Tiffany's Remix of Lisa's Narrative

It was a nice summer day back in 1990. The weather outside was hot and humid and almost unbearable. I could feel the excitement in the air. I enjoyed school but what I really enjoyed was staying up late, sleeping in and having the house to myself. Not to mention it gave me more time for self-discovery, as well as time to get into a little trouble.

I was a mere eight year old kid, full of life and innocence, nothing seemed to bother me. I was a bit of a tomboy; some may call me a little rough around the edges. I hadn't worn a dress since, what I like to call "the disaster," back when I was five. Imagine being forced to take a family portrait wearing a red with white laced fluffy dress. That wasn't even the worst part; imagine your sister wearing the same dress. It was a nightmare! Why are parents so cruel?

I had many neighbor friends and we played outside all day until dusk. Our favorite games included kicking the ball over the electric wiring and dodge ball played with rocks. Maybe we weren't the brightest kids around, but we kept ourselves busy. At eight, I thought I knew it all, boy was I wrong.

That summer day back in 1990, I was riding my bicycle to the corner store to buy some candy with my allowance. It was burning a hole in my pocket and I couldn't bear to wait one more day. My mouth was just salivating for a Milky Way bar. On my way to the corner store, I noticed a family moving in and then I noticed her. Before you start thinking it's weird, I don't mean in that way. It couldn't have been more innocent and child-like.

We lived in a small neighborhood so someone moving in was sort of a big deal. As a child, I had a very forward personality so it wasn't unusual for me to walk up to a stranger especially someone my own age that is just what I did. I walked up to her and asked for her name. She said her name was Crystal and she was from Hawaii. I never met someone from Hawaii or at least I had not to my best knowledge. She seemed so nice and welcoming. From that day forward we became best friends.

As I got to know her and her family, they were different than most others in the neighborhood. Her mom, I'll call Ms. X, was unmarried and single. Most kids I knew had a mom and a dad. "Weird", I thought, but maybe he died or he lived somewhere else. It wasn't my place to ask and to be quite honest, I really didn't think too much about it. Ms. X was very nice and was a great cook. Crystal and I would ride our bikes all day and come home to her famous barbeque meatball sandwiches. There is nothing like barbeque on a hot summer day.

Also living in their household was Crystal's Aunt Burt. She was a little older and not as friendly. I didn't see her around much when I was there. I always thought it was strange that her mom and Aunt Burt shared a bedroom but at eight I could only comprehend that they were really close and nothing more.

My parents divorced when I was too young to remember but from what my mom says, my father was abusive and disrespectful. She remarried when I was five to a man who I now call Dad. My mom was open minded and encouraged individual thought but my step-dad was a bit prejudice. He made racist and homosexual comments all the time. His comments never really affected me, that is, until I met Crystal.

Rumors began to swirl about Aunt Bert and Ms. X that they weren't sisters but lovers. I didn't care, I wasn't friends with them, I was friends with Crystal, really, what's the big deal. My Dad sat me down to explain to me that homosexuality was wrong and I could no longer be friends or have contact with Crystal or her family. I was distraught. She was my best friend. Why? What did I do to deserve this? I had no choice but to give up the fight and accept reality.

Things were pretty normal in my life until I got to high school. Freshman year I began dating. Jay was my first serious boyfriend. He was my sister's best friend's brother. He was so dreamy. He had beautiful eyes, spiky hair, and the whitest teeth that I have ever seen. But something was missing. I wasn't quite sure what it was or maybe I wasn't brave enough to admit it.

One Saturday, in June, the summer after my freshman year, things seemed different between Jay and I. He was quiet and distant. We had a great relationship, well, except for one thing, intimacy. His quietness scared me. That day, he looked at me and I knew. I knew what he was going to say. For one moment, time stood still. My heart pounded with fear. Fear that I was, again, losing my best friend. "We need to break up", he said. I was filled with sadness, emptiness and loneliness.

Break-ups are hard to get over. I really never thought of myself as clingy and needy. I always saw those kinds of girls as weak and lacking self-esteem but could that possibly be me? I found myself questioning everything. Who am I? What am I about? What is my purpose? Why am I not good enough?

As time went on, I began to feel like myself. I joined clubs, the basketball team and made new friends. I was getting to know "me" again and I really like the person I was becoming. One day after a grueling basketball practice a classmate of mine introduced me to one of her friends. I never met this girl before but I knew about her. She was one of those people that never learned not to say something if it wasn't nice. She immediately asked me if I was gay. I was stunned. "What, me?," I thought. "No way!!!,” I said. I was embarrassed. She had some nerve. Did I look at her wrong to make her think I was checking her out?

I was upset, confused and pissed off. I didn't understand why anyone would think that about me. Okay, yes, I know, I'm not feminine but I'm certainly not overly butch. I took what nerve I had left in myself and walked outside. I wanted to cry but I couldn't. I couldn't let her know that it bothered me. I sat alone, just thinking. At that moment my mom pulled up to take me home.

