 |
My mom always had dinner ready by 4 p.m., just as my dad would be coming home from work. He’d always help me with math homework, while history was more of mom’s thing. It was an idyllic and happy home. There was no forewarning that soon this American dream would turn into a catastrophic nightmare, created by yours truly.
It all happened very quickly. At 14, I was drinking regularly, laughing in the face of statistics. They told me drinking before the age of 18 would put me at a higher risk for being an alcoholic. However, my endeavors with alcohol made me much more socially acceptable than my collection of polished rocks and Shakira pop-star impressions. This was also the early days of social networking. I could post all of my antics online and get likes — which made me feel like a rock star.
When I was 16, my cousin Krystal died of an overdose. Watching her struggle was heartbreaking. Nevertheless, that same year, I started heavily abusing anything I could get my hands on. My mom would find something out of place, like an empty bottle or a straw. I would just brush it off, blaming it on one of my friends.
Suddenly, “Daddy’s little princess” morphed into “Daddy’s little junkie.” Everyone had thought it was just a phase. Little did they know I’d found comfort in being numb and confused. I was confidently, arrogantly on my way to what people would call my “rock bottom.”
Dinner together and homework sessions turned into fights and slamming the door as I ran out. My dad started adding parenting books to his reading list. My mom started to pry as deep as she possibly could into my life. I couldn’t communicate well enough to even begin to explain what was actually going on with me. I just told them whatever they would want to hear. Whatever conscience I once had was now bound and tucked away into the deepest corners of my mind.
|
No comments:
Post a Comment