High Life : Surrounded by Tragedies, Teen Devotes Life to Drug Awareness
Throughout my life I’ve come face to face with drugs on many occasions. I’ve seen how damaging they are and have shed many tears because of their harmful effects. I have committed my life to sharing all that I have learned in hopes that I’ll have an impact on at least one person’s decision not to use drugs.
I am 16, and my sister is 13, and we have lived with our grandparents, my mother’s parents, for the past 12 years. Our father is a heroin addict, and our mother is a recovering heroin addict. We were taken from them when I was 4 and my sister was 22 months old, after our mother was arrested. She had resorted to illegal activities to pay for her addiction.
We lived happily with our grandparents for the next four years. . .until our mother took us back. Our grandparents were helpless; they had no legal grounds to keep us.
My sister did not attend school for the first few months. We were both undernourished, improperly clothed, had no place to live for quite some time. We had drug dealers as baby-sitters, were left in cars alone for hours on end and watched as our parents used drugs.
My mother’s husband at the time was incarcerated for parole violations, so we spent our weekends visiting him at the Federal Correctional Institution at Terminal Island. Some years later, after his release from prison, he became very ill as a result of drugs. Last month, he died. My memories of him may not extend much beyond the prison bars and walls, but it hurt to see him die.
After we were discovered abandoned in a parked car, we were put in protective custody and stayed in MacLaren Children’s Center, a juvenile facility in Los Angeles for children who have nobody to take care of them. What followed were many court battles over who would have custody of us. I was just an 8-year-old girl telling all these grown-ups that I didn’t like living with my mom so much.
I had to grow up a lot during that time, as well as before. I had practically taken care of my sister since she was born, and carried the weight on my shoulders of knowing that both my parents were very sick. I didn’t want to be separated from my sister, and in the end wasn’t. My grandparents were given temporary custody, and we were made wards of the court. I could be happy again, and be at home.
Then drugs struck me in another way. I found out that my favorite uncle was manufacturing methamphetamines. Some of his associates didn’t like the fact that he was trying to get out of the drug business. They tied him up in a motel room and gave him a hot shot--an overdose. He died instantly, after which he was wrapped in an old carpet and thrown into a ditch. Even though he used drugs, he didn’t deserve to die. He has a son who is now 13 and without a father.
Another of my uncles was shot by the owner of a house he was attempting to burglarize for money to support his heroin addiction. The bullet paralyzed him from the waist down. I saw him once in the hospital and remember how bad he looked and how dirty I felt after I kissed him and was made to wash off my mouth for fear of contracting AIDS. A few years later, he overdosed and died at the age of 40. . . still addicted, still paralyzed, but still my uncle.
His sister, my aunt, used to be a beautiful, petite young girl. Heroin has made her grotesque. Her teeth are black and rotted, and her face is scared with sores from the drugs she uses. She is in her late 20s, but looks more like 50. She is alive, but inside she is dead.
I have not seen my biological father for nearly two years. He had made my mother take the rap for forgery, and she was sent to jail when I was quite young. He now lives in a garage somewhere in Long Beach. I miss him terribly, but believe I will never have the opportunity to truly see the person he is inside.
About five years ago, my mother enrolled in the Eagle Lodge American Indian rehab program in Long Beach. She’s now clean from the drugs that once controlled her and is leading a productive life. She’s my sister’s best friend and is always there when I need her, but I’ve bonded more with my grandmother.
My mom began using drugs the same way most kids do. She was 13 when she started with alcohol and marijuana. By 15, it was LSD, and at 16, cocaine. After she gave birth to me, it was heroin. One drug led to another, which is something my peers often don’t understand.
I have two dead uncles, an aunt who is wilting away, a dead step-father, a nearly nonexistent father, a mother who is stable now but will always have to fight for freedom from substance abuse and many horrible memories that will forever haunt me. I have lost a lot of people I loved very much to drugs.
I cry for those who are not aware of the awful effects that come from drug use. And I will fight till the day I die to teach people what I have learned. I cannot stand to lose anyone else. Take it from me, the war on drugs is a righteous war.
