This has been incredibly hard to write. Attempting to retrieve these muddled thoughts from my mind and articulate them in any kind of semi-cohesive way seems impossible. Different experiences bubble to the surface of my consciousness at completely inappropriate times and beg to be written, to be understood, but how can they be understood if they aren’t explained properly? My memory is corrupt, and thus irrelevant details may be improperly magnified, while the most important concepts are totally lost in translation.
They say that drugs will mess up your brain. I didn’t really believe they had messed with mine until I tried to sort out all of my memories. Like most fourteen year old girls, my experience with drugs started with marijuana, and my main goal was not merely to get high. As a matter of fact, I was almost exclusively concerned with impressing the ninth grader I had recently started seeing. The pipe was homemade, and appeared to be some obscure part of a toilet to my untrained eyes. Thank goodness my overly helpful boyfriend was there to explain the intricacies of pipe balancing and inhalation. I held it awkwardly, tilting my head back, unable to accomplish even the simple task of igniting the lighter. Though I tried to suck the sweet fumes into my lungs, I failed miserably, as most novice smokers do. I did, however, successfully smoke my first cigarette that night, and naively believed the consequential nicotine buzz was my first high. Even without experiencing true intoxication that night, the admiring glance I received from the older boy was rewarding enough for my youthful heart, and my pattern of drug abuse had begun.
Cocaine is a hell of a drug. Sometimes I still have dreams about my first time, though its debatable whether these dreams would be better described as nightmares. Naturally, I had moved on to an older, tougher boyfriend. His hobbies included gang banging, beating me up, doing drugs, forcing me to have sex with him, and stealing from my dad. What a catch, I know, but I was sixteen, I was a romantic, and I enjoyed most of the aforementioned activities also. He had hijacked sixty dollars of “our” money out of my wallet to buy a gram of “that white girl” which we split between us and three of “our” friends. I was trembling with anticipation; an overwhelming knot contorted my stomach into what I was sure were completely unnatural positions. I took a slow, deep breath to decelerate my heartbeat. Nothing to be worried about. I had tried plenty of drugs before and nothing bad had ever happened, right? I leaned over my center console, plugged my nostril with my left hand, positioned the tightly rolled twenty dollar bill with my right, and sniffed that toxic, white powder right off the CD case and into my brain.
This high was almost immediate. Lights shone brighter, the music caressed my eardrums, I could think a thousand different thoughts at the same time and make sense of them all. My mind was intensely focused in a way I previously wouldn’t have believed possible. I had never felt better, until about fifteen minutes went by. We had so little of my dream drug that each of us could only take one line that first time, and the comedown got to us quickly. It wasn’t long before we all headed home to sleep off what we called our coke hangovers. My stomach was convulsing, and it felt as if weights were pushing on my brain from every side, but despite the shitty after-effects of the drug, I was immediately hooked. I would go to any extreme to get enough money for more. Morals flew out the window. I did everything, from robbing my friends and parents to selling half of my belongings, and even occasionally trading sexual favors, to get just one more night of oblivion.
It shouldn’t have been surprising when my parents finally stepped in to put a stop to my out of control lifestyle, but I was certainly shocked. The day I went to Teen Challenge has been embedded in my mind like the Ten Commandments on Mt. Sinai. The whole trip to Kansas City I chattered and joked with my mom and my sister. I played them obscene rap music and taught them the words and arranged to get high with friends when I returned on Monday. I was completely ignorant of the fact that I wouldn’t be back in Omaha for exactly fifteen months. My understanding was that we were on a shopping trip. We would swim at a fancy hotel, die my hair blonde, buy me tons of clothes, and head back home. I have to admit, there was some confusion in my subconscious about why on earth the other two women in my family were doing this for me. My mother and I hadn’t been able to speak without screaming at each other for over a year. We hadn’t celebrated Christmas or birthdays together, but we were going to have a celebration now just for the fun of it. Though I had some slight nerves about the fishy situation, I ignored them for the free shopping spree. After all, I’d sold most of my old clothes.
Teen Challenge was a major shock to my drug ridden system. No boys, no talking to friends, no going home, no cussing, no television, no fast food, no piercings, no talking in line, no writing notes, no fun, no freedom. This place seemed so foreign, full of die- hard Christians, with chapel every morning and Personal Studies for New Christians every night. We were home schooled with an online Christ-loving school and we prayed before every meal. I wept silently for two weeks straight. I missed my friends. I missed my family. I missed my car. I missed my cigarettes.
