The next few days were spent the same. It was nothing more than a meaningless routine: having breakfast, lounging around watching TV until lunch, then to J’s room in the afternoon, and back to my side of the courtyard at night.
By the second week I wondered if anyone back home was ever going to inquire as to my whereabouts. Pondering the possibilities, I wondered if Mom had just assumed something had happened to me, or if she just couldn’t care less and had done nothing about my disappearance.
Then as I pondered it more, I recalled how I felt when I knew David was gone, and how I believed that I was the next one in line.
No!
She wouldn’t
.
There’s no way!
I thought.
I couldn’t decide what was more likely: whether she was now satisfied with another one of her kids just evaporating out of her life and was starting in on my little brother Keith, or if she’d just stopped altogether.
I knew in my heart what was the more likely of the two. I felt guilt, that I had taken the opportunity to get out but unwillingly placed my little brother in the path of her abusive madness.
Within an hour, I agreed to call home and tell Mom where I was. She was invited to a joint counseling session to determine where I would be placed. I knew that the only thing that would happen was that I would be allowed to stay at the group home until I was eighteen. Then I would be on my own. If I went home, I’d be in the same situation: looking for an answer until I was eighteen.
Mom agreed to come down for a meeting, but I knew that nothing would change between us. I understood well enough that she had no intention of changing, and neither did I. We were both set in our routines and cared little about what the other thought.
She showed up at the meeting as expected. She looked like hell. She was unbathed, her hair greasy and pinned down, and she wore the same yellow moon boots she had been wearing for years. They were the only shoes that fit her feet. Since her liver was so destroyed by now, her legs had no circulation whatsoever. Those were the only things that allowed her to walk outside. Winter or summer, she always wore those old boots.
Looking like hell, stinking of booze, and with the same attitude she had before: “I don’t care what he does or where he goes. I really just don’t care!”
She repeated this slurred declaration to the counselor three or four times.
Over the course of twenty minutes or so, Mom was reminded several times that I was only seventeen. I was not my own legal guardian, and she was responsible for me. After hearing that a few times, she backed down, and agreed that we both needed an “out,” to get away from each other.
By the end of our session we had both agreed that I would enter a youth program tailored to my situation. When a child is on the verge of being his own legal guardian and not able to reside at home, there is but one answer: to move out and be placed under the supervision of a state or local youth program.
The only way the state would allow me to leave was if I enrolled in the program I had been told about, the Salt Lake City Youth Development Enterprises. I agreed to sign up. YDE was a local organization that helped troubled teens like me. They ran a youth group that worked in the pineapple fields of Hawaii. By the end of the day I had all the information I needed, and Mom and I were on our way back home.
The only words spoken between us were short and sweet.
“You just make damn sure you’re out by Wednesday. I don’t care if you go to Hawaii with that group or you’re living on the curb, but you’re out of my house, mister,” she said coldly.
“Sure,” was all I could say.
Back at the house and in my room, I looked over the information I had been given and began to look forward to getting out. Anything was better than the situation at home. I had no idea how or when I would be able to get to Hawaii and join the YDE program. At the time, I didn’t care. I knew I had to get out, and fast.
The only fear I still had was leaving little Keith in that house of madness. Although I had never seen Mom really take up against Keith like she did me and David, I always had this suspicion that when I left, Keith would take on the role that I took when David left—his replacement.
I’m sorry, but I have to get out of here,
I said to myself quietly.
By now, I had managed to cut myself off from my own family, my new families—the Nichols and Prince families, the ones I really cared for, the ones that had really tried to help—and the people from school that I thought were my friends.
Before I could summon the courage to face John and Darlene about the way I had gotten into the youth center in the first place, I had to decide if I was going to lay it all out for them. If I did, I would have to leave the decision up to them: If they still wanted to help me, then great. If not, I didn’t actually know what I’d do. The fact was, I really had no choice at that point. I had to find the courage to face my embarrassment and own up to the reckless life I’d been leading, if I wanted them to understand the whys behind how lost I truly was.
The first place I went after I made it home was to the neighborhood near my high school and back to the kids that once looked upon me as wet behind the ears. Now I wondered just what they would say, but I had little concern. All I wanted and all I needed was a solution, even if it was temporary. I wanted something that would take the bad feelings away. I wanted somewhere to go where I didn’t have to think about it, or think about anything.
Within a few short minutes I found my friend Nathan and obtained what I had been looking for—acid. Once again I was comfortable with the opportunity to separate myself from Mom, Scott, and the embarrassment I would feel when I told the Nichols family the truth. It was all I could think about as I walked home. All I wanted was to get away from everybody and everything—including myself, as usual.
Back in my room on my bed, I thought again about just what I would say to John and Darlene. I had no desire or intention to share with Mom what I had become, nor did I think she would care. But I knew that John, Darlene, Rob, and Judy
would
care.
The Prince and Nichols families between them had taught me that I had to face my shortcomings, and that if I believed in God enough, I would be able to seek forgiveness and to forgive myself for all my feelings. If I kept myself clean from alcohol, drugs, and anything else that would harm my body, I would find strength and peace. I saw how it worked in their lives and that it was true, yet I could never find the courage to step up and make the commitment myself.
I inventoried my actions over the last year, and I came to this conclusion:
John and Darlene couldn’t understand what my life was like in California, and they can’t imagine what it is like now
.
How are they going to understand that I need help?
I asked myself.
Having decided that I was unable and unwilling to find a way to talk to them, I simply reverted to my previous self-destructive thoughts.
I pulled out the acid-laced postage stamps I had in my wallet, tore one in half, placed one half on the back of my tongue and the other back in my wallet. It produced a much faster reaction than I recalled, and I was anxious to reexperience the effects, so I used the other half immediately.
