My Story - Part 5

My Angel

End October, 1989

When I was released from hospital, my grandma was determined to give me more structure, as well as to find something that would give my a healthy channel through which to vent my emotions. Having noticed that I loved to draw, she enrolled me in art classes. I agreed to go, mostly because my defiance had run out of steam either due to sustained depression, or due to all the medications I was on.

She caught my eye immediately. Her grey school uniform failed to dull any of her beauty. Her skirt ended a few centimetres more than school-regulations allowed above her knees, showing off muscular, sun-tanned legs. Her thick, auburn ponytail moved when she talked, catching the sun as it swung from one shoulder to the other. Her large, brown eyes reflected her emotions as her light laughter filled the room. She was only 15, two years younger than me, but I couldn't keep my eyes off her.

I wasn't the only one. All the boys in the class circled around her like moths around a flame.

Her expensive art supplies, including a match-set of drawing pencils and neat, shop-bought portfolio carrier suggested that her parents had money. The shiny BMW in which she was picked up after the class confirmed her family's affluence.

She was out of my reach. Even if my looks and personality could catch her attention, which was laughably unlikely, my family's lack of money and class would surely disgust her.

A few weeks later, I found out how grossly I had misjudged her when I looked up to find her standing in front of me.
"Hi," she said, smiling "my name is Louise. You're new here, aren't you? What is your name? Which grade are you in?"
Stunned, I stumbled over my words as I attempted to reply. Eventually, I managed to get out my name.
To my further surprise, she complemented my drawing, and asked if she could sit next to me. I wanted to shout "yes!", but a voice in my head told me remember what you are, where you come from... I had seen the other kids from my school whispering and looking at me, so I knew the rumours where flying. I asked her if she had heard them.
She shrugged, and said "yes", defiantly. One shiny end of her pony-tail fell over her shoulder. I wanted to touch it.

Looking down at my hands, I told her softly that they were true, and that she should probably not be associating with me.

She clicked her tongue irritatedly - a gesture I would get to know very well in years to come. Her eyes flashed something like anger.  She said "Well, I don't care what they say. Frankly, I don't even care what you say. That drawing is good and I want to know what it means, why you drew it like that. Besides, I never let anyone tell me who I should be friends with. So, may I sit next to you?"

Speechless, I could only nod.

I was in love.

She made me explain my rather dark and morbid drawing, and continued to ask me about myself and my life. She had a matter-of-fact attitude about my drug-use that was completely new to me. In short, she seemed to not care at all. In the weeks that followed, she continued to choose the seat next to mine, and to talk to me rather than her other friends. When we said goodbye for the Christmas holiday, I kissed her, and walked away. She ran after me. Thinking that she'd be mad, I turned around and confronted her. She was mad. "Is that it? She asked, her pony-tail bobbing indignantly up and down. You kiss me, and just walk away? Don't you know that if you kiss a girl, you have to put your arms around her?" She stepped into my arms, and kissed me back, softly, slowly. It was a completely new experience to me, and it scared me out of my mind.

She stepped back, and told me to enjoy my holiday, and that she would count the hours until she could see me again.

I turned away to hide my confusion. When I turned back, she was getting into her mother's BMW on the other side of the parking lot.

I didn't expect to ever see her again.

March, 1990

The beginning of 1990 brought new lows. Not being able to advance to the next year in school was humiliating. So humiliating, that I basically stopped going to school all together. I would dress in my school uniform in the morning, go to Jason's instead of to school, and spend the day trying to fill the emptiness in my gut with drugs. Besides getting high, the only other thing I still did was to go to art class, mostly to see Louise. When her mother found out that she had befriended a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, and with an unsavoury history too, she forced her to quit the class.

As few days later, my grandmother found out that I hadn't been going to school and that I had already missed so many days that the school wouldn't allow me to come back. She made use of my last month as a minor to send me back to rehab, kicking and screaming.

Step 1: We admitted that we are powerless in the face of our addiction, and that our lives had become unmanageable. 
Yup, got that.
Step 2: We came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
Sure He could, but why would He lift a finger for Me?
Step 3: We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him. 
But God hates me. He doesn't want my will and my life.

Conclusion: There is no hope for me.

I left rehab on my 18th birthday, and moved in with a group of drug-using friends. I started dealing again, in order to support my own fast growing habit. I discovered cocaine, and that mixing cocaine and heroin allowed you to use more, and still be able to function. I lived like this for several months, even though my grandma regularly begged me to come home to her. I knew that if I went home, she would insist that I tried to get clean again.

