The old house at Homestead del fugi(image © 2005 fugitive247) [see more]

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I had a sneaking suspicion that I'd be posting two entries today, but I didn't think it'd be quite so soon for this one. Who knows- maybe there will be a 3rd w/i 24 hours? It's been a looong time since that's happened. Place yer bets!

Well, several folks have been wanting my undivided attention in some manner (via email or IM mostly) with the expectation of recieving news about the Casa del fugi crew. Apologies, but I simply do not have time for individual replies. Besides, I respect my genuinely interested family of the blood and/or the heart too much to pull an outmoded, duplicate cut-n-paste on y'all. However, one request in particular warranted this post. Everyone reading can thank my groovy li'l seester for her appreciated concern. The Blessing Box (Master Ho's Reality Box [site] [chat]) update below should help fill in some blanks. I only wish I could've kept some of this to myself until complete facts are in...

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Dear Ho and Boxers,

It's been a challenging time of late. A few weeks ago I found a disturbing almond-sized, tender lump in my left breast. Given that my mom had a double mastectomy this past summer, I'm more than a little concerned. I just turned 40, so my first mamogram is really called for ASAP. At least head-wise, I'm thrilled to announce that it's been 5 months since I ditched the bipolar meds. At 10.5 years clean & sober now, I've been blessed these past 159 days to finally start learning who the real "me" is. It's about f*cking time, huh? Best thing is, I can genuinely say that I like me today. ;oD

[Goofy #1] seems to be having various difficulties. I'm hoping that we don't have to travel all over the state of Arkansas to get all the medical services he needs. Right now we know he needs new PT/OT/ST/LD evals and a vision test prior to an upcoming EIP meeting. He was also supposed to have his annual neurology checkup in December, but it's not like we're still in Florida. Nearest neuro is a two hour round trip. Gas is expensive here and my cards don't have much wiggle room left.

[Goofy #2] has been a fast-forward calamity waiting to happen since he's been off his regular ADHD meds. I'm hoping like crazy that a local pediatrician will be willing to do meds management vs. us having to trek out to heaven knows where and how often.

Thank Goddess Patrick's reasonably healthy. Plus, he may be eligible for Medicaid since he's pretty much considered to be my caretaker and my SSD is our only regular income. Can't wait until the time comes when we're stable enough housing-wise and financially, that I can finally get off disability. After all, that's one of the main reasons we left Florida, where the system is designed to keep people enslaved to it.

In the meantime, it looks like I need to get the Arkansas assistance ball rolling. Then the medical issues can be professionally addressed. I don't anticipate any major differences in operation except the expediency with which cases may be processed. From what I've heard, the state services can operate at the speed of turtles racing uphill.

Housing-wise, we've been renting a potentially nice place in town since the structure on our 30 acres is currently uninhabitable. Problems with the rental are: costs certainly do not justify the rent (about as energy efficient as cheesecloth), the roof leaks in several spots including the boys' bedroom (landlord had allegedly worked on repairs this past summer- HA!!!), and it is local slumlord SOP to not give renters the legal security of a lease. Add to this that there's not even a state clause for eminence of domain... We want out. Big time. I hope that February will be our last month in this place.

Pat and I have been working on securing a construction loan which would absorb the balance owed on our land. We had paid more than half down when we purchased our diamond in the rough. We're close to settling on building plans for our home, barn and workshop. The construction loan (many available with zero closing costs) would require that only the interest be paid while in the 12 month construction period. Upon completion we can go with a nice, safe 30 year fixed FHA mortgage like we had on the Florida townhouse. And once we're locked into the FHA, we'll be eligible for the homesteading tax exemption and other cool perks and programs.

For now, though, Pat and I need to find a workable childcare situation for [Goofy #2]. Then we can bust our butts on getting the existing structure safe enough for general habitation where the boys are concerned. This will only be long enough to get the workshop, which will have a cozy two bedroom apartment on the 2nd floor, built. Then the old house gets demo-ed, and so on, and so on... Plus, I'm kind of funny in that I much prefer to pay my own sanely priced mortgage than some slumlord's insane rental rate. Not to mention that even roughing it for a short while in the old house will at least have our crew in the location where I can get a jump on starting some seedlings for spring planting, get new pens and a coop constructed, and give the boys ample space for being the happy, active little guys they are.

