The 13th Step

How Did Your Parents Fuck You Up? By Popular Demand

2005-12-11T08:31:00.000-07:00

Perhaps a little more background is in order. How does one end up like this? How does an innocent child end up being a strung out drug addicted juvenile delinquent. Here is a little bit of the background story – from childhood – you can pick out for yourself where my parents went wrong and where they went right (ok I’ll make it a little easier than that) but keep in mind, there is no right answer and doing the opposite doesn’t always work.

I have an older brother – he is spoiled (and still is). My parents seemed to make all their permissive mistakes on him, and tried to do the opposite with me – they bought him too much and he was a brat, so they bought me a lot less. They gave him nice expensive snobby clothes and he became a snob, they took me to Kmart. He didn’t get a job when he was old enough and sat on his ass all day – I was encouraged to get one at 14 (actually younger if babysitting a few times a week counts – then it’s 11 or 12) and to work 40 hrs a week during the summer and 20-30 while going to school. At 16 I held two jobs during the summer – that is too much for a child. They bought him a car and he wrecked it, they bought him another and he did the same – so I was to buy my own so I would appreciate it. He would break the rules and they would threaten to take away all the things they provided him with – when I would do the same all they had to take away were the basics – food and clothes – and they did. I had a job, I didn’t need them – so I continued to break the rules and saw them as cruel for taking away such things as providing clothing.

Now as a parent I see their logic – what they did with my brother obviously didn’t work, so why make the same mistake twice? But, they continued to spoil my brother (or he would fall apart) and I saw the difference in our treatment – it was obvious, everyone sees it. They still spoil my brother, and he still can’t take care of himself – he is aware of how differently they treat us also – he feels degraded, but he needs them – I feel unloved or unappreciated – The only way they could have done this right was to stop treating him differently, but they never have. It is still a sore spot.

Louise grew up in the single parent house hold with no father in site; I grew up with the other alternative – what appeared to be a loveless marriage. Now as an adult I see and think my parents love each other – some of the time – but it is a sick sick relationship. My mother is used, heavily, and my father is a childish brat. My mother puts up with it, which is sick in its own way. They should have gotten divorced years ago. They would scream and fight in the night, in the day, in front of us. My father throws things, curses, threatens. I saw all of this; why on earth would I think they loved each other? I used to think they stayed together for us – which just made the whole relationship more sick to me – but now we are grown and they are still together (although my father threatens to leave my mother for such infractions as not having dinner ready for him on time – no I’m not kidding) and my mother calls me up to bitch about how my dad won’t fuck her.

Along with this dynamic I grew up in the house of misogyny. My father is like a helpless child – he cannot clean up after himself, do any household chores, cook, change the toilet paper roll, or take care of his own personal hygiene. He has learned some of these things the last few years (it’s a miracle) but for my 18 years in that home he never did – or was capable of any of them. On the few occasions he would try to something – like cook or clean dishes – he would fail miserably and blame his failures on my mother – OR ME. Yes the misogyny was extended to me as I grew – I was expected to do and learn all of these things from a very young age. My brother was expected to learn some of these things too – but far less than myself. Add to this that my mother did EVERYTHING for the household – she took care of us, worked full time (and made more money), cooked, cleaned, shopped, did all bookkeeping, made all appointments for me, my brother, herself and my father, yard work, some minor home repairs (that my dad would say he would do and not get around to) EVERYTHING. My dad went to work and changed the oil on the cars. He never interacted with me and my brother unless absolutely necessary (that is except for the violent and psychotic behavior, but that’s next). He also crabbed at my mom, threatened to leave her, or screamed at her if these things were done to his satisfaction.

