You Can't Buy Butterflies

Bad men win when good men do nothing

I’ll never forget the first time I met Mama Susie.

She was outside of her Kenmore apartment, caring for one of her plants or maybe one of the many birdhouses she had scattered throughout her “yard.” She stood awkwardly, gently swaying, and there was an odd stiffness to her spine. Her back was to me, and when she turned she had the sweetest, friendliest, most welcoming smile on her face. It seemed remarkably out of place.

I was there, after all, to buy drugs from her.

It reminded me of the first time I experienced a holding cell at the federal courthouse in downtown Seattle. I had been locked in there for hours, and when it was finally time for me to go to court, I was escorted past the woman in the holding cell next to mine.

She was an older woman, in her late 50s, with short, curly salt-and-pepper gray hair. She smiled at me so brightly that I was taken aback. It was bizarre to me. I was miserable and terrified, and I had no idea what was about to happen to me. And here was this woman, who looked like a grandma, in much the same situation as I was, but she had a beaming smile on her face.

It was incomprehensible.

I’ll never forget her. Her name was Karolyn Grossnickle. I ended up on the same unit as Karolyn, which was DA, or Delta Alpha, as they say in prison-speak. I never really got to know her, but she was always kind. She had gone her entire life without even a traffic ticket, and yet there she was in federal prison.

Susie and Karolyn were nothing alike. It was just that Susie’s smile was so staunchly at odds with the circumstances, much like Karolyn’s was that day.

Susie was older too, maybe in her 60s, but there was something very childlike about her. She looked at me with genuine kindness and ended up giving me the drugs on a front, which was even weirder than her happy mood. I guess maybe I had the tiniest bit of credibility, as we were introduced by my sister, who she knew.

Through a very unfortunate set of circumstances, I met all my most recent drug connections through my sister.

Susie was an incredible source, as she had a multitude of serious health problems and was on strong, narcotic prescription painkillers. She would sell me her entire monthly script of “tiny green bombers,” which were 15 mg oxycodones that I could smash up and snort if I wanted. I loved them, and she gave me a great deal. She didn’t need them because she mostly managed her pain with Opanas, and also meth, hence the need to sell her oxycodones.

She had a cramped, two-bedroom apartment stuffed full of things. It was a typical junkie sanctuary; messy, airless and exquisitely disheveled. I love places like that. I always have – I am instantly at home in them. Each room was filled with teetering piles of stuff, stacked with plastic containers that were filled with more stuff. At least one other person officially lived there, but it was mostly Susie’s place.

Lots of people came and went, and they were all junkies, of one kind or another.

She had a sweet dog named Sasha, an older black lab who was kind of fat and very loving. I loved that dog. She was mellow and gave the place a touch of normalcy.

Cooking, feeding the dog, leaving to run errands, eating Starbucks cake pops, walking through the woods behind the apartment building… All those mundane things happened there, but all of that was secondary. That apartment was where you went to get high. That was its purpose. That was what it was all about.

It was black and white. You didn’t go there to achieve, set goals, or work towards future success. You went there to fail, obliterate feelings and to experience a world where everything is black or white. Sick or well are the only things that matter in that world. Are you sick, or are you well? Do you have dope or don’t you? Everything you do is dictated by how you answer that question.

Beautiful in its simplicity.

Susie liked to do crafts and she had fishing tackle boxes and plastic bins filled with sparkling, colorful trinkets that you could make jewelry with. Beads of all shapes and sizes, metal loops, clasps, chains, pieces of other jewelry that had been carefully dissected, and an endless collection of tiny charms.

It was a flailer’s paradise.

I love charm bracelets. I always have. Creating a charm bracelet was the perfect project for us to do together… I got to dig through all her containers and hand-pick all my charms, while she put the whole thing together. It was a project you could really get lost in, and we did. We smoked meth and snorted Opanas and did heroin as we worked.

Crafting and getting high go together quite nicely.

The bracelet was a multi-day project, not something you could whip out in a couple of hours. One of the days we worked on it, we toiled for an entire afternoon, floating in that hazy, delightful space where the drugs are good, you have enough of them, and you don’t have to talk or think or feel.

Sasha snoozed quietly on that floor that day, and I vaguely remember thinking that she didn’t seem quite like herself. She hadn’t said hi to me or come up to get any pets. It never dawned on me to lean down and check on her, which in retrospect, is probably a good thing.

She was dead.

I don’t know when she died, but she was dead when I was there. I spent an entire afternoon, doing drugs, flailing through buckets of charms and beads, and I was sitting next to a dead dog the entire time. And I never even knew she was dead. I left to go home, and when I came back the next day, she was gone. Susie told me that she was dead. We both looked at each other because we had known that something weird was going on with her that day.

She just wasn’t herself.

Every time I think about Sasha I feel unworthy of eventual dog ownership, even though dogs are my favorite thing in life. What kind of a monster spends an entire day crafting next to a dead dog? It’s a relentlessly dark memory, and I feel ashamed when I think about it, but it’s important for me to remember that it happened.

It is important for me to remember how ugly I can get.

Lately, my life has felt completely out of control. It’s making me squirrely, uncomfortable, sad, angry and filled with loathing. I hate not having control. I hate being told no. I hate not being able to get what I want. I hate bullies. I hate when people stand idly and do nothing when others are abusive, cruel, fake and punitive.

The people that allow the unjust to continue are just as guilty, in my view.

“Bad men win when good men do nothing.” – Susie Hollenbeck

Most of all, I hate having feelings and want to kill them so fiercely that they can’t ever again reassemble themselves into something the lives and breathes.

When I get like this, I like to know that failure is still an option. I like to know that the door is there, and I can walk through it – or not. I like to know that my past misery is available to me. All I have to do, to get it all back, is pick up a drug.

It’s inexplicably soothing for me to know that.

And to truly be in control of that choice, I need to know where the drugs are. Knowing means that I have ultimate control over where I go from here. I need to control something so desperately, I can feel it in my teeth. I can feel it in my soul. I can control my sobriety, I can control my muscles, I can control my strength… These are the things I love and embrace the most right now.

Even though sobriety can be such a tedious pain in the ass.

I texted my sister the other day, and asked her about Susie and some of the other junkies that we spent time with at the Kenmore apartment. I just wanted to know where they were, in case I ever need to find them.

Just like Sasha, they’re dead.

Two out of roughly eight of us are dead. Those are bad odds. That means a quarter of us have died in the last six years.

Susie, like I mentioned, had severe health issues, so it’s not too stunning that she’s gone. My sister thinks it was her cancer that finally took her. My heroin connection was a younger girl, nice, always loaded and always friendly. She’s dead too. Overdose.

While it could be viewed as alarming that I made this inquiry in the first place, I’m glad I did. It is absolutely, 100 percent, time for change in my life, but not that kind of change. I’m not going down like that.

I still wear my charm bracelet. And I think about Susie and Sasha every time I wear it.

NOTE: I named this blog “Bad men win when good men do nothing” because it struck me as EXACTLY the right title. My friend Susie Hollenbeck used to say that, and I love the sentiment. In the interest of clarity, Susie Hollenbeck is NOT Mama Susie. They are two completely different people, coincidentally both named Susie. 



Ode to the Dr. Sy kick package

Back in the day, if you were a junkie and you wanted to quit, you could go and get a kick package from Dr. Sy. All the addicts knew about him… He had an office on Beacon Hill. For all I know he could still be there today, prescribing kick packages to desperate heroin addicts fighting to get clean.

In theory, it’s a great idea. You got a total of seven different prescriptions, each of which addressed a different aspect of opiate withdrawal. The intent was to get you through the most acute part of the detox by using medications to help diminish the pain of the withdrawal. You got all the stuff commonly associated with opiate detox, including anxiety meds, a muscle relaxer, blood pressure meds, nausea meds, meds for stomach cramps and other digestive issues, and something for sleep.

