I think if we are going to attempt to put ourselves back together — we really need to start at the beginning.  How did we get here?  How does one continually self destruct by making others a priority over one self? Or why the hell do I need to sacrifice myself at all?

It would be an easy answer really.  Growing up the priorities were never me, but rather those parent figures.  The intensity of their lives and it’s impact on myself and my sister.

I think it is really important to note that as messed up as it all was – they were truly babies having babies at a time where the focus was about peace, love, drugs and rock and roll.  Did they do their best?  Yes.  Would it stand up to what I would consider my best?  No. But that isn’t really the point, is it?  It was their best.  What they were capable at a time where their lives were just beginning and their own scars were defining their own choices and so on and so fourth.

I owe them a lot.  I know how to be a go0d parent because of them.  I know what not to do and actually get to use some of what they did right in raising my two boys.  And through the process of raising these boys – I got to raise my own inner child in a sound way.

That being said -parents had a very tumultuous relationship. Married young. Two catholic kids raised by die-hard Catholics. Mom was Irish Catholic which is essentially Catholic with a shot of hard core restraint. Or more whiskey? Dad says Mom was pregnant and that they married because of that. Mom denies it and claims she was a virgin. (I ordered their married certificate when I was 33) – Mom’s going to hell. 

The first four years of my life – Dad was in and out. My sister is a year younger than I am.  I remeber lots of fighting. Mom partied a lot. Would leave us at home alone or drop us off at our grandparents house while she had a doctors appointment and come back days later to get us.

When I was about four Dad came for us and moved us North about 9 hours from where all our family and support systems were.  From a city life to a small town existence. Their union barely lasted a year. He was never around and would leave us in the middle of the winter to fend for ourselves. I remember chopping wood at five and shoveling snow. The fighting continued and had gotten physical. Mom eventually left, taking us with her to the next “town” about an hour away.  Much bigger than the population 300 town we had been in.

It had always been my role to take care of her and my sister. But now the role was even more defined. She was more out of  control than ever and my desire to live with my Father grew stronger with each passing year. It literally took them years of fighting in court to finally divorce – but they continued years of fighting in court to determine custody of my sister and I.

And although to a large degree I was their trophy child that they used as a struggle between them – who would get me, own me, have me – I don’t really think either of them truly wanted me.  Because once they did have me – it was like being sold into slavery. It didn’t matter the household – my role was:

cook his food
clean their home
do their laundry
raise their children
deal with their drunkenness
deal with their fucked up ideologies
deal with their fucked up spouses
their verbal abuse
her physical abuse

and the list goes on.

By the time I was old enough to finally choose what household I wanted to live in — it was more a matter of whose household was the lesser of two evils.  Of course I say this in hindsight — because at the time — Dad’s house was super shiny.  My hero.  My dad.  The irony was that in his household I just self destructed a whole lot faster as I was exposed to so many more things were harmful to a child. Sex, drugs, alcohol, pornography.

Where as with my Mom — her household was more controlled in her out of control life. i.e. I had to be in bed at a specific time each night, but she would be trashed and wanting to beat my sister and I – so I would have to barricade the door so that she couldn’t get to us. And when she was sober – the mind games.  She would tell me my Dad was coming to visit, when he wasn’t and proceed to watch me sit in the windows waiting for hours for him to come. Head fuck.

My step father on the other hand was no better. He would hold me down to the floor and tell me how I was no one, and nothing and would never amount to anything. Lucky for him I never believed him or gave him much merit in anything he had to say. He wasn’t may Father – the great man himself.

At Dad’s – I had no rules. No curfew. No boundaries.  I just had to keep the house clean. He was newly married and she worked an hour or two away so she only came home on weekends.  That first summer was an awesome experience of freedom that I had never experienced before.

I had never really been allowed to be with my Father.  Odd weekends here and there – but this was my first summer. It had been a long journey getting here.  Lots of being dragged through the courts and I don’t even remember how it came to be.  I think I was just doing my best to be a difficult child at Mom’s that she finally broke. Or perhaps the evil step father couldn’t bare it any longer.  Oh how I hated him.

