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.

Part 17 - A Step In The Right Direction

"Ryan’s Basement" - Hot Like (A) Robot

I applied for college almost immediately. I’d left school half-way through my A-Levels, and decided to re-do them, in different subjects. My parents were thrilled at my decision, as they had always wanted me to go to university and get a degree. My parents both grew up in working-class families, and, as they would say, neither had the brains, money, or opportunities to go to university. But I did have the brains, so they had been very disappointed when I threw my education away, when I seemed to have no prospects for a future. Qualifications mean a lot to my parents, so I wanted to go and get me some.

I’d stopped using drugs by this time, and was cutting back on my drinking, to only having the odd one at a weekend. I was taking college seriously, and turning up to classes drunk was not part of the plan. I had also stopped cutting. It was really hard to stop, but I was spending more and more time at my parents house, and felt increasingly more settled, so felt the urge a lot less.

I started applying for part-time (after college hours) jobs in the town where I used to live with my parents. It wasn’t long before I was being offered an interview at a local supermarket, which was just around the corner from my Mom and Dad’s house. I was successful and was offered the job. That weekend, eighteen months after leaving home, I left my new house, and house-mates, and returned to live with my parents. I felt like everything was back on track. They were pleased with my progress, and things really seemed to be turning around.

I continued at college, and although a lot of the students were a few years younger than me, I was making friends. Friends that didn’t use drugs or sleep around. This was the time in my life that I rediscovered music. I’d loved music growing up, and although my tastes changed with my growing personality, I still valued my CD collection above most of my other possessions. My music choices drove my parents crazy. Green Day and Nirvana are not bands meant to be played quietly! I had dropped a lot of music whilst living away, as I feel this was a pretty bad time in the world of the music I like; nothing really new jumping out at me. I also often found a lot of music very painful, having endured all the sadness that I had in my life. I was unaware, but waiting for a band that I could relate to, that spoke of the true issues facing most young adults these days, but doing it with a smile on their faces. I heard "I’m Not Okay (I Promise)", when a college friend of mine told me about a concert they were going to. They were seeing Taking Back Sunday (awesome band), in a dingy little club in the middle of Leeds, and a relatively new band, was supporting them.

One song and I was hooked. My Chemical Romance gave me the role model I needed in Gerard Way. If you don’t know who he is, buy a clue, and a decent record. He’s the singer in the band. A singer that leads a small rabble of misfits, who has had long term problems with depression, self-harm, alcohol, drugs, and had considered suicide and had to be "talked down" at least twice. Here was a band that I could definitely relate to, and one that I instantly loved. They sang of self-harm, suicide, and death, while at the same time, voicing their experiences with the darker issues in life, and encouraging the seeking of help in these circumstances. My Chemical Romance, although most people wouldn’t think it, are mortally against suicide and self-harm. They had struggled, but had survived, and if they could do it, so could I. I’m not sure my parents have every really understood my fascination with this band, but with My Chemical Romance, you don’t just hate them or like them; you love them. We is some hard-core fans.

So I might have been annoying my parents by blasting songs about Gerard Way’s dead Grandma, but I was home, and seemingly happy again. They felt like they had their daughter back. But I couldn’t keep the façade up for long, and neither could my Dad.

Part 14 - Off The Rails

"Prescription" - Mindless Self Indulgence

I had struggled with my insomnia since I was thirteen years old. It’s always the first thing that’s affected when I’m particularly down, or going through a rough patch, depression wise. The day I split up with my boyfriend, I knew there was zero chance of me getting to sleep that night. So when, as the evening wore on, Phillip was outside smoking a joint, I went out to smoke a cigarette (the house was a strictly no-smoking zone, unless we knew we could get away with it), and, I asked him to share. That’s how I came to smoke cannabis for the first time. I did sleep that night, thanks to a joint or two, and found myself wanting to do it every night thereafter. At first it had been a genuine need to sleep, something that I now know can be induced by legal prescription drugs, but I had stopped taking Prozac, and other forms of medication, a while before. But then, the drugs became a habit. It became more and more regular, and my parents did pick up on it.

I was still drinking heavily, and this, mixed with the drugs, made for a volatile mix. I was more popular round the house, but my cutting had continued and was increasing in severity. Many times, I would be coming home to my parents at the weekends with cuts all down my arms (and even some on my legs and stomach), with a bag of weed in tow. My parents pretty much decided that the easiest option was to turn a blind eye to all the negative behaviour, and just encourage the good.

I started sleeping about at this time as well, starting of course with Phillip. I never stuck to one guy for very long, but had started down the road of sexual experimentation. I’d been vaguely aware that I was bi-sexual since I was around fourteen, but there were other gay women living at the house, and it wasn’t too long before, in a drink and drug induced haze, I started playing the field with girls too. This, my parents were not to know!

My counsellor, decided that, as I was due to turn eighteen really soon, that I should go into adult (rather than adolescent) counselling, and due to my drug issues, referred me to a psychiatrist, to hopefully get me back on some form of medication. That was the point I left counselling. I just stopped going. The NHS had made a big mistake, without actually being aware of it. They’d referred me to a male psychiatrist. Big problem there. Guys in my circle of friends, or who I shared a house with, I could handle, but grown men terrified me. One of the huge side effects of the rape. The rape that was still largely unknown or talked about. So I decided that I could take of my illness all by myself.

The moods in the house could often be very unstable. That many mixed up kids, in a confined space! Louise was naïve to think we’d all just behave ourselves. There’s be shouting matches, fights, suicide attempts (not from me), thrown objects, and a hell of a lot of drama.

When I’d told my parents that I was smoking cannabis to help with my moods, they had laid out a grave warning: that soon it would progress; it always does with drugs. The drugs did accelerate. I was soon trying ecstasy, magic mushrooms, stronger strains of cannabis, and eventually, a little bit of cocaine, although I often couldn’t afford it too much. I tended to just dabble with the other drugs, as my drug of choice was always cannabis, due to the price, availability, and the effect. I didn’t want to dance till the sun came up, or get really mellow; I wanted to have the giggles, and find everything funny for a little while, which is mainly how cannabis affects me. Except of course, for giving me the major munchies.

I went through my eighteenth Birthday whilst all this was going on, and it was not the life milestone that people make it out to be. I was so stuck in this hellish rut, that although I did celebrate with my housemates and friends, and then later with my parents, it seemed to just pass me by. Nothing changed. It didn’t suddenly get better now that I was an adult. Everything still hurt as much as it had before, and I still felt like there was no way out. Except the obvious.

So, now that I was out of education, with no job, or any prospects, that’s how I spent my time. Drinking, getting high, fighting, arguing with my parents and Louise as they tried to keep me on track, sleeping about, and basically pissing off every one around me. I thought I was having the time of my life. I never took anything seriously, never thought about my future and how my current activities would affect it, and never really cared who I was hurting. I became an emotionally hard young lady at this time; probably as a result of some of the people I had to mix with (including hard-core drug dealers, and users) in my new exciting life.

But there was always one person that would know exactly how to hurt me. And that’s when I hit rock bottom.