I can remember the names of most of them, but not quite all.

The anxiety meds were always Ativan, which are adequate, but definitely not as awesome as Valium or Xanax. They do help with anxiety though, and they can be fun if you take a lot of them.

The best part of the whole package was the muscle relaxer… The muscle relaxer was typically carisoprodol, which is the generic form of Soma. Soma is one of the earth’s most delightful pharmaceutical treasures.

Take enough Soma and the angels will sing to you, right before you fall on your face.

He would refill the prescriptions for you one time, and that was it.

The only real caveat was that you had to have a caretaker. You had to have someone who could babysit you and dispense the medications throughout the entire withdrawal process. And you had to bring that person with you to the appointment, or you couldn’t get the meds. He would meet your caretaker, ask you to stock up on fluids and electrolytes, give you the prescriptions, and then you were on your own.

Again, it’s a great theory, but unfortunately it breaks down in practice.

No normal person is equipped to handle a withdrawing drug addict hopped up on a vigorous cocktail of seven different prescription medications. For me, things would start to go awry the minute the dope-sick began to settle into my bones. And then, once I was two or three doses in, my ability to function as a reasonable human being deteriorated completely.

I am rabid when I’m in withdrawal.

If my caretaker closed their eyes for 30 seconds, it was 30 seconds too long. I was tearing up the house, searching closets, pulling open drawers, dumping out purses and bags, looking in every corner of every room until I found my kick package. In that process, if I found medications belonging to my caretaker that looked like they could provide me with some relief, I’d grab those and choke them down by the handful without any hesitation at all.

I attempted several Dr. Sy detoxes throughout my years of addiction, often with tragic and sometimes nearly fatal results.

The first one was the worst. My mom was my caretaker that time – it was before we knew any better.

We got the meds. We stocked up on Gatorade, Sprite, soup and saltine crackers, the way Dr. Sy advised. We started the process.

Once I started getting sick, the recommended dosages weren’t enough. I wanted more. I was relentless. I was absurd. I drove my mom insane until, somehow, I got the kick package away from her. She may have handed it over – any reasonable person would have – just to get me to shut the hell up.

At that time, my parents were my landlords and I lived right next door to them. I carried my kick package back to my house in a brown paper sack, like a furtive alcoholic in possession of a bottle so precious, that nothing else in life mattered at all. Once I was inside, I started taking the pills. And when I still felt terrible, I took more. And when I still felt terrible after that, I decided to take them all.

That’s the thing about opiate withdrawal. You can take a hundred different pills to try and alleviate the symptoms of withdrawal, but nothing, absolutely nothing, will ever vanish that pain entirely. Except dope. One shot of dope and it disappears instantly. But dope is the only thing that will give you any true relief.

I took the whole kick package.

I don’t remember much after that.

I was in one of my bedrooms when everything began to hit me. It felt like powerful magnets were pulling me down to the hardwood floors, like the air had suddenly turned to quicksand. I was being sucked into the floor and my knees would smash against the hardwood every time I tried to take a step. I’d struggle to get back up, only to slam back down onto the unforgiving floor once again.

It hurt. I remember that.

At some point, I was discovered, on the floor, unresponsive. It was not the last time I would be found like that. I don’t know how close I came to death that time. I rode to the hospital in an ambulance, which I’ve done many times. My parents were upset. When I woke up all I wanted was a strawberry shortcake dessert, and they went and got me one.

It didn’t stop me from doing more kick packages later. Over time my addiction worsened, and I attempted to get clean over and over and over. Nothing ever really worked.

Kick packages always sounded like a great solution. I knew, in my heart, that at some point, I would get it right. It was too beautiful of an idea for it to never work. I started each new kick package with hope and excitement, and an odd feeling of superiority over my ability to acquire such a thing in the first place.

But I never quite managed a successful kick using a kick package. If I’m going to detox, I need medical professionals to dispense my meds – I need people I can’t manipulate, browbeat, harass and drive completely insane. I need to be locked up, so I can’t rob my caretaker blind and do irreparable harm to myself and those around me.

But I still love the idea of kick packages.

I think I’ll always love the idea of kick packages. They are tangible. You can hold them in your hands and then you swallow them and they’re inside you. They’re a part of you. They make you feel better. They alleviate your unpleasant symptoms.

They take away the pain… Or at least, they make the pain much more tolerable.

I love that.

I think they should have kick packages for regular life. It shouldn’t just be a junkie thing.

I love the idea of having multiple medications to ease my suffering while I’m enduring a hardship. When I feel like I’m in hell because I want things I can never have; a kick package would help make that fiery jaunt a little less horrific. I long for a kick package when life gets too overwhelming. I long for a kick package when I get a broken heart. I long for a kick package when my soul aches so fiercely I can feel it physically. I long for a kick package to tone down life’s intensity so I can breathe.

I long for a kick package when the noise inside my brain is so loud it renders me incapable of rational thought.

Just for a few days, to get me through to the other side.

In theory, it’s a great idea.

It would probably break down in practice.

Photo: The bag I carried to my last detox. I finished all my dope and checked in at King County Detox June 25, 2012. Sober date: June 26, 2012. 

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Fireworks, a big fish and a myna bird

The front door of my grandparents’ house was never locked.

You didn’t even have to knock when you arrived. You could just walk right in. It always felt a little strange to me, because I couldn’t imagine people just walking in to my own house. But my grandparents didn’t mind at all.

It was a grand house, with large, square brick columns that extended all the way from the ground to the roof. The never-locked door was the front of the house in name only, as it pointed east, while the home’s true face – its essence – looked out west over Big Lake in Mount Vernon. I loved that house as a child and I loved that house as an adult. I still love that house, and it is difficult for me to fathom that I will never again set foot inside its many walls.

It was a house filled with rooms, and the rooms were filled with things.

As a child, it appealed to me greatly because I loved the idea of a house that you could get lost in. It was an adventurous house, and you could look around and see new things every time you were there. There were secrets there, just waiting for somebody like me to retrieve them.

Every year they had a huge 3rd of July party that all were welcome to attend. The Big Lake Fire Department does fireworks on the 3rd at Big Lake, and the party was always huge and sunny with tons of food. I always think of fireworks when I think of Big Lake.

There was a pool table downstairs, and a leopard-print chaise lounge. The chaise was draped with an actual bear skin rug, which captivated me as a child. And there was a whole extra living room down there. You could be down there and do whatever you wanted, even if you were a kid. There was freedom there, because all the adults were upstairs in the other living room watching sports.

That’s where my grandfather was.

Any time I picture my grandfather, I visualize him in one of two places. He is either in the living room of his lakefront house, in his chair, or he’s behind his desk at Hendrickson Realty. In both places, he always held a lanky brown “More” cigarette in between his fingers, usually with a full ashtray lingering nearby. At home, a can of Budweiser accompanied the cigarette like a chaperone. At the office, it was coffee.

My step-grandmother, Ida, held an identical pose.

My grandfather, Willard M. Hendrickson, was an intense man. He was a force of nature. He was a perfectionist, who expected perfection from others. I always viewed him as a strong, imposing man, even though from my earliest memories, he walked with an unsteady gait from an injury long passed that left him without depth perception. He spoke of the incident often, but I can’t recall whether it was a logging accident or something that happened to him as a paratrooper in World War II.

His gaze was often steely, sometimes mischievous, but always filled with life and fire.

Even on his deathbed.

All my life I felt very close to him. Out of everyone in my family, I feel I am most like my grandfather.

Even though there were many places inside the Big Lake house that I never saw my grandfather go, every corner of it absorbed his essence. It breathed and expelled my grandfather’s air. It too, was filled with life. There was a huge aquarium at the top of the stairs, inside of which was a round fish that swam lazily. And there was always a myna bird named Joe, who conversed with my grandfather often.