My father is also very a. crazy and b. quick tempered. He once came in my room out of nowhere and threw my toys and even some furniture against the wall to shatter into pieces screaming in rage while I cowered in the corner crying – all because I ate the last little Debbie. He would do things like this frequently – anything and everything could set him off, and I often I would not even know why it was happening. He would always come back a few hours later to find me hiding somewhere and make a meek apology – but he would do it again a few days later. I have not a single memory of him ever playing with me – I don’t know if he ever did or not – these memories are too s strong. I feared him, I hated him, he was my nightmare. He never once laid a hand on me (other than spankings with a paddle or hanger – but never bare handed) but he would often throw things at me (my toys, my shoes, what was close by) out of rage – I think he meant to miss most of the time – but I would get hit often enough to know better. Either his aim was poor or he wanted to hit me – I still don’t know. He would do other cruel things like make fun of me, threaten to burn my toys to get a rise and laugh at me, open my door and fart on me and then walk away laughing. I love this man out of obligation and nothing more. He has good qualities about him, and he has changed a lot as he has gotten older, but again none of this was until after I left home – and no matter what he does I don’t think he could undo the damage he did to me. Today he does still go off the deepend sometimes, but he is usually very laid back, and never violent. I respect him a lot more today – but the past can’t be undone.

My mother on the other hand is an emotional basket case. She is conniving and manipulative. Now as an adult she expects me to be her emotional support system – unfortunately as a child these behaviors were originally put in place. I didn’t get it as a child, I thought I wasn’t pleasing her, that I needed to be there for her…. That’s not the position of the child. I could go into this for days – and may later – but hell I’m tired, let’s just say she is manipulative in every shape and form, and leave it at that.

God damn this thing is long – ok two more areas I will cover and then I will leave it at that for awhile… ok maybe three.

I grew up in po-dunk town. Surrounded by guys that beat their wives for not bringing them their Milwaukee’s best fast enough and future meth lab producing trailer parks. Many of the locals are racist, uneducated poor white trash. I did not say all – there are good people out there, just like there are good people in the ghetto – but there seems to be a bad element there (I’m sure just like most places). I would say this to anyone raising a child – don’t raise them there. The country is fine, but not this part of the country – it was too close to the trailer park crowd. Though my parents liven in a small farming community – I went to school with all the redneck kids – and I didn’t relate – or I didn’t want to. If you are raising your kids in the ghetto – leave. If you are in the trailer trash park – leave. I don’t care how you do it. Take your shit, get the cheapest shitiest apartment you can in a halfway decent neighborhood if you have too… but go. It doesn’t matter how good you or your family are – your kids are at school and at play with kids for families that aren’t so good 90% of the time – and their influence will be there. Make whatever sacrifices you need to make, just go. We are the poor trash at my daughter’s school I’m sure. When she first started I was treated so badly by some of the other parents – I was ostracized, ignored, uninvited. I was the way too young single mother coming into their special school on a scholarship. I shouldn’t even be able to afford that school with the scholarship – but I make whatever sacrifices I have too. If this is where she is for 8 hours or more of her waking day everyday – I want it to be the best I can give her. Make sure your child has this – are you willing to eat bagged cereal for almost every meal? Not buy any new clothes for damn near two years? Give up cable? Give up going to the movies? Give up taking vacations? Give up trips to anywhere that costs anything? Have your family time out be PBJ at the park with a ball and free night at the local museums? I did all these things – for too long – because that was what it took to get to where I wanted her to be. If you read this from the position I was sitting when I made the decision that I wanted more for my child, that I wanted her influence to be of my choosing and not fates – pack your shit and go.
School – where you live is where you go to school. I went to a shitty school. I was defiant, I was cunning, I was a smart ass – I was gifted. This was only recognized when I was tested because there MUST be something wrong with me if I was such a little shit. I couldn’t tie my shoes – this was the big stick. They let me into kindergarten early because I passed some little skills test – but wanted me to stay again because I couldn’t tie my shoes. It was talked about WAY too much. I was tested in first grade – even though all my other skills were off the charts – because I had behavior issues – MY IQ ranked in the third deviation above normal. I was placed in gifted education. However, at a poor school gifted education is not what you would think it would be – we still had no resources and it was just considered an extra thing – not daily classes. For one day a week I went to gifted class all day – which was me, a teacher, and four or five other kids in a broom closet. I was in the pilot program. They gave us a few more kids and a trailer a couple years later. We went there all day on Wednesday’s and then had to make up all our regular class work at home. We would get to use computers there – which were unheard of to the rest of the school. The school only owned about 5 computers – two of them were in our little broom closet. We did brain teasers, learned algebra (in 1^st or 2^nd grade) chess, wrote reports, thinking skills activates, took little trips, set up ecology studies and science experiments. In my daughters school all the kids do this kind of stuff in kindergarten. If this was what our gifted school was like you can imagine the regular classes. I work at a school with no resources now. It’s so sad to see a kids future wasted like this. Even the brightest kids fall further and further behind with each passing day because they are given little to challenge them. The ones who were already behind – well the schools seem to not care about them because they will drop out eventually anyway, right? Then the district doesn’t have to worry about their statistics anymore. It’s sick. Your kid is at school more than they are at home (well awake at least) make sure it’s a good one.
I was sexually abused. No one talked to me about it – I was never warned, I thought I was the bad one. It went on for too long. It may have been more than one person – I have some very broken and sick memories. It was repressed, it was never dealt with, and it grew in there until everything felt dead. NO ONE EVER TALKED TO ME ABOUT IT. Talk to your kids about this, about these people, about any and everything you can think of – let them know they need to come to you – make them understand. It happened to my grandmother and no one had talked to her about it – it happened to my mother whose mother being a victim couldn’t talk about it – it happened to me because my mother was too ashamed to talk about it- I WANT IT TO STOP THERE. You do not get over it, you survive it. You are never the same. I never really got to be a child – I was a damaged woman before I hit elementary school. I will not let this happen to my child.

