Addiction
Part
One:
Growing
Pains
By
Alle “undergroundalle” Cramer
If
you're reading this you have probably stumbled upon Gringo Bill's website by
accident because you were up at 2:30am surfing the internet for I can haz
cheezburger. This is how addiction starts. Its like a whisper in your ear “
It’s ok, just do it. It won't hurt anyone really.” Then before you know it, its
rushing toward a small vietnamese village at a million miles an hour while
you're running behind it in a ball of chaos, fury, confusion, and sadness.
Dont
worry buddy, its all good. you can slow down for now. Your addiction isn't THAT
bad and really is not even hurting anyone else. Right, and the Germans didn't
kill jews, attila the hun wasn't a sonofabitch who mercilessly raped and
pillaged.
So
lets get to what addition is. Websters dictionary defines addiction as: ad·dic·tion
noun
\ə-ˈdik-shən, a-\
: a strong and harmful need to regularly
have something (such as a drug) or do something (such as gamble)
Society defines addiction as the desire
and inability to maintain control over something/someone/someplace. To be an
addict in todays society is to fall head over heels for something (anything)
with our respite. Could it almost be likened to having OCD? ADHD? Maybe, but
let’s take a look at the bigger picture. I am going to share a story with you about
my early childhood, one filled with adventure, horror, drama, comedy, and maybe
even some factualities. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show…..its bound to be a
good one.
“Why does it have to be so damned cold?”
I think to myself as I stand on the side of the gas station waiting for the
grey hound bus to arrive. Its 1998, it’s cold, and I am in Albuquerque, NM
waiting for a bus to take me home to Phoenix. I just watched them put my
brother in the ground, I’m coming down from a 2 week meth binge, and my dad is
no where to be found. What a surprise there. He has never been there. Unless he
needed something or he was on furlough from the “farm”. I feel as though the
world is folding in on me, and the only thing I can think of is getting back to
phoenix and hitting up my dealers house. Man what I wouldn’t give for a big
bowl of smurf dope, I can smell it as the torch melts the first few crystals,
the first hit is always the best. It’s the smell of chemicals, mixed with
addiction. Addiction. It’s a word I’ve been best friends with since I was 12.
First it was sex, then marijuana, it was heroin for a short stint, then alcohol
and now I find myself addicted to meth. Don’t get me wrong, I still dabble in
all of the above on occasion, and I definitely still have sex as much as a fat
kid eats Twinkies, but my one true love will always be meth.
What, you are asking yourself, would
bring me to this level, this level of self loathing and destruction? Over the
years I have asked myself the same question, and now that I’m pushing 30, I
think I finally have the answers.
I started drinking when I was 12, I had
sex when I was 12 and smoked my first doob when I was 12. 12 was the magical
number. But let’s travel even farther back to a time where innocence should have
been but was replaced with feelings and thoughts of suicide, hatred and self
loathing.
My very first cognizant memory was when I
was 4. It was dusk and we were visiting a friend of my mom’s, more than likely
she was inside getting high as I was running around outside, alone. I guess in
that time there wasn’t too much concern for child predators. Or at least she
wasn’t too concerned. This family lived next door, I used to play with their
kids all the time and they had a German Shepard. This dog was always around the
kids, never snapped at any of us. He would always walk me back next door,
making sure I got home safely. One night, something must have been triggered
and as we were walking home, I remember walking beside him, then I remember him
on top of me, growling, and trying to eat my head whole. I was confused, I was
scared and I was alone.
I remember hearing yelling, as my mom’s
friend Lucy came running out with a broom, all the while my mom was on the
porch. Why wasn’t she helping me? Why wasn’t she running to my rescue? I
remember sitting in the front seat of the car, more specific Lucy’s El Camino,
asking my mom to stop pouring water on my face, because I can’t see and I it’s
drowning me. I remember lying in the urgent care hospital bed, crying for my
sister, crying for my grandma. I can remember closing my eyes, and opening them
and my sister was there. Holding my hand, telling me it’s ok. And it was ok,
she was there. She was there to protect me. I didn’t want my mom, I wanted my
sister. I wanted my dad, but thanks to my mom, he was locked up again. I guess
it’s not her fault really, but at the time I felt it was. I felt that she could
have done better to keep him clean and keep him out.