I have a million stories about my grandfather. By the time I was born, he had gotten divorced from my biological grandmother, Elsie, and had been married to Ida for almost a decade. Grandma Elsie lived in Depoe Bay, Oregon, with my step grandfather, Captain Stan. As a kid, I felt very lucky. I had a whole extra set of grandparents on my father’s side. Not everybody had that.

After Willard and Ida had been married for a while, they decided they wanted a child of their own. My grandfather had four kids with my Grandma Elsie; my dad, my uncles; Norm and Rich, and my aunt Diane. He and Ida adopted a baby girl and called her Wilida, cleverly combining both of their first names. When she got older, Wilida started going by the name Wendy instead, but to me, she was always Wilida. I don’t think she liked the name very much, but I always loved it.

I bet there’s nobody else in the world named Wilida.

I loved having an aunt that was only three years older than me. None of my friends had aunts that young. When I was a kid, my grandfather bought a small RV, and they’d take Wilida and I on trips.

That’s how I know that despite his demanding nature and brave face, there were things that gave my grandfather pause.

On one trip, for whatever reason, we drove through Depoe Bay. I’ll never ever forget it. As we drove down U.S. 101 we passed Tradewinds Charters, which was owned by my step grandfather, Captain Stan. Grandma Elsie was in there, helping customers. I could see her rosy cheeks and the red hat she always wore. But we couldn’t stop – my grandfather would not. It felt so odd to be in Oregon, driving right past my grandmother, with her never knowing I was there.

I think we went back at some point, and spent time with Grandpa Stan, but only after Elsie had died.

When I was older, I lived at the Big Lake house. I got my real estate license and worked at the family business. To get my license, I had to take a course and pass an exam. My grandfather never for a second doubted that I passed that test the first time I took it. There was simply no question in his mind. I was not so sure. I was terrified. It was a hard test. I was sure I had failed.

But I passed, and he looked at me with undiminished pride.

My grandfather and I would drive for hours all over Skagit County. My week-long real estate crash course had left me ill-equipped to sell vacant land, so my grandfather filled those gaps.

He would sometimes say that I reminded him of his daughter, Diane. My aunt Diane died in 1981, when I was 11 years old. I remember her only in bits and pieces. I wish I could have known her better.

You have the Hendrickson gene, he would tell me, as though it were a coveted prize. I’ve often laughed at the curse of the “Hendrickson gene,” but maybe it’s not all bad.

Willard was a brilliant man. Nobody can argue that. All his kids are brilliant. He may not have been spry enough to exercise in his later years, but he never stopped studying things and learning. He was passionate about information. He was forever an entrepreneur, which makes perfect sense to me now. I can’t ever imagine him working for another person. This is something else I can relate to very much.

I never would have thought of myself as having an entrepreneurial spirit, but this past year has taught me much about such things.

I have a million stories about my grandfather, but I have one that is my favorite. I can’t remember exactly how old I was when it happened, but I vividly remember the aftermath: my grandfather’s knees, torn and tattered, covered in wounds that looked vicious and unruly, even as they were healing.

He had been off exploring properties located along an old logging road, which is something he did frequently. He was a logger for many years, before transitioning into real estate and land development. His first office was in Smokey Point, which he later relocated to Sedro Woolley. He knew those old logging roads like the back of his hand, he knew about land, he knew where you could drill a well and where there wasn’t any water for two miles down.

As he got older, I admit he belonged behind the wheel less. His issues with depth perception made driving a challenge. But he loved challenges and he was stubborn. I’m the same.

I wouldn’t want to stop driving either.

This time, he had adventured west of Big Lake, winding up some old logging road, until his car veered off into a ditch that he couldn’t get out of. He left the vehicle and tried to walk out, but walking was not his strong suit. I forever worried about him walking up and down the narrow, steeply-pitched stairways in the Big Lake house. He always seemed more-than-slightly unsteady on his feet.

He walked as far as he could, down what was likely a silent, narrow road of dirt and rocks, and when he couldn’t walk any more, he got down on his hands and knees and crawled. The details are murky to me now, and I would kill for a written account of what happened. I bet you anything there was one, somewhere, at some point. He may have been lost overnight, but I am not 100 percent sure of that.

He was gone long enough that my grandmother became worried and sent people to look for him.

I can guarantee you one thing; giving up would have never occurred to him. “Lay down and die” is something that would have never entered his mind – not even for an instant. He walked as far as he could, and when he couldn’t walk anymore, he crawled. There was blood running down his knees as rocks cut into his flesh, and he continued to crawl.

Eventually, somebody found him, and rescue was at hand. By the time I saw him, he was back in his chair, proudly displaying his wounds of battle.

And even after all that, he never stopped exploring his properties, his logging roads, his territory. I know this because he did it all the time when I worked with him. I know this because it was in his blood.

One time, we were somewhere north of Sedro Woolley, and he showed me a house that was entirely underground. We laughed as we thought about the people who lived there, mowing their roof.

The story of him crawling his way down a deserted logging road is one that I relate to very much. I crawled my way out of addiction in 2012 and was left empty and shaking but with hope. I built a new life which was blasted into rubble in January of 2017, and I’ve spent the past year clawing my way out of a selfish, reprehensible pit of self-indulgent misery. I didn’t last five seconds on my feet before I was forced to crawl, painfully, inch by inch.

Some days, I still feel like I’m crawling.

When you want something bad enough, and you can’t walk, you crawl. It’s just what you do.

My grandfather died on September 11, 2007. He had fire in his eyes even as he fought death. He talked about going in to the office, and I don’t doubt that had he been able to crawl, he would have tried to get there. I miss him. I wish he could have read my work and I wish we could have talked about property rights and land use and the Growth Management Act (GMA). I wish I could visit his house, and breathe in some of his will and spirit, but the house is lost to us now.

I don’t know exactly how it happened, but nobody named Hendrickson owns property on N. West View Road in Mount Vernon.

My mom and I discovered this just a few months ago.

I hopped onto the county assessor’s website. People I have never heard of before in my life now own 23924 N West View Road. It is unbelievable and shouldn’t be. It just shouldn’t be.

I have a million stories about my grandfather. This is only one of them.


One of my favorite pictures of my grandfather, holding my sister in 1979.


My grandfather and Wilida, with my dad and I.


Beautiful Big Lake






The butterflies will kill you

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with buried treasure. I wanted to find some, Trixie Belden-style, guided by clever, hand-drawn maps and a smattering of clues that I discovered while riding one of my best friend’s horses.

I didn’t have a horse, but we did have a huge roll of wire mesh fencing in our backyard that bounced up and down when I straddled it. It was sort of like a horse. When I got silver dollars and fifty-cent pieces on birthdays and holidays, I would sometimes bury them in a jar, in hopes that I’d forget about them long enough to be surprised and delighted when I found them again.

I planned to ride my horse-fence to retrieve the goods, ushered by hidden clues that I stashed myself.

Less than a day would pass before I’d get tired of waiting for my mind to forget, and I would dig the coins back up. Even as a kid, I was bedeviled by the need for instant gratification. If I couldn’t immediately be struck with some rare form of amnesia, then buried treasure be damned.

I wanted the thrill and the excitement of finding something secret, but I didn’t want to wait for it. And I didn’t want to wait to spend my money. I wanted to spend it now.

To this day, my proclivity towards short-term thinking compels me to my detriment. Over time, it seems to have rendered as an innate inability to savor good things when they happen. Even worse, I am endlessly captivated by bad things. Bad things, when they happen, resound in my brain over and over and over and over. They are what I deserve. They are what I know.