May our family's listing please be amended to something like "smooth regional services transition", "appropriate, competent medical services", "acceptable childcare arrangement", and "successful housing transition"?

Thanks to all of you who continue to keep Pat, [the Goofies] and me in your positive thoughts and prayers. We truly do appreciate it.

Brightest Blessings,

Chris a/k/a fugi (fugitive247)

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Okay... "Downtime is mine!" sayeth the fugi. Now I don't know whether to play with some beading designs or take a much needed nap. Before I forget... I'm getting ready to ditch LJ as my blog host. When the time comes there will be no announcement, no fanfare, no forwarding URL. There will simply be no new entries here. If anyone really wants to find me it won't require a degree in rocket surgery. I'm just tired of many so-called internet communities. After 9 years it's become much like clapping with one hand. I guess that's the price one must pay for being a hexagonal peg. I'm not claiming terminal uniqueness by a long shot, but I sure don't fit into the square or round holes. Thank goodness I have no compelling desire nor need to do so. I adore the wonderful friends (family of the heart) I've been blessed to encounter here in Cyberia, and I wish to keep my genetic and "Big Room" families abreast of... whatever. It is for these reasons only that I mention this. In the meantime, stay tuned or ask me if you'd like to recieve blog update notifications. *~*~*yaaaaaawn*~*~* Yeah, naptime first, then beads! My love to y'all!!!

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Glass Coffin image © Coffin It Up [visit]

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Daily reprieve #3,794

The old man has been talking to me again. He told his "draft picks" way back when that if we ever published our fourth steps online he'd haunt us. You're damned right I'll keep this perpetual fourth step going just for that reason alone. Its location may change, but my intent will always remain the same. Besides, we're only as sick as our secrets, or so I've been told. ;oD

Well, this recent series of his chidings has revolved around a concept that I couldn't really comprehend 10 years ago. Now it's time I start fleshing out my present understanding of it. When he was still physically on this plane, Tommy used to talk about this guy in a glass casket. The deceased was him, and he only came to fill that container gradually. Heck, it took him more than 20 years, and I bet only his old sponsor really knew what percentage of "disease Tommy" was in there by the time he truly recovered.

The point is that the glass casket is a visual metaphor for that which we strive to shed during our stint on this crazy rock. What it contains at any given time is solely up to its owner. It's basic to picture oneself in repose, probably in much the same physical disarray we were upon our surrender. But what about the intangibles? By these I refer to all the guilt, resentments, charecter defects, and so forth. By what symbols do we recognize these?

For the first time, right here and now, I'm going to attempt a rough inventory of what's currently in my glass casket. I'd be lying my ass off if I claimed that I don't occasionally remove certain artifacts at select times. Those not even remotely qualified to take my personal inventory will surely deem the next paragraph or two as justification, rationalization, whatever. Anyone so inclined had best remember that often what we find objectionable in others is frequently a mirror of our own flaws. At least I don't pull my punches. Got a problem with this? Call your sponsor, period.

So, what's in my casket?

Me, 29 years old. Not quite 130 pounds soaking wet. Skinny as hell, thanks to the steady diet of booze (rarely lame old beer), cocaine in several formulations, LSD, PCP, amphetamines, pain killers, muscle relaxers... The sparse meat on my bones is only attributable to marijuana munchies. The rest is hair, ass, boobs, and makeup. Corpus delecti is clad in a miniskirt cut up to there, skin-tight spaghetti strap top cut down to there, nylons, and black spike heels. Subject is wearing an assortment of ink venue stamps on hands and numerous thin, flimsy, colored plastic admission bracelets on wrists. There is a blanket of various ticket stubs and event flyers spread about the container.

Other items include: a cue stick (ego in overdrive), several sets of car and house keys (things lost), smoldering religious texts (quest for my HPs), many silver coins (theft based on resentment), an old ladies' digital watch with a clear plastic band (pointless theft), a micrometer (my ultimate resentment), a pocket-sized digital scale (criminal activity), Metrorail fare cards (escapism), a worn-out "little black book" (rampant promiscuity)...

Then there are the things that have been retro-fitted/reverse engineered because they still hold some purpose: weaponry into computers, aluminum foil into cookware, defaulted loans into decent credit, eviction notices into deeds and titles, flashy clothing into household linens, excessive shoes and accessories into kids books and toys, fake nails and sunless tanning crap into DYI texts and materials, piles of fast food into mountians of wonderful from-scratch home cooking...