Ok, I’m tapped out for now… I’ll get on with it more later… sorry it’s so long, and been so long since I posted. Been kind of down.

Rehab: Round 3 - Part I

2005-11-29T11:14:00.000-07:00

When I left the Residential unit in October, my mom was ready. She'd been doing her homework and had obviously learned from experience that I would not stay clean after a brief stint in kiddy rehab. Immediately, we went home and packed my belongings. I was being shipped off to a longer, more intensive program, somewhere in the middle of east jesus. Because I had a few weeks clean, I was much more agreeable to this type of thing. My mom was smart to not even give me a chance to get settled into my home routine.

We left for the rehab in the afternoon and arrived to check in around 6pm. I was scared. But I knew deep down that I had to stop doing drugs. Sure, that voice of acceptance and reason was very very small, but it was easier to hear when I wasn't using.

The facility I was at was strictly for drug addicts. One end of the building was for adults, the other for adolescents. When I got there, I met a man named Kirby. He was a big teddy bear of a guy with long brown hair and a full beard. He wore black t-shirts almost all of the time. He spoke to me nicely and made jokes while answering my mom's questions. I liked him. He seemed peaceful.

The ward was empty. After signing in, I was ushered to the cafeteria. Everyone stared at me when I walked in. I was used to the scrutiny, though. It was the same at all rehabs. Everyone looks at the newbie, finds meaning in the clothes the newbie is wearing (do they have money?), the way their hair is worn (are they poseurs?), how fat or thin they are (what kind of drugs are they on?), and lastly, whether the newbie is good-looking or not (they might want to hook up). Anyways, I grabbed a tray and went to the line. The server told me that the only rule was that my plate had to be full. If I didn't like something, then just don't take it. My plate was piled high with steaming pasta primavera and garlic bread. Ordinarily, there were more choices, but tonight was pasta night. I sat and ate. And ate. And ate. At the last rehab, I never ate. There, I had to have a 'balanced' meal, but I usually just found the anorexic girls and swapped my peas and carrots for their cake or pudding. Then, the rest would go into the trash. But the food at the new place was tasty.