They are what I love. I need them to quell the possibility of joy, which is something I don’t easily comprehend.

When something great happens, I am shocked and almost as panicked as I am when something terrible happens. And then, it’s like I’m too scared to really believe in it, so I look beyond it, immediately seeking the next thing that’s going to make me feel good.

This pattern was much easier to navigate as a drug addict. I miss that simplicity. Heroin was always the thing that would make me feel good, so I just had to do whatever it took to get more. Easy. The fact that heroin was the love of my life for so many years, demonstrates my constant desire for instant gratification. Heroin is instant gratification in drug form.

There’s nothing like it.

These days, feeling good is much more complex than numbing my mind with a substance. These days, if I want good things to happen, I need to take bold risks and put myself out there, which is terrifying and uncomfortable, and I hate it. I really do hate it.

Worse of all, the gratification is never instant. It takes forever, and waiting is agony.

On Friday, I had a bad day. Something bad happened. And although I worked hard to prepare myself for the bad news that I knew in my heart was coming, it still crushed my spirit. I put on a brave face, but it was meaningless and not at all authentic.

I don’t think you can ever truly prepare yourself for rejection. It generates an unholy pain that is absolute. It breaks everything.

On Saturday, something great happened. It was amazing. It was a response that I’d hoped and longed for since the beginning of April. It was unexpected, which I suppose should have made it even better. It did make it better. And luckily, it came in the form of an email, so it’s something that I can read over and over and over again.

Because my brain doesn’t have instant replay when it comes to good things. Only bad.

I gasped, I gulped air. I checked to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. I got out of my chair, went out into the living room, and started jumping up and down. I want to cling to that small bit of goodness, I want to hold onto it tightly. I want to possess it so thoroughly that it can’t ever leave me. It’s mine and I need it. It’s a lot bigger than what happened on Friday.

It has greater implications and a broader context. It’s my whole life.

But Friday still hurts. Friday fractured my heart and Saturday should have repaired it, but now I’m already wondering about the next thing and I’m quaking, and butterflies are churning, and they just might kill me this time.


Also we do handstands

I am fascinated with CrossFit.

I love everything about it. I love the challenge of it, the seeming impossibility of it, and the fact that it has its own language. And I especially love that in CrossFit, hard work can give natural talent a serious run for its money. I feel like CrossFit is my destiny, or rather, it’s what my destiny could have been if I hadn’t wasted so much of my life shooting dope.

I’m obsessed with the Dottirs. I follow them, and other notoriously badass CrossFitters, on Instagram for inspiration. But as bad as I want to be like them, my fascination with CrossFit does not outweigh my fear of it. I’m terrified of CrossFit. I feel like it might humble me to an unbearable degree.

I’ve only ever really done two CrossFit workouts, and both times, it nearly killed me.

The first time was in September of 2016. I had about a month of Beachbody under my belt. I thought, “I run stairs. I do Beachbody now. I can do anything. This will be a breeze!”

It was not a breeze. I did a very abbreviated version of the WOD (workout of the day) and ended up dripping in sweat and dizzy to the point of being slightly nauseous. Which, as weird as it sounds, is very appealing to those of us constantly seeking the hardest, most intense workouts. I did it at the Monroe box, and I remember trying so hard to act tough, like it hadn’t affected me that much.

The next time was better. I was inspired from watching Fittest on Earth, so I tackled “Murph.” It was a modified version of Murph – I didn’t have a weighted vest and I used a door attachment kit for the pullups – but it was still Murph. For those that don’t speak CrossFit, Murph is a workout consisting of a 1-mile run, 100 pullups, 200 pushups, 300 squats and another 1-mile run.

I did it last year it to celebrate my five-year clean and sober birthday.

The pushups were a nightmare. I knocked them out in sets of 20, which towards the end became sets of 10, and then sets of five. I ended up with petechiae all over my face from the pressure.

My fascination of CrossFit has grown since then, as has my fear of it.

For the past month, CrossFit enthusiasts around the world have been engaged in the CrossFit Open, which is a series of five workouts stretched out over five weeks. Any CrossFit athlete who strives to compete at the annual CrossFit Games must compete in the Open, which can take place at any CrossFit box. Each Open workout is numbered using a system that incorporates the year and where the workout is in the sequence. The week one workout is called 18.1, week two is 18.2, and so on.

It was 8 p.m. last Monday night, and I was lying in bed scrolling through my Instagram feed, when one of the moves from 18.4 caught my attention. It was a handstand pushup, also known as a HSPU.

I was instantly intrigued.

I decided I needed to get up and try one for myself.

I walked out into my living room and cleared the needed wall space, which was not difficult, since my whole living room is pretty much dedicated to fitness. Even so, I made sure I had plenty of room. I positioned myself a short distance from the wall, raised my arms high into the air, lifted my knee to gain momentum, and went to propel myself forward into a handstand position.

Just like I did a million times as a kid.

I was shocked to discover that I couldn’t do it.

There was some bizarre disconnect between my brain and my body. In the standing position, I could see the wall right in front of me, and intellectually, I knew that once I got into a handstand position, the wall would be there to safely support me. But the second I lost sight of what was in front of me, my brain lost track of what it knew, and I became scared and unsure about what was going to happen.

Something about my head plummeting towards the ground and my feet flying up in the air felt wrong. It felt abnormal. Am I going to fall on my head? Is this even a thing I can do? Am I going to fail miserably? It sent me into a little bit of a panic, even though a part of me knew my arms were strong enough to hold me up, and I knew that the wall would be there to support me.

It happened over and over. Each time I tried, my legs got a little bit higher and I got a little bit closer, but I still failed. That flash of fear-driven indecision rendered me completely incapable of doing what I wanted to do.

It really made me think about my life.

For the past 14 months, I’ve been miserable. I’ve distanced myself from friends because I’m a chore to be around. I’ve kept myself sequestered so that others don’t have to endure me. It is a million times easier to stay home, by myself, every weekend, than it is to go out and risk whatever might happen socially. In general, I don’t have anything good to say about anything, so why bother talking?

I’ve been waiting for things to magically get better, but they don’t. They don’t get better. I’m miserable, and I’m so afraid that I’m going to fall on my head that I do nothing to change the situation.

The influence that fear has over my own mind is astonishing. Fear holds me back in everything I do. It is suffocating and pervasive, yet strangely comforting. I’ve never been good at being happy.

I’m tired of it holding me back.

Last year, I was working to increase my strength with the goal of being able to lift my 30-pound dumbbells for a chest press, without a spotter. I knew I could press them once I got them up; it was getting them up, safely and without hurting myself, that was the problem.

I tried many times and eventually got discouraged and stopped trying. Then, one day, I was sitting at my desk, and suddenly, I just knew that I could do it. I got up, walked to my weight bench, and hoisted those bad boys up without even hesitating. Yes, it’s not something I’ve always been able to do – but I put in the work to make it happen. The following Monday, which was chest day, I worried that it had been a fluke. Would I be able to lift them again?

That doubt was crippling. That doubt almost stopped me in my tracks.

That fear-driven indecision nearly rendered me incapable that time too.

But I knew I could do it because I had done it.

I have no idea how long fear influenced my brain to the extent that it hindered my ability to achieve something. I am 100 percent convinced that my muscles were strong enough to lift those weights long before my brain would accept the fact that I could do it.

I’ve been practicing my handstands since last Monday. As it turns out, HSPUs are hard.

After my first series of failed attempts, I went to work in the morning and dismally explained the situation to my coworker. She suggested that I start facing away from the wall, placing my hands down on the ground and then climbing my feet up the wall behind me, until I’m up in handstand. I thought that was a fantastic idea, so I tried it as soon as I got home.

It works, but it’s not a true HSPU. It’s almost like an extreme decline pushup, which is awesome, and it’s incredibly challenging, but it’s not what my CrossFit heroes do.

