I think I was born to make my own mistakes and learn from them. Being in only in grade 10, the last 2 years: 1991 to 1993 were a wild couple years for an undiagnosed troubled child. Some may say she was in an identity crisis, yet, I still don’t understand how you can not know who you are at that age. After so many bizarre visits with my mom and the ongoing anguish it emotionally cost me each and every time; trying to reach out for someone to understand me was exhausting as I constantly turned away, shunned, ignored. No one really understood how to deal with it, the behaviors, the screw the world kind of attitude. Almost straight out of A movie, that’s how bizarre the events of my life have unfolded right in front of me.
The mail man just dropped the mail in the box, and I was always excited to see if anything was for me. Very rarely anything came for me but that day I recognized the handwriting. It was my Moms penmanship. As a little girl, hearing from your Mom was like a ray of sunshine. For sometime I knew she wasn’t laying in a ditch dead, or starving begging for food on the busy streets of Vancouver. I was missing her so much, getting the mail that day raised my spirits a little. My brother and I both had received something from our mother that day, it was always the thought that counts I was always told to remember when given something. There folded nicely in a card was a long note about how she missed our birthdays and how she felt very sorry about everything that was happening. I still was too young to understand exactly how The current events are unfolding and how were they when impacted me in the future. I opened it , I enjoyed those random postcards from my mom, they we’re almost wishes; that she was coming back home where I can see her more. Inside the card was how much she missed me and talked about her time in transit. As a tattoo inked on my skin, closing my eyes remembering the single blackberry tea bag that was folded inside the birthday card as if she was buying me a cuppa tea. In confusion, trying to find the connection of why my mother would send me a teabag? Why would she do that? Later that week at school, talking to my brother in the halls, I questioned him to find out if he had received anything from her? He received an array of things and back in those days getting a large Metallica silk to hang on your wall was a pretty big deal. I somewhat felt let down as if I was the sibling that got nothing, My mom misses me and then my birthday card was a teabag that she could pick up from a local convenience store. That moment impacted me as a teenager, finding her way through life.
I knew I was different, I knew I was a little weird, I can see it in peoples eyes, how they look at me. I didn’t have a normal life, normal family, normal brain it seemed. I was just lost, lost in a big scary world of weirdness, addictions and distractions. A world where others had their own problems and issues, I couldn’t be someone else’s problem. That is what parents are for? No? since I was dealt with a hand with missing cards, I wasn’t going to end my life because of it. I will find my way, alone or not. Since my life didn’t come with a manual, no amount of social work could help me, they tried, I was still left to fend for myself and my own my own war.
That’s when I continued down the dark side, I was offered my first hit of acid and I took it. A small square piece of corrugated paper with a little picture was about to go on my tongue. As my sight changed, my emotions changed, I was “fucked up” and I wasn’t present.
I looked at it for forever, thinking I cant believe I am doing this right now. As I looked for approval, a nod to the head and my mouth closed. or the first time I was able to forget everything, I was able to stop crying with the confusion of me having a criminal record, a terrible reputation, looking for love, I was all alone. It didn’t seem to matter anymore, I was going nowhere. I was all alone for so long, trying to fit in, struggling doing so I finally gave in and said “Who Cares”, it seemed like it at the time. I continued down that path, some may wonder why or how I would pay for my own drugs, alcohol and cigarettes. It was from my first hired job. Since I seemed older than I was, I was able to start waitressing at the local Pizza Connection joint. I served up alcohol to the bikers, and anyone coming in for a bite to eat. A border town generates a lot of tourists and fishermen. Tips were great and I was killing it in my white leather skirts and tiny tops. That is where I felt, mature, I had duties, I was getting a pay check. The owner did coke in the basement and I didn’t like to go down there, having the feeling in the back of my head, what if he took advantage of me down there? As one time, to told me to get on my knees and clean the base of the tables. “I’m in a skirt” I said to him. “You want a job or not? he said. I needed to pay my way, so down I went and cleaned I did. The same restaurant where I displayed all my trophies for bowling and the Mark Messier Edmonton Oilers jersey my Mom had signed for me, years earlier. That was stolen 2 weeks after It was put on display, I was sick to my stomach as I learned one of the one things I cared so much about what gone, stolen forever. I guess Karma, had a way of rearing its ugly head. My marks were going down, skipping school was daily and working every weekend was catching up to me. Being high in school, wasn’t cool. I made the yearbook that day, go figure! A constant reminder of the bizarre world I was in at the time, I don’t even know where I got an authentic Muskie hockey jacket. Borrowed, I imagine from the girl I was in the picture with.
I wasn’t even legal to be serving booze to anyone yet, I was holding down a job I could lose at anytime. I did what I had to do, I didn’t have much of a choice. During this chaotic phase, I went into denial about my life. I threw myself into drugs, alcohol and cigarettes. I started to come to learn I had an obsessive compulsive type behaviour and once I got fixated on something I would go to all lengths to do it. It didn’t matter what it was I wouldn’t stop thinking about it until I achieved it or found my way around it: usually a barrier of some sort. The stealing slowed down as I had money in my pocket. It was never something I was proud of, embarrassing to be honest. Learning to stop a behavior provided a sense of maturity and accomplishment, it wasn’t easy to admit wrong doing. Seemed to fill a large sad void, that I still trying to figure out how to heal it. The only way things were dealt with was through anger and yelling, spanking, hitting and verbal abuse. No one really ever said down and really wanted to change me or help me I should say. I wanted to help myself but I didn’t know how, I have a survival pack and that was it. Addictions and mental health issues were evident all around me and trying to understand the relationship between humans and choices people make was complex.
Walking around the streets of 9000 people in the middle of the night, fried out of your brain is no place for any kid, especially on Acid? All it spells trouble with a T, and that trouble had a way to finding me. I became a master of running from my problems in and out of high school. I had a group of friends supportive of me and others who ran far away, can you blame them. Parents were counselling their own kids, on the dangers of bad friendships. I am sure my name was on that list, right at the top.
The dangers of my behaviour were building, I was very close to making another bad decision. The town was known to have those who enjoyed riding motorcycles, doing drugs and living free. Nothing wrong with that, if no one gets hurt, right? Across the street was a small house, that had men coming in and out. Parties were custom as it was a hang out of the small gang of bikers . I knew a few of them from the local Pizza Place I waitressed at. I was on the front porch that day sunbathing in my tiny bikini, I knew i was being watched and I liked it a lot. Still feel those butterflies in the pit of my stomach, as I watched the front door open and an much older man came walking across the street to me. I froze, “ what the fuck is going on? I was thinking, completely frozen on my bath towel . David Wilcox on the stereo, I went in to turn off the music, all alone in the house stood a French man who was much much older than I was there with me…alone. He talked about if I wanted a line of cocaine (to loosen me up) “NO thanks” I repied, and he talked about how sexy I was and how he watched me for months, he pushed me against the love seat and I enjoyed the attention. I was in shock, thinking how di I get myself in these situations? I froze, until I realized what a slut I would be. I pushed him off and told him I was sorry if I gave him the impression I wanted this because I didn’t …. but the drugs were getting stronger and more dangerous…. When was this rollercoaster going to end? Not for a while…
Welcome To My Story
Cannabis Enthusiast : Craft Edible Creator : Recreation and Leisure Professional : Blogger
A Craft Edible Experience