Sure, there's still lots of stuff that needs to find a final resting place in my glass casket. This is just its current status. One thing's for sure, despite the physical effects of time on my person, in Gestalt terms I'm still quite better today than that bitch in the box. Goofy #2's bedtime story tonight was Margery Williams' "The Velveteen Rabbit". There was one section that best captures the essence of how I feel today:

"What is REAL?" asked Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?" "Real isn't how you're made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real." "Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit. "Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt." "Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?" "It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't always happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be perfectly kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and are very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

Thank you for being part of my personal revelation tonight. Bright Blessings and {{{hugs}}} to anyone who wants 'em.

Chris a/k/a fugi

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I love Sticker Giant!!!

I'm looking forward to this upcoming week. My gut intuition tells me it's going to be fantabulous. Pat has worked nothing short of various miracles on a few Xboxes previously thought to be permanently dead. They'll be ready to list soon. And yes, you're damned right that I will be handling the sales. Here's my eBay-Fu for anyone who's interested... >>scope it<<

Since I will be setting up a small space for a photo studio this week, I will also start taking pics of some of my one-of-a-kind jewelry designs and other functional art. These will not be offered on eBay as both their and PayPal's fees negate any savings I can pass on to potential buyers. Once displayed in a manner consistent with my exacting standards, they will be available at the Casa Emporium. That section of Casa del fugi isn't laid out yet, so no sneak peeks are available at the moment. Yes, an announcement to that effect will be forthcoming very, very soon. ;oD

This weekend has been good so far. The van was in the shop Friday for front brakes and a rotor. Damage was $217. I had budgeted $150 for brakes alone even with my mechanic's $90 special, but only an absolute idiot would risk not only their vehicle, but potentially the very lives of family and strangers alike, on procrastinating repair of such a vital piece of equipment. Anyway, since we were sans wheels most of the day, the goofies got a reprieve from their normal activites. No complaints here. Heaven knows it's easier to have them here on a weekday, unhurried and safe, than asking folks at the last minute to shuttle at least Tiger to and from his very nearby school. As soon as we're able, though, we will be a two-vehicle family- believe it!

Yesterday was pretty good, too. Since we had the fugimobile back, we were able to trek beachside on a business errand. Normally this would've gone unmentioned except for a reality check I recieved while waiting in the van as Pat conducted his camel trading. The shop is in a strip mall only a few doors down from a bar that was once my home-away-from-home for more years than I'd care to admit. Heck, Mom called me at that bar the night I took my first white chip on October 7, 1989. That story is somewhere online... Anyway!

The regulars I remembered who were entering and exiting that dive hadn't really changed, population-wise, in all those years. However, they all looked like utter shit in some fashion. The biggest commonality amongst them was their collective aura of "beaten-downness". Mind you, I hadn't even drank/used with these folks since 10/07/89. Back then many of them still held their heads high and had twinkles of hope in their eyes. Sadly, it just isn't so for them today. It just made me realize how abso-f*cking-lutely blessed I am to be relieved from the bondage of that insanity one day at a time. Likewise, I am praying that much harder for folks who are less fortunate on so many levels.

Well, the entire Casa del fugi crew is now up and about. It's currently 10:15 am. I know these guys have been jonesing for a mountain of pancakes... Ciao for now!

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Pic taken today, holding snapshot from July 1995.

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Lordy, lordy - fugi's 40!!!

Today is one huge f*cking milestone for this chick. Before this 3rd (HP willing, last) round of one-day-at-a-times nobody held much hope I'd make it to age 30. Even 40 had been a long shot for a broader period than I'd care to admit...

Got a powerful gift today from some soon-to-no-longer-be-strangers. A few weeks ago Pat found an incredible internet radio station while testing some settings on an Xbox: 9412 The Rock Station. (visit) This fully member-supported station isn't only about the music; it's about the community as well. I've been taking the occasional break from cranking out HTML to hang in their chatroom. TheCount was taking requests for 3-packs, so I figured I had nothing to lose.

There are so many songs that I could arrange into an all-too-complete musical autobiography. This afternoon I could only choose three. Goddess, please bless The Count and all the wonderful folks who shared those very emotionally intense moments with me in the chat. It's doubtful that any explanation is needed for my selections and their order.