I’ve tried other variations as well, including facing the wall, starting on my head and achieving handstand slowly. This is when I realized the strength it takes to complete a handstand pushup. I couldn’t lift myself up when I started flat on my head.

By Wednesday morning, I had petechiae on my face again, from all the handstands and handstand variations.

I had not managed a single, true HSPU.

But with each attempt, I got closer. And with each attempt, I was inspired to do other things that I haven’t been brave enough to do. I reached out. I made some connections. I made some decisions. Most importantly, I didn’t give up. As much as I’m an instant gratification girl, weight-lifting has proven to me that sometimes, results come after a long, sustained effort. I didn’t lift my 30s overnight. But I lift them now whenever I want, which is something that I couldn’t do 14 months ago.

On Sunday, I accomplished my most solid, strongest handstand yet. I managed to get there without compromise – I stood, faced the wall, and flung myself forward from a standing position.

Just like I did a million times as a kid.

Once I was up, I stayed there for a few seconds, poised for whatever happened next. I started to do a pushup but lost my balance. I have yet to do one full, completely legitimate HSPU.

But I’ll get there. You watch.

The unkindness of cats


This is Slim Kitteh the Real Kitteh. We’ll call him Slim, for short.

He also goes by Boo.

Although Slim looks like a regular cat, he eschews customary cat-quirks including snuggling, purring and gently sprawling on luxurious cat-furniture made solely for his comfort and enjoyment. Instead, Slim opts for biting, barfing, licking plastic bags, chewing rubber and digging in his litter box.

12493976_10208513241257554_5393710952017903767_oSlim with tube

He seems to enjoy ingesting his own fur. Hence the barfing.

He also enjoys high-volume meowing. All the time.

Slim looks cute and innocent but one must never be fooled by his beguiling appearance. It is a farce.

He may, in fact, be Satan.

His body is an intricate maze of hazardous areas, hidden within the depths of his enticing, silky-soft fur. Like a series of landmines in a warzone, you never know when a furious explosion of tooth-and-claw shrapnel will hit. There are many inconsistencies spread across his perilous orange landscape. Just because an area is safe today does not mean it will be so tomorrow. Caution must always abound, as he revels in the spontaneity of the clever ambush.


No amount of prescription medication can subdue his primal urge to kill and maim.

His entire fluffy body is a breeding-ground of deception.

His velvety-soft fur is filled with lies. And possibly bees.

Slim will, at times, attempt to present himself as an affable, cuddly cat. These moments are very rare and should be treasured, however one must never let down their guard. He has an uncanny ability to coax a person into believing that he’s changed, however, he has not. He greedily seeks to cajole and lull, seeming to solicit pets along his delightfully plush epidermis.

Slim in bed

Like a victim of domestic abuse, one desperately wants to believe he is transformed.

He is cunning and strategic. He might even purr.

But his purr is merely a tactical decoy as he ponders his next vicious, bloody attack.

Bribery fails with Slim.


At times, he feigns an addiction to his catnip banana, as if to garner sympathy or portray weakness.


It is yet another farce.

This is Slim’s cat-tower. It has been available for Slim’s use since January of 2016. It is old and has barf-stains on it. Slim hates it. Cat-towers mean nothing to Slim. It is simply another object to gaze upon with pitiful disdain. For over 18 months, he has categorically refused to lay upon either of its spacious platforms during his frequent periods of repose.

Old tower

He likes this weight bench though.


This is Slim’s new cat-tower. It is beautiful and brand new. It sparkles and is fresh, with no puke stains or remnant germs from other cats. Upon its arrival, Slim performed a thorough investigation.

Tower nice

He sniffed, climbed, touched and sniffed some more. He perused its plush carpet surfaces with seeming intrigue and delight. He sought the enclosed upper platform, performing additional investigation of its secluded region. He climbed down and sniffed around the base some more.

InvestigationsInvestigations 2

The investigation was concluded. His judgement was swift and harsh. The lovely new tower was deemed…


In fact, the beautiful hand-crafted cat-tower was so reprehensibly unbefitting of his fluffy orange cat-parts, that the old, barf-stained cat-tower held sudden new appeal and fascination. And then, almost as if he was lifting his middle claws and saying, “SCREW YOU NEW TOWER, BEHOLD MY HATRED FOR YOU,” he abruptly commenced with sprawling on the old cat-tower.

Old tower with Slim

He has henceforth sprawled there on more than one occasion.

Slim on tower


The end.

The perils of the Seattle music scene

It never fails.

Every single time I tell somebody how much clean time I have, I automatically diminish the accomplishment by saying, “I should have more but…” I’ve gotten to the point where I can sometimes stop myself from saying it out loud, but I always think it. Today, Monday, June 26, 2017, is my five-year sober birthday, and that voice is still there, obnoxiously pointing out that I should have 13 years.

But I don’t, because I relapsed at year six.

Here’s the tricky thing about addiction. It doesn’t matter how much clean time you manage to accumulate; your future sobriety is never guaranteed.

I was forced into sobriety in November of 2004 through incarceration. I was released from prison in 2005 and managed to stay clean – even when I had to return to prison in 2006 to complete my federal sentence. I celebrated my 18-month sober birthday at the Federal Detention Center in SeaTac. When I got out, I worked to build a regular, sober life. I got a job, a car and eventually, my own apartment. I went to a lot of AA meetings and associated, mostly, with folks I met through AA.

Until I was dumped by an AA guy in 2008. Right or wrong, that soured me on the program. My meeting attendance dwindled, although I did maintain consistent contact with my sponsor. I muddled through. I stayed sober. I told myself I’d never let myself fall for another man, ever again.

The point, really, is that it wasn’t the bad stuff that tripped me up. I made it through three solid years of federal probation, a traumatic breakup, two residential moves and a sudden job loss. Those incidents weren’t what took me down. It was love. That’s what took me down. It was the hope, excitement, promise and desperate uncertainty of new love. It was the butterflies.

It was really the butterflies that did it.

For me, happiness is treacherous. It needs to be tempered with grief.

Once I stopped going to meetings, my life got very small. I had one close friend, two if you count her husband, and she was really the only person I spent time with. When I moved from Madison Park to Capitol Hill in 2010, it was into an apartment located three or four doors down from hers.

But right before I moved, I discovered something I loved: live music.

It started with cover bands, like Platinum Spandex and my friend Kristin’s band, Rock Candy. Then I started checking out original bands, like Desillusion. I took social risks and met some new people, which is how I ended up in Pioneer Square on August 20, 2010, at Fuel, for an MS benefit. There were three bands playing that night, one of which was Late September Dogs (which conveniently shortens to LSD). The funny part, is that other than the fact that he played a pink Hello Kitty guitar, I didn’t even really notice Dan that first night.

For one thing, he ignored me. And another, his hair was all over his face so I couldn’t see what he looked like. I was with my friend Don, who knew the band, including the lead guitarist with the pink Hello Kitty guitar. He didn’t introduce me to him but he introduced me to Liz, Dan’s sister, who happened to be the lead singer. I loved the music and I loved Liz, so I went to another show.

And another one. And another one.

My thought process, as marred and erroneous as it was, was this: as a former heroin addict, being in bars is not an issue for me. Drinking alcohol was never really my thing, so what’s the big deal?

My second LSD show was on August 27, 2010, in south Seattle at a place called Club Motor. I went to that one by myself.

Dan ignored me at that show too.

His Facebook profile listed his favorite quote as; “Be so good they can’t ignore you.”

I saw that as a challenge.

On Sept. 2, 2010, I hit up another LSD show with my friend Don. This one was acoustic, at a place called the Little Red Studio. Dan’s hair was back and I finally realized how good-looking he was. I kicked myself for coming to that show with Don, because I didn’t want to seem unavailable.

