with her outrageous stories. But the worst of it was that I found myself living them out. The more outrageous the lie, the more I would turn what she said into the truth. I had become nearly everything she told any neighbor who would listen: a thief, a cheat, a drunk, a drug addict. I was methodically working my way through the mass of names she labeled me with—one at a time.
It gave me security, being one person around some people and someone completely different around others. It gave me power and control over who I was and over what I would do and when. For the first time I was really in control of my life by allowing it to be completely
out
of control. It was all my own doing, and no one could tell me otherwise. No one really knew me—including myself. But this multiple personality became difficult to manage.
By Thanksgiving, I had stolen several gallon bottles of Mom’s vodka and had them hidden away for my own use. Within a week the stash that once comprised eight gallons was now reduced to one last bottle. I reconnected with the same friends from last year at school and followed the same patterns as before. I fell back into the void that was the acceptance of my peers and of the girls that associated with us. By now, my morals were just about nonexistent. I became more involved in drugs, alcohol, and girls. I was becoming, just like Mom, horribly miserable.
I found better drugs and better parties. My inexperience with girls was a thing of the past, and I was now just one of the group. I’d spend many afternoons in a girlfriend’s bedroom, then off to a party in the early evening. As time went on it became sort of expected that as I showed up with a girl from the pack we would get hazed over what everyone already knew we’d just been doing. It became a contest to see who could “hook up” with the most girls during the year. I had no remorse over the loss of my pride, my morals, or my dignity. We all shared with each other—the same group of guys and girls. When one couple broke up, each would hook up with someone else within the group, even if they had already been an item in the past. I had dated several of the girls more than once.
Like the rest of the group, I was just seeking the comfort of someone to be with, physically.
By Christmas, Mom and I had had several heated arguments over my escalating drug abuse and drinking. She had now started calling Grandma in Holiday, Utah, to let her know that I was serious bad news and that she didn’t know what to do. She needed another outlet to reach out to, as the Nichols and Prince families had begun to ignore Mom and her stories about me, whether true or false.
Christmas was both one of the hardest times and the best of times for me as a child. I recall the magic that surrounded Santa, and the traditional Christmas lineup where each of us boys would arrange ourselves by age in the hallway just outside my room for the procession to the front room to view the mounds of toys and other presents that Santa had left each good boy. But as I got older, I remember fewer and fewer gifts for me and even more for the other kids.
One year I learned the reality of Christmas for me. Mom had taken me down to the basement. I had been crying under the Christmas tree, clutching my two comic coloring books—my only gifts from Santa. That Christmas, she made it very clear to me that she was the only reason I even got that much.
I thought back to the wonderment and yet the utter disappointment of those memories. They had all left me behind—Mom, the old neighbors, the old school, the nurses and doctors I’d encountered, even Santa—they all pretended I didn’t exist. I promised myself that I would learn from my mistakes, and renewed my vow never to believe in anyone.
Past experiences had taught me that I was better off distancing myself from the family during the festive season.
Oftentimes, during the month of December that year, I would leave the house after dinner and
It gave me security, being one person around some people and someone completely different around others. It gave me power and control over who I was and over what I would do and when. For the first time I was really in control of my life by allowing it to be completely
out
of control. It was all my own doing, and no one could tell me otherwise. No one really knew me—including myself. But this multiple personality became difficult to manage.
By Thanksgiving, I had stolen several gallon bottles of Mom’s vodka and had them hidden away for my own use. Within a week the stash that once comprised eight gallons was now reduced to one last bottle. I reconnected with the same friends from last year at school and followed the same patterns as before. I fell back into the void that was the acceptance of my peers and of the girls that associated with us. By now, my morals were just about nonexistent. I became more involved in drugs, alcohol, and girls. I was becoming, just like Mom, horribly miserable.
I found better drugs and better parties. My inexperience with girls was a thing of the past, and I was now just one of the group. I’d spend many afternoons in a girlfriend’s bedroom, then off to a party in the early evening. As time went on it became sort of expected that as I showed up with a girl from the pack we would get hazed over what everyone already knew we’d just been doing. It became a contest to see who could “hook up” with the most girls during the year. I had no remorse over the loss of my pride, my morals, or my dignity. We all shared with each other—the same group of guys and girls. When one couple broke up, each would hook up with someone else within the group, even if they had already been an item in the past. I had dated several of the girls more than once.
Like the rest of the group, I was just seeking the comfort of someone to be with, physically.
By Christmas, Mom and I had had several heated arguments over my escalating drug abuse and drinking. She had now started calling Grandma in Holiday, Utah, to let her know that I was serious bad news and that she didn’t know what to do. She needed another outlet to reach out to, as the Nichols and Prince families had begun to ignore Mom and her stories about me, whether true or false.
Christmas was both one of the hardest times and the best of times for me as a child. I recall the magic that surrounded Santa, and the traditional Christmas lineup where each of us boys would arrange ourselves by age in the hallway just outside my room for the procession to the front room to view the mounds of toys and other presents that Santa had left each good boy. But as I got older, I remember fewer and fewer gifts for me and even more for the other kids.
One year I learned the reality of Christmas for me. Mom had taken me down to the basement. I had been crying under the Christmas tree, clutching my two comic coloring books—my only gifts from Santa. That Christmas, she made it very clear to me that she was the only reason I even got that much.
I thought back to the wonderment and yet the utter disappointment of those memories. They had all left me behind—Mom, the old neighbors, the old school, the nurses and doctors I’d encountered, even Santa—they all pretended I didn’t exist. I promised myself that I would learn from my mistakes, and renewed my vow never to believe in anyone.
Past experiences had taught me that I was better off distancing myself from the family during the festive season.
Oftentimes, during the month of December that year, I would leave the house after dinner and
Similar Books
