When I Compare Myself To Others (Part 2)

I had found something that made life more interesting. Every time I smoked, reality became a beautiful, enhanced, calmed, humorous and lovely experience. I needed more of that within my life. The building sadness was starting to consume me more and more as I was spending time within a quiet little trailer with my grieving mother. She was going through her own measures of trouble. Trying her best to support us both with very little money from the crummy job she had worked, on top of sorting through her own depressive state. She would just stir, searching for unknown answers while chain smoking her life away. I began to soak up not only her sadness, but my own as well. We became very codependent during that time, but back then, I had no idea what that had meant. I didn’t recognize it until years later. I had been right in the middle of an excessive emotional and psychological reliance with my mother. Spending that time in the middle of nowhere with her was becoming a very bad thing for both of us.

It didn’t take long for her to find out I had been smoking cigarettes, so it was just one more thing that my mother and I began to share. To my surprise, after snooping around our trailer one day, I found out that I was not the only one smoking marijuana. We eventually began to do that together as well. The whole environment and the many unhealthy situations was the making for a long and twisting road of dysfunction for me.

High school provided a limited opportunity. There was very little I was interested in besides getting high and smoking my cigarettes. I really had no idea how a combination of a growing depression, hormonal changes, the chemicals that I was pumping into my body via tobacco, marijuana, excessive caffeine and tons of junk food, the codependent relationship with my mother and the motley crew of addicts that I was constantly being introduced to within the drug culture, would shape me into a very introverted, lonesome and lost kid by sophomore year. I was beginning to enjoy rap/ hip-hop music, and the type consisted of lyrics filled violence, drug use, theft, hate and rage. It was anything but a great addition to my building fall.

By junior year, I was nothing more than an empty shell walking around, reeking of smoke, with a sadness that reached the depths of my core. The only time I was happy was when I was high. My grades were the pits, even though I still had the potential to do good work. Most of my teachers were doing everything they could to encourage me to do better, but nobody knew what was going on within me.  Although, I believe many of them knew that I was into drugs. By that time, I was drinking, doing other drugs (too many to mention) and getting myself into things that most would find repulsive.

I believe it was during my sophomore year when my mother had remarried. She met a guy who would buy me things. He bought me a car that year, but I didn’t have my driver’s license yet. I was actually fortunate that year to gain access to the motor scooters my mother and father had purchased before they had split up. My mother had taken them with her, so she allowed me to ride them. It was a great opportunity for me to leave the depressing country and go into the city. I could do pretty much whatever I wanted then.

My grandparents always welcomed me with open arms. I was spending so much more time at their house. The freedom to come and go as I had pleased on my scooter provided more opportunity for me to get into all of my messes. I could go to where the drugs were. I could get caught up in activities all over town. I was unsupervised and growing in all of the wrong directions. Their home was like a home away from home, and I had my own room there. In a sense, I had my own apartment. It had its own door to the outside and I could lock the other door to the rest of the house. I could live my little life of waste within my own space, with no one to tell me not to. It’s not that my grandparents didn’t care, because they did, but they had such compassion for me. They also left it to my parents to teach me what I needed to know. I was not their child, and they were elderly.

By junior year, my grades were so far gone from simply not showing up for school. When I did show, my teachers were proud of the work that I did do. I was always told that I had so much potential, but just failed to apply myself. It was so easy for those outside looking in to see only the surface of me and the few things they could fathom. I couldn’t apply myself at that time. It just wasn’t important to me. I was too busy applying myself to my misguided, unsupervised and never fulfilled appetite for destruction.

The whole life that I was living was beginning to be seen as a total waste in my own eyes. The depression was starting to hit me pretty hard and the lifestyle choices were catching up with me. But, things only got worse. The next year or so forced my low self-esteem to a new extreme. The bullying and belittling began.

A new group of people that I was associated with had a way of bullying that made you feel liked, yet weak. I cannot begin to explain that combination, but these people were so incredibly cool to me. They were full of sarcasm, had all of the best drugs and were always around. I began to dive deeper into the drug world. I was being introduced to much harder drugs and many adults with years of drug addiction under their belts. The people my age had parents and family that did all of the drugs with them, and I was able to jump right in. I was driving the car my stepdad had purchased for me, and I was running all over the place. I was beginning to develop many relationships with very scary individuals in hindsight, but at the time I had believed these people were cool. I believed I was cool too, being a kid with adult friends with great drugs.

I became addicted to methamphetamine my junior year, and what a rollercoaster my life became.


2 thoughts on “When I Compare Myself To Others (Part 2)

  1. “Rollercoaster”. That one word sums up my life as well. We have definitely been through a lot and it is only by God’s grace that we are here to tell the story. I pray that God continues to heal us and use us in whatever way He sees fit. Bless you, brother.

    Liked by 1 person

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