Blackbird Fly into the Light of a Dark Black Night

I know that autism is right there in the title of the bloggity blog, but this has nothing to do with autism. There may or may not be a few choice words thrown in as well. You have been warned. Here we go...

March is a tumultuous month for me for so many reasons. I find it hard to deal. Six years ago on the 28th I lost my father to cancer, just two months after Ali was born. My father's birthday was also on the 18th. Yeah, it kind of sucks. But it's not all bad. My sobriety birthday is on the 24th. TEN YEARS SOBER MUTHA TRUCKAS!

I was never close to my father. I never had a chance to get to know him. He and my mother divorced while my mom was pregnant with me, and I only saw him a few times after that. I stayed with him for a week on my thirteenth birthday, and I still remember it vividly because it was one of the only times I spent with him. They are literally my only memories of him. He smoked pot, played guitar, and worked as a "chef" at Red Robin. He loved classic rock, distrusted doctors and the government, and had pasta shaped like little penises tucked away in his cabinet. He was forever stuck in the 90s, and I loved him fiercely.

But you know what? He was an ASSHOLE! He abused my mother, even stooping so low as to throw her out of the house onto her stomach when she was 8 months pregnant with me. Every time the federal government tracked him down and started garnishing his wages to pay child support, he would quit his job and move! I would get his phone number and talk to him a few times, and then suddenly, "The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service." Are you fucking kidding me?! I know people say that you shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but if I had died before he did I doubt he would have spoken of me except in passing. "Oh yeah, I had a daughter named Stephanie. She died years ago..."

I was a 15 year old kid with extensive daddy issues when I turned to drugs (meth to be exact) to fill a hole that I wasn't even aware was there. I would accept any attention given to me by whomever was available. I didn't care. There was SO MUCH wrong with me for SO LONG that I just thought everyone was messed up inside like me. They just didn't show it. At least I had the balls to wear my mental instability on my sleeve, right? My mother was also on drugs pretty much my entire childhood, so there wasn't a lot of support there, either. (She's been sober for almost nine years now, though. Hallelujah!)

I was in so deep. I even went as far as helping in the production and distribution of meth. I sold my soul to receive meth. I kept anhydrous in a freaking fire hydrant in my closet for days, staying high so I could stay up to release the pressure every so often so the contents wouldn't explode. I introduced other people to meth out of spite because I knew they would be ruined by it, just as I had. I saw the devil in myself and those around me. I only smoked meth for six months, but it changed me. 

I was 16 when I was arrested for possession of a controlled dangerous substance, possession of marijuana, and possession of drug paraphernalia. I was arrested with my older boyfriend (22 at the time), and he would've faced all the jail time so I said everything was mine. It wasn't. I was young and dumb. I figured I would just get a slap on the wrist, so I claimed everything as my own. But getting arrested was the best thing that had ever happened to me! I went to juvenile hall (kid jail) for a couple months, and then I was in rehab for 6 months before some of the residents burned the building to the ground. ( I swear it wasn't me.) The judge on my case wouldn't allow me to stay with my mother (GREAT call, Mr. Russell), so I stayed with my 19 year old college student sister. I can't imagine that was much fun for her. 

After that, I was placed in a Christian children's home (think orphanage without the orphans and replace Miss Hannigan with amazing Christian couples). It was there that I received proper counseling to guide me through my addiction. I went to meetings. I got to see what a mostly-functional family was like. I got to see so many examples of what having two capable, caring, Christian adults in a marriage as your parents was like! I learned that I have value no matter what my biological father or any other man thought. I deserved better, and I never realized until that moment. 

There will always be a small, still, black, shriveled little beast locked away in the dark recesses of my mind. My addiction is always with me. I will never outrun it or escape it. I can, however, deal with it. I know if I were to go back to drugs, I would die. There are only three ways out of addiction: Recovery, Institutionalization (prison or psych ward), or Death. That's it. I CHOOSE recovery! I CHOOSE to not allow my asshole father's absence ruin my relationships. I CHOOSE to be the type of parent to my children that I deserved growing up! I CHOOSE to LIVE!