I started going to Fuel on Tuesdays, because LSD did acoustic nights every week back then.

The thing about Dan, is that he and Liz are kind of a package deal. And that was OK with me at the time. Sometimes I think it’s possible I may have fallen in love with Liz before I fell in love with Dan. I’m not sure though. Honestly, I can’t remember not loving him. It was intensely overwhelming. Still to this day, he is the best person I have ever known in my entire life.

He gave me butterflies in the worst way. I pursued him. My friend Kristin encouraged me to be brave. “You can’t buy butterflies,” she said.

He had to like me. If he didn’t like me I was going to die.

Exactly two weeks later, I decided to hit up a Witchburn show. It was an oddball Thursday night gig at the Funhouse, which was right by the Seattle Center. I had a personal training session in Ballard that evening, so I asked my parents if I could stop at their condo to take a shower and do my makeup. Their place is just a few blocks from where the show was, and I figured I could walk.

I made sure to put it out on social media that I was going to be at Witchburn that night. I knew Dan had Porn Jam practice, because I had stalked his Facebook page. I told myself that if he didn’t stop by Witchburn afterwards, he was definitely not into me.

He didn’t.

My solution was to completely lose myself in the music. That may have been my first Witchburn show, because I remember not knowing the words when Jamie launched into the chorus of “Stand up and be Counted,” leaning into the front row and holding out the microphone.

I fell head-over-heels in love with that band. I still love them. They are incredible. I enthusiastically embraced their entire set, headbanging, cheering and loving every minute of it.

The next night, Friday, September 17, I went to Fuel to see LSD again. And finally, Dan invited me to come to his house after the show. Which was amazing… Except… Something had started to go seriously awry with my neck. It hadn’t felt quite right all day, and then that night, I started experiencing strange prickly, shooting sensations that originated in my neck and traveled down my right arm.

It almost felt like I was being shocked by something… It felt like electrical charges. I began wondering if I was having a heart attack. I was thinking about how embarrassing it would be if I died at Dan’s house during our first night together. I mean, who does that?

It got progressively worse and then, the pain kicked in. It was excruciating. I drove myself to urgent care that weekend, to figure out what was going on. The doctor gave me Vicodin. I sat there and thought about all the things I was supposed to say and do in that moment, and I said and did none of them.

I was reinvented. I was into bands now. The guitar player I was obsessed with liked me. I was on the list.

I took the prescription. And I got it filled. And I took the pills.

The pain worsened dramatically over the next two weeks and I was given progressively stronger pain medication to deal with it. Sometime during the second week, I lost all strength in my right arm, and would collapse to the ground if I tried to do a pushup. I had to stop seeing my personal trainer. On Sept. 28, 2010, I had an MRI, which revealed two herniated discs in my neck.

The doctors speculated that the trauma was related to a car accident.

But I hadn’t been in a car accident. Headbanging, as it turns out, at the age of 40, is hazardous to your spinal region. I viciously herniated two discs in my neck by headbanging for an entire Witchburn set.

It really doesn’t get any more rock ‘n’ roll than that.

I fooled myself into believing that I wasn’t going to relapse. I was too smart to relapse. The pills were prescribed to me. By doctors. Until I started taking things that weren’t prescribed to me, like Xanax. And stronger opiates. I celebrated my six-year sober birthday on Nov. 17, 2010, but it was a lie. I had relapsed. I had lost my sobriety. My sponsor finally made me say the words out loud in December.

What followed was nearly two years of chipping, sneaking, lying, tapering, failing, chasing and nodding off in my beef stew. Dan was an innocent bystander in the turmoil that is me, caught in the throes of full-fledged addiction. On June 25, 2012, I was finally able to get a bed in detox. You can’t ever count the first day of rehab or detox as your clean date, as you always get loaded before you go.

That detox was hell. But necessary. I haven’t ingested opiates, benzos, alcohol, marijuana or any other controlled substances of any kind since June 26, 2012.

I know this for sure: I have zero detoxes left in me.

After detox, I attended 21-days of treatment at Sundown Ranch. It was also hell. But necessary. My parents paid for it out of their pocket, as I had no insurance.

My life isn’t fantastic. I don’t consider myself a happy person. The last two years have tested my limits as far as change and relationships coming to an end. Dan and I split up at the start of 2016, and although it was amicable, it still grieved me. He was and still is my best friend. I had hardly recovered from that when 2017 greeted me with a not-so-amicable split from the Monroe Monitor.

That did more than just grieve me. It infuriated me.

But I am sober, and that’s better than the alternative.

Sobriety in and of itself doesn’t quell an addictive personality, but today I strive to be addicted to good things. In the last 18 months, I have dramatically improved my health through fitness and healthy food, staving off an intense addiction to sugar and binge-eating. I challenge myself physically every single day and try to inspire others to do the same.

I have five hard-fought years of sobriety, and while it’s too bad I don’t have 13, I need to finally let that go. And anyway, it doesn’t even matter. Five years, 13 years, six months; the time is of no consequence. I could use drugs tomorrow.

But I don’t think I will.

Failure to thrive

Almost 10 years ago, I got dumped. I had been seeing the guy for less than a year but I really thought I was in love with him. The “breakup,” if you want to call it that, was completely unexpected and poorly executed. It happened on a Sunday evening and I will never forget how shocked and hurt I felt in that moment.

It knocked the wind out of me. I couldn’t breathe or talk. I was devastated. I thought I was going to die.

I ran a small office in south Seattle at the time – it was just me and one other girl. I called her after it happened, because I didn’t know who else to tell. We had to work in the morning, and I knew I was going to be like the walking dead. I wanted her to know what happened before we got to work.

I wanted her to be prepared for the fact that I was wrecked.

I’ll never forget trying to sleep that Sunday night, and the feeling of sheer, unadulterated panic I felt the instant I opened my eyes in the morning. My heart hurt. It felt like there was a hurricane happening inside my chest. I had been sober for about 3-1/2 years at the time, and the feelings were unrelenting.

Sobriety, at times, can be a real bitch.

I arrived at work in a daze and climbed out of my car. As I approached the building, I dragged my feet like a reluctant child whose parents were forcing her to go to church on a sunny day.

I didn’t want to deal with people, I didn’t want to deal with my responsibilities. And I knew there would be boyfriend propaganda to deal with once I got to my desk.

There were silly “I heart” stickers with his picture on them. A friend of mine who worked at a printing company had made them for me. I dreaded looking at his face.

But my coworker, her name was Kayla, didn’t mess around. She had arrived at work early that day, so that she could remove any and all traces of him from my desk and surrounding workspace. It was all blissfully vanished before I even sat down with my cup of coffee. She did it silently, without seeking praise or gratitude in any way.

That’s a friend right there. I will never forget that she did that. Friends like that are rare.

I’ve been thinking about that all week, my memories spurred by something that happened on Monday morning. I arrived at my office, anxious to sit down and organize my priorities, as I had amassed a huge task list over the weekend and needed to get to work.

When I got to my desk, there was a copy of the Monroe Monitor resting on top of my keyboard. I’m sure it was placed there on the preceding Friday, which was a day off for me. There it sat, patiently waiting for me to discover it first thing Monday morning.

Really, really bad timing.

Here’s the thing. I am not OK with the Monroe Monitor, I will never be OK with the Monroe Monitor and I never want to be OK with the Monroe Monitor. I refuse to have anything to do with that repulsive “newspaper,” and will defy all orders to interact with it in any way. I’m not sure why leaving a copy of it on my desk seemed like an appropriate thing to do.

I gingerly picked it up with two fingers and threw it straight into the recycle bin.