After dinner, we went back to the ward. I said goodbye to my mom. I was shown to my room, a room I had to share with three other girls. The other addicts just lounged in the big meeting room. They sat together and talked. One group of guys played dominoes and spades. I sat with them. I met a very very good looking boy named Aaron. He had black hair and tan skin and the most beautiful green eyes I'd ever seen. He was a skater and was from Kansas City. We talked and discovered that we had a lot in common. He started calling me his brain buddy because I kept saying things at the same time as him. He used playing cards to see if I could read his mind. Holding one card, he'd ask me, "What card am I holding?" I'd stare deeply into those green eyes and swoon on the inside. In the end, about 75% of the time I guessed the card he was holding. Kind of freaky, really.

I met another girl named Lindsay. She and I became friends. She was funny and weird and ate up. She liked to trip acid, same as me. We talked about music and boys and we had fun.

I met my counselor. Her name was Tonja. (Like tawn-juh.) She was the only person who worked at the rehab that wasn't an addict, but nearly everyone she was related to was an addict. She'd seen it all. While the other kids were sitting in the big room, Tonja took me to her office. We sat down and talked. She asked me about what I wanted out of life, what my goals were. I looked at her blankly. I told her what my goals used to be. She took notes on a yellow legal pad. She told me that she would review her notes and that the next day, we'd go over my treatment plan. She sent me back out to the big room.

About an hour after dinner, a matronly woman named Maureen came into the big room. Kirby came in, too. Everyone cleaned up, rearranged chairs into a circle, and took a seat. Maureen led a meeting. I don't remember what the meeting was about. I don't remember a lot. After the meeting, we got to take a cigarette break. I stood on the fenced-in patio. I smoked and breathed. I smelled the air. It was clean. I looked up into the black expanse and saw a million little twinkling lights. I'd never seen more beautiful stars. And for the first time in a very long time, I felt okay.

By Popular Demand...

2005-11-22T15:45:00.000-07:00

There were plenty of things my mom could've done better. I chalk that up to her naivete, her lack of experience in the world I had submerged myself in.

There were things she could've done differently. I chalk that up to the emotion of the situation, to the fact that she was a single parent with two troubled teenagers.

There were things she did correctly. I chalk that up to her love and patience and selflessness. A parent could never love a child more than my mom loves my brother and me. Do not comment telling me how much you love your child. I still won't believe it is more than I am loved. I would have to see it to believe it.

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What my mom did wrong.

-She never gave me consequences. Her punishments were practically non-existent when we were young and that became a big deal as I got older and I tested her boundaries. My boundaries became extremely flexible.

-She sexually repressed me. I remember starting my period and asking her if she used tampons or pads. Her response: "It's none of your business." She still insists she was just shocked that I asked her that. She should not have been shocked. We'd just bought me my first pads for my first period. Seems like a normal question to me.

-She didn't get me on the pill the second she found out I was having sex. She didn't want me to have sex at all, of course. But, she couldn't be with me every hour of everyday. She should've done the smart thing, the thing that would've protected me. Insisting that I should not have sex does no good for anyone. Forcing me to take the pill, or at least encouraging me to, gives me a hand in being responsible for my own reproductive health. I would've seen sex as a choice that carried consequences instead of a recreational habit.

-She didn't discuss my father's alcoholism with us from a young age. She should've informed us, no matter how limited the details, that alcoholism and drug addiction run rampant in our family tree.

-She should've gotten us into family counseling about 2 years before I was using drugs, when I first became depressed following a lawsuit against our father.

-She should've been home more, but being a single parent, she had to work. My grandma was not in a position to deal with teenagers effectively, especially when I was worse than what she was used to. Perhaps my mom could've found another adult family member to assist her in finding out where we were on certain issues.

-As small children, my mom encouraged us to discuss things with her. We had family talks, even on short trips in the car. They were a matter of fact, not a big production. She encouraged her to trust us. She should've continued this line of openness into my teen years. Perhaps it would've been easier to get to me if she was willing to discuss the things I had questions about, such as sex, relationships, my father, her marriage to my dad. But because she shut me down (see "She sexually repressed me."), I didn't feel like I could talk to her.

