Chapter 2
Kindergartens over and we are going home.
Goodbye, goodbye.
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
As we lined up and waited for the bus, we sang the “Going Home” song. Children’s voices sound like angels to me, and as a child, I understood these angels to be around us at all times. I knew this because I talked to them while playing alone in the woods and on the beaches. I knew that I was not alone and that there were other beings just out of sight. One of my first memories was of falling into a friend’s pool as a two-year-old in Oregon. One of these entities picked me out of the water and set me safely on the edge of the pool. From that day on I have always felt the presence of something, especially at times of crisis.
As a kindergartener, I was pleased to be big enough to ride the yellow bus, yet small enough to crawl onto my father’s lap to watch a ball game. At this age, and as I entered school, a whole world opened up before me. With my mother leading, my hand gently cupped in hers, I felt safe, secure, and whole. However, despite all that was good, my secret remained a constant irritation. Though it faded slightly, as good memories outweighed the bad ones, I could not shake the feeling that I was somehow different as a result of the abuse I had endured early on. The fact that I had buried those events in silence seemed to compound my isolation. I was, by most standards, normal. I had friends, played sports, and got into mischief just as any pre-teen might while trying to make sense of the seemingly senseless world. I followed most rules and respected authority, although I was never generous with my trust like the other kids my age. I felt suspicious of authority figures and believed they acted with a hidden agenda. Power still meant abuse, so those who wielded power held the potential to commit the crimes I had chosen to forget.
Just as I was learning to bury the secrets of my past, I was introduced to the very thing that would ensure that I did so thoroughly. Up to this point, imagination had served as my transport to a place free of the weight of the world. The innocence of imagination was replaced by something far more sinister. In the hands of one who sought avoidance, this new form of escape was quite dangerous, especially at the age of ten.
Mike lived just over the hill. We shared a love of adventure and found the thrill of escape through his father’s liquor. Initially, the taste kept me away, but as curiosity met the “golden buzz,” I was soon the oak liquor cabinet’s greatest fan. Over the course of that summer, alcohol opened new doors and, without my knowledge, set a pendulum in motion. Ultimately, the pure enjoyment wore off and I found myself controlled by substances in varying forms. Alcohol, cigarettes, and marijuana were the most prevalent. They were easily accessible as society deemed them acceptable. I took smokes from my mother’s cigarette pack without her noticing and watered down the liquor bottle after a few slugs from my parents’ fifths. Marijuana was a little harder to come by. Still, every other week a friend from school shared a bud, which we smoked using a can pipe.
I showed signs of addiction the first time I used alcohol. I became obsessed with my friend’s alcohol stash and was no longer as excited to race our bikes down the numerous Bainbridge Island trails. Instead, my mind locked on the bottles in the dark, oak cabinet. Our friendship, built from similar interests, no longer mattered. I became selfish. I no longer cared about what I could do for him as a friend; I cared only about the liquor and what it did for me. He was not compelled to drink and seemed perplexed when our time together inevitably ended with a drink. When he asked me to stop, to avoid punishment from his father, I told him that I would. Although I wanted to respect our friendship, my desire to become intoxicated outweighed all else. I continued to break into the cabinet despite his pleas and despite my promises. In time, his calls to come over stopped.
