Wonderland Wanderess

The man I am writing about passed away many years ago. Out of respect for his family, I will not disclose his real name; I'll refer to him only as *Simon.   *Simon was like a father to me and I loved him dearly... eventually. For the first few months, my hatred burnt with the fire of a thousand suns. *Simon had just been released from prison for heroin trafficking, but before you judge my mother for allowing him into our lives, you must first understand that he had just served a 5 year sentence. Theoretically he should have been clean for half a decade; a reformed member of society, if you will. We would later learn just how readily available heroin had been to him in prison. My mother was put through hell by my father and then along came a good looking, kind-hearted man. *Simon fell in love with Mum and was even willing to put up with her emotionally unstable little brat (me), who never missed an opportunity to tell him how much she hated him. *Simon was patient with me when

Trigger Warning: This post contains graphic detail and mature content that some may find distressing. They say, write the thing you are most afraid to write ...... well, here I go- this is the story I never wanted to tell, the story I still have such vivid nightmares about. You would think with all I have already told, how could my heart hold still darker truths untold.  The reality is, very few people know the worst of my life story.  It doesn't even end with this heartbreaking tale.    I dare say there'll be a lot who will ask why, why now, after all these years, dredge up so much pain but me, I live with this affliction shackled to my very being, every day of my life. This one night has haunted me for over 11 years but I rarely speak of it.  The shame is suffocating, though try as I might, I can never understand why I feel it.  I did nothing to deserve what they did to me.   Other than my mother, brother and the doctors who treated me, until now, the only other

Until recent years, I harboured so much shame about my history of drug abuse.  It was something I was adamant needed to be kept secret from all but those closest to me.  The mere thought of the scrutinous judgement, whispered words and condescending looks sure to be aimed my way in public, sent waves of anxiety cascading over me.  But no more.  Fuck what you think.  More stories of long term recovery need to be shared with the world.  Struggling addicts need to know that there is hope. The thing I know I wrestled the most with when I was institutionalised each time was the men and women, with all these fancy credentials and titles, trying to "fix" me, when in my eyes they didn't understand a thing and therefore didn't have a hope in hell of bringing about lasting change in my chaotic world or my troubled mind.  Childhood trauma, sexual abuse, mental illness and drug dependency- these aren't things you can properly learn from a book, without ever having li