I remember staring out my window at the
hospital, there was a bar across the street, and I could have sworn I would
watch my mom walk across the street and go in there and not come out for hours.
I remember going through the double doors, into surgery and begging my sister
to come with me, because I was scared. I remember my sisters face, as they took
me back. Anger mixed with fear mixed with hate. I can remember praying that she
didn’t hate me, praying that I hadn’t messed up again. I didn’t know that her
anger was towards my mother, and I would later find out that once again she
wasn’t around to protect her children.
Fast forward a few years…..we had just
moved into a house off of Los Padillas, this house had an acre of land and this
huge hay loft in the middle of the field. I used to walk to school, which was a
few blocks away. I would hunt for crawdads in the irrigation ditch behind our
house; I would sit and watch the sunset with my best friend Freddy. Freddy was
just as broken as I was. I was destined to marry him. He was my first kiss at
7; he was the only person who understood what it felt like to be ignored. His
dad used to beat his mom, he would come home from work and get drunk and the
yelling would start. I could always guarantee that Freddy would be with me
until his mom called him home. He lived right next to us, and sometimes his dad
wouldn’t let him come over. So we would sit by the chain link fence our fingers
interlaced, ants crawling over us. Laughing about the time when the crawdad
pinched my finger and it wouldn’t let go.
We would tromp through his mom’s
vegetable garden, helping her pick cucumbers; we would lie on his bean bag
chair in the family room watching movies or T.V. We would always watch
Transformers, or G.I. Joe, or He-Man. He wanted to be He-Man when he grew up
and I wanted to be She-Ra. And we would have a big farm and raise animals and
kids and have a garden. He told me he would never hit me, and I told him I
would always love him, unconditionally. I told him that would forever be best
friends, no matter what. And when we were 30 if we weren’t married we would
marry each other. I sometimes lie in bed wondering where he went. What did he
end up doing with his life? Does he love his wife, his kids and his family? Did
his dad finally stop hitting his mom? Does his mom still have a garden? Did he
get his ranch with the animals and never ending love? I wonder if he ever
thinks about me, and for a fleeting second I can feel him. Maybe it’s just my
imagination, but it feels true.
That house was a house of discovery for
me. There were other houses along the way, the house on silver, where my sister
locked me in the basement, the house on copper where my mom would bring Charles
over to hook her up with coke and weed. There was the house where I last saw my
dad until I was a teenager. I will get to all of these, but I want you to see
that I wasn’t always broken. I wasn’t always chaotic and angry. I was made to
love. I see that now, I am a caregiver, I am a lover and I am the true essence
of a mother. I am a fountain of never ending love. So why, why am I so broken?
Maybe I feel broken, but in all reality I am completely whole, with a few nicks
and scrapes.
That house, in Los Padillas, nestled in
the south valley just out side of Albuquerque was the start of many things for
me. It was where my fondest memories were created with my father, where my
mother would become jealous and threaten to call my dad’s PO. Where my brother
Michael would take care of me when I was sick, and call me a runt and a jerk
when I invaded his button collection. Where I would find the dirty needles and
cotton balls, the bent spoons behind my dresser, and they didn’t belong to my
dad. Where I learned to set the timing on a 1984 Nissan Sentra, and where I
would remember walking out to my dads shop, two seconds after he had just
mainlined a spot of heroin. I remember having my first holy communion, my
grandma so proud of my white dress and perfect veil. I remember my mom
intentionally burning my veil because she was jealous that my grandma was
paying attention to me. I remember all my aunts and uncles, and cousins and
family coming to visit and my mom sitting in her room getting high. My dad, my
grandma, they were proud of me.