-She took my stash of drugs and paraphernalia from me without confronting me. But I found it and took it back. Then, I just became sneakier about it. She should've confronted me on it, asked me questions, talked to me about consequences.

What my mom did correctly.

-She insisted on tucking me in at night, even when I hated her guts, all the way until I moved out. She tucked me in, gave me a kiss, told me she loved me.

-She hugged me at least once a day. And I mean a real bear hug from a petite woman.

-She said "I love you," to me as often as possible. I think she was hoping that would seep into me if she said it enough. It definitely didn't hurt.

-She refrained from using obscenities. I think I heard her say the f-word once. She rarely acted on her anger.

-She refrained from threatening me.

-She didn't give me power when I railed at her. I would scream and insult and threaten and act out, and she just held her ground. She didn't flinch, didn't yell back, didn't let me visibly scare her, though I'm sure I was scaring the crap out of her.

Thelma & Louise's tips for raising an honest and healthy teenager.

-Be honest with them. Do not lie to them about your experiences. Minimizing them is one thing, but outright lying is not okay. Why? They need to know they can trust you to be honest. They need to know that you're not perfect and that mistakes are common when growing up.

-Listen to your gut. If they seem like they're acting oddly, they probably are.

-Spend quality time with them. Create rituals that you can do together. Like always playing games on Sunday evening. Or something like that. Carve time out for them. The dishes and laundry can wait.

-Give them space. They need privacy, as do you. Give them clear boundaries and do not allow manipulation. In turn, give them privacy and don't manipulate them either.

-Give them consequences. Don't be afraid to put them in their place. Chances are, they want you to be the parent. Trust me.

-Most importantly, don't ever give up on them. Teach them about loyalty and hope by showing your dedication to them. They need to know they can always rely on you. But don't let them abuse this, either. (See "Give them consequences.")

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I'm sure Thelma has her own list of things her parents did wrong. I'll let her dissect their behavior.

As for my mom, I trust her. She trusts me. I'm completely honest with her. She's learned that there were consequences to her not being open with me. She's more open and honest with me than she's ever been. We've bonded over this hell that we were in together. We bonded upon my getting better.

Rehab: Rounds 1 & 2

2005-11-18T12:28:00.000-07:00

My mom took my brother and I to family counseling. We just screamed and yelled at each other most of the time. My mom took me to shrinks. They put me on Prozac. It did nothing. They asked me if I was on drugs. I lied and said no. They put me on Paxil. Today, it is well-known that Paxil is unsafe for children, even teenagers. It has a staggeringly high suicide rate. In the mid-90s, doctors didn't know. I took the Paxil.

In June following my freshman year of high school, my mom put me in rehab. I was angry at her. I hated her. She came to the hospital on weekends for family therapy. I pleaded with her to take me home. I cried and promised. I was loving. I really did love my mom. I knew she loved me. I'll be good, I swear. She left me there.

I was with kids that were really crazy: Tourette's, OCD, eating disorders, depression, abuse victims, cutters, a few druggies, a violent sociopathic kid that later stalked me. The doctors kept me on Paxil. They also put me on Lithium and diagnosed me as bipolar. The Lithium would help with my mood swings. I made out with the Tourette's kid. We sneaked into his room. He wasn't cute, but he was by far the best looking guy there. He showed me his penis. It was tiny. I laughed at him and left him sitting there, erect and exposed.

I lied to my psychiatrist about how much I was used to smoking a day. I was smoking around 2 packs a day. I told him I was smoking 4 packs a day. He prescribed a hefty dose of Nicorette for me. I didn't suck on it they way you're supposed to. I chewed it and I was rewarded with a sweet little buzz and a bad taste in my mouth. So even in rehab, I was finding a way.

After about a week, I was moved to the Residential floor. This meant that I could expect to be there for months. I met a girl named Lisa. She liked all the same music as me. We bonded over Fugazi and Beastie Boys. When she left, she gave me her number. When I got out, we partied. That's how it was. Just like in prison, you go in a minor criminal, you come out knowing how to commit all sorts of crimes. Going to rehab just gave me more people to party with, created more opportunity for getting drugs. I was only in Residential for about 2 weeks. My insurance ran out. My mom couldn't afford to pay out of pocket, so I went home.

