Really, you’d think a grown woman would be smart enough to know when to say enough is enough. I missed that gene somewhere in my makeup. Of course, then alcohol became my excuse. This goes all the way back (a long time) to my high school days. I’m baring my soul in this blog. Secrets are slowly killing me.
I never felt accepted as I was. No one “saw” me. No teachers took me under their wing; no advisors saw me as needing to be fixed. I was broken. I had sex for the first time when I was 13. I’d never even had a period. However, our suburbia home had secrets, as well. The boy next door, literally, who was 3 years older than me, lured me into his bedroom because he was going to fix the grip on racket. He tossed down the racket, and pulled me into his bed, peeled off my swimsuit and fucked me. I ran before he came, terrified that I was pregnant. I jumped into the closest neighborhood pool to wash it away. I began cutting my hair off. Chopped it all off until it was about an inch long everywhere. I knew what happened to me was wrong but I also know that if I told anyone, the blame would fall on me. I kept it my secret.
This was a life-changing moment for me. In school, I just wanted to be a cool kid. I wasn’t. I thought I was pretty, had a great fashion sense, only to hear mean girls talk about me behind my back. I was such a dork. Until I realized if I had sex with boys, I’d be popular. So, I tagged along behind the mean girls, started drinking any alcohol I could get my hands on. I was always on the outside of the cool group, but caught the eyes of teenage boys. My dates would always end up fucking. I never spoke of it, but of course, the boys did. I worked my way up the ladder of popularity. I was empty on the inside. Then one Sunday morning, I woke up in my bed, and I heard a calling in my head; “go to church”. I didn’t even question it, because mass at the local church, within walking distance, was scheduled to begin. I dressed, walked there and listened. I can’t tell you what the sermon was about or what the readings and gospel were that day, but I believed that I was going to be OK. I went a few more Sundays after that, but I resorted back to the old ways.
I was a functioning alcoholic, even at age 17.