One night, a group of us were sitting in a circle on an empty, dirty floor somewhere, passing around drugs and needles. One of my friends were sitting next to me - a 17-year old girl with long blonde hair, who could have been beautiful had she not been so ravaged by drugs. She shot up, pulled out the needle, and lay back on the carpet. When I looked at her again, her lips were blue. Shocked, I started shaking her, begging her to wake up. She didn't respond. Screaming at the others to help me, I eventually got the attention of one some of the others. In a panic, the decision was made to take her to hospital. Calling an ambulance was out of the question, since we couldn't allow anyone with any relation to law enforcement into the flat. We dragger her out to a car, drove to the hospital, and left her on the steps. I believe she was still alive when we left her there.

I never saw her again. I will always wonder if she lived, and what became of her. I hope that she is clean and living a good life.

Seeing a friend OD scared me. Suddenly, I wanted to be clean again. I recruited a friend who was a freaked out as I was to join me, and together we did a booze and valium-assisted cold-turkey detox. A week later, still a little shaky with withdrawal, I called my grandma and told her I was clean and ready to come home. She cried with happiness, and welcomed me back with open arms.

October, 1990

Freshly clean and able to feel again, I missed my angel from art class. I knew only her first name and her school, so I one day, when my grandma was out, I fetched my old bicycle from the garage and rode it to her high school. When the final bell for the day rang, I was standing outside the main gate with a pounding heart, wondering what made me thing she would want to see me.

Then I saw her walking towards the gate, flanked by another girl on one side and a tall, handsome boy on the other, talking and laughing. She was even more beautiful than I remembered her. I stood watching her for what felt like eternity before she looked up and our eyes met. Her jaw dropped. She stared at me for a few moments and then suddenly dropped her bag and ran to me, throwing herself into my arms! I barely had time to kiss her before I had to defend myself against the tall boy who, as it turned out, was her boyfriend. He tried to hit me, but after living in the shadowy world of criminals and drug dealers for several months I was more than able to defend myself and he soon came off worse.

She apologised to him, rather sweetly, picked up her suitcase and left with me, leaving the poor guy standing in the street, looking stunned. We spent the afternoon wondering around the neighbourhood streets, smoking and talking about everything and nothing. I told her that I had left home and done a lot of drugs, but that I was clean now and back with my grandmother. She seemed both horrified and intrigued. In retrospect, it is easy to see that at that stage I was her rebellion. I was both dangerous and off-limits, and that made me irresistible to her.

The next day I was back outside her school. This time she took me home, knowing that her mother was out for the day. We spent the afternoon making love, and finally fell asleep in each other's arms. The sound of her mother's heels on the tile floor downstairs woke us up. Fortunately, a large tree outside her bedroom window offered a convenient escape route, and I managed to disappear unnoticed.

Her mother was worried to find her sleeping in the middle of the day, but she managed to get away with pleading a headache.

1991

The idyll couldn't last.

I don't remember what our first fight was about, but I do remember that in my anger, I was incredibly cruel to her, and that she cried a lot as I was screaming at her.

Afterwards, I felt absolutely terrible, and so I did what came natural to me in times of distress - I got high. My grandma either didn't notice, or chose to turn a blind eye, but I continued to use for several weeks before I tried, once again, to kick my addiction. It didn't stay clean long. I used on and off throughout 1991, often replacing heroin with prescription painkillers. The pills are less potent, but simpler to use and easier to hide. I also developed a habit of adding stimulants, especially cocaine, to enable me to stay functional.

A few months into the year, living in a different City, I received a letter from Louise. Bizarrely, and in retrospect disturbingly, she apologised, even though I was the one screaming at her. She missed me, she wanted to see me.

I went to see her, only to be chased off the property by her father. She sneaked out of the house that night to meet me in a deserted park. We made love on a blanket among the bushes. Everything was good again - my darling still loved me.

However, my drug use and emotional instability was still having a devastating effect on our relationship. Whenever I went home for a weekend, she had to compete for my time with heroin. Even when I chose her, I'd usually be drunk. As the year progressed, we had less and less sex, and more frequent fights. She felt cheated at having to play second fiddle to my addiction and, being a red-head, she couldn't just sit back and accept it. Sometimes she'd get drunk with me, but more often, she'd be angry.

I reacted to her frustration with anger that was totally out of proportion. Later, I would come to understand that feelings of guilt, inadequacy and hurt clashed and boiled over into uncontrollable rage, leading me to lash out at anyone in the vicinity. I was often cruel, and very verbally abusive. Then, afterwards I would write her long, mournful letters, apologising over and over, and begging her not to leave me.

When I came home for good at the end of the year, she had gone to the beach with her parents. I interpreted this as her deliberately choosing to avoid being there for my homecoming, just to be mean. Lonely, depressed and still prey to almost daily flashbacks, I stopped trying to control my addiction. When Louise came back from the beach, my daily use had escalated to close to what it was in 1990.

She tried everything. She begged. She cried. She screamed. She asked why, trying to understand. I responded with anger. When she couldn't get through to me, she spoke to my grandma. Together, they begged and pleaded some more, but I refused. I had tried living sober, and it was hell. I didn't feel ready to face that again.

Part 6: Tough Love