After a brief family vacation, I was back doing the same old stuff. I was just being smarter about it. By September, my mom was fed up again. I was getting suspended at school. I was coming home drunk at all hours of the day. I was belligerent. Where I used to not get high on occasion, now I was permanently strung out. All of the time. And, I was getting more violent. More threatening. My little brother, who was a pot-head, came to me crying, pleading, begging for me to get better, for me to love them, for me to let them love me. I told him that I didn't give a fuck about them or me or anything. I cared about getting fucked up. I cared about nothing else.

By October, I was back in rehab. Same deal. One week with all the crazies, two weeks on Residential, back home. Again, I was right back at it. But this time, Mom had a trick up her sleeve.

Our Story Continues...

2005-11-17T21:12:00.000-07:00

Where we last left off our dear sweet Thelma was dropping her first hit in her friend’s trailer while her parents were out.

As Louise said things move pretty quickly from there. Pretty soon you wake up and a few years have gone by and you don’t really remember the days from most of them. Life seems life a jumbled broken memory and you can’t quite place anything in a time or place. Still today my memory feels like swiss cheese and I wonder if this is why. I won’t bore you with all the details and the in-between times. Not that they would be boring mind you, just that I want to progress here and I may want those stories for later use. War stories are always good mindless entertainment. And this is war honey, and war is hell. Here the simple and easy rundown:

You have too many things in life that you need to forget. That person touching you, that man screaming and throwing things, that person dying. Reality is no fun, and you find bigger and better ways to escape it daily. Hallucinogens are the best – there is no reality there.

You are 14 and you are locked away in a mental hospital. You were using drugs and a man was stalking you. You would sleep on the floor against the door where he couldn’t see you when he peeked in your windows at night. No one listened when you asked for help. No one heard you when you said how scared you were. When they finally saw what was happening they feared for your safety so they made you out to be broken. You believed them.

You are 15 and your mom wakes you up at the ass-crack of dawn for random piss tests at the local mental ward. You are locked away again. This time you fully believe you are crazy, but you don’t really care. You meet a great new dealer or two in the mental hospital rehab.

You are 16 and you get caught on a peak. You lie. You say you are high – she knows you have gotten high – she does not approve. But high is better than tripping. You say you are high and you had to get high because life is a mess and you are so depressed. You don’t get in trouble.

You have all the control (so you think) and no one can touch you. You do what you want when you want. Your parents won’t buy you clothes and food and such – you have a job, you’ve had one since 14 – you don’t need their money. They can’t stop you from leaving, they can’t make you stay, they can’t give you a curfew or ask who you are going with – you just go. They give up and don’t even try anymore.

You are slutty but you don’t “sleep around." You are a dope fiend but you are not “out of control.” You are depressed but you are not “suicidal” (that they know of). There are rules you have made to live this life you have – and they only make sense to you. You avoid the greater evils not because you care, but because they would break your Kantian code of dope-smoke ethics. You still think you have control for some reason.

You realize that control was all in your mind, and nothing is as it should be. You are too smart for your own good and everyone knows it – you are told every day that you were a genius, you were to be something grand, and now you are a failure. You have been removed from school, put on homebound for psychiatric distress. It’s the acid talking. It didn’t matter; you spent 90% of your time suspended or in in-school-suspension anyway. You get in a car accident, you and your boyfriend call it quits, you can’t talk to your friends anymore. You start trying to convince yourself that all that scary stuff in your past was just a dream. Things like that don’t happen to good little girls. You were the problem. You resolve to quit using drugs for awhile. This resolve makes you use them even more.

They all talk about bottoms in rehab – how you need to hit a bottom, how you’ve hit your bottom, how to start up from the bottom. This bottom thing seems to be a requirement.

