After my sister’s death, I no longer had any fear of what I considered to be wrong or evil. I was still forced to go to church, but I no longer believed in any of it. I went to hang out with friends, and I finally saw that a large number of the other kids there were starting to do the same.
I started hanging out with my brother and his friends. One of them had a younger brother that was in the same school, so we became fast friends. He was staying with his Grandmother down the road where my brother would go get high.
At this point I was so broken that I told my new friend I wanted to get high. So we met up and rode our bikes into the trails in the hills. He pulled out a small black film canister and inside was a joint. We smoked the whole thing and I didn’t really feel anything, but as we started riding again, I started crashing over and over. I was laughing hysterically and having the time of my life. Thus began the journey of chasing that feeling for the next decade.
From that point on we would meet up before school in the bushes and smoke. If we didn’t have any weed, it was cigarettes. I was of the opinion though that if you’re not getting high, why smoke it. I was in 8th grade by this point and failing miserably. I constantly got in trouble at school and was suspended regularly. Which was great for me since both my parents were working at the time. I had the house to myself and could run off whenever I wanted. I wasn’t allowed to attend my graduation, but they pushed me through because they didn’t want me coming back.
At no point did I ever consider what my parent’s were going through losing a child. I was only concerned with my pain and my life. I suppose that’s normal being a teenager, but I took things to extremes. It didn’t take long before the depression of everything that had happened settled in, and the effects of the drugs were no longer enough. I was questioning my friendship and my family. I had nowhere to go. My parent’s didn’t believe in counseling even though the school counselor had suggested it. My elder sister had a child and moved off to get married. My brother couldn’t take the drama and went to find his own way. Mind you, there were plenty of people trying to help me, but I wasn’t listening because they didn’t understand. I was alone.
My father had continued his career in aviation and was working as a mechanic for a local airline. That airline got bought out by a larger one, and they decided to close up shop in our city. My father had the choice of moving to Pittsburgh, PA or Greensboro, NC. They had lived in Chicago before I was born and didn’t want to move back north. So they asked me if I would like to move. I didn’t know where any of these places were or what they were like, and I didn’t care. I thought maybe a move would help me start over and get better.
So we made the move to Greensboro, NC, or as I call it now, Greensboring. I had no idea that I would now be hours from the beach instead of minutes. No more friends, no more family, no more dirt hills with bike trails, no more cheap mexican dirt weed. I quickly became acquainted with sweet tea, BBQ (the food group not the activity), rednecks and country music. I was a peg without a hole.
To be continued…
Evolving Psychosis 