And now for …how I got into drinking and hard-core drugs, did not graduate from high school, became a giant slut, and lived in my car!
I don’t remember the first time I ever tasted alcohol. My mom drank wine when I was growing up and I really liked the smell, but when I would taste it, it was horrible. Sometimes I would get a little taste of beer, but my dad didn’t drink that often and my mom never drank beer. When my grandma and papa (the Irish catholic ones) were in town, or when we visited them, a little taste of scotch was always possible.
As with the wine, I really loved the smell of beer and of scotch. I loved how my papa smelled – cigarettes and scotch. Well, mostly scotch. I don’t really count these experiences as my first with alcohol. I’m not sure why I don’t, but I don’t need to delve into that part of my psyche at this time.
The first I ever tasted alcohol without any parental (or grandparental) consent or knowledge was around 9th grade – wait, that’s not true either because I remember I would take little swigs of the peppermint schnapps or scotch that my parents had in the back of a cabinet, but never used – except when my grandparents were there. I don’t think I ever took more than one sip per incident because they tasted so bad.
Okay, how about this: the first time I remember drinking and realizing that I had a serious preoccupation with wanting more – the core ingredient to any addiction - was in the 10th grade. I was at a friend’s house without any parents around, and some guys were there, too. We snuck some sips of liquor from her parents’ cabinet.
Then she put it away. I was thinking, what the hell? Why is she already putting it back? But I didn’t say anything because all of the rest of the people seemed to have moved on from the sneaking-nips-of-parents’-alcohol phase of the afternoon. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it, though. I got in a really pissy mood and everything.
I got drunk for the first time somewhere around there, as well, again at someone’s house when their parents were out of town. It was rum. It was disgusting. We were drinking it straight. And I couldn’t stop. I was very aware of trying to be discrete, but I just kept going into the kitchen and finding that bottle and drinking more.
I did the normal stupid shit, like run around showing everyone my bra, and making out with some (older and very scary) chick’s boyfriend, and falling down and biting a hole through my lip. Like I said – the normal shit.
I remember the next day was class pictures, and I had a big scab on my lip. It was gross.
I don’t remember if that was before or after the Superbowl Sunday thing happened with that dude (I’m thinking after), but for the first time I began actively seeking out opportunities to drink. It was very difficult – I would not drink unless I could be out all night. I could not imagine going home under the influence of anything other than nicotine.
Because of that, I had to first convince my parents I was spending the night at a girlfriend’s house, and then actually get a hold of some alcohol. I managed nicely, though.
Looking back, I suppose the alcohol thing progressed rather quickly. The entire purpose for drinking was getting drunk, and that’s what seemed pretty normal at the time. I guess when 16 year olds all get together with some alcohol, they aren’t going to be wasting any time sipping chardonnay and discussing different methods of brewing beer. We didn’t, anyway.
So, all within about a year or so, I went from church-going good girl to drinking, cigarette smoking, fornicating, lying A LOT to my parents, stealing, smoking pot, and doing acid.
Within two years, I found myself seriously contemplating my life situation. This is what it was at that time: I was 18, 93 pounds, a hard-core meth addict, a high school drop out, living in my car, and pregnant with my drug dealer’s baby who happened to be spending weekends serving a jail sentence (the drug dealer, not the baby).
Oh yeah – although my m.o. was to be relatively monogamous, the short-lived “relationships” I had gave me the opportunity to also become a big slut – but only with one boy at a time! Kind of.
I never put anything else up my nose after I found out I was pregnant. People have said that it was really amazing that I was able to quit doing meth like that. Once I was pregnant, it didn't occur to me to NOT quit, and I do not give myself much, if any, credit for that. In fact, I really don’t even like thinking about it.
The only way I can describe it is to say that when I was out there doing all of that really fucked-up horrible shit to my mind and body (not to mention my reputation – just kidding – I still don’t give a shit about that), I absolutely did not give one iota of a flying fuck about myself.
When I found out I was pregnant, suddenly it just wasn’t about me anymore.
Not only that, but again, I was a 93-pound homeless teenaged high school dropout. I was not in the best physical shape. I was actually surprised I could even get pregnant at all – I hadn’t up until then, despite my unprotected promiscuity.
I had actually come to believe that I could not get pregnant because of the surgery I’d had when my ovary was removed. It occurred to me now and then that I could get pregnant, but I didn't. And I did not care.
Actually, that’s not true. I did have a pregnancy scare once, and I was concerned because I did not know who the father could be. It could have been this one guy, who was really decent and nice to me, which totally turned me off, so it also could have been this other guy, who was slimy and creepy and parasitic.
I was worried the parasite could be the father. But then I wasn’t pregnant, so I didn’t have to worry about it any more. Until I actually was pregnant, less than six months later, with my aforementioned drug dealer’s baby.
Side note: I use the word “aforementioned” because it is a nice word to use when I am describing my life in such a detached manner. If I was describing my life during this time in any other kind of manner, this would quickly turn from a blog post to a tome – a really, really, really depressing tome. And nobody likes a tome. Not someone else’s tome, anyway.
That is a lot of information for one post, so I’m going to wrap it up. I didn’t include “how” I became a high school drop out here, though, so I’ll give you a quick rundown. I got behind a semester and then just never went back. There ya go. I did get stellar scores on my G.E.D., though - one of the only lasting benefits of snorting Ritalin.
Oh yeah - how i became homeless: I got into drugs and alienated everyone who cared about me and got kicked out of my parents' house and the only place I had to go was my car. I only had to sleep in it a few times, though, cause I would find a couch at someone's house or something. Sleeping in my car was so scary. Actually, being homeless just sucked all around.
For my next post, I will get into how I dealt with being a pregnant teenaged homeless high school dropout!
To be continued…
No comments:
Post a Comment