Anyway, because of the numerous frustrations at home, I became deeply suicidal. About this time, in 1986, I met Steven, my future husband. He was 21 at the time! At first I couldn't stand him, but his persistence grew on me. He was everything I was not: he had a sense of humor, he was charming, and outgoing. I had grown to become withdrawn, shy, unhappy, and definitely took my life seriously. Being with him was like a cool breeze on an unbearably hot day. And, he was the first guy that came along and didn't want to have sex with me right away.....so, naturally, I fell in "love". Steven and I began seeing each other more frequently. Sometimes he would sneak over to the house when I got home from school, and would leave before my mom and step-dad got home from work. In spite of my lie to my mom that Steven and I were just friends, she soon figured out that the relationship involved more than that. She found my diary, and read about my sexual encounters with Steven. Needless to say, she was not happy that her 13 year old daughter was having sex with a 21 year old man......She forbid me from seeing him, but at that point, I was so angry and out of control, there was probably nothing that could've stopped me from doing what I wanted to do. You see, Steven had become my reason for living.....my one and only hope in this terrible world of mine. The more my mom tried to take that away from me, the more I hated her. And that hatred began to show itself in the ways that I treated her....my mom and I would get into fights, and I would punch holes in the walls, call her every obscene name imaginable, and on one occasion, I even spit on her. I cut my wrists on one occasion, and overdosed on aspirin on another. Things were definitely getting bad. Eventually, when mom found out that Steven and I were still seeing each other, she kicked me out of the house. I went to stay with my grandparents for a couple of weeks, which didn't work out so well either. Even though I had grown to love and greatly respect my grandparents, I was out of control, and needed help way beyond what they were capable of giving. Steven and I continued to see each other. Eventually, mom kicked me out again. Having no were else to go, I called my dad's second wife (my brother's mom), and she agreed to let me stay with her. She had re-married by this time, so there were four other kids in the house. Looking back, I think that she truly loved me, and thought her love was strong enough to pull me out of the depths in which I had sunk. But, as I would discover several years later, there was no human love strong enough to save me from my quest for destruction................

I moved in with my former step-mom, and was the oldest of three girls living there. I enrolled in ninth grade, and was to start my life afresh. I was denied any contact with Steven, but as usual, I found my way around that. Steven, going through drug withdrawals, had moved to Arizona to get his head straight during this period. I would save my change up, and call him from the pay phone at school. We also wrote to one another, but he used the name of one of my girlfriends to disguise his letters. My "foster mom", as I would later refer to her, made sure that I got rid of all my clothes which were inappropriate. See, I had gotten into the punk music scene, and had clothing which reflected that. Little did she know, I would take my clothes to school, and change in the bathroom when I got there. That year I spent living with my foster mom and her family meant a lot to me, but it certainly didn't miraculously change my life. It was mandatory for me to go to church while I lived there, as they were Christians, but I would sit through the service with my heart hardened. Things progressively got worse, and I began drinking alcohol again. I also started cutting on my self, using razor blades, safety pins, whatever I could find. And, I started delving into the occult. I had a morbid curiosity in black magic, satanism, witchcraft, Tarot cards, Ouija boards, and that sort of thing. I also had my first contact with the police, when they thought I had run away (I didn't run away, but had gotten drunk, and somehow my girlfriend and I had gotten locked out of her house). Anyway, they got me into counseling, and after some time, the counselor decided that I needed to be hospitalized. So, I spent the summer of 1987 in an adolescent unit of a psychiatric hospital. I was 14 years old. Although I learned a lot while I was there, it still wasn't enough to save me. I was placed on an anti-depressant, which almost killed me......Anyway, when it was time for me to be released, my foster mom made the decision that I could not stay with her any longer because I had become a negative influence on the other children in the home. I had two other alternatives; I could either go back home with mom, or be placed in foster care. Mom demanded that if I came home, I would have to live by her rules, which I knew I couldn't do. But, I also knew the foster care system was not where I wanted to spend the rest of my teenage years, so I swallowed my pride, and returned home......

Of course, the first thing I did when I got back home was call Steven. He had returned from Arizona about the same time that I returned home, so we were reunited again! I was happy about that, as I had come to view my relationship with him as some sort of Romeo and Juliet romance.....he and I against the world....a world that I had grown to hate and mistrust. Anyway, things just spiraled farther down the destructive path.....I got kicked out two more times, and had a few contacts with the police. I had shaved my head, pierced my nose, and had scars up and down my arms from the numerous times I had cut myself, burned myself, or mutilated myself in some way.......and my sexual behavior became even more promiscuous. This was the "bottom" point in my life. I was raging, out of control, and desperately suicidal. In fact, every time I closed my eyes, I found myself haunted by images of killing myself in the most grotesque ways imaginable.