This is what I’ve learned in the last six months: I am adamantly opposed to supporting that publication in any way. I didn’t know it was going to be like this, but it is, and I’m sick of feeling bad about it. I don’t need analogies, colloquialisms or metaphors about the risks of holding onto resentments. I’m an addict in recovery. I am well aware. Yes, I know about drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.

I’ve heard that one. Probably around six thousand times.

Statements like that are not actually helpful when it comes to dealing with resentment. Words don’t vanish resentment. After six months of people telling me that I have to figure out how to let it go, I am no closer than I was in January, right after it happened. There is something about the sudden finality of being fired like that. It doesn’t compute. It’s like being unable to stop yourself from falling, headfirst, down the stairs. You have no command over gravity, you are stunned, and once you land, you are broken.

My firing was outlandishly unexpected and jarring to my psyche. Foolishly, I had believed that 2017 was going to be a better year in terms of work.

I was wrong.

Amid all the commonly-uttered catchphrases that people have offered for comfort and guidance, I have gleaned one useful thing regarding resentment. It was said during a chamber lunch. I feel sorry for the woman who said it, because she was stuck sitting next to me. I’m not fun to be around. And if the topic of the Monitor comes up, as it did that day, I’m less fun to be around.

She told me, “Sometimes, forgiveness looks like indifference.”

I liked that. I hadn’t heard that before. And hopefully, that will eventually be the case.

But right now, I’m just not there.

I question my decision to remain in the Sky Valley every single day. I had no idea it was going to be this harrowing. How could I have known? The only way to test it was to try it. As it turns out, my hatred and disgust for that publication has worsened, not eased, over time. And it continues to worsen. Every time I attempt to look up an old story, only to rediscover that all my work has been destroyed, it grows stronger.

Other than a handful of stories I asked my former editor to resurrect so that I could actually craft a decent resume, nothing I wrote prior to August of last year is available for viewing. My work has been destroyed by the revolting people tasked with managing that publication. It literally makes me sick.

Everything I joyfully celebrated, struggled with and toiled over since 2013 has been destroyed. All the stories I cried while writing, because I loved the people or the cause, are gone.

Trashed. Vanished.

When I am attacked by an angry resentment-holder, pissed off about something I wrote early last year or the year before, I am unable to defend my work. The distorted version that exists in their mind cannot be reconciled with what was actually written. I am unable to confront them with my written words and say to them, “Look. This is what I wrote. Don’t call me a bad journalist. I am not. Read what I wrote.”

Pacific Publishing Corporation (PPC) destroyed it all and then after they destroyed it, they fired me.

And the publication’s greedy owners sat back and let it happen.

This is my resulting philosophy: “If you knowingly and willingly support an organization that does not value human beings, you are condoning its behavior.”

Every single time a “friend” posts a link to that rag, I am disgusted. It’s like a physical punch in the face. Actually, I’d rather be punched in the face. Often, particularly if the story is being posted on a community page with a broad audience, I will delete and block the person immediately.

I have made several exceptions to this, and remain conflicted.

PPC and RCO Legal, aka RIM Publications, aka Northwest Trustee Services, aka the Monroe Monitor, aka Stephen Routh, have erased me. They erased me at the worst possible time. Not being able to demonstrate what I’ve done for the past four years is extraordinarily detrimental to my life. As an addict in recovery, I have complex set of legal issues stemming from my past drug use that need to be addressed. I will need to demonstrate who I am and having my work destroyed makes it difficult.

All in the name of housing foreclosures. All in the name of profiting off the misfortunes of others. That is the only reason the Monitor still exists.

Somebody once told me that I worked for the Antichrist. She was right.

As I struggled with whether or not to write this piece, I got a Facebook message from one of my valley friends. The reporter hired behind my back to take my job reached out to her, asking her to call about a story. Her response? “No I won’t. I want nothing to do with your paper since the dismissal of Chris.”

I was so grateful I wanted to cry. I know it’s unrealistic and selfish and preposterous, but I wish everyone would do that. Continuing to interact with that “newspaper” gives it legitimacy it does not deserve.

I can’t look at the Monitor anymore.

I just can’t.

It is unfortunate that a copy of it was left on my desk. It really made me contemplate my life. If an issue is made about the fact that I will not associate with that “newspaper” in any way, then I’ll have to make a decision on how to move forward. Even my coworker and office-mate, who has been borderline obtuse in terms of my feelings about the Monitor, thought it odd that somebody would leave one on my desk. But she didn’t want to throw it away, she said, because she didn’t know who put it there.

So she left it where it was.

I could have used a Kayla on Monday. She would have thrown that shit right in the trash where it belongs.

Kayla and I outside in a snow storm, Seattle, 2008. 

Me and Kayla

The Great Bread Loaf Caper of 2004

One of the most incredible things I did as a part of the Monroe Police Department Citizens Academy last year was a visit to the training simulator at the Edmonds Police Department.

It’s this really cool interactive tool where you are presented with a potentially criminal scenario that is projected, life-size, onto a wall. You’re given a laser gun and the opportunity to figure out what to do. You might stumble across an obvious crime in progress in one scenario, while the next scenario might not be a crime at all. The scenarios range from innocent to subtle to extremely dynamic, and they change depending on how you behave. When you talk to the video projection, it responds. The goal is to apprehend the bad guys and avoid hurting innocent bystanders.

I sucked at it. Like seriously. I was the worst cop ever.

The funny part is that I couldn’t remember where the Edmonds Police Department was, so I used navigation to get there. Of course, once I got close, I quickly realized I knew exactly where I was going. I’ve been in trouble in Edmonds – the Great Bread Loaf Caper of 2004 – so I’ve made numerous trips to that police station and courthouse.

Also, my main drug dealer lived near five-corners, which is just up the street. I’m painfully familiar with that area. The drive brought back a lot of memories – mostly bad but also good.

There is no greater feeling in the world than when you’re sailing down the freeway with the windows down, the tunes cranked, money in your pocket and the knowledge that your dealer is home, holding and expecting you. Especially if you’re just a tiny bit dopesick, or maybe even a lot of the way dopesick. The unadulterated confidence that you feel knowing relief is literally right around the corner is delicious.

You are giddy and excited. It’s freedom.

It’s a sure thing.

Sadly, I haven’t found a lot of ways to match that exact feeling. I think the only thing that even remotely comes close has to do with love… But not love really. It’s that feeling that you have in the pit of your stomach when the person you have a soul-shattering crush on invites you to their house for the first time. It’s butterflies. It’s when you are driving to see the person who gives you butterflies and you are pretty sure that you’re going to be spending the night.

You can’t buy that feeling. You can’t buy butterflies. I love that feeling and I also kind of hate it.

Dope is easier. Dope doesn’t care what your ass looks like without clothes on. It doesn’t care about that roll of flab on your stomach or the lines on your face or what you look like in the morning. Dope doesn’t dump you for no reason. Dope doesn’t care if you’re clever or cool or awesome… With dope, you never have to worry about being enough.

I live in constant fear that I’m not enough. And I don’t believe people when they tell me that I am.

The ugliness of addiction outweighs its beauty by a longshot, however it’s not without beauty. I’ve said this before and I still believe it to be true – it’s the simplicity of addiction that makes it compelling. Heroin addiction is black and white. There are two states of being; sick or well.

Regular life is a kaleidoscope of muddled shades of grey that make me dizzy and exhausted.

At any rate, the Great Bread Loaf Caper of 2004 was a simple grocery store heist gone wrong… Except, we didn’t use the traditional cart method – we shoved everything into one of those little red baskets. That was why the bread loaf was so prominent. We took items of value as well, but they were tucked down inside the basket. That long, skinny loaf of French bread stuck out of the top as plain as day.

When we fled the store, witnesses saw the bread loaf and nothing else.

