If you’ve read my blog up until now, I am picking up when I entered High School. Up until now I’ve developed a taste for alcohol, I’m thinking about drugs, I’m actively puking every time I eat and I pretty much have given up hope that I will be anything special at the High School level. Forget that I’ve always had good grades and could continue on to be a great athlete. My mind was inching towards a deep dark depression and I created the perfect circumstances to fuel it, I created my perfect storm.
In comes the first “real” boyfriend. He’s a senior, I’m a freshman. He breaks my heart, I become more crazy and so on. The little details are too much for one sitting. He’s a straight arrow and I’m just getting nestled in to exploring more stuff that takes me out of myself. I try pot for the first time during this year, I’m smoking cigarettes everyday and I already know school is not going to work very well for me. The relationship thing, with the beautiful senior guy that I couldn’t breathe without, catapulted me into suicidal tendencies. Not the band, but you get what I mean.
By the summer after Freshman year I’m ready to go. I’m not playing around anymore. I have an older brother who can get alcohol, his friends like to party with me, and I’ve dissolved into the background from anyone who once knew me as a popular cheerleader, president of the 8th grade class or athlete. I wasn’t a cheerleader anymore, I threw in the towel before high school so I didn’t really have an image to keep up. My bulimia was basically sucking my will to live and my poor parents were faced with the lump of a daughter. Of course I started to blame the fact I was adopted because there was no way I could relate to my parents. They just didn’t have these problems, they didn’t act the way I did. I shut the door on them. But, that same year, Sophomore year, I did ask them to help me. Off to the Psychiatrist and straight to an inpatient program for adolescents.
Everything inside of me was screaming for help when I got to that place. But once I was in, and they locked the door, I was screaming to get out. I remember watching my parents and my brother through a tiny window and through a locked door walk out of the building. I stood there frozen, more scared then I’d ever been. Asking why is this me? Why am I not like them?
I had acquired someone who seemed to genuinely care about me before I ended up there. He was so nice, too nice because I couldn’t have people being nice to me. I was awful, a bad kid and a bad daughter, and I certainly wasn’t worthy of love. He sent me roses, my first dozen roses and I stared at them. They were the only pretty thing I had at that point in my life. I put them on the dresser in the room I shared with another sick girl. She didn’t like that they locked our bathroom door so I couldn’t puke. I don’t blame her. She had her own problems.
A month went by and I cried and manipulated my way right back out of that treatment center. It was there that I was told I was an addict and it was there that I decided I wasn’t so bad. The night I was released I went to celebrate with my friends. I stole the bottle of wine (that was being used as a centerpiece) off the table we were eating at. I am only 15, I am only a sophomore but I am already a full blown alcoholic.
The rest of high school is a blur. I partied and drug both my parents through hell. Thank God for guilt because that is what helped me to graduate. I couldn’t bear the thought of telling my parents after all I’d done, that I wasn’t going to graduate. So in between my first tumultuous relationship with my heavy metal guitarist boyfriend (whom I both loved and hated) I grasped at straws and worked every angle. Six months before graduation the worst happened, we found out my mom had cancer. I worked even harder to graduate. But it did nothing for me. Once I broke free of the chains of high school it was even darker. I found better drugs and she was dying, and I was quickly succumbing to my addictions. Her sickness was all the excuse I needed.
To be continued…