1. "Mr. Brownstone" (Guns 'N Roses) lyrics
2. "Desperado" (Eagles) lyrics
3. "Amazing" (Aerosmith) lyrics

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Since I've been contemplating this day for a while, y'all are gonna have to suck it up. Here's just a smattering of observations I've been jotting for the past month...

Things I've learned in 40 years:

There's a difference between the improbable and the impossible. Research the former before decreeing the latter. I'd rather be fat and happy than skinny and psychotic. Love doesn't divide; it multiplies. Procreation is a given. Life is a gift. Contraception is a choice. When the Shit Fairy leaves you a huge steaming pile, turn as much of it as possible into fertilizer. The degree of an individual's disability is often directly proportional to their self-perception. "[Higher Power], please drop a large, heavy boulder on [jerkazoid]'s head so I don't have to," and "[Higher Power], please give [buttmunch] everything s/he deserves," are fair prayers. When having f2f dealings with customer service reps, always keep a red pen blatantly visible in your hand. Clear barrelled gel sticks work best. "Promises" are too easily broken and carry little credibility. On major personal issues only one's word of honor should be given or accepted. There are very few truly stupid questions. Perfection is overrated. There is no such thing as a perfect parent. Time does "wound all heels." The only thing that delays this is the lack of a cosmic fast-forward button. Thank goodness for the divine interventions of instant karma. Laughter may be the best medicine, but its effectiveness is amplified when mixed with love."

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Symbolic on so many levels, no? ;oD © 2005 fugitive247

Happy flippin' Monday, y'all... Almost made another entry two hours following the last one. The fit had hit the shan royally. I've been under too much stress lately as it is, and I hit maximum overload big time late Friday afternoon. At this rate it'll be no small miracle if I am/remain pregnant. Yeah, it's been that f*cking insane... With any luck I'll finally improve on my H.A.L.T. status later on today.

The Culprits:

• Still no physical address for AZ property. Can't do anything more towards relocating until it's assigned.
• Townhouse complex repairs to begin soon. In addition to higher association fees, can't list our unit until work is completed. Kick in the head is that our unit sustained zero damage from last hurricane season.
• The fugimobile's been down since 10:00 am Thursday morning. Died en route from Tom's PT session to his school. Finally got it into a garage Saturday morning, but it won't be looked at until several hours from now.
• The latter has resulted in:
• laundry not being able to be carted to 'Topher's
• grocery shopping not performed
• Tom missing 2 days from school. Thank Goddess 'Topher's taking him to school this morning, and probably picking him up later!
• Colin missing Friday & today's pre-K
• Since our idiot governor, Jeb Bush, caved in to the AARP buttmunches, the so-called Florida Medicaid reform has screwed my family!!!
• None of Tom's, and most of Colin's ADHD meds are now covered.
• Their well-established P-doc's office is no longer an approved service provider.
• Unless I can pull a rabbit out of my hat, Tom will be sans his main ADHD med by Wednesday.

Gawd- I'd scream at the top of my lungs right now, but I don't want to wake up the guys. Heck, Colin will be up by 6:00 anyway... Nope. Not gonna do it. Got enough time before then to start a fresh pot of coffee and add what I can to what will hopefully become the internet's longest Gratitude List. It's right here...

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Clicking will open blog entry, 3,653 Days & One Million Nights, in a new window.

Had an IM conversation earlier with someone getting out of rehab tomorrow. For the sake of anonymity, I'll just call him "D." This chat wasn't initiated through contact via the 12-Step Recovery Instant Messenger Cooperative. Patrick and D were discussing gaming consoles. While chatting, Pat was surfing D's items for sale online. He noticed some text indicating D's clean date. Five months.

Pat asked me to hop into their IM session. I identified myself to D as Pat's wife. Long story short, D, like so many others, looks like he's setting himself up for failure. He's under the impression that he'll be able to remain functional by staying away from the bar scene, yet drinking, and using only pot. Apparently rehab hasn't educated D on the true nature of addiction, or D simply hasn't had enough insanity from this disease. The latter is practically a given.

