As a recovering Heroin addict with 17 months clean, I think it is important to recognize how someone becomes an addict so I decided to tell my story. I have been posting it in increments since I came to steemit and decided to consolidate it here.
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I was born to a 19-year-old mother in the year 1974. My father promptly decided fatherhood was not for him and left my mother before I was born. Now 1974 wasn't 1950, but it also was not 2017 either. A single woman did not have many options but to get married to someone, anyone.
My mother apparently had a penchant for the party life and chose my step father to be that husband. He was a daily drinking alcoholic and Marijuana user. Now I know this does not sound like a big deal now, but then, if someone used pot, they hid it. And they made sure the kids knew not to tell. In my family, there were many things we did not tell.
I was two years old when my Mom and Step Dad got married, and was enrolled in school under his last name somehow, even though I was never adopted. Like I said, things were different then. I did not find out my real last name until I was around 12 years old.
My Dad (step) as I called him was very quick with his hands, on both my mother and myself. The biggest problem with this was he was also inconsistent. The rules would change as well as the infractions. Punishment was swift and brutal, often involving belts or whatever was at hand.
My Grandfather (step) was a kind man, but I understood that he was also physical with my Dad when he was a kid. He was a retired drop forge worker, and taught his son to work hard. He did, as an industrial blacksmith, but wasn't the best at keeping a job. Before my Grandpa retired, I remember he always had a candy bar in his lunch because he "Knew I was coming over." I also remember my Grandpa being a blatant racist and his brother being an open member of the KKK (or so he said). In my family, this was normal. We had a Great Dane who's attack word was "nigger," and there was often discussion of race and off-color jokes at the dinner table. When I got old enough to see truth, I never was far from hearing "I thought I raised a white boy!" because of the music I listened to, or the way I talked.
My Mom, Dad, and Grandpa thought nothing of having me sit on their lap while they smoked cigarettes and drank whiskey or beer, and during special occasions, I could drink some wine, beer or champagne. Add to this Grandmas cold remedy of whiskey, honey, and lemon, and it is easy to see why alcohol was my first run with addiction.
Another thing about my family.... We would often go to my uncles and my parents would watch Porn on the movie projector with my aunts and uncles, while enjoying each other’s company very much. They would put all the kids ranging in age from 5 to 13 in one room to "Play." What do you think we did? I wonder now if there may have been a camera in the room with the kids, but I can't seem to think of them as that evil.
When I was about 11 I really had my first drunk at a Christmas party at my grandparent's house. Everyone else was so drunk they never even noticed me stumbling and puking. But you know what? I wasn't the victim!! I was tough!!! And cool!! No, I would never be the kid that got beat or picked on again!! If only that was true.
After getting drunk in my Grandparent's basement for the first time, I wanted to feel that way again, and soon!
I have never been popular. Even way back to fourth grade I remember having "Cooties" and being the butt of every-one’s jokes. My parents had this strange thing where I was not allowed to fight. It was made clear to me that if I went to school and got in a fight, the punishment when I got home was going to be far worse. Since I knew my Dad would beat me, and I was far more scared of him then I was of some kid at school, so I refused to fight back when I was bullied. For those of you that think not fighting a bully is the way to go, you are wrong. Not fighting back is not some great moral stand, all it does is bring out every other would be bully around, and soon you are being repeatedly beat by everyone. Add to this the sexual issues from my childhood, and it is easy to see why I quickly gravitated to the "Burn outs" as they were called at the time, when I started drinking. They were the ones that were cool to me, the rebels, the ones that did not answer to anyone.
My family moved a lot when I was a kid, and at this stage we had moved to a very small town where everyone knew everyone. I will never forget my first day in the town when we were looking at the house we would be renting, my Mom told me to go down the road and check out the school I would be going to, the playground and such. I went down there and there was a couple of teenage girls playing Basketball. As I was walking up to them I said "Hi" and waved. One of the girls bent over and I couldn't see what she was doing, then she stood up and threw a rock and hit me in the head. I ran to where my Mom was crying and she told me to stop acting like a girl, it couldn't have hurt that much.