Anyway, freedom.  Lots of it. We lived in a small town. Children and I mean children ran free without adult interest.  My best friend was a 17 year old who worked for my father. He would let her and I take the truck and go anywhere we wanted. Lots of shenanigans to be had – parties and boys and drugs and FREEDOM.

Dad was always at the bar after work. He and his friends were very open about their own sexuality and drug use. I was in and out of the bar (not drinking) on a daily basis.  Or at a party he was at (sometimes drinking). Or just full out exposed to all things that a kid who had been suffocated all her life by a controlling Mother felt like she had just been transplanted to another world.

But wait.  Hold on for the kicker. I was twelve years old.

How is it that 3.5 years later — or has it been longer? I am still learning how much damage a brain abused by Meth really has?

I realize now that when he was actually detoxing — that I confused the damage with actual withdrawals.

This journey has pushed my sanity levels to places I never thought I would allow myself to be pushed again or even to.

I regret not documenting this process all along. I pretty much stopped writing all together a year ago.

Perhaps it would have allowed me to step back a little and not become all consumed with the task of saving him. Put a little perspective into place. I doubt it. My writing is usually a purging of my struggles onto the page so that I can move forward. Not necessarily self retrospective or anything analytical. At least not from what I can remember of my writing style.

Now I am in over my head. My brain is actually overloaded, melted and misfiring its synapses on an hourly basis.

Actually, if we were to be truthful with ourselves — I have always been in over my head. It’s just out of shear determination, refusal to quit, lose, give up, be wrong, naivety and my own ability to endure and over come great obstacles that has allowed me to put the blinders up and block out everything but the goal. Survive. I seem to be good at actually surviving.

The irony here is that had I been logging this consistently through out the journey — the storyline would have been focused on the recovery of his life and story. The rehabilitation of the children as well.

But as I sit here writing. Writing. Writing the words that pluck out of my fingertips — I own that this storyline is about the reconstruction of JC Moloney. Her rehabilitation. Which is actually the huge life lesson that I have been fighting for the last three decades.

Now we have come to the fork in the road that if I actually continue as I have — there will be nothing of me left.

I’ve already lost my dearest friends, my family, gobs of money, my dignity, my pride, self respect and my best friend and true love.

And for what? A childhood fantasy that I refused to see for what it was? A childhood fantasy.

The refusal of being wrong about someone? A life long scar that never healed?

I guess though really, I have had an opportunity to heal myself and my childhood through the children. Show myself that I am capable of loving unconditionally. Have the inner strength to have helped him accomplish 2.5 years sobriety — where no one else had been able to before in his decade long path of self destruction.

And now the determination to empower him to stand on his own; own his own mental health and refuse to continue sacrificing mine.

How am I going to achieve this?

I have no fucking idea.

Life is like chewing gum.

What kind you choose.  How much you chew it.  How much unbridled fervor your teeth clench and clomp down upon it will determine it’s longevity.

I like me some chewing gum.  Yum. Yum.

Now that we got that out of the way… I will confess.  I love chewing gum.  It drives my partner crazy.  I mean it.  Like out-of-his-fucking-mind crazy.  This has furthered my love of chewing gum.  Where as before — it was a hobby.  But now.  It’s a means to torture the insane.

I can’t quite figure it out.  Is it the chomping?  Does it invade his bubble? His ideolody that the world is all about him and my chomping along merrily reminds him that there is higher intelligence out there than say the TV?  Is he jealous because of his lack of teeth — that he too can’t chomp, chomp, smack, clack his gum?  Who knows.  And who really fucking cares? My teeth are strong.  My teeth are proud.  Hear them chomp, chomp, chomp.

I have a ten year old.  He has a similiar sense of humor.  See’s the absurdity and well ….. the irony in Mr. Gummy’s insanity.  He loves gum as well.  When Mr. Gummy isn’t around — we gum (errm chomp) it up.  Two pieces please!  And chomp!