I remember my dads 1957 Candy apple red
Chevy pick up, fully restored with a wooden deck bed in the back, and bouncing
on the seat as we drove down the street coming home from baskin robbins. Lynrd
Skynrd playing on the radio, the windows down, the wind tossing my hair around
and my dad laughing, calling me leggers. I remembered being loved. I remember
my dad loving me and my mom hating me. I remember my sister visiting and my mom
ruining the visit. I remember lying in bed at night listening to the sounds
outside, wishing Freddy could be with me. A child at the age of 7 shouldn’t
know what sex is, or what feelings this act invokes in you, but I wasn’t a
normal child. I was a child who had been molested, by people she trusted. I was
a child who understood what addiction meant, but would never completely
understand what addiction was until I was 12.
We moved from that house, we moved from
that house to another house. This house was downtown. It was a 2 story town
home. We moved from that house, from Freddy and from those long gone memories.
The day we moved, I never saw him again. I never saw the boy I was supposed to
marry and have a family with. The boy who would grow up to be a man, who would
love me unconditionally and cherish every word I said.
This new house was cool, it had a spiral
staircase up to the 2nd floor, my room had a view of the city, and the kitchen
had brown Saltillo tile. This was my last Christmas with my father, right
before he went back to the joint and right before we moved to Austin. I didn’t
care what I got for Christmas, as long as I could sit on my dads lap and open
presents. As long as I could smell his old spice cologne and feel his stubble
on my face when he woke me up Christmas morning.
Everywhere I went I made friends. I made
one friend here; she was a lonely old lady. Her name escapes me now, but I
remember how she loved turtles, despised slugs, and would tolerate little kids.
She always had treats for me, and would always let me feed the turtles. She had
25 or 30 turtles through out her house. We would sit outside and pour salt on
the slugs to kill them. We would let the turtles run (more like meander,
because her turtles didn’t run!) through her small veggie garden. We would
giggle and eat fig newton’s and tease the turtles. I remember times like these
randomly, they come and go. I don’t know if it’s the drugs that I’ve done or
possibly the fact that I’ve blocked a lot of trauma and heartache. Either way,
they follow me where ever I go, always and forever lingering.
It was at this house where I first
thought of suicide. A thought that would haunt me for years to come and will
probably still haunt me on my death bed. It was Christmas Eve, my mom and dad
were fighting and I was upstairs, in my room, twirling and dancing in the new
skirt and top my dad had gotten me for Christmas, I could hear the sound of
music coming from the T.V., I was watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, in
full Christmas cheer when my mom came home. She was angry at something,
something I did, something someone did to her, something she did. It was never
the same scenario; it was always something different that made her angry. But
you always knew, even if it wasn’t you, you would get the worst of it.
She never hit me; she would attack me
with words. Words were her weapon of choice. She was a smart woman; she knew
that if she could get you, she would do it with words. She would shoot words at
you hotter than 50 cal bullets whizzing past your head. Her words could tear
you down in 10 seconds flat, or your money back. Her favorite word was
“asshole”, oh man she loved to use this word on me. “Why are you such a little
asshole?” “Quit crying you asshole.” Little did she know that later in life that
word would instill violence and anger in me, an anger that no one would contend
with, an anger to make Hitler himself shit his pants. Words, words that she was
so good at tossing about, would some day come back to haunt her. But that’s for
later in this tale. Right now I want to give you the foundation for where I
came from, what I’ve done, and where I am now.
That night I knew something was bubbling
up inside of me, I was 8, my thoughts should have remained on waking up to
finding presents left by Santa Clause, and the thought of a snowy Christmas
morning. Instead they were tuned to thoughts of suicide. She was pushing the
only person I could feel safe with away. She had pushed my sister out of my
life, and now my father. I was 8. I don’t recall what they were fighting about;
I think it had something to do with money or drugs or something. The week
before my cousin had stayed with us, and apparently he had written a check from
my mom’s account and cashed it, and I think that she had blamed my dad. Because
at the time, no one from her side of the family could have done any harm.