I was overweight as a kid, and had acne bad when I was a teenager. I remember one girl I really liked, and trying to talk to her. She told me I disgusted her, and why don't I use some Oxy Clear. I couldn't use peroxide based medication as it made my skin very sensitive. I figured I would try again, I mean I really liked this girl. So, the next day I went to school but had not rubbed the medication in well, but did not realize it. The girl saw it and said "What? Are you wearing Make-Up now?" It hurt so bad.
I was always very smart and I could read before I went to kindergarten. In first grade, I took a state test and the local University got a hold of my Mom because of it. They wanted me to come out for advanced classes, but my Mom would not let me because I was getting in trouble. The reason I was getting in trouble was because I was bored, I knew everything they were trying to teach me already. Even now, this semester in college, the lowest grade I have gotten is a 99%. I used to get mad at the librarian because they wouldn't let me check out encyclopedias. When I realized that I could find any information I wanted and I didn't have to ask anyone for help, I started reading them from front to back A-Z.
In 5th grade I met a kid who had been held back twice. I went to his house and his Mom was willing to buy us alcohol. I did not know she also had a thing for younger guys and her husband liked to watch. I found out soon enough. Now I could get alcohol if I had money. Fortunately for me, my parents had no problem giving me money to go to the movies (sure) or roller skating (yeah right) with my friends.
I did not know that hanging with the "Burn outs" and living in this small town, I would soon be introduced to drugs. When I say drugs, I do not mean just weed either. I did cocaine before I was 13, and dropped LSD more times than I can count.
So, my new best friend had been held back twice by fifth grade. He was older and came off as cool, not caring about anything. His parents were from West Virginia and were "for real" Hillbillies. I do not say this in a negative way, just truthful. I do not think either of them could read and I came to find out that his Dad pressured his Mom into having sex with local kids so he could watch through a peep-hole after she would get them alcohol. I ended up having sex with her for years, partly because she was a woman and showed me attention, but there was also a part of me that felt that I deserved to be used by them. Eventually it morphed into him being in the bed with us, before I was 13, I would say.
He had an older brother and from his parents being the way they were, there was always a group of kids hanging around his house, some of them older. Remember, this was a very small town and it was not long before I knew most of the real druggies in town, at least superficially, although I hadn't yet done anything but drink and smoke cigarettes.
I lived in a trailer park outside of town now and was not always able to get into town to hang out. My parents still had some semblance of care and would not let me go into town every weekend, although I tried. I came to know a guy in his mid-twenties that lived a few miles from me, walking distance in the country, and started going to his house. Maybe the second time I was there, he smoked some weed with me. Thai stick, real Thai stick, wrapped around bamboo and all that. I remember throwing up when I was walking home and just crawling into bed when I got there. My Mom came into my room and started yelling at me telling my Dad she thought I was high or drunk or something. I told my Dad I just did not feel well and he told her to leave me alone. They did, but I often wonder if maybe my life would have turned out different had she pressed the issue.
A friend of mine and I built a fort in the woods where we would hang out and smoke cigarettes. On the rare occasion, we would get some beer from his Dads refrigerator and would drink it there. I remember more than once throwing up in that fort. I would steal packs of cigarettes from my parents and grandparents, or right off the store shelf (they kept them right out front back then). My family never knew because they smoked and I guess just never counted their packs in the carton, and they couldn't smell it because they smoked too. Soon enough I met a kid in the trailer park whose Dad smoked weed. He would steal some now and then and I started developing a real desire to just stay high or drunk all the time.
Eventually I started buying small bags of weed with the money my parents would give me for the "movies", or whatever I lied and said I was doing. Well, buying weed means you meet weed dealers, and here is why weed is a gateway drug when it illegal, if you are breaking the law by selling weed you might as well break the law and sell whatever else right? If you’re going to be a "drug dealer" why not go all out? It was not long before I was offered LSD, and of course I tried it.
