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Authors: Christiane F., Christina Cartwright
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partly due to what was happening at home. I couldn't take it anymore. The worst part was that Klaus, my mom's boyfriend, hated our animals. At least that's what it seemed like to me at the time. It started with him constantly complaining about how our apartment was too small for so many animals. And then he wouldn't let my new dog—the one my dad had given me—lie down in the living room.
That's when I lost it. The dogs had always been a part of our family. They were treated like any other family member. And nowthis jerk comes along and says my dog isn't even allowed in the living room? But worse was still to come. He tried to prevent my dog from sleeping beside my bed. What was I supposed to do? Klaus seriously wanted me to build a dog crate for my big dog, in my tiny room. Of course I didn't do it.
Then Klaus had his final meltdown: He exclaimed that the animals absolutely had to get out of the house. My mom took his side and said that I didn't take care of the animals anymore anyway. I thought that was the last straw. Sure, I wasn't home much at night, and so one of them had to always take the dog out one more time. But otherwise, I thought, I took care of the dog and the other animals with every free minute that I had.
I could threaten, yell, and howl all I wanted—there was nothing I could do. They gave my dog away. At first to a woman whom I thought was okay because she really liked the dog. But the woman got cancer soon afterward and had to give the dog away again. I heard that it ended up in a bar somewhere. My dog was an extremely sensitive animal, and she was terrified by loud noises. I knew that in a bar she would be completely traumatized, and I blamed Klaus and my mom for this. That's when I decided that I was done with people who hated animals.
THIS WAS ALL GOING on around the time when I started going to the Center House a lot, and started smoking pot. The only pets I had left now were two cats, and they didn't need me during the day. At night, they slept with me on my bed. With the dog gone, there was no reason, no purpose for me to be at home. Without the dog, I didn't even enjoy going for walks anymore. So now I just waited for 5 p.m. to roll around, when I could go back to the club at Center House. And even then, I'd often havealready spent the early afternoon with Kessi and some of the others from our group.
I smoked pot every night. The people who had enough money for drugs would share it with the others. I didn't think twice about smoking pot anymore. After all, we were able to do it right out in the open at the club. The social workers from the church, the ones who supervised the club, would occasionally try to say something when they saw us smoking. They didn't all feel the same about pot, but most of them would admit that they used to smoke, too. Most of them were recent college and university graduates and had been part of the student movement, 13 where smoking pot and hashish had become normal. So they generally just told us not to overdo it and not to use it as an escape, etcetera. More than anything else, they were worried that it would be a gateway drug and lead straight to harder stuff.
All that talk went in one ear and out the other. What right did they have to moralize like that, when they themselves admitted to having done the same things? Someone from our group confronted one of those young guys once: “So you think that when college students smoke pot, it's okay, because they're smart. But when workers or interns smoke pot, then it's dangerous. That seems like kind of a double standard to me.” The guy didn't have a response for that. You could tell he felt uneasy.
I didn't just smoke, either; I also drank wine and beer—especially when I didn't have any marijuana. I usually started drinking right after school, and sometimes had something in the mornings, too, if I was skipping classes. I always had to have something.
I was constantly spaced out. I needed it to keep from
That's when I lost it. The dogs had always been a part of our family. They were treated like any other family member. And nowthis jerk comes along and says my dog isn't even allowed in the living room? But worse was still to come. He tried to prevent my dog from sleeping beside my bed. What was I supposed to do? Klaus seriously wanted me to build a dog crate for my big dog, in my tiny room. Of course I didn't do it.
Then Klaus had his final meltdown: He exclaimed that the animals absolutely had to get out of the house. My mom took his side and said that I didn't take care of the animals anymore anyway. I thought that was the last straw. Sure, I wasn't home much at night, and so one of them had to always take the dog out one more time. But otherwise, I thought, I took care of the dog and the other animals with every free minute that I had.
I could threaten, yell, and howl all I wanted—there was nothing I could do. They gave my dog away. At first to a woman whom I thought was okay because she really liked the dog. But the woman got cancer soon afterward and had to give the dog away again. I heard that it ended up in a bar somewhere. My dog was an extremely sensitive animal, and she was terrified by loud noises. I knew that in a bar she would be completely traumatized, and I blamed Klaus and my mom for this. That's when I decided that I was done with people who hated animals.
THIS WAS ALL GOING on around the time when I started going to the Center House a lot, and started smoking pot. The only pets I had left now were two cats, and they didn't need me during the day. At night, they slept with me on my bed. With the dog gone, there was no reason, no purpose for me to be at home. Without the dog, I didn't even enjoy going for walks anymore. So now I just waited for 5 p.m. to roll around, when I could go back to the club at Center House. And even then, I'd often havealready spent the early afternoon with Kessi and some of the others from our group.
I smoked pot every night. The people who had enough money for drugs would share it with the others. I didn't think twice about smoking pot anymore. After all, we were able to do it right out in the open at the club. The social workers from the church, the ones who supervised the club, would occasionally try to say something when they saw us smoking. They didn't all feel the same about pot, but most of them would admit that they used to smoke, too. Most of them were recent college and university graduates and had been part of the student movement, 13 where smoking pot and hashish had become normal. So they generally just told us not to overdo it and not to use it as an escape, etcetera. More than anything else, they were worried that it would be a gateway drug and lead straight to harder stuff.
All that talk went in one ear and out the other. What right did they have to moralize like that, when they themselves admitted to having done the same things? Someone from our group confronted one of those young guys once: “So you think that when college students smoke pot, it's okay, because they're smart. But when workers or interns smoke pot, then it's dangerous. That seems like kind of a double standard to me.” The guy didn't have a response for that. You could tell he felt uneasy.
I didn't just smoke, either; I also drank wine and beer—especially when I didn't have any marijuana. I usually started drinking right after school, and sometimes had something in the mornings, too, if I was skipping classes. I always had to have something.
I was constantly spaced out. I needed it to keep from
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