Within minutes it became acutely obvious to me that D has zero plans to do so much as develop some sort of support system once he's back out in the real world. In this case I suspect any support he might encounter will be simply be from those willing to co-sign his bullshyt while passing him the bong. F*cking shame, but I'm powerless. Anyway, D lost our business, big time. No way in this lifetime we will knowingly enable an addict, legally or otherwise. Also, who in their right mind would send their electronics to anyone in D's state? Chances are too great that they'd end up being pawned vs. serviced and returned to the rightful owner. Not on a bad bet, pal!

I can only relate my ES&H on the D's of the world. I was one for too many years. It damn near got me killed. All the major recovery literature states some simple truths. "Half measures availed us nothing." (A.A., ch 5, p 59) I hesitate to quote directly from another fellowship's literature since it seems that they're hell-bent on territorial copyright pissing contests more than carrying out their own primary purpose as outlined in their Fifth Tradition. More on this in at least one future entry, believe it. Regardless, the upshot is that most recovery lit also stresses the dangers of substituting one addiction for another.

Anyway, I'm no stranger to 12-step recovery. My first introduction was in 1986 when a close family member began living one day at a time. I am grateful and thrilled to report that since the residents of Casa del fugi are probably going to be stuck in Florida for at least another month, I expect to celebrate her upcoming 19th recovery birthday with her in grand style. It was she who never gave up hope that one day I would "get it" too. I imagine that during my prior two periods of somewhat lengthy abstinence she knew in her gut that I still hadn't hit rock bottom. Folks like me are referred to as "re-treads." Friends, my using tires are bald, plugged "may-pops" with the radial steel poking through. My recovery tires are top-of-the-line Pirellis. I get a new set at the beginning of each day. Can't beat that!

Back to the to my half measures and substitution ES&H... Both previous recovery periods were over 18 months each. I was active in homegroups, service, working the steps, learning the reasons behind the traditions, and delving into the general history of 12 step recovery. The latter was well before my assimilation into the internet, March 1997. Still, I went back to the insanity. Bottom line: I wanted to recover on my terms.

BZZZZZ!!! Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200...

My first relapse started while sharing a house with several other grrrls in the program. The weakest link hadn't gotten the connection between slippery lifestyle choices and relapse. Like an idiot, one night I caved and smoked a joint with her. At first it was no big deal. I'd heard stories about plenty of other folks who did reasonably well on the "marijuana maintenance program." Just don't drink or use anything harder, and go to meetings. Groovy, huh?

BZZZZZ!!! Wrong answer. Care to try for double or nothing?

Within one week I had plateaued on cannabis. Addiction is a disease of "more." In less than a month I was officially back in the war zone. Hell, the first night I drank again I got pretty crunked-up, went bar hopping with some strangers, and ended up with a sprained back. Following my ER visit, I had gotten a hold of a full script bottle of Xanax. I was popping 'em like candy and washing 'em down straight from a 5th of Jack. Things only got worse. Much worse. However, I didn't intend for this entry to become a drug-a-log...

Some relapse war stories are valid when they illustrate the slyly subtle nature of addiction. Fast forward... 1993. Tonsillectomy. Liquid codeine. Relapse cycle began anew, and with a vengeance. Thanks to all my years of "book learning," I mistakenly assumed I was smart enough to bypass the pitfalls of prescribed narcotic pain meds. Shyeah, right!!!

BZZZZZ!!! You just don't f*cking get it, do you?!?

Yeah, I finally got it. I was ultra-paranoid to take any pain meds following both of my goofy's deliveries via C-section. During the post-op for Thomas' I was put on a self-administered morphine dispenser. I utterly refused to self-dose. Patrick and the nurses got so tired of seeing me in pain that they operated the machine despite my protests. I refused the machine following Colin's delivery. However, I did reluctantly agree to take only 10 low-dose vicoprofen under Pat's close supervision.

Some people think it's hunky dory to replace illegal substances with other stuff, and crap like O'Doul's with actual beer. Puh-leeeeze! I drank and drugged to get as fubar as possible. Near beer? Don't think so. And the concept of alcohol-free booze is an oxymoron. Zero proof tequilla? Ha! That's a riot! It's nickname ain't "ta-kill-ya" on a whim, bud.

Wild lettuce certainly isn't "wild" in my book. Salvia? Whatever floats one's boat... Personally, it's the equivalent of throwing me a measly $20 rock- It just pissed me off because it'll never be enough. My experimentation with half measures and workable substitutes ended quite a while ago. Give me reality any day, be it good, bad, or indifferent.

© 2005 fugitive247

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