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I wasn't even 18 yet and I was turning into the "Get those kids off my damn yard" neighborhood ol' lady that was rumored to eat children after tricking them with candy and luring them into the oven. I had no idea how to do anything but cry and push away anything that would distract me from grieving. Basically I took everything that was potentially great about me and became the polar opposite. I pulled away from anyone and everyone. I would only socialize when it came to passing a joint or finding out who had pot. I would stay hidden in my room, hugging that spot he laid last, hoping to smell his scent once more. To feel connected to the boy who shared my body. The viewings came and I would stay until everyone left. I forced smiles, bullshitting through unimportant chit chat. I put on a brave face and a thick skin to wade through the mass amounts of people coming to pay their final respects to my boy. At night I put on his favorite CD and would tell him good night until the day I had to say goodbye. Kissing his forehead and apologizing for not being able to keep him in my arms.
Three days before I turned 18, we followed the hearse to the cemetery where my beautiful boy would be laid to rest. Watching his tiny white "Precious Moments" gold trimmed casket being carried by my closest friends and family to a 6 foot hole next to my grandmother and my aunt, knowing I would never see him again. Hearing the words of the pastor, the verse about greener pastures echoing in my ears while feeling the tears soaking my face are freezing from the Maryland winter. "Greener fucking pastures? Fucking seriously?" In my head this internal conversation tickles the tip of my tongue as I try to hold back what I really want to say, biting my tongue to activate the filter that has been on the fritz. "Moron, he's a little baby. He didn't even see the God damned grass. You fucking took him. You selfish bastard. You could have saved him. Left him alone. Him! Why? There's dope fiends and crackheads popping out babies like Pez dispensers. Yet those kids are perfectly fine, looking forward to foster care. My kid was loved. Wanted. Had a fucking chance. Fucking hell. Why him? I deserve that, God? Jesus? Fuck the devil! God, you are the evil one." Three days until I was 18, I walked away from that cemetery, childless, hurt and broken. On that 18th birthday, already grieving my gift to myself, was the gateway to addiction, self-sabotage, and lack of empathy for anyone. I started using designer drugs on that Saturday, November 25, 2000. I would begin my love affair with mood altering substances using "Ecstasy", for the first time ever. Taking not only one green 4 leaf clover but two, and chasing the pills with a stiff drink in one hand and a "left handed" cigarette, begging to be fired up. To another reality, I began a torrid love affair with substances and a vendetta against the world. I challenged my faith in God, tormented my body and soul, using these chemicals to evoke reactions otherwise outside of my usual passive attitude. I was beginning a game of Russian roulette with no chance of survival because every chamber was loaded. I knew now, how much power was released when the cold metal was squeezed forcing the barrel to expel the bullet. I controlled the game. I made the decisions and I became trigger happy and completely careless.