That Thanksgiving on the farm with Mom and The Old Man was nice. There was something to the occasion that made the day more than just another holiday.
We were happy. The Old Man was happy with me and so was Mom. For the first time in a long time, my parents were proud.
There was no trouble. No one was looking for me. There was no reason to excuse myself from the table, to hide something, or to leave the house. This was a reward to me; however, this is where the battle of depressive thinking comes in to disrupt the victory. These are the thoughts that would discount the reward and downplay my achievements.
I began this process to be better. I was journaling more and more about the times of my youth and the misunderstandings of my life. I was feeling better. My journaling was therapeutic. However, the details of my life, which became the subject of my journals were truly amazing to me.
As I recalled the next few stages of my life and as I recalled the time I spent in treatment, as I recalled the total annihilation of self, the pain, the growth and my rebirth, I began to detail the stages up to my biggest losses.
The days between my arraignment and my departure to rehab were more like a blur than anything else. So much happened to me in a short amount of time. I packed everything up in my room, I prepared to take a plea, and I secured an attorney. Mom had a nervous breakdown, which was horrible. The Old Man was angry and wanted to kill me. My brother could hardly stand to look at me but worse than this were the details of my arrest, which made the local newspaper, complete with the reports of a helicopter chase and all. This meant everybody knew what happened.
There was a time that came when I was alone in my own self. There was no one else around to absorb the pain or distract me from the consequences. There was no one else but me to handle the mistakes and the facts of my actions.
I knew the police were looking to speak with me about a few different break-ins. I knew there was nothing friendly about my atmosphere or the company I kept. More than a few of the officers in the precinct knew me by name, and now they had me, and none of them had my best interests at heart.
Before going forward in this part, I would like to express that anonymity is very important to me. Therefore, although this story is absolutely true, names and certain details will be changed in this chapter to protect the less-then innocent. And with that being mentioned, I will go forward and say one could have suggested to me that I should thank my lucky stars for what I have. But I would have never seen it.
There was very little left of me. I was sick in more ways than I could tell you. I was physically unwell. I was mentally frayed and frazzled like the end of an old tattered rope.
I could not keep my thoughts together. I could not keep anything together, let alone, maintain an appearance of normalcy. It was clear to everyone that I was unraveling and falling apart.
And for the record, my parents tried. They really did.
This is part one of something I need to detail.
If I wanted to move forward, I needed to look back at myself. I had to look back at one of my most troubled times and the time when my life was forever altered. I had secrets from this time. I had my share of guilt and shame but above all, the regret from this part of my life would not let me move forward.
More than just my obvious drug use, I needed to break down the connection to my thoughts and behaviors. However, as I write this now, it is important for me to express that I do not do drug stories.
I do not romanticize my past. I cannot and will not glamorize that lifestyle nor will I feed into the culture; however, for all intents and purposes, I believe it is important that I detail this part of my story. I want to detail this specifically, because this story is the most important story. This is me. This is a story that takes place on a day in late August, 1989.