she’s the type of female men use and abuse.

One evening we were sharing stories about our mutual ex and she claims he became violent with her, and she inquired if he ever put his hands on me. My exact answer was, “Nope, because he knows I would have killed him”. She started crying, wondering why most of the men in her life have been physically abusive toward her. I simply told her because she is weak and because (they think) they can. No matter how much they hurt her, in any manner of the word “hurt”, she would crawl back to them when they want her to. That’s what I am determined to fix.

The past few weeks have been very, for lack of a better term, difficult. In trying to “fix” her, I have taken her obsession away from our ex and placed it upon myself. She tells everyone she and I are best friends, or in one instance, after buying me a faux diamond ring, I was her wife. I’m an anti-social person, who lacks patience, and I’m slowly finding out this project is way over my head.

I also wanted to learn something from her; maybe a different understanding of women, or what makes certain people tick.  But as harsh at it may sound, there is nothing for me to learn.  Everything she experiences now, I went through when I was 15.  Or the worst part, she puts herself in these situations on purpose. She knows what the outcome will be, but she acts anyway.

Is it wrong that I help her? Or am I being egotistical in thinking I can?  Either way, I think I’m the wrong person for this job.

Yes, I am a man hater.

Kim Catrall’s character from Sex and the City said it best when she said, “Men cheat for the same reason a dog licks themselves. Because they can”.

What is the definition of a man? I don’t mean the biological, “I have a penis” definition.  I suppose a better way to pose the question is, what defines a man? Moreover, a “good” man?  Most men would say that a “real” man is tough, doesn’t give in to emotion, spits, scratches their balls in public, and of course, the more women  they get in bed, the higher on the “man ladder” they are. My definition, however, says a man is honest, protective, but not possessive, funny, smart, and loyal. The sad thing is, I’ve only seen these attributes in one man…my brother. Why? Because he was surrounded by women for 23 years.

If we look back at history, even the most respected men couldn’t keep it in their pants. John Adams was rumored to have sent General Pickering to Europe to obtain mistresses. Thomas Jefferson fathered many illegitimate children from Sally Hemings. FDR had an affair with Lucy Page Mercer. Apparently, being in a wheel chair didn’t stop him from chasing tail. And there’s JFK. His affair pisses me off the most because what moron cheats on Jackie O’?  

This shows women that men don’t want a classy, intellectual girl. They want the easy ones because it’s less work. Those presidents had it made with their wives, and they screwed it up. Could you imagine Obama cheating on Michelle? That would be one domestic dispute I’d love to see.  Now men use excuses like, “I have commitment issues”, “I just want to have fun”, or the most recent popular excuse, “I’m a sex addict”. Bite me.

Someone please explain this to me. Why is monogamy harder to control then the damn economy? Why can’t love (and great sex) be enough for a man? No wonder women are crazy. We devote all this time to be perfect for them, and they just laugh in our faces whilst groping another girl on the front porch.

Not to say all women are innocent. Women cheat and lie like any other man. But the worst women are the man stealers.  You see, women have this power that all straight men worship; it’s located between our legs. Man stealers see a man they want, don’t care if he has a significant other, and they pursue.  Those women abuse the power the God has given them to hurt others, and spread herpes.

My solution for adulterous men and women? Castration!  Congratulations to me. I just solved all the world’s problems.

The worst part of it all, the “good” women are left with two options: suffering and heartache. Or we take them back and forever wonder if they’re being faithful. I would like to pretend I’m Super Woman and say “f--- that” to those options, but that pesky love-thing gets in the way. Our heads are filled with mixed thoughts, hurt feelings, and good memories of the relationship.  So what do we do? Forgive and forget? Or attempt to move on, when in reality you lose eight pounds in three days and cry yourself to sleep.  Castration sounds nice, huh?

Do you think I'm pretty?

They say “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”. Well, what my eye is beholding, I’m not a fan of.

For years I struggled with my physical image. I had every eating disorder under the sun, I never went anywhere without make up on, and looking in the mirror was a difficult and emotional task. Probably for the same reason most people go through similar events, I wanted to be…beautiful.

As a kid, I would dream about waking up as someone else, someone beautiful. My life would start all over and everything would be perfect. Now, I dream someone will give me a few thousand dollars for plastic surgery. Any sugar mommas in the house?

I realize most women are in my boat; even those perfect women that I envy have their “ugly” days. More importantly, everyone has flaws; no one is perfect, and if they claim to be, I’m sure their personality is what makes them ugly.  But why can’t I be happy in my own skin, flaws and all? Or why can’t I be seen as the person that I am, not the size of my hips?