Wow!! I am not going to glamorize anything, but I can tell you that there is a reason why they call it a "Trip." I started doing LSD a lot, often every weekend. There is a common wives’ tale I think it is, that says if you take more than 7 hits of acid (LSD) you are legally insane. I do not know if this is true or not, but I was diagnosed with schizo affective disorder in my late twenties, so maybe it is.
Around age 13, I met a lady that was every bit of 30 and had her own apartment, she was dating a guy I knew that played guitar and was in a band. By this time, I was a long hair metal head and going to a lot of local battle of the bands concerts and such. Anyway, this lady had a sister who was in her twenties and took a liking to me. She was beautiful to me, and married but willing to cheat. I was in love! These two sisters had one other new thing going, cocaine.
After being stranded at a truck stop in Memphis at age 13, I had just gotten to North Carolina to live with my aunt and uncle. I was told what the rules were going to be when I got there, and my cousins quickly clarified what the real rules were. These were some of the same family members that had went to the "porn nights" when I was younger, and these were some of the same cousins I had been molested by as a kid. My oldest cousin was the one that had done most of the sexual stuff, and he was a Marine at a base south of the base I lived near with my Aunt and Uncle. He would come visit often though, and when he did he would pressure me for sex. I hated it and felt dirty, but I guess I didn't think anyone would believe me, and besides, it was better than getting beat on by my Dad or the bullies in town.
The school I went to was like nothing I had ever experienced. It was a local school but most of the students were Marine base kids, so there was a very mixed bag of personalities. It was very different than the simple "Jocks," "Preps," and "Stoners" that I was used to. There were surfers, skaters, nerds, all kinds of kids. My cousins had a set group that they hung out with on what was called the "Terrace." The Terrace was a like patio on the back of the High School where you could smoke if you had a permission slip from your parents. This was North Carolina not Michigan, and it blew my mind you could smoke at school! It did not take me long to learn my cousins had all forged slips so I did too.
The group of kids in our little group was diverse. We listened to the "Anthrax" song "I'm the man" over and over, wore ripped jeans, and in general had a good time with each other. Overall, we all went to class and tried to do as good as we could, everyone but me that is.
I met a girl there who was the prettiest thing I had ever seen, she had red hair and was tiny. Most important, she liked me, really liked me, and I was in love. We were inseparable.
Then report cards came. I was grounded for my grades not being acceptable. Living with a Marine major was nothing like living with a drunken abuser, he meant business. One day not long after being grounded I decided to not come home and instead went to a friend house that I knew from school who was not part of my regular group. We ended up going to a bar and getting drunk. I know you’re thinking "Hey he was only 13!" First, I was almost 14 by then, and second, have you ever been around a Marine base? They just didn't card and didn't care.
Well not coming home that night was the final straw for my Uncle, he decided he was going to send me home with his brother when he went back after visiting. I was leaving in two days, and had to tell my girlfriend good bye without even being able to see her to do it.
Worse, I was going back to Michigan to live with my abusive Dad, my non-caring Mom, and a town full of people who only knew me as a "Burnout" and punching bag. Little did I know that as soon as I got home my parents were going to admit me into a juvenile mental hospital. Life was about to get even worse...
So, my Aunt and Uncle were sick of my antics and sent me home to Michigan. North Carolina was awesome, but of course I had screwed it up like everything else in my life up till then, and was now on my way back to the small town I lived in and the parents who really could care less if I existed. Little did I know my parents planned on admitting me to a juvenile psychiatric facility right from the bus station they picked me up from. They took me to a place called Rivendell psychiatric hospital and convinced me to sign the papers to admit myself. They had talked to me nonstop on the way there about how they were going to be able to help me, and didn't I just want to be normal? So, I signed the papers and lock away I now was.
