Tag Archives: pot farm

Time Takes Time


Day 254

If I were to relapse, I think it’d be from pure nostalgia; a feeling that blindsides me from time to time.  It fills my head with happy recollections of the past that make me painfully resentful of the present.

I can’t justify banishing these bittersweet memories.  I lose myself musing in the life I’ll never recapture…. even though I know that the memories I relish in jeopardize my sobriety.

I rationalize indulging in nostalgia because it doesn’t make me behave irrationally the way other emotions do–like say, anger.

When I’m enraged in sobriety I have many outlets and opportunities to express my frustrations.  Typically I blame pedestrians who have the right of way by laying on the horn and yelling “cocksuckers,” at them, while waving my middle finger out the window.  Such maniac behavior is unreasonable, irrational, and generally pretty embarrassing.

But nostalgia doesn’t make me react on the outside; it breaks my insides.

A song came on a Pandora station today and transported me straight back to the pot farm, to the point that I could almost feel the weight of a condensation covered PBR, and smell stickiness from a harvest.

The Avett Brother’s ballad took me through 3 minutes of self-inflicted torture; I could have turned the song off the second it came on, but the emotional levy broke and I did nothing for it to be blocked.

It was like a slide projector of moments in time.  I saw the bonfires in the middle of our illegal Redwood’s playground, I saw the green Jeep Wrangler with no doors, me learning how to drive stick shift with a beer in the cup holder and a huge smile on my face.

I saw the orange sunset over the mountains and felt the feeling of freedom.  I felt bumpy trips down the rocky mountain in the grey pickup, and never worrying about the mud smeared on our legs or our boots covered resin.  I could smell the pour of gasoline into a generator and the sound of it coming to life.  I saw my friends and me sitting on the tailgates of trucks, nowhere in particular, just to drink because no one was telling us not to and no one ever would.

The track switched and I was jolted back to reality, as I always am when nostalgia strikes and ends.  I force myself to remember the shell of a human being I became, that a relationship I kept holding onto almost robbed me of all dignity, and remind my heart and mind that the fire red sunsets turned into grey coked out mornings; that the Wrangler was destroyed, and real laughs died out well before the end.

Still, sometimes I try to convince myself that the old life is obtainable some 3,000 miles away on a mountain full of freedom. Maybe it was for that time.  These notions are what could take me out.  I’ve heard that “time takes time,” and illustrations of the past do eventually fade; I’m just not entirely sure I want them to.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Top 10 Reasons To Avoid the Grocery Store

I’ll go weeks without grocery shopping for these reasons:

1. The parking lot is the worst.  How many times have you pulled halfway into a spot just to find there’s a shopping cart hiding?   Some people may get out of their car, move the shopping cart, get back into their car, pull into the spot and go about their day of errands.  I turn into the Hulk with a license, throw my truck in reverse, turn green, (because I’m the Hulk), and drive 25mph to the end of the lane.  Screw you, sneaky shopping cart.

2.  The pedestrians in the parking lot, ALL of them. Especially the ones meandering down the middle of the row, pretending to be oblivious to my 3,000lb steel machinery with wheels inching behind them at 0mph. Then they’ll casually glance over their shoulder, and some will start ebbing their way to the right or left.  WALK FASTER. Or I will bitch slap you, with my truck.  Twice.

3. Can we talk about the hellish heat that radiates from the asphalt of the parking lot in the summer? It’s like living in the desert scene of “Fievel Goes West.”

4. You can’t go anywhere but home after going to the grocery store in the summer, because we all know what happens; wilted lettuce, melted goop, warm milk, puke.  You’re stuck.  See a friend on the way home, want to stop and chat?  Too bad, your groceries are mere seconds away from perishing.

5. While we’re on seasons should I mention how much I abhor getting blasted by cold air after exiting the grocery store, and when there’s SLUSH on the ground? And the cart is all squeaking and halting because it is not snow proof. Omg forget it.  I’ll eat snow from the front yard, thanks.

6. The grocery store is fucking worst before any weather malady; blizzards, thunders, hurricanes, “tropical storms,” you name it.  There WILL be those crazy bitches stocking up on enough bread for the next 10 years and there will be daft macho men buying $600 snow blowers and building bomb shelters telling everyone the world is going to end.  Take it easy, pal.