That night at home I cried. Maybe she saw something in me that I didn't know myself. The thought that I may actually be gay scared me. I wasn’t ready to admit it. I wasn’t ready to face my fears.

The next couple of years were trying. Teenage years are tough enough without this added pressure. It took a long time but my senior year of high school I was finally ready to admit it. I remember that day like it was yesterday.

It was the second week of class. The halls were filled with eager students, bustling around trying to get to class on time. The smell of frozen rectangle pizza filled the air. It was lunch time. We all sat down at our normal spot, eating fast before the bell rang. I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed to tell them. I took one deep breath and said, “Guys, you know me better than anyone else and I wish to tell you that I am gay”. It wasn’t exactly what they were expecting. I couldn’t believe I finally said it out loud and to people who I respected and cared about. It would have been so much easier saying it to people I didn’t know. With great relief, they were open and accepting.

I felt so much better now. My friends, who I adore, didn’t seem to mind and to them I was just the same old Lisa. I needed their acceptance in order to move onto my next task of telling my parents.

I knew my mom wasn’t going to be a problem as she always encouraged me to be myself. It was my step-dad that I wasn’t quite sure about. He is the son of a Mississippi Baptist preacher and he had already displayed disapproval of that type of lifestyle. With the help of a close friend, I built up the courage to tell them.

They weren’t exactly what I would call excited, but they reassured me that no matter what life brings, they would always love me. It felt so good to hear those words. I knew with time they would learn to embrace it.

Some think homosexuality is a choice, others think it’s a chemical imbalance and some just think it’s life. I’m not expecting anyone to change their minds on what they believe, I only wish to encourage understanding.

Tiffany's Remix of Amber's Narrative

Since the beginning of man’s existence on Earth, ancient people have formed their own ideas of what the world is like and what they think to be true. Before language was developed, people were capable of independent thought. Their thoughts may not have been the most complex, but were important nonetheless. __As time progresses, people have now become capable to communicating and expressing their thoughts so that others may recognize them. __(you have two word tenses in this sentence-you need to pick one or the other) These thoughts, which are perceived as truth with no supporting evidence, are also known as beliefs. A belief is defined by the Encarta English World Dictionary as a statement, principle, or doctrine that a person or group accepts as true. However I believe that it is more. It is a way of life and part of an individual.

Usually, before we believe something, we want proof, or at least as much proof as we can get. Before you buy a car, you try to check it out. Before I try to skate across that frozen lake, I am going to make sure the ice is solid. But when it comes to the supernatural, ESP, psychic powers, astrology and so forth, there are a lot of different standard. People believe things because they want to believe in them. They care less about proof because believing makes them happy. It provides them with a sense of peace and comfort.

Now, if you’re only 4 years old, it’s okay to believe in things we know to be false, like Santa Claus. Now, while magical thinking is fine for kids, it is another thing when adults do it. I am not talking mainstream religion here, but lots of people believe they can talk to the dead or have their illnesses cured by the wave of a hand. Some believe a psychic or astrologer can predict their future.

Ever since I was a little girl, my family has always participated in seemingly outlandish beliefs. When I was about seven years old, my uncle made a fire walk in our backyard. He would always tell me that walking across the coals brought him closer to his inner force field. He always claimed that anyone could do it without getting burned. Even to this day my uncle routinely does his coal walks. The temperatures reach 1,000 degrees Fahrenheit! Walking on coals to give you a clear mind and the inner force field is not just mere belief, it’s a part of his way of living.

Not surprisingly, my aunt, my fire walking uncle’s wife, makes a living as an iridologist. Iridologists say they’ll tell you what’s wrong with your entire body by looking at your eye. This chart maps out how every part of the eye corresponds to a different part of the body. When you’re sick, whom do you go to? Establishment scientists offer remedies, but often they are cold, impersonal ones. People in white coats with test tubes and computers want to do things to us that we often do not understand. And they are not always right. So increasingly, people turn to my aunt’s alternative therapies. For her patients, their belief in certain medical remedies has become a part of their lifestyles. To try to cure cancer, some people have ozone gas run through their hair. Some people with arthritis drag bees across their skin to get the bees to sting them, which is supposed to make their joints work better.

It stands out very clearly in my mind being even younger than seven years old and going to visit my grandmother on Sundays. Every time I would walk into the house I could smell the scent of freshly baked cinnamon buns and the sounds from the living room television showing faith healer Benny Hin. He would be saying, “I break your hold on the Devil in Jesus’ name. I break your hold on him. I break it!” A man says faith healing cured his cancer. He did also get conventional chemotherapy, but he says he got better because of this. Of course my grandmother was sitting there engulfed and writing the telephone number down in hopes of meeting this so called healer, in hopes that he might cure her arthritis.

