An excerpt from Chapter 12 - Teen Spirits!
At times I’d reward myself for going to “that stupid f-ing” and “I certainly don’t need it” school, by concealing a bottle of Malibu rum in my schoolbag. I’d drop a straw inside the bottle for some sly-sipping access and sneak it onto campus. The rum smelled similar to the suntan lotion that the girls liked to smooth on their (well proportioned) legs, so no one found the potent coconut smell suspicious. Sitting cross-legged on the school hall floor for morning assembly, the purpose of my schoolbag straddled across my lap was twofold. First, it camouflaged my thunder thighs and knobbly knees (my not well proportioned legs), and second, if I slipped the straw in my mouth, it merely looked like I was resting my head on my schoolbag. Without attracting attention, I’d suck on my straw during assembly - sucking the headmaster’s drone into bearable. I’d suck on my straw during class, sucking those bitches around me into tolerable. I’d suck on my straw throughout the day, sucking the whole sucky system into oblivion.
I functioned fairly well loaded. I wrote my final English paper for Standard Eight while agreeably pickled. The teacher was impressed enough to read my essay aloud to the class a week later, which was nice for me too. It was like hearing the story for the first time. I wrote that? Bully for me.
Three sheets (or possibly four or five) to the wind, I sailed triumphant. Drunk me trumped sober me in every arena – the most important factor emerging as: drunk, I held no fear. Having adults probe my insides (in more ways than one), I was constantly worried. What if people found out I was bad? What if they thought me disagreeable? What if they deemed me worthless? Adding to my anxiety were my mother’s constant warnings of my imminent death.
“You do know black terrorists are coming in the middle of the night to slit our throats,” she would calmly remind me.
Seriously? Do you have to keep telling me that?
I don’t think she meant to scare me or my siblings with her doomsday premonitions; it’s just that death was a thing of hers. Her world loomed dark and dangerous, a volatile place where nothing good ever happened; and I? I was the nervous outcome of my mother’s doom and gloom…and womb (apologies - I simply had to add that).
Overflowing with unplumbed fears and blighted with the occasional full-blown panic attack, I suffered from fear of elevators, crossing streets, heights, flying, roller coasters, airplanes, darkness, big dogs, sheep (all cattle really – it’s the unblinking eyes) and general anesthetic.
I envy people who can sky dive and horse ride, hang glide and parasail. Luckies!
I trust you can understand how the drinking helped to mollify my nerves. Indeed it filled my tank with eye-blistering Dutch courage. I could face anything drunk. Give me enough wine and I braved to invincible. Give me enough vodka and I bolstered to unbeatable. Give me enough Jägermeister and I blanked to unemotional. Give me enough alcohol and my throat beefed up to solidly un-slit-able.
At times I’d reward myself for going to “that stupid f-ing” and “I certainly don’t need it” school, by concealing a bottle of Malibu rum in my schoolbag. I’d drop a straw inside the bottle for some sly-sipping access and sneak it onto campus. The rum smelled similar to the suntan lotion that the girls liked to smooth on their (well proportioned) legs, so no one found the potent coconut smell suspicious. Sitting cross-legged on the school hall floor for morning assembly, the purpose of my schoolbag straddled across my lap was twofold. First, it camouflaged my thunder thighs and knobbly knees (my not well proportioned legs), and second, if I slipped the straw in my mouth, it merely looked like I was resting my head on my schoolbag. Without attracting attention, I’d suck on my straw during assembly - sucking the headmaster’s drone into bearable. I’d suck on my straw during class, sucking those bitches around me into tolerable. I’d suck on my straw throughout the day, sucking the whole sucky system into oblivion.
I functioned fairly well loaded. I wrote my final English paper for Standard Eight while agreeably pickled. The teacher was impressed enough to read my essay aloud to the class a week later, which was nice for me too. It was like hearing the story for the first time. I wrote that? Bully for me.
Three sheets (or possibly four or five) to the wind, I sailed triumphant. Drunk me trumped sober me in every arena – the most important factor emerging as: drunk, I held no fear. Having adults probe my insides (in more ways than one), I was constantly worried. What if people found out I was bad? What if they thought me disagreeable? What if they deemed me worthless? Adding to my anxiety were my mother’s constant warnings of my imminent death.
“You do know black terrorists are coming in the middle of the night to slit our throats,” she would calmly remind me.
Seriously? Do you have to keep telling me that?
I don’t think she meant to scare me or my siblings with her doomsday premonitions; it’s just that death was a thing of hers. Her world loomed dark and dangerous, a volatile place where nothing good ever happened; and I? I was the nervous outcome of my mother’s doom and gloom…and womb (apologies - I simply had to add that).
Overflowing with unplumbed fears and blighted with the occasional full-blown panic attack, I suffered from fear of elevators, crossing streets, heights, flying, roller coasters, airplanes, darkness, big dogs, sheep (all cattle really – it’s the unblinking eyes) and general anesthetic.
I envy people who can sky dive and horse ride, hang glide and parasail. Luckies!
I trust you can understand how the drinking helped to mollify my nerves. Indeed it filled my tank with eye-blistering Dutch courage. I could face anything drunk. Give me enough wine and I braved to invincible. Give me enough vodka and I bolstered to unbeatable. Give me enough Jägermeister and I blanked to unemotional. Give me enough alcohol and my throat beefed up to solidly un-slit-able.
