only the jodi

A search for simplicity, sobriety, compassion, & the right man. Or at least not another wrong man.
March 3rd, 2010

thirty years later…

I had to take a little time off from the “other” blog, from writing in general. I’d written about the rape. Again. It’s hard. I was going to say You don’t know what you take from us when you rape us. But, I’d be speaking to people who either don’t care – those who rape on uncontrollable instinct, who feel entitled; or to those who do care – those who rape with the intent of breaking our soul – pimps, mercenaries, warriors.

The rape I wrote about was almost thirty years ago. I think I should be over it already. But, apparently, I’m not.

It was not my first. I was in a blackout the first time and only put the pieces together afterwards. It probably wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been drunk enough to black out. But I was. It did. And I don’t remember the details. Blackouts are a mixed blessing that way.

And truthfully, the blackout is only the first time I can bear to think about. What came before are scattered puzzle pieces, each belonging to a different puzzle picture.

The rape I wrote about wasn’t even the last time I was attacked. Statistics show that once a person is raped, molested, assaulted, the chance of it happening again, rises. Here are some statistics.

Every 2 minutes, someone in the U.S. is sexually assaulted.

  • 1 in 3 American women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime.
  • 1 in 4 college women have either been raped or suffered attempted rape.
  • 1 in 7 women will be raped by her husband.
  • 1 in 12 males students surveyed had committed acts that met the legal definition of rape. 84% said what they’d done was definitely not rape.
  • Only 16% of rapes are reported to the police.
  • Only 6% of rapists will spend a day in jail.

FAIL: The United States has the world’s highest rape rate of the countries that publish such statistics. It’s 4 times higher than Germany, 13 times higher than England, and 20 times higher than Japan.

Survivors of sexual assault are:

Stop it, okay? Just fucking stop it.

Statistics from: RAINN.org and Coalition Educating About Sexual Endangerment (CEASE)

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January 29th, 2010

ode to my depression

Alcohol was my answer to The Depression. My first answer. It worked for a while, until it didn’t. It worked until it needed something…extra.

Tuinals, nembutals, lysergic acid diethylamide, seconals, amyl nitrate, mescaline, peyote, cocaine, crank, quaaludes, heroin. Just a little something extra on top of the alcohol, for the deep soul sucking hole inside of me…The Depression. It worked. For a while. Then…

Something extra, on top of the alcohol and the already extras, prescriptions were added like the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae, the finish touch. Sinequan, Valium, Elavil, Desipramine, Halcyon.

It’s been almost twenty years since I self medicated. Twenty years since I stopped taking two parts of this prescription and adding it to three parts of that one. Most of those years I don’t even think about The Depression…

except when I do.

And then there was Buspar, Effexor, Paxil, Lexapro, Wellbutrin. There were meetings and prayer. There was gluten free, lactose free, de-caffeinated, organic, hydroponic, hormone free, free range, steam distilled and still, sometimes, there is The Depression.

The dictionary definition of depression includes this: sadness, gloom, dejection.

That is not My Depression.
My Depression has romance. It is alluring. It is seductive.
It feeds on isolation and it stays hungry. My depression is paralyzing.

It tells me I have nothing to say.

JD Salinger is dead. Catcher in the Rye did not change my life. I am not JD Salinger
Charles Bukowski was a drunk,
Burroughs was a junkie.
I do not read Bukowski and I am not William Burroughs.
Jim Carroll is dead. Carroll changed my life; he made me want to be a junkie.
Dorothy Allison made me believe there is an audience for the darkest of stories, but still, I am not Jim Carroll or Dorothy Allison.

My Depression turns me away from tenderness, whispering in my ear that a tender touch or a soft word will kill me, will cause my house to crumble beyond repair.

It is avoidance and it is obsession.
Clutter & filth & unopened mail under piles of clothes and it is cleaning grout with a toothbrush. It is writing for eight hours

and getting nothing written.

It is deprivation and punishment.
It is not showering, or eating. Holding off meals until this and that are done and not doing this or that. It is meals that consist solely of chewing gum. Or tea. It is nausea and headaches. My Depression fights sleep until my muscles ache and there are sharp pains in my neck.  It is not being able to sleep because there are aches in my muscles and pains in my neck.
It is early mornings and not enough sleep.

It is overscheduling classes & workshops & bells & whistles. Adding this here and that there and not taking care of here and now.

It is writing this,
now.

My Depression is sleight of hand.
It is the twinkling Christmas lights covering my house that keep you from noticing what is going on inside. That the floorboards are rotting, the plumbing is leaking, the windows are cracked and a cold wind whistles through the house.

My Depression has romance. It is alluring.
It feeds on isolation and it stays hungry. My depression is paralyzing.

It tells me I have nothing to say.

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December 11th, 2009

colonoscoparty or there’s a party in my pants

jodi sh doff : onlythejodi : colonoscoparty : woman in hospital gownI’m high risk for colon cancer. Okay, everybody gets something. I hadn’t minded until today.

Up until today regular colonoscopys meant getting an intravenous Demerol/Versed cocktail. It’s not for everyone, of course. I think of it as an acquired taste, like Scotch. Or Heroin. My own doctor hates it, he says it makes him feel like he’s floating on the roof. Exactly, I say, exactly. Nah, he says, people don’t like it because it takes too long to get clear and you can still feel pain, you just don’t care. EXACTLY, I say again.

It’s what I look forward to every year or two.

Look, if you want to be my back door man, if you’re going to wedge 6 feet of hose, a camera  and a flashlight up my butt, shouldn’t I get something out of the deal? I mean, c’mon, that kind of intimacy is usually preceded at the very least by dinner and flowers. But with a colonoscopy I get the exact opposite, a full day of no food at all, along with a most unpleasant internal “cleansing” of one’s lower parts. If I’m nice enough to go through that, to “clean house” so you can root around with your damned flashlight…well, what’s in it for me? I’m not asking for much. Just a little Demerol and Versed.

Instead they’re offering me Propofol, aka Milk of Amnesia.

With Propofol, I’m not going to remember a thing. I want to know if you screw up and hurt me. I want to be aware enough to hear someone say “Oops” or “Uh-oh”.  I want to be aware enough to keep you on your toes while you’re in my butt. With Versed, it may hurt, but I won’t care -not until I’m fully awake when I can pin your ass to the wall if you screwed up.  But mostly, I don’t want to forget what you do to me, I want to enjoy it.

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