Truth be told?
I was trouble with a capital T.
We’ll just start at 15, because that’s when things started to get really ugly.
I started drinking at 14. WHOO! DID I START DRINKING. I maintained a 3.8 in high school and never dropped off the Honors List. I was in the National Honors Society, a cheerleader, Secretary of the Drama Club and in Dance Company. I knew if I kept up with my school work my mom, teachers and what friends I had wouldn’t have much proof that my behavior had gone off the deep end. (Hi mom! Again, SORRY.) But I drank any chance I had. And then came the boys. Boys, boys everywhere.
I got my first job at a restaurant and there is where I met the first big detour of my life. We’ll call him, Bart.
Bart was tall, handsome and much older. Bart and I were always together. Bart and I were going to get married! (oy, teenage brains) Bart and I went to every school dance together and eventually we ended up working together at another restaurant. Around the end of Junior Year, just after turning 17, I had really started to rub my mom the wrong way and one night she said,
“You can start obeying my rules or you can find another place to live.”
I packed a bag. Left, and never turned back.
I lived with Bart for a while until I found two roommates and the scariest little apartment in the world. It looked like a brothel, you think I’m kidding?
Things started to get ugly with Bart, I realized my new found freedom and realized I could now get away with a whole lot more now that I didn’t have parents watching out for me. I enrolled in my senior year of high school as an independent minor and worked my tail off to finish high school and worked nearly 30 hours a week so I could pay bills. (I didn’t do a very good job BTW.)
By the end of first semester I was a very heavy drinker.
After high school I moved in with different roommates and continued on with my destructive behavior. Boys, booze and a new pastime, drugs. I was becoming more and more irresponsible, more and more out of control. More and more dependent on chemicals and flammable liquid to get me from day to day.
Laced throughout this entire mess was a boy named Patrick. Yes, that’s his real name. Just hearing it, typing it, reading it or saying it makes my stomach sick after almost eight years. Patrick was the worst thing I ever did to myself. He was the only one that got away with breaking my heart. Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what my life would have been like without Patrick. Would I be were I am? Probably not. Would I still be wounded? Yes, just not by him. Cody knows about Patrick. Cody knows the inexplicable mark Patrick has left on my heart and my mind. Patrick was bad news. In every way. But I was smitten. And I was burned, bad.
Patrick, wherever you are in this life, I should hate you. But I don’t. AND I DON’T KNOW WHY. But I want to. I want to forget you. Please, find some way to let me be. I wish that were possible.
Huh, wasn’t expecting that.
Curse you NaBloPoMo.
Well, anyway. After Patrick it was all just booze boys booze drugs a few tattoos and more booze until that phone call to the boy from Halloween night in 2000 that changed the course of my life forever. (FOREVER I SAY!)