As I grew older, the power of belief on the lifestyles of loved ones grew increasingly noticeable. In the eleventh grade, my best friend practiced voodoo. For those who believe and practice, it is serious business, used for healing and hurting people. It is a fact that voodoo priests have cursed people, who then promptly got sick and died. But scientists say it’s not the voodoo. It’s the power of suggestion. If you truly believe in the curse, your body may just shut down. One day after school, I stopped by my friend’s house to visit for a while. I came to realize that the sticks and various dolls lying on her floor were meant to hurt the people from school that were not nice to her. She sat down on the floor in middle of the room with a piece of hair from a girl’s brush she took from the locker room. She was about to put a curse on the girl. She carved her name in a candle which she had purchased near a New Orleans cemetery. She mixed the hair, and then called up the spirits of the dead. She sprayed some rum around, blew cigar smoke into the air so the spirits could find her. She did something with a rattle and, of course, lit the candle and invited the spirits to hurt the girl.

This past weekend, I participated in a sleep study. Everyone who participated in the study was unknowingly divided into two main groups. The group I was in took placebo pills or sugar pills. The other group took the drug being tested. I took the pill for two weeks and was amazed at how much better I was sleeping at night. Little did I know that my pill was a fraud! This recent experience just reinforces the notion that belief is more than a convincing thought, it is a lifestyle.

Tiffany's Remix of Sara's Narrative

Addiction can be defined as the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma. Aside from the formal definition of addiction and “trauma”, addiction is something that can destroy someone’s life and family. It not only causes physical pain, but much emotional and mental pain. It seems the addict is not the only person who is affected by their choices. Loved ones and children may be affected even more than the addict themselves.

From the time I was a little kid, addicts have played a role in my life. It first began with my father, who was an alcoholic from the day I was born. I spent 17 years worrying and wondering if he would ever get better, and he never did. To this day, I wonder how different my life would be if my father had not been an addicted alcoholic. Children of alcoholics/addicts have trouble with intimate relationships. They learned how to be emotionally reserved with a parent who could (possibly) hurt them in so many different ways. As children, they could feel loved one day, and rejected the next. As adults, they have to unlearn defense mechanisms, and learn how to let others become emotionally close to them. These words resonate with me, and it is sad to say that I can identify with every statistic and profile I read. As I continue on the path of my life, I wonder if I am destined to follow my family’s path.

Seven years after my father died I find myself repeating my childhood. I’m engaged to a wonderful man who loves me and our son. The only problem is his addiction to pain pills. Same story, different time, different man. Are all children who grow up with an addict for a parent destined for this life? Research indicates that children growing up with an alcoholic are four times as likely to become alcoholics, more likely to abuse other drugs”, and “twice as likely to marry alcoholics or addicts." Even though statistics show that history repeats itself, will I be able to make a change for the better? Is there any hope of a healthy relationship in my future?

The first memory I have of my father’s behavior is waking up early on a Saturday wanting to watch cartoons, and him drunk on the couch, still up from the night before. He was always a happy drunk, cracking jokes and acting as if everything was totally normal. That didn’t change the fact that he was drunk at nine o’clock in the morning. As I got older, my father went in and out of my life. My mother was very supportive and tried to help him through one rehab program after another, which took him away from our home. Once he would come home, it was a constant rollercoaster ride. I never felt like I could be a child, always worrying about whether or not I would need to take care of my father because he was passed out when I got home from school. It got to the point where I never invited friends over or made any plans because I didn’t know what to expect. After a while, I was being sent home from school two or three times a week because of stomach aches from worrying.

Eventually my Mother realized we couldn’t function normally with my father around, and he moved out. He shifted from one place to another, staying at treatment centers, halfway houses, with friends and family, and even jail. No matter where he went or what shape he was in, he always stayed in touch with my Mother and me. I knew he loved us more than he could ever say, and that being an addict was destroying him inside. Even though he had every motivation to stop drinking, he never did. When I was seventeen, my father died. I was sitting in class just like any other day, and I was called outside. I was taken out to the parking lot, where my mom, aunt and two cousins were waiting. My Mom stepped out of the van and said, “He’s gone.” At first, all I could think is that my Uncle Fran, who had throat cancer had died. When I looked into her eyes I knew it wasn’t him. My dad was dead. I would never see him again. At first I couldn’t even cry, and then it hit me harder than a ton of bricks. The next couple days, months, even years, were horrible. Just when I thought things were getting better I would end up feeling worse than I was to begin with. The cards were stacked against me. Not only was I dealing with his death, but I was already predisposed to anxiety and depression. Studies comparing children of alcoholics with other children have linked parental alcoholism to higher levels of mental health issues, particularly depression, and anxiety.

