Motion Masquerade

In active addiction I was a lying full-of-shit liar. Some of you, I’m sure, can relate. Most of the time, my lies were a way of explaining emotions I had little capacity for processing or understanding. On other occasions, they were a means of boosting my non-existent self-esteem. I was a furious anger-ball with a deep well of sadness that seemed to have no bottom… and I truly didn’t know why.

She Never Believed Me Anyway

In high school, most of my ire was directed at my mother. (I’m going to be brutally honest here, so please have a little mercy as you read about my transgressions — and try to get to the end to understand why they occurred.) I once told my high school guidance counselor that Ma wasn’t my birth mother, and made her out to be an evil stepmother straight from the pages of some horrible, twisted fairy tale. I even went so far as to say she had locked me in a closet for a weekend. I falsely thought that there was some sort of confidentiality clause between student and guidance counselor (like there is between a therapist and her patient), and didn’t think these comments would ever get back to my mom. Wrong!

Clearly concerned about my welfare, the guidance counselor pulled my academic records — which included a copy of my birth certificate — and contacted my parents, because she then had doubts regarding my sanity. (In retrospect, this was totally fair.)

The four of us had a sit-down in Ms. What’s-her-name’s office (I have no idea what her name was all these years later) and it quickly spiraled out of control. Dad was furious, Ma was hurt and confused, and I was angry and ashamed. There was a lot of yelling and a whole bunch of tears. The guidance counselor strongly suggested that we seek therapy — a suggestion that was blatantly ignored.

Instead, Dad drug me down the high school steps by the arm (leaving deep purple bruises on my triceps) — growling and spitting in my face — and threw me in my car, demanding that I follow them straight home. I didn’t. I fled. I hid in the abandoned office building of a friend’s father for nearly a week and didn’t bother attending classes. When I finally returned home my parents had me arrested as a run-away and I spent several days at a juvenile detention center.

That was the third high school that I attended. I had recently transferred after I started failing classes at my second high school and got suspended for fighting and alcohol/drug abuse.

At my first high school I had been a straight-A student, the president of the student council, a prominent varsity athlete, and an active member of several social clubs and activities.

But… rather than address the fact that my behavior had radically changed, my parents labeled me as a “crazy, problem child” and demanded that I “clean up my act.” We fought constantly. They yelled. I screamed. Dad hit. I threw things. They made threats. I ran away. I drank. I used. They said, “Quit fucking up.” I said, “Fuck you.” Rinse and repeat.

(Important note to parents here: If your child’s personality suddenly does a 180, it’s an indication that something is terribly wrong and I highly recommend that you seek help from a mental health care provider.)

So, What Went Wrong?

We moved to Flagstaff, Arizona the summer between my Freshman and Sophomore year of High School. It was the first time we had ever moved to a place where there wasn’t a military installation. The reason we moved to Flag was so that my dad could take over the Air Force ROTC unit at Northern Arizona University. Ma fell in love with the beauty of the city; but, it was small, and people noticed that we were the “new kids” in town — which was a foreign concept to us. We were used to being three among dozens and dozens of new kids.

At school, it was damn near impossible to fit in. The students we attended classes with had known each other since birth, and their cliques and social hierarchies had been firmly established long before we arrived. I tried to get into the clubs and activities I had been a part of at my old school. I ran for student council, but didn’t win. I tried out for the dance squad, but didn’t make the cut. There was no swim team. In fact, the only autumn sports team I made it on to was the cross country team; and, when I made the varsity cut, my teammates weren’t happy about it.

That first couple of months the only person I bonded with was my coach — Coach Sullivan (a.k.a. Sully). Sully took me on as a personal project because my times were “outstanding, like nothing [he’d] ever seen before.” We did one-on-one workouts in the morning, weight-training during the day (I took his course for credit), and team workouts in the evening. After that, he and I did physical therapy in the PT room off the gym.

I felt like Sully understood me, and I confided in him. Little did I know he was a predator — and he saw me coming from a mile away. Several months into my sophomore year I was violently sexually assaulted by Coach Sullivan. After the rape, he took the clothing I was wearing (my uniform and panties), instructed me to take a shower (we were in the gym), and told me that if I breathed a word about the assault to anyone no one would believe me (his brother-in-law was the Chief of Police).