It definitely took some getting used to, but eventually the lessons I was learning at this residential recovery program really started to sink in. I developed a strong, deep relationship with God, and an insatiable hunger to learn all I could about him and Christianity. I begged my director for more books about God, and constantly studied in my free time. We went to church every Wednesday and Sunday, and I drank up the words of the ministers as if they were the last drops of water for the desert of my soul. I went through intensive counseling both in a private and a group setting, and worked through my past, one problem at a time. By the time I completed the program I had also graduated high school, and I felt more than prepared to face the temptations of the world with my bible in my left hand and Jesus in my right.
It didn’t take long to find out that I was, in fact, less than prepared. I was two months out of Teen Challenge when I met Brandon, and, at first, I wasn’t attracted to him at all. He casually leaned over in the backseat of my car with an expression on his face that I can only describe as downright arrogant and said enticingly, “What’s up, girl?” I practically begged him not to hit on me. I told him he wasn’t my type. He said he was exactly my type. I assured him he wasn’t the guy for me. He insisted he was exactly the guy for me. Back and forth for hours we argued the issue. Honestly, it was flattering. By the end of the night I had succumbed to his charm and by the end of the week we were dating. Two weeks after that, we had broken up and I was sitting in the waiting room at Planned Parenthood.
My period had always been irregular, but as soon as I knew in my heart that I did not want to have a child with Brandon, I got the strong inclination that his seed had been sown, and I didn’t want to risk the error of a home pregnancy test. After an excruciating waiting period, I was ushered into one of the miniscule offices for my results. The worker, her name was Ashley, walked into the room and started to speak before she even met my eyes. “Ok, the results of this test are positive, so--” I interrupted her with a stutter. “P-p-positive? Like, as in, I’m pregnant?” It seemed so wrong that the result I didn’t want would be described as “positive.” I physically could not wrap my mind around the idea for what was probably a few seconds, but what seemed to me like an eternity. Ashley simply stared at me condescendingly and confirmed that I was, indeed, pregnant.
I lowered my head to my hands and though Ashley continued talking, it was as if I had hit the mute button on a movie. “Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit,” I repeated over and over. I heard the word “abortion” and snapped my head up, fiercely refusing that option. She sighed and handed me my proof of pregnancy paper, which I would apparently need to be approved for Medicaid, a program I had never heard of before that time.
I didn’t cry until I walked into the waiting room and my best friend’s boyfriend asked me what happened. My mouth didn‘t seem to work. I slightly inclined my head and salty water flowed down my cheeks as if my tear ducts had expanded in size. I have never felt so lost, hopeless, or completely desolate as I did that day. I knew I wanted to be a mother, but not now. Not any time remotely close to now. Not with some random guy’s child. Not when I was just about to start college. Not when I was just about to start life. I saw my dreams shatter, and my world shook. My mom cried and constantly argued with me. My grandmother thanked God I didn’t have AIDS. My brother got angry with me, and wouldn’t speak to me. Brandon didn’t believe me, and refused to be involved. My supportive staff at Teen Challenge withdrew, disgusted by my ungodly choices. My friends spoke sympathetically, but no one wants to party with a Prego. I certainly felt as though my budding relationship with God had dissipated. Loneliness washed over me, soaked into me, permeating my soul with its crushing weight like a tsunami, consuming my isolated island heart.
Though a few weeks of my life were dedicated to laying in bed staring blankly at the ceiling, willing myself back in time, Teen Challenge had taught me at least one thing, and that was how to keep on keeping on. I knew in my head that if I let my emotions control my life, things would only get worse. I worked hard through my pregnancy and saved up money. I studied hard, got good grades, and made the dean’s list. I eventually even patched up most of the relationships that were broken by my indiscretion. And I fell in love with the tiny child growing inside of me.
People always say that I’ve gone through a lot, and that I’m a strong person to have come as far as I have. My main response is to agree, I have been through a lot, but then, didn’t I put myself through most of those trials? My life has been a chaotic jumble of bad decisions and band aids. My son’s name is Oliver. He’s one year old now, and I feel as though I love him as much as humans are capable of loving, but each day I wake up and my love for him has expanded. I work full time at the Gallup Poll, probably one of the overall best entry level jobs Omaha has to offer. With half of a college education under my belt, there’s still no telling how many more times I’ll switch my major, but I do know I‘m on the right track for success. Despite all this, there are always more obstacles on the horizon, and, with my history, it’s safe to bet I’ll screw up again. The one thing I’m sure of is that whatever happens, you’ll see me holding on, staying strong, and persevering, with my son on my hip, God in my heart, and my family surrounding me with love.
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