About a year after my father died, I started college. At first, things were great, and then I became depressed and disheartened. All I could think of was my father, and how he would never be there for me. It was so painful to think that even though he had not been there for me as much as he could during his lifetime, he wouldn’t be there in the least bit now that he was dead. Why did it hurt so much when I never expected that much out of him in the first place? I did the worst possible thing when I began feeling despair. I, myself, turned to alcohol and drugs, thinking I could make all my problems go away. After years of counseling and meetings and more therapy than a person could stomach, I was doing the exact opposite of what I had been taught. I thought what I had experienced and been taught would make me behave differently, but when it came down to it, I turned to what ruined my father’s life. Children whose parents misuse drugs or alcohol often demonstrate the negative effects of this through emotional difficulties, behavioral problems and social isolation. This can lead to depression and anxiety, or involve early drug or alcohol misuse and antisocial behavior. I continued to make bad choices, concerning drugs and alcohol, as well as men.

Eventually I dropped out of school with a loser boyfriend, thinking that was my best option. After another year of drug use and hopelessness, I got up the courage to leave him and moved back home. Things went well for a while, but the constant depression and anxiety were too much, especially living with my Mom and Step dad. It was a constant reminder that my father was not there, and my mother had replaced him. I again turned to drugs and alcohol, and during the partying found my fiancé. We spent the first six months of our relationship using drugs to escape from reality. Everything seems perfect when you keep yourselves holed up in a house using twenty four hours a day. In time, things got old and I was done. I loved Chris, but I couldn’t handle the drugs and the lifestyle anymore. We took the first chance we could to get out of town, thinking that a move would put all our problems behind us. After leaving our situation and starting over in a new town, I had no problem staying clean and sober. I had a nice place to live, a good job, and was excited about the future. My fiancé, on the other hand, was not. We were not engaged at the time, and he got deeper into drugs once we moved away. I became an enabler, paying the bills, letting him have the fun, and thinking that everything would be okay. I always used the excuse, “He just needs more time.” He had all the time in the world, and used it to do as many drugs as he could. Before I knew it, his parents and I were intervening. He got a DUI in my car and was arrested. After that, everyone knew he needed to get serious help. His family and I enrolled him in an inpatient rehabilitation program, and he was gone for the next month.

Following treatment, he came out clean and sober and ready to start fresh. Things were going great, and we became engaged shortly after he returned. Before we knew it, I was pregnant and we were moving back to Florida, closer to friends and family. For the pregnancy and the first year of my son’s life, everything went well. We got along well. We partied occasionally, and took excellent care of our son. After a while, things went south again. We were fighting all the time and separated from each other. For the first time in my life, I began seeking legal drugs. I saw a doctor and took medication to help me get out of the deep depression I had been in for years. Amazingly, the medicine I took made a huge difference in my life. The constant mood swings stopped, and I was able to function for the first time in years.

After being separated for a few months, we reconciled. When we did, I knew he was not clean and sober, but I took him back anyway. Everything in me told me it was not the right thing to do, but I could not make another choice. It was as if I had no control over my life. Why was I being so loyal to someone that could cause me so much pain? Adult children of alcoholics are also extremely loyal, even when that loyalty is obviously and painfully misplaced. Because making friends and developing relationships are so fraught for Adult Children Of Alcoholics, once the effort has been made and the liaison established, it becomes permanent, whether it is beneficial or not. ACOAs value safety in their relationships, ties that are known, predictable and offer a degree of security. Once we were back together, the drug use stopped, or so I thought.

This past Saturday, I returned from a work trip to be confronted with bad news. My fiancé came to me and told me he had been taking pain pills again. It started out as pain management for a back injury, and he was hooked all over again. Everything in me knew he was using, but I was denying what was right in front of me. How could I have been so blind? How is it that the human mind can create reasoning to keep you in these kinds of situations? Is what I’m feeling love or stupidity? I have finally come to a point in my life where I realize there is no way to control it. I have to keep going on, trying to do what is best for my son and myself, no matter what the cost. If things don’t work out this time, I am leaving for good, and never getting into a relationship with an addict. I spent the first seventeen years of my life hoping my father would change, and he never did. All I ask is that there is still some hope left in me. There is always cause for hope. We have the capacity to think, to generate positive thoughts and encouragement for ourselves, to reach out to friends, to create a healthier environment for ourselves and those who love us. We mustn't make the mistake of thinking we can heal our alcoholic/addict parent. That is up to them and them alone. If they make a choice to become sober, we can be loving and supportive, we can be encouraging, but we can't force sobriety on them. If they never find sobriety, we mustn't think that it is our fault, that we somehow failed them. This is a victory or a defeat that has to be fought out by the alcoholic/addicted person themselves. I am ending my essay with a lot of unanswered questions. I have no idea where to go from here, but I do know that I still have the chance of a fruitful, happy life for myself and my family. At this point, all I can do is hope.