I lay back on my bed and experienced a high that can only be described as absolutely terrifying. I knew who I was and where I was, yet I questioned it. I knew what I had done, and yet I questioned it. I wasn’t actually sure if I was really me or if I was someone else living out a dream. The hallucinations and my reckless state of mind, combined with an oncoming paranoia, left me paralyzed. I was afraid to move, yet I believed I was moving without actually doing so. I had been clean for the few weeks I was at the center, and now I’d done it all over again.
I couldn’t sit still, and yet I was afraid to do anything. I took the second stamp out of my wallet and placed the whole thing in my mouth.
Suddenly I became aware that I was once again up at Mesa Park near my house. It was well after dark and I was sitting on top of the jungle gym. I couldn’t recall the walk up to the park or which path I took. I couldn’t recall how long I had been there, either.
As I looked across the park and over the houses I could see the telephone wires and power lines that ran from street to street. I was flying. I carefully focused my attention on the fact that I had to weave from side to side as I flew high above the houses, so that I didn’t get caught in the wires.
Farther and farther I flew, past the neighborhood and out to a large lake. I was approaching the lake headed downward, and I felt sure that I would soon crash to the ground. But lifting my body up and onward, I was able to continue flying. I quickly learned that the farther I went toward the lake, the stronger my fears and anxieties became. Below me I could see an assortment of animals devouring all the other kids who had flown out that far and crashed.
The fear became panic when I couldn’t force myself to turn around. As I hovered over one spot, I began to fall closer and closer to the ground. When I landed, a pack of animals was coming toward me. I ran and desperately tried to force my body back into the air and fly back toward the park. As I ran, I forced myself to fall to the ground. But with the speed and the wind behind me, I managed to gain flight, just like an airplane taking off.
Eventually I was flying back high above the lake. Faster and faster I flew, directly back toward Mesa Park and between the wires above the houses. The fear and the rush of staying between the wires, as I flew faster and faster, kept feeding me. The confidence I gained as I passed one set of wires and then another kept me going faster and faster. Now I could close my eyes and still fly deftly in and out of the wires as I made my way back to the park. At one point, just before I reached it, I was flying so high and so fast that the wires were a flash of black lines before me. In and out I wove my way through the tangled web and came closer and closer to the park.
It took me a while to accept what my feelings were really telling me. Those feelings and emotions I had hidden deep in my heart always came to the surface whenever I was high. I began to compare what I experienced on that acid trip to my life, and I saw just how close the trip was to reality. I knew in my heart that if I continued much longer with the drugs and the alcohol, I would end up a homeless junkie. I couldn’t get out of my mind that image of the animals on the ground chasing me. I compared them to the kids at school who now feared me—those kids that had once taken me into the “group”—the ones that now wanted to steer clear of me, the ones that said I was bad news.
I don’t recall what happened after that—I assume that it was all part of the high. I was lying on my back on top of the jungle gym, staring into the night sky. Cold, damp, and exhausted, I was now coming to. I sat up. Dawn was streaking orange across the sky as I walked back home. Once back in my bedroom, I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. I couldn’t tell what had been a dream and what had been reality. A small part of me felt that many of the things I recalled about the acid trip were very close to the real feelings I hid deep inside me. It frightened me.
I was able to actually distance myself, and I felt no remorse, sadness, or guilt about what I’d done. All I knew was that it was Friday night or Saturday morning. I lay down on my bed and closed my eyes.
On awakening, I made my way to the bathroom, and was sick. Cold water and a washcloth usually made me feel well enough to be seen. I walked upstairs and looked through the screen door window at the newspaper on the porch. It was
Sunday
morning. I had no idea if Mom knew what I had done, or if she simply hadn’t noticed that I’d slept over a day and a half.
I made my way to the kitchen, and stood there watching her as she stared at the small TV on the counter. Not saying a word, I simply retrieved a cola from the fridge and went back to my room.
I better get cleaned up before I see the Nichols family
, I thought.
Once out of the shower, I saw how awful my face looked and how swollen my eyes were. My skin was off-color, and overall I looked like hell. I stared into the mirror for a few minutes. I knew that I needed help, and fast. Physically, I couldn’t go on like this much longer. I would eventually kill myself if I continued. I was dressed and out the front door before anyone even noticed I was gone.
I knew the Nichols family would return from church shortly after noon and would be home if I were to call on them. But as I walked up the street I also knew I couldn’t face them. I couldn’t let them know what I had been through in the last few weeks. I was sure they would ask where I had been and I would make up some excuse for not being around.
Overwhelmed with shame, I turned around, walked back to the house, and went back to bed. I just couldn’t face them, not now.
H
AWAII OR
B
UST
I needed the support of those few who loved me and to have the right people around me if I was going to make it. John, Darlene, and Judy helped me get a grip on myself and helped me take a chance. I discovered that I’d had no idea of the damage I was capable of. I had no idea of anything. I needed to tell someone about what I was going through. I had to get it off my chest and out in the open. But I just couldn’t open my mouth to anyone who knew me. It had to be someone else. It had to be someone new—someone I didn’t know and who didn’t know me.
I
T TOOK ME A
few days, but I finally found the courage to say something—not much, but just enough for them to realize I needed help.
John and Darlene had more faith in me than I had in myself. For the first time, I was able to share with them a small portion of what I had suffered as a child and what I was suffering as a teenager. I didn’t share much, just the fights with Mom and a “small problem with drug abuse.”
I was overcome by their support and respect. I truly felt that they loved me. In spite of all my deception and all my secrets, they showed me love and concern. They didn’t condone what I had done. I shared only a portion of it. I thought that if I told even half of the real story, they might have left me behind.