Runaway

By Ciresi

July 10, 2007, 07:01 PM

My parents divorced when i was 14 years old. Being the only one out of three boys who had adjustment problems, I was put into my first treatment center, which would be the first out of a long list eventually throughout my life. I can’t remember what I was diagnosed with, but my doctor wanted to put me on medication. I can’t remember what med it was, but having an aunt in the family who was totally against meds at the time (this was 1984), she told my mom it was a bad idea, and that there were other "natural" treatment options. So my doctor was told no, that they didn’t want me on meds. Now, the problem here is, coming from a dysfunctional family of heavy drinkers, and they themselves having SA, anxiety, bipolar etc..., I never even got the "natural" treatments, or the medicine the doctor wanted me on.

I was there 3 months and then the insurance ran out. On visitors day, here comes my family. And what do they say? I’ll never forget. They told me insurance had run out and that I had to do whatever I had to do to trick the treatment center into letting me be released because they couldn’t afford my stay out of their own pocket.

So I did. And there began my road of major hardship. From 14 till 24, I ran the streets with some of the most undesirable in the city -- bikers, druggies, misfits, in and out of more treatment centers, juvenile center, etc...

At 17 yrs old, I AWOLed (left without permission) from Brooklawn, another treatment center, and knew I had to stay on the run until I turned 18. I had the entire 3rd floor of a Victorian style house in Old Louisville, owned by a wealthy doctor I had met on the streets who would later lose everything he had, the house included, because he was taking pics of underage street boys without clothes. As much as I would like to deny it, I was one of them. I have never admitted this in 19 years, but life was rough, and for $200 a pic, that buys a lot of beer and drugs, and brings many friends your way, or shall I say, "people who want to help you spend it."

Jimmy was about 15 years my senior. I was 17 and he was about 30. He was rough, tough, had a lot of girls, a Camaro, and a place to stay. (I didnt stay in the Victorian home all the time.) Remember, I’m on the run at the time, awaiting my 18th birthday. We used to go to the projects and get coke. Then we would go to the park on the river and he would break his fix out. He would shoot his and I would snort mine.

This went on for about 6 months. Then one day, he came back into the car from scoring what I thought was coke, but they had none that day. He scored Ts and Bs (Teddys and Bettys). They are 3 different pills you dissolve and shoot them intravenously together. You cannot do them any other way. He told me that and I was scared shitless. "Hell no!!! I don’t do that!!!", I must’ve said that 10 times.

"Just try it one time, man. I swear I wont ever bug you again about it." Well, I tried. I remember all my anxiety vanished. I was in a world of total knowing and peace. I wanted to feel like that every day of my life. That bastard. He knew what he was doing. I was 17, naive, and full of major anxiety, depression, and I actually looked up to him.

So now we went to score. It was cheaper and months went by before my 18th birthday, scoring, down to the river, and shooting up in the Camaro.

Two months before I turned 18, we were down on the river doing our thing, and the cops pull up. I was hauled off to juvi’ center, and he got to leave because he hid the drugs and stuff good enough that he didn’t get caught. I was 17 and gave a fake name and they found out I was a runaway. If I would’ve given my real name, I guarantee they would have let me go. Running from a treatment center isn’t an offense and my parents never reported me missing. I would have walked that day...

Sometimes I ponder what my life would have been if I was allowed the medicine that doctor wanted me on. Sometimes I ponder what would’ve happened if I’d-a walked that day and not went to juvi’.

But theres no denying the pain that was in store for me after I turned 18 and the state couldn’t legally hold me any more. I wasn’t a menace to society. I didn’t steal or turn into a criminal, but life was all about running from myself and chasing a buzz all day -- to try to get out of my own skin and head. I was pronounced legally dead once since, stabbed, beat up, almost shot, lived on the streets, in my moms cellar, lived with bikers, all whom I craved attention from. They were older, rough ‘n tuff, partied every night, and during the day, they roofed and I was the helper, carrying shingles, clean up, etc... But after work, I was their mascot -- a little long haired 18 year old, trying to keep up with them, savoring thier attention.

I met my wife at 24 years old. She has stuck with me through thick and thin, but I could not get the street out of me after marriage. Actually, it would be better to say, I couldn’t vanquish my anxiety after marriage and still hated myself, wanting out of my own skin. She spent many nights awake crying as I would go on binges for three to four days at a time -- all with our first son still in diapers. I would visit my old haunts and she would literally chase me down, find me with a group of guys, as miserable in their own body as me, drinking ourselves away, and whatever else. I even pushed her away then.

Now I’m 36. We have been married for 13 years. I have a 16 yrs old stepson, a 12 yr old boy, an 11 yr old girl, and a 20 year old son who I had when I was 15 yrs old, but never raised. His mom died three years ago -- hit by a car as she walked along the road, herself a victim of her own mind. She danced for years in shady bars, drinking and living an unhealthy lifestyle. Man, looking back to us both being 15 and our pain just beginning, we created a son. He’s in college, was raised by a teacher he had in school who put him under her wing since he was 10 yrs old and is doing great. Except I see he has my chemical tendencies. He wants to drink and emulate all the hip hop rappin’ lifestyle. I hope his pain through his life isn’t leading him down the same road. I have to intervene for ALL of them to keep them on the right track.

My parents, too, had a real hard upbringing. My mom tells stories of my grandma owning a bar. She didn’t give two shits about her and her sisters. They used to be left alone all night in a one bedroom squat, sharing a bathroom with many people in the building, and she tells of many nights of hell. They never had enough to eat and never lived in one place for over a year. My grandma went from place to place after they would get evicted. My mom’s father, my real grandpa, I never met. He died of alcoholism when she was 16 yrs old. She says she remembers my grandma crying in the window on payday. Would he bring home the bacon? Or would he buy rounds for all the local drunks, only to come home drunk and broke.

At 36 now, I ponder. Three generations that I know of -- my grandfather: dead of alcoholism, my mother: herself an alcoholic, even to this day at almost 60 yrs old now. Me and my own personal story of pain and now I see it rearing its ugly head in my oldest son, and somewhat see the seeds sown in my younger ones... I must break the cycle... Could it be some sort of sick destiny??? I hope not...