Following the incident, I became despondent and more isolated. I wanted to quit the team, but my parents wouldn’t allow it. Several weeks after the event, when my mother asked if something was wrong, I broke down and told her that I had been assaulted — but I only stated that it had been someone on the team. I also reiterated that I hated Flagstaff and that I wanted to leave.

Ma didn’t believe me because I wouldn’t tell her who the assailant was, and I’d been begging to leave Flag since we arrived. (I think she thought it was some sort of elaborate ruse to force their withdrawal from the town.) When she later shared her report with my father, he branded me a “slut” and our relationship — which had formerly been relatively close — was forever changed.

Shortly thereafter, I was injured and had to have surgery on both of my knees — which was my first introduction to pain killers. The opioids helped not only with my physical pain, but with my mental anguish. My orthopedic surgeon prescribed them for me all through high school (without my parents being fully aware of the situation), and I started mixing the pills with booze and weed.

My brother, Cole, was also having a rough time at school. He was small for his age; but, had a mouth like a sailor and never knew when to shut the hell up. He was endlessly bullied — stuffed into lockers, had his things stolen… one time, the bastards locked him in a drum case in the orchestra room — and I was always beating the holy living shit out of someone for having f*cked with my brother, which only caused strife between me and Cole (who hated that he had to have his sister fight his battles for him).

I started lying too. Telling stories to explain away my anger, sadness, and pain. I gained a reputation for being batshit crazy, and Cole hated being associated with that.

After my first suicide attempt, my parents decided that I needed to transfer schools — for my sake and for Cole’s.

She Told Everyone I Was Nuts

The night I tried to kill myself for the first time, I had a huge fight with my parents. (God only knows over what.) I stormed up to my room, wrote letters to my brothers, took every pill I could find with two bottles of Gin, and went to bed.

I woke up several hours later in a drunken, vertigo-filled haze and panicked when I remembered what I’d done. I crawled on hands and knees down the hall to my parents’ room and woke my dad, explaining the situation in slurred speech, and they rushed me to the emergency room — where I was forced to drink activated charcoal and puked my guts up for the next several hours. I spent 72-hours in the mental health ward, and then I was sent home.

I spent the next couple of days on the couch; and Cole and Dad never left my side. Coley sat on the floor next to me and wouldn’t let go of my hand. I’ll never forget how shaken he was.

The staff at the hospital recommended that we seek mental health care support; and, for a short time we did. When Penny — my therapist — had my whole family attend a session, however, Ma lost her shit (because she felt attacked) and we never returned.

One of the things I remember most about that time, though, is that Ma told everyone I babysat for (and I babysat a lot) that I had tried to commit suicide and that I might be a danger to their children (which was total bullshit, I would never have hurt anyone else). Flagstaff, as I have said, is a small town and word travels fast. So everyone knew my business, and I lost all of mine.

They’ve Done Horrible Shit Too

My brothers have done some pretty f*cked up shit too in their active addiction (for instance, they’ve both hit women); but, to their credit, they’ve never been liars. As such, they’ve never been branded nor punished the way I have.

No matter how far I’ve come, nor how much I’ve changed, I have never been forgiven for the lies I told… and I am not trusted by my folks.

In a way, I understand that. In another sense, I don’t. I’ve been brutally honest for many, many years now — and I’ve made amends — but, that doesn’t seem to matter as much as the years that I wasn’t.

Ma and Dad have their own litany of sins, and I have done my best to forgive them. Most people, I think, would’ve walked away and never looked back (according to my therapists and my husband, anyway)… but they hold my transgressions in a reserve, like a secret arsenal, and they weaponize them when it’s convenient for them.

They also forget what I’ve been through and how much strength it’s taken to come out the other side — and I’ve done most of it without their support.

I am fierce; and that’s something I think they have always failed to see.

Instead, they see someone that’s unforgiveable… and as their child, I can’t help but see myself through their eyes. I’m working on changing that perspective.

“Bleed Red” by Ronnie Dunn