My mom had kicked me out again, and I went to stay with a girlfriend, who had gotten into drugs much more than I was at that time. She tried to convince me to let her have a few of the anti-depressants that I was taking. I tried, with no avail, to explain to her that they wouldn't get her high, but she stole some of them out of my bag. She apparently swallowed them with a wine cooler, and had an allergic reaction. Within minutes she was convulsing, and was incoherent. Her parents called an ambulance, and they had her air-lifted to a hospital. She almost died. Of course, I got the blame for that, but I wasn't even aware she had taken them from my bags until she started acting strangely. So, back home I went. Another significant event happened when I overdosed on the anti-depressants. This time, however, it wasn't intentional. I was staying with a girlfriend over night. Her parents were out of town. We were drinking some beer, but it wasn't enough to have gotten me drunk. Apparently, the alcohol mixed with the large quantities of the anti-depressant which had built up in my liver caused the reaction. I was in and out of consciousness, was convulsing, and incoherent. My parents had to come and take me to the hospital. I woke up the next day with tubes down my nose, charcoal in my stomach, and the most horrifying disoriented feeling I've had in my life. I also woke up to two police officers standing next to my bed, wanting to question me. Apparently, after my parents had taken me to the hospital, my girlfriend shot herself in the neck, severing her spinal cord from her brain. That was the first funeral I had been to.

Eventually, mom kicked me out for the last time. She had given up....had defined me incorrigible by law. And, she agreed to sign the papers for Steven and I to get married. I was 15 years old, and in the tenth grade. Anyway, I moved in with a girlfriend and her parents. Steven was working at the time, so he paid my rent, and brought me a carton of cigarettes every week......

Our relationship grew in some ways, as he was the only one in my life at that time that seemed to care about me.....to not give up on me....to not abandon me.....to accept me just as I was. But, this girlfriend that I lived with had a family life worse than mine! I was so envious that her parents allowed her the freedom that mine didn't. In fact, her parents even smoked marijuana, which at the time I thought was so cool...But, I soon found out that her parents weren't as cool as I thought, at least not her step-dad. He was addicted to speed....and was molesting my friend on a daily basis. I didn't find out about it until a few months later. In the meantime, her step-dad would give us large quantities of speed in exchange for cleaning the house, and keeping his secrets about his drug activities. About a week after my girlfriend told me her step-dad was having sex with her, he also attempted to rape me. The most remarkable thing about that experience was how terrified I was. At 15 years old, I could have fought him off if I wanted to, but at that moment I felt like the child I was when my own step-father raped me. I froze up in absolute terror. In spite of all this, things seemed to be at their best. I was surrounded by friends, and was partying almost daily. I finally had all the freedom I wanted, and was anxiously waiting for the opportunity for Steven and I to catch a ride to Utah to get married........

Because I had obtained such freedom, and was concerned only with partying, I took the high school proficiency test in my tenth grade year. Fortunately, I passed it. I sometimes wonder where my life would've been if I hadn't, because I would've dropped out of school whether I had that certificate or not. Anyway, Steven and I got a ride to Utah, and married on September 1, 1988. I was 15 years old. He was 24.

When Steven and I married, we had both been high on speed. I think we had been up for three straight days prior. We fought all the way home from Utah. We didn’t have a honeymoon, because we had very little money, but it really didn’t seem to matter, because we finally had each other. Those were carefree days....we didn’t worry about much. We partied....alcohol, pot, speed, LSD, you name it, we did it. As I look back, even though I was living a life of full-blown sin, I thought at the time that this was the happiest time in my life. And, compared to what would come, perhaps it was......it would be a long time before I would laugh again.

We lived with my girlfriend’s parents for a while, until I finally reported his attempted rape to the police. Having no where else to go, we moved in with Steven’s parents. That wasn’t so bad, except Steven started coming home from work later and later, drunker and drunker.....His mom and I would wait up for him until the wee hours of the morning. We had been married less than two months, when I found out I was pregnant. I remember the mixed feelings I had. Of course, there was absolute joy....I literally was jumping up and down the day I found out. But, as Steven’s alcoholism became more apparent to me, I also doubted if bringing a child into the situation was the best thing. I’m amazed at how clearly I was able to think in those days! On one hand I thought that a baby just might straighten Steven up, and would finally provide me, as a mother, the unconditional love I craved. On the other hand, I recognized that it was very selfish of me to not think about what was best for my child. Well, in reality, abortion was not a serious option to me. I was young and naive, and still had hopes of having that perfect family life. Anyway, things between Steven and I started to change.....

On several occasions he came home drunk and raped me. He would put his hand, or a pillow over my face so that his parents wouldn’t hear me protesting. This was nothing new to me, so I just accepted it as a fact of my marriage, and while I hated it with a passion, I never considered leaving Steven. After all, he had become my reason for living. Because of Steven’s increasingly irresponsible behavior, his step-dad kicked us out of the house. The fact that I was pregnant didn’t seem to bother him. So, Steven and I spent some time living in our 1969 Volkswagen Bus. We saved up enough money to get our first apartment together. I continued doing drugs throughout my pregnancy. I was so young, and so naive about life, marriage, my body, and the baby growing inside of me. Justin was finally born, a healthy baby boy, on June 20, 1989. I was 16 years old. Steven was high on speed throughout my labor and delivery, so I can honestly say that while he was there with me, he wasn’t really present.....