I don’t even know why we were doing that. I was living at Traveler’s at the time, which was a crappy hotel on 99 right by 220th. I already had dope in my hotel room but I guess we must have needed more, which was always the case. I was riding around with a girl I knew, I’ll call her Tina, and a couple guys too. I don’t remember who the guys were.

As we got back to Traveler’s, I was immediately surround by Edmonds and Mountlake Terrace PD. The grocery store was in Edmonds, and Mountlake Terrace PD must have been called to assist since my hotel was in its jurisdiction. Unfortunately, as they came up to the car and started questioning me, they spotted Tina in the back seat happily munching on that ill-fated loaf of French bread.

This is what is known as a clue.

Mountlake Terrace didn’t like me for some reason and wanted to go inside my hotel room. Luckily, they couldn’t. I wouldn’t let them, because I didn’t want them taking my dope, and I guess maybe they couldn’t get a warrant. I remember thinking, just hurry the fuck up because I want to go and smoke some crack. The Edmonds cop was super nice – he said he didn’t care about what was in my hotel room.

I guess he just cared a lot about bread. And possibly the stolen credit card I happened to have in my wallet. He cared about that too.

I never went to court so that became a warrant. My famous loaf of bread warrant. That warrant followed me around like a bad rumor on social media – popping back up when I least expected it. I was on federal probation three years later and my PO called me to her office one day. She was so baffled that she gave me the news in the form of a question.

“You have a warrant out of Edmonds for…. A loaf of bread?”

The thing about it that I found irritating was that I shouldn’t have had that warrant. I had taken care of all my warrants when I was on pretrial status with the feds, which is sort of a preliminary probation that you go on pending sentencing. I did the whole deal; I went to court, paid the fine and did the community service. I even did the community service in Edmonds. It annoyed me that it popped back up as a warrant, plus I hated my probation officer, so I took no action. I figured that the Seattle police had more important things to do than screw with me over a loaf of bread warrant.

And they did. Until one night they didn’t, and I had an apartment full of Seattle police officers. Fortunately, they didn’t care much about the loaf of bread. I had popped up as a known associate of somebody they were looking for, and when they noticed I had a warrant, they decided to come for a visit. They were waving around this truly hideous mugshot of me.

“We could take you to jail right now,” they said.

But they didn’t.

I did appreciate not being incarcerated over a 3-year-old loaf of bread, so I drove up to Edmonds, quashed the warrant and got the whole thing straightened out. I decided to call the Seattle Police Department to let them know. One of the officers had left his card, so I knew how to get a hold of him. He was really happy that I called. I think that must have been in 2008, which means that I drove around Seattle for over a year with that warrant.

Being in Edmonds as a part of the academy, with law enforcement officers that I admire and respect and view as heroes, was incredibly rewarding. Especially once I realized where I was. Full circle moments like that happened often in my job as a reporter and I will miss them very much.

Moral of the story, perhaps exclude bread from your grocery store heist.

Also, for the record, I was way better at SWAT than I was at the simulator.

Monroe Police Department Citizens Academy 2016, Photo by Officer Craig Robertson


Clear and a million

When I was in junior high, one of my closest friends was a girl named Rachael Juzeler. My house was about a half-mile away from her house, so I’d ride my bike over there all the time.

I remember one time, we wanted some money, but we couldn’t figure out a way to get it. The thought of doing chores didn’t appeal, as chores typically offered a very low rate of return. So, we did what any normal 13-year-old girls would do: we got a book on witchcraft, and decided to get money by doing magic. I honestly don’t recall all the intricacies of our sorcery, but it involved us banging on some type of a makeshift drum in Rachael’s driveway, chanting about how we wanted money to come to us. I believe we had to light something on fire too, but I’m not 100 percent sure.

Money did not come to us.

I was crushed. I wanted so badly to be able to do magic. I wanted so badly to be able to think about something and make it happen with the power of my mind. I still do. Especially now.

I wish I could do magic.

I am broken. I am irreparably shattered. I lived and breathed the Monroe Monitor and Valley News for four years and nobody should have been able to take that away from me. For the last 2-1/2 years, I worked seven days a week writing that paper and I loved it. It was my entire existence.

I’m not saying that it was the perfect job, but I didn’t deserve to be lied to and stabbed in the back. I didn’t deserve to be blatantly used to produce one last newspaper, when actually, I was fired the entire time I was writing it. I made coffee at 9 p.m. that Saturday night, to make sure I could stay awake long enough to get everything done. And I was fired the entire time.

I covered an event that weekend. I engaged in hours of careful research. I bled and sweat over my work. And I was fired the entire time.

Was I happy there? I was happy with the work, but the company that manages the Monitor was terrible at paying me. There were numerous times I went an entire month without a paycheck; for no reason. I was never given an explanation or an apology, until I eventually demanded one. At that point, I received an ersatz apology that arrived with zero explanation. And my strategy apparently didn’t go over so well, as we all know what happened next.

All I ever wanted was to be treated respectfully. Yes, things occasionally got ugly, but it was always because I hadn’t been paid in six weeks or the general manager was badmouthing me.

He could never get it through his thick skull that if he said negative things about me, I would find out.

Every. Single. Time.

There has been only one other time in my entire life that I have actively wanted to cause physical harm to another person. That was a decade ago, and I have never reconciled those feelings. It doesn’t matter how many fourth steps I do. This will be the same, if not worse, because the hate I have for the people that fired me is even more intense than the hate I had for that other individual. That hate I have for any person who participated in the lies and the trickery and the deception is beyond redemption.

These people stripped away my entire life, and they did it in a way that was utterly revolting. Maybe it was stupid of me, but I did not see this coming. I was blindsided.

2017 was clear and a million until my entire world imploded on itself.

The only thing that I want to do, is make them hurt as bad as I do. That is the only thing I want.

I guess it’s good that I can’t do magic. I really hate violence, I hate perpetuating more hate and I hate how ugly I am on the inside right now.

Last January, my relationship ended. It was the longest relationship I’ve ever had and it was not my choice to end it. I thought I was going to die, but at least I still had my job. I threw myself into my work with even more passion than before. I did amazing things last year. All year long. I won awards, I received accolades, I was the co-grand marshal in the Monroe Fair Days Parade and I was the first media person ever in the state to win a Washington State Exemplary Substance Abuse Prevention Award for my efforts as a community prevention leader.

I won an WNPA award for a story I did about education.

I’m grateful for that WNPA award. Since the company that manages the Monitor destroyed all my archives, I won’t even be able to apply this year.

I was a part of the Monroe Police Department Citizens Academy, which was definitely one of the most important things that I’ve ever done. I went on a ride-along with a super cool officer and the experience changed my life. I delivered Christmas presents with firefighters on Christmas Eve.

When I was suddenly fired less than two weeks ago, the community rallied around me, helping me raise just over $1,000 to keep my phone on and my rent paid while I look for another job. Just a few days prior to that, the city of Monroe honored me with a key to the city.

A key to the city.

Have I wanted to use? Yes. Absolutely yes. I am an addict. For some reason there are veins in my hands that keep popping out and the other day the thought of doing a speedball just randomly popped into my head. Like how great it would be to do a speedball, except not one that I would survive. A really big one. One that didn’t step towards the edge, but looked at the edge and dove straight off.

Binge-eating has also crossed my mind. Not quite as fatal, but still misery-inducing. I have been repeating the infamous phrase “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” over and over and over. It’s my new mantra. I don’t care if it’s shallow. I worked my ass off last year, and lost over 60 pounds. This bullshit isn’t going to take that away from me.

This bullshit isn’t going to take my health. This bullshit isn’t going to take my sobriety.

I don’t know how I’m going to survive this.

I wish I could do magic.

I took this photo in Gold Bar and it seems fitting. I have no idea what lies ahead….


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