I would like to blame men or the media for the harsh way I look at myself; men all have this illusion of what women should look like, while the media pressures women to be perfect. Sure, we can blame them for all of our problems, but we should be looking at ourselves, too. We might be impressionable, some more than others, but I’ll give the finger to any magazine or man who thinks they can try and change me.

Not to say wanting to look your best is a bad thing; even after this epiphany, I still want a boob job. The difference is I’m doing it for myself. Not my boyfriend. Not to impress others. Me. Because if I’m going to have these hips, I want boobs to balance them out. But I digress.

It doesn’t matter what you want to do, as long as you do it for the right reason. The old expression, “you must love yourself before you can love others”, is quite accurate. People and their relationships (love, friendship, or otherwise) can be destroyed because of a beauty complex. Don’t ever expect for the person you love to fill whatever void you had beforehand.  That’ll never happen and it’s not fair to either of you. You’re a person, not a charity case. Love yourself first, and then you can love others. And if that means dying your hair purple and getting a spray tan, more power to you.

 Perfection is a pipe dream that people have been chasing for years. It has no true definition when it comes to humans, and honestly, has no place in my world. If everyone looked the same, the world would be incredibly dull and who would want that?

Take a moment and look at yourself, look at your flaws and embrace them. Those are the things that make us human. We can complain about them, embrace them, or fix them, as long as we recognize that no matter what, we are beautiful.

Forgiveness

Forgiveness. We’re taught to forgive people no matter the situation. We’re taught it’s the right thing to do and you always want to be the “bigger person”. Or we’re taught to forgive them, even if they’re not sorry. I say, f--- that.

Everyone makes mistakes. No one is perfect. Those aspects are what makes us human. We all say or do things that can potentially hurt others, but when is it ok not to forgive?  And can not forgiving someone be justified? I like to believe that forgiveness, like trust or respect, should be earned. One cannot assume that just because the person you hurt is “good”, they will forgive you right away. That would make the “good” people everywhere pushovers.

Because of my past and current situations, I have a lot of patience and a high tolerance for certain things; rude people, immaturity, drunken fights, etc. Strictly because I would hate for someone not to forgive me because of something stupid I said whilst intoxicated.  It happens. I’ll admit when I’m wrong, and then bake them cookies. Forgiveness granted.

What I can’t, and will never forgive, is dishonesty.  I have never been able to wrap my mind around a good reason to lie to a person. Why? Because there isn’t a good reason to lie, ever! Even in the event of sparing a person’s feelings, just be honest.  If they find out you lied, you suffer consequences of them not forgiving you. But your conscience is clear if you’re honest. You’ve done nothing wrong. However, if you’ve done something that can hurt others, be honest. Though it may have been a mistake, or not, the right thing to do is to tell the truth. It hurts less that way. But then that begs the question, should you forgive people if they hurt you, even if they were honest. Though it may seem like a copout answer, it depends on the situation and how badly you’re hurt.

I’m a firm believer in not forgiving people if they lie to you. It shows they have no concern for your feelings, not to mention, a lack of respect for you. Consider this, if everyone in the world was honest, we would have more forgiveness, and potentially, peace. And who doesn’t want that?

Why I Write

Rainforest

I remember my mother picking on me as a child because I was always wasting paper.  She said that I killed the rainforest.

As a child, I wrote short stories about any and everything. They didn’t make sense, nor were they very good, but I wrote them and they were mine to love. Writing has always been something that appealed to me, and just like Orwell, I knew I was meant to write. I’m just not sure in what capacity.

At first, I wanted to be a music journalist, covering all the famous bands and musicians, and to have my name published in Rolling Stone Magazine…that would be the end all, be all. But since the decline of main stream music, I lost interest. I never had the want, nor the patience to write a book, so that was never a goal I set. Now, I’m all about columns. Ever since I got my first taste of being a columnist two years ago, it's all i want. For one reason only, the freedom. Whatever I think or say goes. There are no limitations, no rules, it’s a freeing experience.

Being a columnist gives me a sense of accomplishment. It allows me to bring out my creative side, while having the ability to speak my mind. Whenever an idea pops in my head, I grab whatever is around me and quickly jot it down, even if I’m sleeping. My worst nightmare is writer’s block. I know it happens to all of us, even the greats, but the feeling is crippling. And then of course, I’m constantly changing things. Nothing is ever done until it’s pried out of my hands. Writing for me is an obsession, really.