I quit doing drugs about four months after Justin was born. My decision was based not so much on morality, but out of fear of losing my son. See, I had been up “tweeking” one night, and was reading a book on baby care. It was about four in the morning, and I was so high. Justin had been sick, and had diarrhea. Through reading this book I was convinced that he was dehydrated, so Steven and I rushed him to the emergency room. As it turned out, Justin was fine, but I overheard the nurses discussing the fact that it was obvious I was high, and they considered what they should do about it. They finally concluded that although it wasn’t a very responsible thing, the fact that I was bringing my son to the emergency room demonstrated that I cared for him, and so they apparently decided to do nothing. But, it certainly was enough to scare me.

So, I quit doing drugs, and drinking alcohol. I also had started attending community college. I don’t know exactly why I started school, but by the time I started, Steven had been out of work for a while, so I was determined to have a positive goal that would guide me through life. Since I was about twelve I had wanted to be a psychologist, so this was the long-term goal I set out to accomplish. At the time I started school, I never really thought about the whole picture...the future. I just took it all a day at a time. In fact, I honestly never really believed I’d live past 21. But, here I was....16 years old...married...with a four month old child, and starting a college career. And my marriage....well....so many painful things went on....

Steven continued using drugs. He went through periods of heavy alcohol use, followed by periods of heavy drug use. We also engaged in all sorts of sexual sin. At the time I was “open minded”, and so it didn’t seem immoral, but rather, I considered myself adventurous and mature enough to handle it emotionally. These experiences, while Steven and I were both willing at the time, would prove to be damaging to our marriage. Anyway, it wasn’t until a psychiatrist pulled me aside when I was about 17, and told me that my husband was an alcoholic/addict that I truly realized the seriousness of Steven’s problems. I can’t say I was in denial about it, but up until that point, I was just naive. I hadn’t even realized there was such a thing as “alcoholism”! All I knew was that he would get pretty violent when he drank. On so many occasions he would get really irate, start throwing things, and playing these games to intentionally scare me. I had to call the police several times. On one occasion, Steven was drunk and upset, so he punched me in the nose. I always swore I would NOT live with physical abuse. After watching my mom go through that second marriage, I was determined it would not happen to me. So, I pressed charges against him with the full intention of following through. We had been married about 2 years. Steven went to jail, and I packed my bags, ready to go back to mom’s. After about 2 weeks of being in jail, Steven was released due to overcrowding. Fortunately, he checked himself in to an inpatient alcohol/drug recovery center. He was there a month. With a new hope of sobriety, and finally the family I had always wanted, I took him back in....

Things between us went good for a few months, but as usual, we fell back into our old patterns. At certain points my suicidal inclinations came back, and on one occasion, I purposely overdosed on anti-depressants. I felt so trapped. On one hand I truly couldn’t live without Steven....he was my reason for living. On the other hand, the abuse was so painful that I couldn’t live with him either. So, my only way out seemed to be death.....

Anyway, somehow we pulled out of this darkness, and spent five solid years in sobriety. While things weren’t picture perfect, they we weren’t in a constant state of crisis either. I look back on those years, and wish I had enjoyed them more. I guess I just kind of took it for granted. Steven, unemployed, stayed home while I continued my college education. As Justin was approaching two, we decided that we wanted another baby. And so, we tried, and finally, after six months, conceived a child. I lost this child in a miscarriage on Father’s Day, no less. That was a very painful and significant loss. If anything, it made the emotional distance that had grown between Steven and I to get wider. But, we tried again, and finally conceived our second child, Amanda. Amanda was born on May 20, 1992. I was 19 years old. She was our only child which was planned by us, and the only one born during a time when Steven was sober.

I had finished my AA degree a couple of months before Amanda was born, so I took a break before starting on my BA. I went back to school in September of 1992, but this time it was a major university. I commuted an hour and a half for several years. I don’t know what drove me....looking back...I truly believe it was nothing short of God’s grace, because I had every reason to quit! But, I didn’t. Anyway, Steven and I continued having problems, but they had more to do with intimacy than with drugs and alcohol, and so that seemed to make it more tolerable. Tragic events continued to happen, though, as is just the case in life, I guess. I think the most significant turning point was the death of Steven’s mom in June of 1993. She died of lung cancer at the young age of 50. Steven, having lost his father as a child in a tragic work-related accident, didn’t cope with his mom’s death very well. Within that year he gave up the 5 years of sobriety that he had, and started doing speed again. I struggled once again with loving him, yet hating him. Sometimes he would come home after two or three day drug “runs”, and his whole personality had changed. Sometimes he would take hundreds of dollars out of our account to support his drug habit. It just seemed like one frustration after another.....