Part 18 - Backwards Again

"Goin’ Down" - The Pretty Reckless

We (my parents and myself) always spend Christmas with my Grandparents and my Mom’s younger Brother (Uncle Number 2; her older Brother (Uncle Number 1) emigrated to Australia when I was approximately eleven years old). That year the three of them were travelling down to us, and would be staying until after the New Year. On Boxing Day we decided to have a gathering (okay, yes, it was a party) with the family, a few of my parents friends, and a few of mine. The alcohol was flowing, and it wasn’t long before everyone was pretty drunk. And then my Dad snapped.

Something set him off, but in our intoxicated states, no-one can recall what it was. And he just blew up. He went totally mad, and kicked everyone out of the house, including me and my Mother, and my Grandparents. He wouldn’t even let me Mom back into the house. We walked to the house of my parents close friends, who had also been among the number of people my Dad had thrown out, and crashed there. I slept, somewhat fitfully, and probably only mainly due to the drink, and everyone else stayed up all night. My Mother believed her marriage was over. No way would she be able to trust him again, although we all knew that once he had sobered up, he’d feel a complete moron, and would apologise to everyone involved. But after having such a turbulent marriage for so long, this was the last straw for my Mom.

I went back to the house the next day, mainly to collect my Grandparents bags; they were going home early. My Mom was so embarrassed about my Dad’s behaviour, and although my Nana’s support may have been useful at this time, my Mom wanted to sort the mess out with as little intervention as possibly. I returned home, and so did my Mom later that day. The house was a mess, and my Father had punched two holes in the kitchen wall, leaving his hand extremely swollen and a bit bashed up. Better than to have hit me or my Mother, which was what everyone believed was going to happen that night; we had to be defended by my Dad’s best friend, who luckily is about twice the size of my Dad.

I left my parents to discuss their marriage that evening, and it was decided that my Dad would leave the house and live in the caravan (which, when it’s not actually being used for caravanning, resides on our drive, and often ends up being used as an extra bedroom) until my Mother had made some firm plans concerning her marriage. She didn’t know what she really wanted at that time, but she did need time to think on it, without my Father around, forever apologising and trying to influence her decision.

All this turmoil sent me straight back to drugs, and cutting. My parents didn’t notice this sudden regression, as they had enough of their own issues to deal with. The drugs got to a ridiculous level at this point though. I was smoking on the way to college, skipping classes to smoke, and then coming home and self-harming before crashing out in my room again. I was letting the depression get hold again. This time I was just resigned to it. After everything that I had gone through, and all the hurt I had caused, before "The Boxing Day Thing", my life had started becoming more stabile. I was actually starting to feel like things really could get better. But, as people say, the higher you are, the harder you fall. I now knew that things never really would get better.

After many weeks, my Mom took my Dad back, under the conditions that he quit drinking, go to the doctors, get some medication, and go into counselling for his temper issues. He did quit drinking, immediately, and my Mother went with him to the doctors. He was diagnosed with depression, only two years after me. He started taking medication, and entered counselling, and while all this was going on, our relationship became more and more fractured. My parents had finally noticed that I was back on drugs, and did attempt to help me to stop, which I did. But then I just replaced one emotional crutch with another. I started drinking heavily. Very heavily. I would turn up to the first class of the day at college, then make my way over to the nearby pub to see it open at 11 o’clock, and would spend the rest of the day getting drunk, with absolutely no intention of returning to any of my afternoon classes.

It wasn’t long before, this, mixed with the cutting, disintegrated my new-found better relationship with my parents. I felt that they wanted me out of the house again, and to be honest, I think at that time they did; and quite understandably. They needed time to sort their marriage out, and I was just making everything worse for them.

I spent the next two months without a permanent address. My parents were kind enough to let me stay at their house when they would be away for the weekend (usually caravanning), but the rest of the time, I went from friend to friend, staying in spares rooms, or sleeping on peoples’ floors or couches. I dropped out of college at this time. I’d been skipping classes for months, so no way was I going to pass any exams, and even if I did take them, I’d probably only turn up drunk anyway. My education was really low on my list of priorities now that I didn’t really have anywhere to live.

I lashed out a lot during this time, and probably said some awful things to people that were trying to look after me, but everything was boiling over in my life. My life was spinning out of control again. My self-harming was increasing in intensity again, and I was loosing friends left right and centre. I felt like the loneliest person since the Big Bang.