Tuesday, December 20, 2011

I was a rotten, miserable teenager.

We were all rotten kids, weren't we?  Well, I don't know about you, my friends and loyal blog readers, but I was actually quite a miserable teenager.

The reason I'm bringing this up is because I walked out of my therapist's office this morning feeling completely refreshed after having told her all the wicked things my sixteen year old has pulled on me for the last two weeks, and I thought, "oh geez...he has nothing on me when I was his age".  The only difference is that I wasn't autistic so therefore I knew how to conceal my behavior.  I would never have the social  miscues to call my mother an idiot in public or drop the f-bomb in the middle of chemistry class due to a broken pencil.  No, my naughtiness was due to being the youngest of three daughters who was expected to be the behaved one.  The one who didn't throw temper tantrums or fail classes in school.  The daughter who didn't experiment with drugs or run away from home.  I was the good kid, the sweet one.  Seriously?  These are the daughters parents should worry about the most.

I started drinking at an early age.  Not heavily, but out of rebellion.  My parents always had plenty of hard liquor available. When my parents had parties, I was asked to mixed the cocktails.  Gin and Tonics, Chivas and Soda, Screw Drivers, glasses of wine, everything...I knew what pieces of lime went with what drinks, what a shaker was, how much ice was too much, I knew exactly what to make my grandfather the minute he walked in the door and I knew he liked his drinks strong.  I was mixing drinks from an early age, probably from about 12 on. 

When my mom hosted bridal and baby showers, I was asked to keep the wine glasses full.  I remember one particular party - which I did not want to attend but was forced to anyway - every time I made the rounds with the wine bottle, I poured myself a healthy glass and quickly downed it in the kitchen.  I was (pardon my French), shit faced.  I'm surprised my mom didn't notice.  By the end of the party, I could barely stand.  I was just 17.

The only thing keeping me from becoming a full blown alcoholic was that I hated the taste of liquor. Also, it was no fun drinking alone.  The only time I drank like that was at my parent's house.  There were other times when my mom and I would fight - mean, terrible fights - I'd have no where to go, nothing to say - so instead I would go to her cherished sitting room, where her surly teenagers were not allowed, and I would drink from her bottle of imported Sake. In all the years we lived in that house, she never touched it; however, I did.  Quite a few times actually.  Years later, on moving day, when she picked up that God awful bottle, she noticed it had very little left...oops.  My bad.  To this day, I will never order Sake at a Japanese restaurant.

I survived my teenage years.  So did my mother.  She had five of us.  Bless her heart. 

Lord, please let me just get through the next four or so years with my two kiddos.  I beg You.

P.S.  I'm sorry for all the horrible things I did when I was sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen.  I know this is Your way of getting back at me but Kathleen and Ellenmary were much naughtier.  I've done a little better since those days, so do you think You can cut me some slack with my kiddos?   Thanks.      

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