If you have no experience with psychiatric hospitals, they are hell. Any time you are deemed to not follow staff direction you are subject to restraint, quiet room lockdown, or injection of sedatives. Not complying can be something as little as not eating the correct amount of food or getting in an argument with another resident. You can remain strapped to your bed for hours at a time and your muscles get so cramped your screaming in pain. I saw many residents try to escape, or worse, come in half normal, and end up being self-destructive after a few weeks.
I was in the place for about 90 days when they decided to let me out for a Christmas pass and that was their mistake. I knew that if I was gone for more than three days I would be discharged, another guy had did it and the staff had let it slip that it was what had happened. We all talked about how we wanted a chance, and I got mine. As soon as I opened my Christmas presents I asked my parents if I could go to my friend’s house to see what he got, and just disappeared for two weeks.
So now I am back to square one as far as my life goes, and add to that my parents hate me for incurring them this huge bill from the hospital, and you can see why I started running away more and more. At first y parents would try to find me, but then they gave up. The school did not care if I was there because they were sick of dealing with me as well. I was 14 years old and basically on the streets.
If you would have asked me at the 14, I would have told you it was great that my parents were leaving me alone and not trying to get me to come home anymore. I did not realize that I was wasting my life, not getting an education, and developing a brain chemistry that was dependent on drugs and alcohol. I was staying on my friend’s couch, sleeping with his Mother while his Dad watched, and basically doing nothing with my life.
One night I was partying with some older friends (older like in their mid-thirties) when we ran out of beer and I let myself get talked into breaking into the corner gas station. I did not realize that they were just using me because I was a juvenile and they wouldn't get in trouble. I went to the gas station and threw a brick at the window. It took me three tries until I realized the window I was trying to break was plexiglass and that was why the brick kept bouncing off. I tried a different window and....SMASH!! I was so scared, but I didn't want to let down my new friends, so I went in the store and took 3 cases of beer, 4 cartons of cigarettes, and a can of beef jerky (I was hungry). I stashed the goods in a snow bank and went back to the house to let them know I needed help carrying it. Remember, this is a very small town where they roll up the sidewalks at 10 so there was nobody on the streets. One of the guys came with me to help carry the stuff and we went back to party.
Imagine my surprise when I woke up to the cops shaking me awake! They had followed our footprints in the snow back to the house and my new friends had told on me! I couldn't believe it! We were friends!
The cops took me to the station and called my parents. They were so happy to see me! O.k. not really at all, they asked the cop to lock me up because they did not want to deal with me anymore. The cops released me to my parents and I was prosecuted for breaking and entering. When I went to court the judge gave me a court diversion program that would allow me to avoid having a record. My punishment was to have a Michigan State University Co-ed come and take me to do stuff once a week. I can tell you I learned absolutely nothing from having a pretty college student take me to the movies or bowling once a week.
It was around this time my Mom started telling me she could not wait until I was 16 and she could kick me out legally. She had told me for years that she loved me but didn't like me very much, but this was new. She was basically telling me she wanted me gone and regretted having me. I remember when my brother was born (technically half-brother) it being made clear to me that he was the favorite child. It was not said outright but when Christmas came, it was obvious by the amount and quality of presents we got. Then again maybe it was just the fact that I was a horrible kid, who knows. My brother is now a Master degree level computer programmer though, I do know that.
It was not long before I violated my probation by being brought home by the cops again. I had gone to a party and was picked up walking down the road out in the country in the middle of nowhere. I had gotten kicked out of the party for being belligerent. Alcohol was rapidly becoming more of a problem for me. The judge sent me to a rehab center. I was 14 and in rehab. If only I would have listened then, I could have had a different life, but alas, I did not.
