“Not my kid”

When you wake up remembering vivid details of a dream, it’s enough to make you think. If in this dream, a friend who has passed on decides to show up, you hit snooze and close your eyes, willing yourself to drift back.sarasf

I hate that I learned about Sara’s passing through Facebook. That I let years go by without staying in better touch. How we both fueled our addictions for over a decade, and neither one of us stopped to actually talk about why. We knew the other was fucked up and had a story – but with every pill, chopped-up line and shot glass, we pacified our pain.

Last night’s dream was so real, it was like no time had passed.

Sara and I met just out of high school. We were in our early twenties and already veteran party-girls, which means our drug use kicked off before the ink on our high school diplomas could dry.

High school. Drugs? Not my kid!

As I’ve said before back in March, it’s pretty easy to fool mom and dad. Most parents don’t see

Christine Macdonald

At the end of the day, who’s really full of it?

There’s nothing like a juicy debate of weighty opinions to spice things up in the blogosphere. There’s no doubt, when anonymity and personal experience get thrown in the mix, sparks ignite faster than you can say “What a load of crap!”

That’s exactly what happened after I recently posted Thanks Andrew, a personal homage to [HPA Creator/Cofounder/Executive Director] Andrew Slack’s article about his feelings of GLEE actor Cory Monteith’s recent overdose.

Thanks to one commenter, the embers of attitude quickly flew.

The world is no stranger to sparks. Some of us even thrive on it. As if somehow the voracity of our thirst for drama is equated to the very reason we’ve created it. Ever seen a drag queen go all Diva on someone’s ass, only to bitch about why the whole thing is going down in the first place? It’s hard to walk away. And at the end of the day, from clear heels to Air Jordons, what we really want is just to be heard.

Which brings me to this follow-up post.

As much as I disagree with some comments in Thanks Andrew, I gotta say, I’m grateful. There are so many vacant seats to the addiction education show, that any amount of light shed on the marquee is a welcomed step inside this heart-wrenching real-time documentary that’s taking a staggering amount of lives (even outnumbering US automobile deaths, claiming a life every 14 minutes).

You see, I’m an addict. I’m not proud. I’m not ashamed. I just am.

And as I explain in a post I wrote after climbing my way back from one of many re-lapses in

Christine Macdonald

Celebrity Social: Why One Hollywood Dame Tweeted Out (for now)

Everyone knows life isn’t fair. Most of us get that not all of us sharing the planet will live on the same page, and whatever the circumstance, sometimes shit doesn’t go our way.

From early on in our topsy-turvy lives, we’re taught the basics: share your crayons, raise your hand in class, be nice to the new kid in town. And no matter what faith you were born into – or not – the whole “do unto others” mantra rang true. Basically, don’t be an asshole.

The older we get, the more we fuck up, and hopefully those mistakes morph into lessons.

I’ve been an asshole more times than I can remember, especially when I was using (something about an all-night coke bender that really brings out the pretty).  After getting clean, I began to realize that as tragic as I complained my life to be, I spewed the same amount of toxic energy into the world. This little epiphany, minus the yoga pants and burning incense, was all pretty Zen – after I finally got it.

You don’t need to be a recovering addict to learn lessons. But there’s something about our brood that seems to make us more susceptible to certain bruises that an otherwise “healthy” person would get (not that we aren’t healthy, our brains are just wired differently). There’s a certain type of vulnerability and compassion in the flavor of our hearts; we’ve tasted the poison of our own personal decay, and somehow managed to

Christine Macdonald