I remember opening these wooden shutters,
they were a rough wood, the kind that leaves splinters, and they smelled of oil
and mildew. The kind of mildew you find in the forest under rotting tree
stumps. I remember opening them, I remember lifting the window up, and I
remember pushing out the screen and watching it fall into the snow below.
Beneath my window was my dad’s prized possession, his truck. I remember feeling
sad about me falling on the truck, although I was 8, I was still a porky kid
and I would probably cause some damage. I looked up, and I could see the lights
of the city, I could feel the crisp air whipping my face and I could smell
burning pine in the air. It was Christmas Eve; families across the valley were
sitting down to dinner eating Tamales, and chile rojo, biscochitos, and
empanadas. They were singing and welcoming weary travelers celebrating la
posadas, luminarias were being lit, abuelitas were singing traditional cantadas
and the air was filled with the essence of Albuquerque.
I
was a porky 8 year old girl, with braids standing in a window watching over the
city, I could hear the laughter of the city, and I could see the city moving,
breathing. I stood in my window, my heart racing, the cold air hitting me. I
heard my dad’s voice, then I felt his arms wrap around me. The arms I felt
safest in. The arms that held me as a baby, carrying me out of the delivery
room, the arms covered in prison ink with women behind chain link fences and
prison guard towers watching over them, with Spider webs, and “ruka’s” with big
tits. I felt his arms wrap around me and hold me. I could smell his cologne,
and I heard him say it was alright, that it was ok. He was here, he would
protect me. I don’t know if he knew what I was thinking that night, or what
happened, but I know he saved me. I was 8 years old. He closed my window,
closed and secured the shutters, and sat down with me for a bit. When he left,
I could hear them fighting. This time they were fighting over me. She was
jealous that he had left her to check on me. She was yelling at him that I
could have taken care of myself, I was ok alone. I was a big girl.
I remember gathering all of my presents I
had been given, mostly from her, I kept the black and white checked skirt and
top, and I threw them down the stairs at her, hoping something would hit her. I
was angry at her for all the names, she called me, all the cookies she burnt,
and all the times she spent away from me. Wasn’t she supposed to be my mother?
Wasn’t she supposed to be the one to protect me? I threw my presents down the
stairs, went back to my room and locked the door. One solid push was all it
took for my dad to open the door, and I can remember him standing there
smiling, his blue eyes sparkling, his hair a mess from running up the spiral
staircase, and the slight smirk on his face. That smirk told me I had pissed
her off for good. That smirk told me she was gone. She had left. She would be
back, but for now she was gone. He came back and in his arms were all my
presents. He helped me organize my room, put everything away. Then we went
downstairs and while he ate cottage cheese with sugar, I ate vanilla ice cream
and we watched frosty the snowman.
I was asleep when he left. She had come
home drunk, high, and yelling. I think he hit her. She deserved it. I remember
the yelling. Always yelling. I fell back asleep, and when I woke up he was
gone. There was a note, telling me to be good, he loved me and would see me
soon.
And like that he was gone. I wouldn’t see
him again for a few months. Not until we moved into the house with the high
ceilings and red velvet carpet. Once again my mom had managed to run him off. I
never knew until later in life where he went. I never asked him, and he never
told me. There are so many memories of my dad, and hopefully I can touch on all
of them. There is so much to be told about this life, and the person who holds
it. The good, the bad and the indifferent. While the preface might be
depressing or seemingly filled with a horrible child hood, there are good
memories. There are memories of sitting in the kitchen with my grandma, of
sitting on my dad’s lap watching Dune, or learning to swim or participating in
the posadas. This is merely a foundation for what’s to come next.