I have an eight year old. He tries his best to emmulate Mr. Gummy. STOP CHOMPING YOUR GUM NOW! We ignore him. At times a subtle Jedi mind trick will bring him to our side of the force. “Boy. This flavor mixed with this flavor is sooo good!”  The more flavors, the bigger the wad — the happier I am.

Chomp. Chomp.

We will be in the car.  Mr. Gummy is cranky.  For no real viable reason.  Just a crank.  I pass gum around.  Grin at my 10 year-old cohert and the fun begins.  The twitch in his face.  The sweat.  The aggitation.  The overwhelming feeling of having to contain himself apparent to Skywalker and I.  Yoda, oblivious, but enjoying his gum all the same.  Another round of gum is passed.  It’s been four minutes now… Our vigor has increased.  The saliva builds.  Bubbles start popping.  BOOOM!  Mr. Gummy can take no more!  STOP IT! STOP THAT CHEWING!  WHY DO YOU HAVE TO DO IT!

Skywalker and I giggle.  Yoda joins in.  REALLY!  YOU GUYS ARE TOO LOUD.  I laughing point out that he too has a wad of gum in him mouth.  Mmuhahha.

It occurred to me that perhaps it’s creul to torture him so.  But with all of his ranting and constant stress making on our world.  It’s the little things that make you smile.

Like Crickets.

Yoda and Skywalker have Bearded Dragons. The general rule of the pet store we frequent is to only tell you a little about the upkeep of the Dragons at a time.  You know. Feed you a crumb here or there.  Then you come back with questions.

“How do I keep the 5 dozen crickets alive that you sold me three days ago?”  Oh!  You need cricket house!  Some cricket food and this blue gell stuff — it’s cricket water!

They start you off on small crickets.  With vitamin powder.  Though Skywalker forgets it most of the time and well Yoda has managed to get out of cleaning or feeding them to date.  He’s good at that — getting out of things.  Yoda.  Anyway, they start you out on small ones.  Then medium.  Then large ones.  What they fail to tell you is that large crickets are now fully developed and capable of stridulation.

The super fun part is how that amazing sound affects Mr. Gummy.  STOP THAT NOISE!  I CAN’T HANDLE THAT NOISE.  i CAN’T TAKE IT.  I CAN’T TAKE IT.  ARRRGH.

Me?  Personally.  I love this chirping.  It reminds me of cool summer nights in the midwest laying in the fields, looking up to the clear dark sky with many stars above.  It’s relaxing. Tranquil.  It’s beautiful.

Now this journey continues with this thought.  When an eight and ten year old are responsible for feeding crickets and in turn feeding those crickets to said Dragon Lizards . . .  how many crickets find freedom in your home?  Many.

The first week — at night the crickets were moved outside.  Then the crickets started dying.  She he started putting them in the kids room.  Then he decided the bathroom.  Then he gave up and moved himself to the living room to the bedroom.  Door shut.  TV super loud.  But this TV is much smaller than the living room TV.  So with trepidation — he moved back to the living room.  Only now — a cricket had found it’s way into the back of the fridge. And this cricket had much spirit.  He was calling all crickets.  For three straight nights — Mr. Gummy went insane in pulling the fridge out.  Brooms.  Vaccuuums.  But the cricket prevailed.  Eventually, Mr. Gummy felt that he had defeated this cricket.  Only to find him the next night in the bathroom wall. Cricket. Cricket.

Skywalker and I found this to be utterly hysterical watching the Cricket-man and his hijinx.  Eventually Yoda had to concede that this was all a bit bemusing.

I have my own theory that Yoda may have intentially let a cricket or two out.  I can’t confirm it.  But he is generally the stealth under-the-radar trouble maker. You  know — the kind of kid who screams bloody murder that his brother is killing him — only his brother is in the other room?

I could just see him stirring up trouble and watching the dominoes fall.

So gum.  Gumless craziness. Life.  It all gloms together. Whether it sticks in your hair, or on your nose from a popped bubble is really all in how you choose to navigate it.

Interesting this blogging.  How is all comes out.  Like saliva intermixed with your chewing gum.

Oh and the answer is Orbitz. Mixing flavors is super fun.