Read Online Nowhere but Up by Pattie Mallette, with A. J. Gregory - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Pattie Mallette, with A. J. Gregory
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alcoholic. Jeremy followed suit. By the time he was sixteen, he too had a drinking problem. I went to a few Alcoholics Anonymous meetings with him. We looked like babies in a sea of worn, tired faces that had lived at least twice as many years as we had. Jeremy didn’t last long in the twelve-step program, and his drinking problem got worse.
There’s no way to sugarcoat the truth: Jeremy was a jerk when he drank. I think he would agree with me on that today. He took on what I liked to call his evil alter ego, Jack (his middle name). Every word he spoke while under the influence was offensive and confrontational. Then there were the fights, most of which intensified when he had a few drinks in him. A natural born fighter (and a very good one, I’ll add), Jeremy went to extremes when someone so much as looked at him the wrong way. It was worse when I was with him. We’d walk hand-in-hand down the street, and if a guy looked at me, even for half a second, he’d flip out. He’d grab me closer to him and possessively say, “Mine.”
The majority of our on-again, off-again four-year relationship would be unhealthy, suffocated by mind games and distorted by insecurities. We danced to the tune of breaking up and getting back together so many times that a lot of those four years have smudged into each other. I can’t even remember anymore when we were actually together and when we were on a “break.”
At home, my fights with my mother continued, one after another. It didn’t seem like there was any downtime, a time-out when we weren’t at each other’s throats. Finally, when I was sixteen and when Jeremy and I were “off again,” I hit a breaking point. I decided to move out.
You’d think it would have been a big moment. I mean, I was still a minor. But I don’t remember any drama surrounding my exit. Things had gotten so bad that I think when I left, my mom was more relieved than anything. She and Bruce could finally have a peaceful, calm, and quiet house. Frankly, they deserved that much. In retrospect, I’m sure my mother worried about me, though. How could she not?
While my mom and my stepdad regained a sense of normalcy at home, I moved in with three guys, one of whom I dated briefly. It was a stereotypical party house with people coming in and out all the time to party and get high. The place reeked of booze and stale cigarettes. The fridge was always empty except for beer and ketchup. The kitchen was a disaster—plastic garbage bags filled with empty bottles and pizza boxes littering the floor. But it was home, and there was nobody to yell at me and get me upset.
School wasn’t a priority. I went every now and then, when I felt like it. When I did show up, I was stoned or drunk or both. When I didn’t go, I was either sleeping or partying. The schedule was pretty consistent: Party at night until 6:00 a.m. Sleep all day. Party at night until 6:00 a.m. Sleep all day. I know, very inspiring.
I worked odd jobs to get money for rent and to fuel my drug habit. I worked the midnight shift as a cashier in a gas station for a while. As a night owl, I loved the hours.
All kinds of customers showed up in the wee hours of the morning—weary travelers breaking up a long trip, waitresses ending their day, cops starting theirs. I’d sit half-awake in the claustrophobic kiosk of the station that consisted of two tiny rooms and an even smaller washroom that could barely fit a toilet and sink. I spent my shifts swiping credit cards, giving change, selling cigarettes, and occasionally giving directions to a lost traveler.
Just before midnight one night, I started a shift as my best friend, who also worked there, ended hers. I washed my hands, mentally psyching myself up for the next eight hours. My friend, who was cashing out in the tiny adjoining room, droned on and on about the annoying customer who hit on her again. I laughed, secretly fantasizing that I was back in my warm bed, cozy and comfortable under the
There’s no way to sugarcoat the truth: Jeremy was a jerk when he drank. I think he would agree with me on that today. He took on what I liked to call his evil alter ego, Jack (his middle name). Every word he spoke while under the influence was offensive and confrontational. Then there were the fights, most of which intensified when he had a few drinks in him. A natural born fighter (and a very good one, I’ll add), Jeremy went to extremes when someone so much as looked at him the wrong way. It was worse when I was with him. We’d walk hand-in-hand down the street, and if a guy looked at me, even for half a second, he’d flip out. He’d grab me closer to him and possessively say, “Mine.”
The majority of our on-again, off-again four-year relationship would be unhealthy, suffocated by mind games and distorted by insecurities. We danced to the tune of breaking up and getting back together so many times that a lot of those four years have smudged into each other. I can’t even remember anymore when we were actually together and when we were on a “break.”
At home, my fights with my mother continued, one after another. It didn’t seem like there was any downtime, a time-out when we weren’t at each other’s throats. Finally, when I was sixteen and when Jeremy and I were “off again,” I hit a breaking point. I decided to move out.
You’d think it would have been a big moment. I mean, I was still a minor. But I don’t remember any drama surrounding my exit. Things had gotten so bad that I think when I left, my mom was more relieved than anything. She and Bruce could finally have a peaceful, calm, and quiet house. Frankly, they deserved that much. In retrospect, I’m sure my mother worried about me, though. How could she not?
While my mom and my stepdad regained a sense of normalcy at home, I moved in with three guys, one of whom I dated briefly. It was a stereotypical party house with people coming in and out all the time to party and get high. The place reeked of booze and stale cigarettes. The fridge was always empty except for beer and ketchup. The kitchen was a disaster—plastic garbage bags filled with empty bottles and pizza boxes littering the floor. But it was home, and there was nobody to yell at me and get me upset.
School wasn’t a priority. I went every now and then, when I felt like it. When I did show up, I was stoned or drunk or both. When I didn’t go, I was either sleeping or partying. The schedule was pretty consistent: Party at night until 6:00 a.m. Sleep all day. Party at night until 6:00 a.m. Sleep all day. I know, very inspiring.
I worked odd jobs to get money for rent and to fuel my drug habit. I worked the midnight shift as a cashier in a gas station for a while. As a night owl, I loved the hours.
All kinds of customers showed up in the wee hours of the morning—weary travelers breaking up a long trip, waitresses ending their day, cops starting theirs. I’d sit half-awake in the claustrophobic kiosk of the station that consisted of two tiny rooms and an even smaller washroom that could barely fit a toilet and sink. I spent my shifts swiping credit cards, giving change, selling cigarettes, and occasionally giving directions to a lost traveler.
Just before midnight one night, I started a shift as my best friend, who also worked there, ended hers. I washed my hands, mentally psyching myself up for the next eight hours. My friend, who was cashing out in the tiny adjoining room, droned on and on about the annoying customer who hit on her again. I laughed, secretly fantasizing that I was back in my warm bed, cozy and comfortable under the
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