My Life

Why? The question most often heard in our society. “Why do you do that?” “Why are you this way?” or the phrase most often heard by frustrated mothers, “Why do you deliberately disobey me?!” We hear the question more often than we hear an actual answer. Most times, we just don’t know. Either that or we just don’t seem to care. But in this day and age, “I don’t know” isn’t a sufficient answer. “Just because” won’t please an angry mother. In fact it will probably just infuriate her.
   I never really had the “ideal” family life. I was adopted at the age of six. I went to a family that didn’t want me, and only took me because I wouldn’t let my younger brother go with them. I grew up in a household where there was no family time. There was a lot of being alone and frequent arguing. My little brother and I became best friends because of it. We were always there for each other and he could count on me for anything. I was, after all, his biggest influence.
   About four years after we were adopted, the parents of the family decided they were going to get a divorce. This was pretty heartbreaking for me. After being tossed around so much between foster homes, I had hoped that I would finally have a family to stay with. I would finally have people I could count on to always be there, even if they weren’t there for me.
   After the divorce, everything went downhill. I was hurt and confused. I was a little scared at times. I started drinking to ease the pain. Solitude had soon become something I was accustomed to. School was my escape. My friends kept my spirits up during the day. I would do anything to stay at school just a little bit longer because I knew as soon as I got home, loneliness would be my only friend. By this time, my brother and I had started to grow apart. He could see me slowly fading. I was becoming more and more depressed.
   Everything changed when he came up to me one day and told me he was worried about me. He told me that he didn’t like seeing me this upset. He didn’t approve of my way of dealing with things. He hated that I wouldn’t make jokes like I used to. He missed seeing me smile. He thought it was getting out of control.
   One day, after years of brushing everything off, I decided I’d had enough. I had to get out of the situation I was in…for good. I have tried to block it out because it hurts every time I think about it. The image that sticks out the most in my head is my little brother looking at me, tears streaming down his face, begging me not to leave. Now, I realize that maybe he needed me more than I thought he did. And that maybe, just maybe, I was his rock to lean on when he felt he couldn’t stand anymore. I remember telling him over and over, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I have to do this for me. I have to get out.” He still hasn’t forgiven me for leaving him.
   Shortly after I moved, I found myself home alone a lot. Thrown right back into the routine solitude I had become used to. The very routine I had left everything behind to get away from. I felt tired, exhausted, and pretty pissed off at the world. With nothing better to do with my time, I turned to drugs.
   I used various narcotics for the same reason I turned to alcohol: To ease and/or numb the pain. I wanted to be able to live, but not hurt. I wanted to see, but not feel. I wanted to hear, but not care. And I didn’t think of who I was hurting in the process. Or maybe it was just that I didn’t really care. I was finally living my life for me. I was doing what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it, and nobody could tell me otherwise.
   There’s about a year that’s still fuzzy in my mind. Either I’ve done a good job of blocking it out, or I was too messed up to remember.
In September of 2012, I found myself kicked out of where I was living. I was still going to school, so finding a place to stay for a while wouldn’t be too big of a deal. Or so I thought. At 15 years old, your biggest concerns in life should be what you’re going to wear to school, what your friends are doing, and how much homework you have that night, right? But in my case, it was a constant struggle to find out where I was going to stay for the night, who am I going to be with, how much money do I have left, and will they have some clothes for me to wear the next day?
Later that month, I found myself cracked out at 4 o’clock on a Monday morning on my biological grandparents’ doorstep. I was scared to death. I had everything I owned shoved into one small backpack. I looked thin, eyes hollow, pupils widely dilated. I remember that night so clearly, it’s almost like it happened yesterday.
   He opened the door, took one look at me and realized who I was and what I was doing there. It was the first time he had seen me in 13 years. He let me in, told grandma to get the guest room ready, and he made me toast with orange marmalade. Everything slowly fell into place. I felt like I had known him my whole life, despite only seeing him when I was a toddler.
   When I think about this night, I taste the sweetness of the marmalade and the sour taste of methamphetamine at the same time. I remember the merciful release of pent up emotions. The rush of tears that had been held back for years. I was crying over things I had never cried about before. And it just felt right.
I know I could never repay him for the way he saved me from the life I was living. There is no amount of thanks I could give to make up for it. The only thing left to do is love. And live. And just be.