If there is one thing I learned there is no such thing as a bottom – a bottom is dying – and anyone with enough self hate will keep digging deeper until there is no dig left. We all end up there because we are chicken shit – no other reason.

Progressive Disease

2005-11-16T11:28:00.000-07:00

High school was thrilling. I was finally (FINALLY!) getting attention from the boys. I had a boyfriend. I cheated on him all the time. I lost my virginity. I had sex with seven different guys within 6 months of becoming sexually active. I rarely used condoms. Some of the guys were fuck-buddies. Some of them were brief flings or just one time. One was my boyfriend.

My mom found a condom wrapper under my bed once. (Perhaps that's why I didn't want to use them?) She knew I was sexually active. She made sure to make comments about me being easy without ever using that phrase or any other words like 'slut' or 'whore.' She merely disapproved, judged me, and didn't bother to educate me or take me to get birth control. (Can you tell I'm still a little bitter about all this repression?) My brother called me a slut once. I punched him in the face.

All this sex was just something to do. These little boys didn't care about pleasing me. Even if they would've cared, we were all so inexperienced. I didn't know better, didn't know to expect better. Besides, it still felt good. I still liked sex. I liked the power that came along with sex. These boys wanted something from me. They would have to jump through hoops to get it.

Drugs and alcohol were always available. If we couldn't score, I'd just steal a bottle of Absolut Citron from the grocery store. I never got caught. I was fairly good at stealing and I did it all the time. Clothing, booze, music, stuffed animals, computer cleaner (aka Air Duster, or VCR cleaner) for huffing, food.

I stole pregnancy tests for me and my best friend, Stephanie. Neither of us used condoms. Both of us had scares. We'd pee on the stick at the Burger King, in the ladies' room. Wait 5 minutes. Tear up a little and smile when it came up negative. But there was always sadness. Sad that we were behaving the way we were. Sad that we were taking pregnancy tests at Burger King while parents watched their kids play on the playground not 30 feet away. Sad that we weren't pregnant because maybe a kid would change things for the better. Boy, were we stupid. But that's how we felt. There are many girls that feel like this. Some set out to get pregnant. Some act like we did: recklessly.

School became less and less important. I skipped class. Got caught smoking. Served detention. Got caught skipping. Got caught coming and going from campus, a big no-no. Got suspended. Got caught with someone who got caught with drugs. Mine were well hidden and the dogs weren't on campus that day. Got suspended again. Over and over again. Got kicked out the last week of the school year - chronic insubordination. They let me come back the last day to clean out my locker. To get my yearbook. I already looked vastly different than the girl in those pages.

My junior high friends had experimented a little, but they were all still good kids. They were all disappointed in me. I still had honors classes with them. They just looked the other way when I came to class high. One of them asked me what I was doing. I played it up - I was having fun. Things were great. And this was somewhat true. I was having fun. But between the fun, there was nothing but chaos. And even though I blamed everything on everyone else, I knew it was me. I knew that all of my problems were my fault. But I pushed that voice of responsibility away. I chased away all reason.

I was destructive. I was violent. I had severe mood swings. I screamed and yelled and cursed. I made hollow threats. I stole money. I stole my grandma's car more than once. I stole her credit cards and her gas cards. I locked my keys in grandma's house one day and high on PCP and marijuana, I busted out the window to our family room with a piece of PVC pipe. I denied that I did it when my mom later came home. I pawned things from Grandma's house.

My friends and I broke into houses, robbed them. We shoplifted. My best friend and I tried to slash the tires of some guys jeep. (Dull knife - it's harder than it looks.) A fuck-buddy and I robbed an apartment for stereo equipment and we traded it all for an Uzi. You heard me. That same fuck buddy and I also made acid.

I fooled around with my friends' boyfriends. They fooled around with mine.

Things just got worse and worse and worse. I got caught by the cops for multiple things. They always let me go. My mom pleaded with them to lock me up. They wouldn't.

