troubles-troubles-troubles

Troubles, Troubles, Troubles

The day after the party, I remember waking up at my usual time. This time, I felt different. It was like waking up in some kind of an alternate reality. Except, it was the real

The day after the party, I remember waking up at my usual time. This time, I felt different. It was like waking up in some kind of an alternate reality. Except, it was the real reality. “What happened last night?” I asked myself. I remember getting a text from Ben asking me if I was okay. “Yeah,” I replied. Ben replied that I was kind of out of it last night. It wouldn’t be the only time. Since being introduced to crack, I felt like it was something I would use whenever I needed some kind of rush. And whenever I wasn’t high, I would always be in a bad mood. Most of the time, I would be agitated. As the summers drew to a close, I needed a way to make money to satisfy my habit.

Some of the jobs I’ve had would be short-lived stints. I was always late and my behavior would become a bit more erratic. One of the jobs I had was working at a burger joint at the other end of town. I remember getting fired from there after getting into an argument with my boss for being consistently late. At one point, I was in and out of two or three different jobs. One night, I remember my father approaching me. “Son, I need to talk to you for a minute.” Great…now what, I thought. I sat down on the couch facing my mother and father. “Chris. We’re starting to get concerned about your behavior. I don’t know what’s going on. But this needs to stop. Whatever it is, it ends now.” They were not aware of what was really the cause of my change in behavior.

They soon became aware of my addiction the following week. When I was home alone, I remember smoking crack in the bathroom. I accidentally left the glass tube sitting on the sink. My mother would later spot it. She knew right away what it was. The anger in my parent’s face would remain seared in my mind forever. The tone in my dad’s voice was as stern as it can be. “OK, son. What is this?” I stared at the glass tube. “I…I don’t know,” I stammered. “Don’t lie to me, Chris,” my father shot back. “I want to know what this is. And is it yours?”

Finally, I confessed. I told them that I could do whatever I wanted. The next thing I remembered was my arguing with my parents, and then leaving the house, slamming the door behind me. I left home with the clothes on my back and a guitar that I bought but never used until at that point.