Note: Part one is posted directly before this, but you may also click here if you don't feel like scrolling :)
Slowly, I was able to transition back into normalcy, which for me meant returning to the same user- boyfriend (though often in jail for I-can't-remember-what), drinking and partying binges, and the typical rock and roll lifestyle. It was all in good fun, I thought, and I made a promise to myself that I'd never let heroin get its sticky fingers on me again. Its destructive power was still fresh in my mind, and I was on a mission to take charge of my life once and for all.
Unable to restore a healthy relationship with my father and step-mother, a friend and his family invited me to come and live with them in their house/church, as long as I attended their services each week and promised to "keep things legal" at the homestead. I agreed, and signed up to begin 1/2 days at the high school that fall, in pursuit of graduation. Things were going well. I even enjoyed church for the most part, though I kept a low profile and still didn't really "get it." Soon though, the days grew cold. Without a vehicle or even a license, I had been walking almost 2 miles each way to school most mornings, and it didn't take long before the warmth of my covers in the morning convinced me that they were the smarter alternative. Once again, I dropped out of school, deciding a GED would be the way to go.
A lot happened in the months to come, and I share but a hazy (yet thankful) recollection of it here. Not surprisingly, I did not hold up my end of the deal with the pastor's family, and so I packed my bags yet again and moved in with another friend of mine. I was now 18 years old. I had managed to secure a part-time job, a car, and a terrible fixation on LSD, to name a few. Still, I was able to keep it all in stride for the most part, and even managed to pass my GED testing with flying colors. This pleased my father, who allowed me to return home several months later and even bought me a guitar. I played that guitar until my fingers almost bled. Until the pain and suffering of my past seemed to fade into melody, and the heroin beckoned me a second time. I told no one, secured my "packet" and snorted in secret, feeling like I was queen of the elite. Until I got sick. Really sick. Everywhere. This would not be enough to thwart most from the heavily addictive nature of this drug, as I myself can attest. Yet by God's grace, it did the trick for me this time, and I didn't go looking for it again..at least not right away.
Then I met a boy. A front man in a band, with dreamy green eyes I could stare into for hours. He was an ex-heroin addict himself, and we quickly fell in love and became inseparable. One day we got talking about our past, and somehow convinced ourselves that we should try heroin together, just once. So we scrambled up some money and headed to a buddies house who I knew could help us out. I should have gathered from the room full of zombified flesh and pin-prick pupils that we'd never see the exchange go through. Instead, we walked out that night with profuse apologies from a poor, addicted friend and a collection of some of his most prized personal possessions. But no drugs. Our talk that night was that of destiny. God intervening. I wasn't so sure, but you couldn't sway him an inch. We promised each other that we wouldn't do it again, though I wasn't as pleased with the sentiment as he was.
It was only a few weeks later I was told I was pregnant...
for part 3, click here
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