I returned to hanging out with my so called best friend and his molester parents again until one night, I got a call from a neighbor girl that was strange. She just said, "I wanted to say hi" then made small talk and hung up. I thought it was strange that she had my friends number, but I had drinking to do! The next morning, she called again, and told me she didn't want to tell me last night because she could tell I was drunk, but my Dad had beaten my Mom and hurt her knee badly. My parents had physical fights my whole life and my Dad was very hands on, but this was the first time he had really hurt her bad. I ran home and found the cops there letting my Dad pack his stuff. I tried to run at him to attack him but the cops stopped me. I will never forget trying to get by the cop to get at him when he stuck his tongue out at me. Seriously, what grown man does that? Now it was my Mom, my little brother, and myself, with no income and no idea what we were going to do. My Mom had threatened to leave my Dad many times, only to drive down the street to a payphone and call to ask to come back, but this time was different. They were done.
My Mother left my Dad for good after he broke her knee, and we really had nowhere to go. My Mother's family was not the types to take in other family members unless they were children. Adults were expected to make it on their own, so we moved in with a friend of my Moms. It was not long after that my Mom had to go into the hospital for a Hysterectomy, and she did not know what to do with me. She called my Aunt that I had stayed in in North Carolina and basically begged her to let me come back down there. My Aunt spoke to my Uncle, and they said yes. I got on a Greyhound bus the next day.
When I got to North Carolina my Uncle had a long talk with me about my going to the bar the last time I was there. I agreed to do my best in school and to behave myself at home.
My first day back to school there was one of the best memories I have in life. I was walking through the hall on my way to class when I turned a corner and ran right into the girlfriend I had been forced to leave 6 months (or however long) earlier. She immediately dropped her books and gave me a huge hug! It was one of the few times in my life when I have felt true unconditional love from someone.
I decided that I was going to do my best to do the right thing and was doing rather well. I was going to school and doing my homework, passing all my classes, and doing my chores at home. One day my Aunt blew up at me over my bed not being made and she threatened to send me back to Michigan. I went to my room, packed a bag, and climbed out of the window. I went to the friend’s house from school who I had went to the bar with before, and stayed there. My cousins came looking for me to tell me that my Uncle had went to the school and found out I had been doing good. They said they wanted me to come back, but I refused. My Aunt yelling at me like that was too much like my life at home and I wanted nothing to do with it.
My friend’s house was a lot like my friends at home, except the sex with his parents. I could drink and smoke weed and didn't do much else. It did not take long for his Mother to decide that I was not her kid and she was not going to support me. She told me I had a week to get a job or move. Since I was not even 15 yet a job was not likely to happen. I called my Mom and begged her to send me a bus ticket, which she did.
I was riding on a Greyhound bus by myself at 14 years old. You could smoke on buses back then, and bus stations were dens of iniquity to say the least. I was at a layover in Nashville Tennessee when an older black man got on and sat next to me in the back. I had a cassette player and some tapes with me to listen to and I listened to a lot of different stuff, from RUN DMC to Beastie Boys to Led Zeppelin. This guy asked me if he could borrow my music off and on until he got off in Detroit. He said that if I did he would get me high. I figured he was talking about weed until he pulled out a juice jar full of some white stuff. He made the comment that someone had messed up because he had only paid $80 for it. I had no idea what it was or what it should cost. I was down to try it whatever it was so I told him yes.
This was the late 80's and Crack had been on the front page of most Magazines. I had never experienced it, but I was about to. This guy took a pop can and poked some holes to make a simple screen then put some cigarette ashes over the holes. He then took a "Rock" and melted it into the ashes. He told me to go in the bathroom and hit the smoke as hard as I could, then hold it as long as I could. I did not know he had put a whole $20 rock on the can.
It was the greatest thing I had ever felt. I felt as though I could figure anything out, talk to anyone about anything, do anything. I wanted to feel like that forever. I smoked $20 rocks about every 20 minutes all the way to Detroit. When we got there, he gave me about 6 rocks and we parted ways. It was a good thing we were going back to the small town and hadn't moved to the city yet or I would have become a full-blown crack head right then. Instead I became one later in life, for now I was a kid with some rocks looking for someone to smoke them with. I soon found someone.
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