I Was A Pre-Teen Living With Addicts

I wore my mom’s clothes or hand me downs from her friends, often unclean and in disarray; and none of it fit. Oh, and I got my first period. My life was a complete mess, and I wasn’t even in the 6th grade yet.

At the age of 11 I began a new chapter of my life apart from my little sister and the rest of my family.

My mom and I were officially moved in with her boyfriend, much to my chagrin. He owned property-- a decent amount of it-- and resided in a large farmhouse, tucked away behind dozens of trees and a winding driveway.

Next door to his home, was a smaller version of it-- I later discovered it was once a chicken coop that he personally made additions to; initially for a workshop, but later carpeted and furnished to be more habitable. That is where I ended up spending most of my time.

Life wasn’t immediately unbearable. Sure, I was bitter, and isolated as ever, but I wasn’t at my breaking point yet. Social workers would come and visit me once a week to see how I was “adjusting”, and if my mom was capable of taking care of me. My mother would urge me not to say anything stupid. About her boyfriend, how often I was left alone, or how I suffering from the onset of early depression. In fact, she didn’t want anyone to get close-- to know what our day to day lives looked like.

Approaching my 12th birthday, my childlike bliss began to fade. I was on the verge of becoming an angsty teenager, with way too much time on my hands. Mom and her boyfriend would be off smoking weed or tripping on mushrooms for hours, even days, over at the other house. Besides the farmland and two homes on it, there wasn’t another public or residential space for what felt like miles. I never overreacted or mentioned how it all made me feel-- even as a preteen, the drug use and loneliness didn’t bother me too much. At least they ignored me when they were high. It was the lying, neglect, and occasional withdrawal induced fits that got to me.

I was introverted, depressed, and anxious. My little sister and family were far away. With limited minutes on my cell phone, I would talk to them on occasion. I hardly ever left the house-- only going to town for a few groceries, or a visit to the laundromat -- which wasn’t frequent at all. No one had taken me shopping in months, and I had outgrown my limited selection of clothes.

I wore my mom’s clothes or hand me downs from her friends, often unclean and in disarray; and none of it fit. Oh, and I got my first period. My life was a complete mess, and I wasn’t even in the 6th grade yet.

When they weren’t listening to music at ear-piercing volumes or playing with strobe lights, they were sleeping all day. Things would get extra quiet when they decided to go out on dates, and I happily and eagerly awaited the leftovers. One night, they were gone longer than usual. Accustomed to being alone, I assumed they were just having a good time. Until there was a knock at the door.

Probably forgot the keys. I jumped up, hustled to the door, unlocked the deadbolt, and swung it open. A man with a badge and uniform stood before me. “County Sheriff,” he said. “Do you mind if we come inside?” I peered down the driveway to see three police cars were parked, and more were pulling up. In the opposite direction were a couple officers, accompanied by German shepherds. “Do you have a warrant?” I asked, shaking with fear, yet proud of myself for the snide remark. He then proceeded to show me the warrant.

I didn’t have a choice but to let them in. Officers and search dogs went into every room of both houses. Shining flashlights on piles of dirty, musty clothing, as the dogs scurried and sniffed at the floor. They knocked over shelves, dug through personal effects, and I stood there frozen, watching the storm. How long have you been living like this? Do you know why we are here? Do you know where the drugs are located?

Much like my relationships with social workers and people of authority in general, I hesitated to answer any of their questions. About 20 minutes had passed and things started to settle down as they scribbled on their notepads. I braced myself to finally discover what went on behind closed doors. Literally. They disclosed almost everything to me, and the dogs discovered a secret, solitary, padded locked room on the second story of the main house. I didn’t even know it existed.

Police found every drug known to man. Legions of pot plants, bricks of cocaine, acid tabs, baggies of mushrooms, and assorted uppers and downers.

They were found and arrested, and yet again, I would be sent off to stay somewhere else.