7. Being inside the grocery store in general is enough to send me into a pandemonium panic.  There are about 40,000 items in the typical grocery store.  FORTY THOUSAND.  This means I have to spend 20 minutes scanning 50 different brands of granola bars. I would rather collect oats from the ground and mash them together with my adhesive saliva.  I realize that sounds disgusting. I don’t care.

8.  I refuse to go to Siberia aka the freezer section.  Is it really necessary to reenact the ice age in aisle six?  Plus, you know if you buy anything frozen you’re going to get home, open the freezer, and there will never be enough room, because it’s jam crammed with all the shit you never use, usually stuffed in the back which you may never see again.  Freezers are stupid. Then you’re faced with the stuff-and-shove-and-shut-the-door-quickly routine.  This may not be applicable for everyone but it is for me, and ice cream ain’t worth it.

9. One word: Checkout….Don’t even get me started.

10. The drive home from the grocery store you’re exhausted from all the idiots and shopping carts and coupon clippers holding up the line.  Your eyes are probably burning from shifting your stare between 20 different kinds of soy milk.  Once you finally get home, you spend even MORE time putting all this stuff away.  Of course, realize you’ve forgotten the one most important item.  Probably cereal or bacon.  You curse yourself and the grocery store and it prevents you from ever going again.

Granted, I suffer greatly from anxiety, culture shock (having come from a pot farm in the middle of the woods where I lived with a cooler, not a refrigerator), and I’m in the anxious ridden state of early recovery; but I’m pretty sure all grocery stores should excavated, bulldozed, or wiped from the face of the Earth…at least one of those. Or all of them…Stupid grocery stores.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

No Sex in the AA Rooms

Ohhhh that's why


Day 225

The last healthy relationship I had was in 7th grade.  We’ll call my middle school “man” John Smith Anonymous.  Smith Anonymous and I hit it off after my best friend dared me to wear sneakers on my hands, run past his house, and scream, “I’M A PENGUIN.”  I waddled my awkward little 12-year old legs and everything.  Guys must’ve been into that back then because he asked me out the next day.

There was a lot of handholding and note passing reassuring one another that we were still in love; he bought me earrings from Claire’s one time and put them on a beanie baby; in case you don’t speak Generation Y, FYI, that was a BIG deal.

Albeit, our relationship met an untimely death in 8th grade and I don’t remember why.  Maybe he saw me flirting with another boy on the blacktop, or maybe I dropped his super chicken sandwich on the cafeteria floor and it was game over, OR it could have been that he joined the other boys in the “rattie-tattie-you’re-a-flattie” chant, and I threw a binder at his face as I ran off to the girls room crying.  At least I’d like to think there was some binder throwing.  I’d also like to think were no tears, but that’s just not true.  Kids are fucking assholes.  Hash-tag resentment.

Fast-forward 14 years.  I’m skipping over the trauma I live with from college comparable to PTSD, I’m ignoring the years in high school when I couldn’t stop looking in the mirror to count my flaws and cringe (how could I ever let a boy look at the same face?), (ok I still do that, but not as often), and skipping the most recent mentally abusive relationship I was stuck in and let myself stay in;  by relationship I’m referring to the text book definition: “the way in which two or more people behave with each other.” Over the course of  nearly 2 and 1/2 years I lost almost lost every shred of dignity.  The “behavior” made me hate myself on a level I have only just recognized, now that my mind is becoming a healthier habitat and I know what respect looks like. I have had to make daily, conscious efforts to restore self-respect and self-worth.

By the time I left California I wanted out from everything.  With fear as my passport and anger as my driving force I decided to buy a one-way-ticket to Central America.  I went to AA instead.

Since then, I have been in recovery from drugs, alcohol, messed up thinking for 26 years.  So granted, I am not in any hurry to get anywhere near a relationship again, but I do understand why AA strongly “suggests” not to date in the first year of sobriety.  For me, anyway, I know it’d be as destructive as drinking.

Comfort in my own skin is a long way off, but the steps are bringing me closer. No one should influence my new, gradual yet groundbreaking changes.  The goal is to look in the mirror and see a self-sufficient woman of dignity and grace, and that sinew has to come from within, without a guy to give or take my strength away.  I don’t even think it’s possible for me to be in a healthy relationship right now.  Unless it’s comprised of handholding, note passing, and double dares.

Tagged , , , , , ,