I came home drunk. I came home high. I came home on acid. I drank Robitussin. I took pills. I snorted my brother's Ritalin. I snorted dexedrine. I snorted meth and coke. I freebased coke. I mixed drugs. I hoped that my heart would just stop. If I did enough, my heart would just stop.

I did all of this at home. I did all of this right under their noses. And they could do nothing. My mom was never a disciplinarian. My dad was gone. My family was scared for me. I told them I didn't give a fuck. And I didn't. What could I do? This was me. This was how I was. This was who I was. I didn't want to change. The only acceptable ending for me was death.

My First Drunk

2005-11-16T00:10:00.000-07:00

I first found alcohol when I was 11. My grandpa had died of cancer the previous winter and I was unsupervised during the long summer days. There was a liquor store by my house. My friends and I used to go there, buy sodas, steal candy. One day when I was there, I walked around the aisles, looking at the different bottles, their colors, their shapes. Wondering what the difference was between gin and vodka. Wondering at the variety of alcohol. Alcohol always held a promise for me. It promised me that I would be cool, self-confident. That's what the ads and TV shows and movies told me. That's what my drinking family members showed me. That's what I believed, that alcohol would just wash my cares away.

And so it was really no surprise that one lazy afternoon, I walked down to the liquor store. I bought a Pepsi. And I decided on the walk home that I was going to get drunk. I was going to mix whatever liquor sounded exciting with my Pepsi. I was going to get into my great-grandparents' liquor cabinet and drink their exotic sounding alcohol. My mom would never notice because she rarely drank, rarely even opened that cabinet. She would not notice.

I opened the cabinet. It wasn't locked, didn't even have a lock. I looked at the different bottles filled with their different-colored potions. Peppermint Schnapps. Peach Schnapps. Beefeater Gin. Smirnoff Vodka. Vodka. Vod-ka. I liked the word. I grew to love vodka.

I grabbed the huge bottle. I grabbed my Pepsi bottle. We went into the living room and turned on the TV and sat at the coffee table, me and my vodka. I opened the Pepsi. I opened the vodka. My heart raced. I was scared. I was excited. I smelled the bottle. It smelled like rubbing alcohol. I was scared. I picked up the Pepsi bottlecap and I held it with one hand as I poured a small amount of vodka into it with the other. I smelled the bottlecap. Still smelled bad. I stuck my tongue into it. It tingled. It definitely tasted bad. Okay. I poured Pepsi to the brim of the bottlecap, in effect making the world's smallest cut drink. I poured it all into my mouth. It didn't burn as badly this time, or maybe the soda's carbonation was outweighing the bite of the vodka. I did this again. And again. I liked it. I wasn't scared anymore. I was laughing. I poured about two shots worth into the remaining 16 oz of Pepsi. I sipped it the rest of the afternoon and I had a sweet sweet buzz.

For the first time it occurred to me that this was what it was like to be me, to be relaxed, to be carefree, to be fearless. I was eleven years old.

I drank alone until high school, when my goody-goody friends started experimenting. That's when I went off the deep end. Quickly.

And it begins...

2005-11-15T11:43:00.000-07:00

I'm here babe. Let the party commence.

I thought we should start with how we got there... or at least I will.

I can't remember my first drink, but I had to be young. I had hard liquor (that I nicked mind you) by 10 - I was never that impressed with it. My first toke? Couldn't tell you that either, but I know I loved it. I do remember my first hit of acid though; that is unforgettable.

I was 12 and my friend Sam and I bought 2 hits for 4 or 5 bucks a piece outside a pool hall a few towns over. What I was doing hanging out outside a pool hall at 12 I couldn't tell you. Sam was a year or two older than me and had flunked a few grades. I had the book smarts and she had the street smarts. I could think up the good lies and she could tell them. We were not good together. Back at the pool hall we pocketed our goods and waited not so patiently for an opportune time. Her parents picked us up a bit later, took us back to her house, and then went out for the night. We knew they wouldn't be back until late in the morning. Opportunity was knocking.

This was how it all began.

2005-11-10T12:28:00.000-07:00