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Dr. Celia Banting

Copyright © 2008 by Dr. Celia BantingAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechani-cal, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Wighita PressP.O. Box 30399Little Rock, Arkansas, 72260-0399www.wighitapress.comThis is a work of ction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used ctitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataBanting, CeliaI Only Said I Could Handle It, But I Was Wrong/Dr. Celia Banting – 1st Editionp. cm. ISBN 9780978664855 (paperback)1. Therapeutic novel 2. Drug addiction 3. Suicide preventionLibrary of Congress Control Number: 2007930366Layout by Michelle VanGeest“Ways to Get Strokes” diagram redesigned by Michelle VanGeestCover production by Luke JohnsonPrinted by Dickinson Press, Grand Rapids, Michigan, USA

Issues addressed in this book:Why some teenagers become hooked on drugsThe inuence of peers, the family and societyThe inuence of genesThe role of the brain and neurotransmittersDopamine decienciesThe role of emotional and behavioral disordersShort-term and long-term effects of:AlcoholMarijuanaMethamphetaminesHallucinogens CocaineHeroinPrescription medicationsDetoxicationRepairing broken trustSpiritual healingRelapse prevention plansPermissions and InjunctionsHuman needsStructuring timePositive and negative Stroking patterns

Also by Dr. Celia Banting…I Only Said I Had No ChoiceI Only Said “Yes” So That They’d Like MeI Only Said I Couldn’t CopeI Only Said I Didn’t Want You Because I Was TerriedI Only Said I Was Telling the Truth• • • •Available after January 2008…I Only Said It Didn’t HurtI Only Said I Wasn’t HungryI Only Said I Wanted To Kill Myself; I Didn’t Really Mean ItI Only Said Leave Me Out of It

Dedicated to Erica Elsie and Dave.This book is also dedicated to an amazing young man called Sam who told me his story—of how he fought to reclaim his life and daughter after losing everything through meth.

AcknowledgmentsMy grateful thanks go to my proofreader and typesetter, Michelle VanGeest, who frees me from my dyslexic brain, and replaces my mother’s voice. Thanks to Bev, my stray-word spotter, too. I thank my wonderful husband, Des, for the inspi-ration and support he gives me. Thank you to Luke and Sam for their faith, inspiration and talent. Thank you to Helen and Dave, and Moya and Tony for their faith and support. Thank you to Susan Harring and Ron Woldyk for their reliability and profes-sionalism. Thank you to my dear friend Vicki for her guiding sense of style. Thank you to everyone, young and old, who brought my academic knowledge of drug addiction alive through their per-sonal testimonies. I am indebted to their courage. Thank you to all my psychotherapy tutors and colleagues at the Metanoia Institute, London, for teaching me about human nature, psychopathology, growth and recovery. I thank the good Lord for giving me a lively imagination, and I also thank my parents for moving to the Isle of Wight, “the land that bobs in and out of view, depending upon the sea mist.”

9É Ñ Chapter One “Does my butt look big in this?” Mom asks Dad, as she swivels in front of the mirror. “Yeah,” he says absentmindedly, as he takes a swig from a bottle of milk. “Hey,” she cries. “What?” “You never listen to me,” Mom complains. “D’you like my new shoes? I got them to match my suit.” Dad grunts and puts the bottle of milk back in the fridge. What is it about my mom? Every morning, while I have to make breakfast, she dresses up as if she’s going to a fashion show. Today she’s wearing a bright pink trouser suit, with a see-through top that hides nothing. And yes, her shoes do match, but they’re too loud. Isitnormalforaguymyage,I’mfteen,tofeel

10É Ñembarrassed by the way his mom dresses? I don’t know. Some of my friends say she looks “hot” but I tell them to “shut up.” I can’t think about my mom being “hot.” That’s gross. She goes on and on about looking better than the girls at work, and brags about how much money she spends on her clothes and shoes. Sometimes she sounds really mean. She won’t wear anything that hasn’t got a designer label in it. She’s like that with us as well. I guess I should be pleased because at least we don’t have “hand-me-downs” like the poor kids at school, and I don’t have to envy other kids who come from the right side of town. I guess that’ll be Mom and Dad’s next plan—to move to a better part of town, not that there’s anything wrong withwherewelivenow.Momlikeditwhenwerstmoved in, but now she wants something better. She always wants something better. Mom insists that my two brothers, Jack and Wil-lie, and I look right. She says that everyone will judge how much money she and Dad make by the way we’re dressed. Dad picks up his keys. “See you later,” he says, as he heads for the door. “Simon, you’re in charge. You make sure you get all the chores done, and take care of your little brother.” Mom cusses, as she’s distracted and gets mas-cara all over her face.

11É Ñ I’m in charge? That’s a joke. Yes, I’m the old-est, but Jack doesn’t do anything I tell him, and it’s hard to make him, because he’s only eleven months younger than me, yet he’s much bigger than I am. Willie’s okay, he’s only seven. Mom says he was a “mistake.” Jack’s the “mistake,” as far as I can see. He’s so mean. It’s like he enjoys hurting people. Every day he messes with me. He knows that Dad has put me in charge, and it’s my responsibility to get everything done around the house. He knows that Dad’ll beat me if all the chores aren’t done, and yet he taunts me as the clock ticks towards seven o’clock when Dad’s due home for half an hour before he goes to his second job. Jack leaves all his chores until the last minute. He makes me so mad. I hate him. I can’t do all the chores myself, so I can’t even cover for him, which might make me feel less anxious. I nag him to get at them, but he laughs at me, and then, with as little amount of time as he can safely leave,hewhipsthroughhischoresandnishessec-onds before Dad comes through the door. He smirks at me, and I feel sick with fear and exhaustion. It happens every day. I can’t tell Dad because he won’t listen and Mom’s too busy to listen. All they seem to care aboutishavingafancyhouse,ashycars,designerclothes and money to throw about, so that everyone can see how well they’re doing.

12É Ñ There are times when I feel totally alone, well, except for my best friend, Max. Mom hates him—says he’s not good enough for us. He hasn’t got a dad and they live in an apartment. But as far as I can see, he’s lucky not to have a dad; at least he doesn’t get beaten. Max doesn’t wear designer jeans like I have to, and no one would mug him for his tennis shoes, but he’s the best friend I ever had. He’s for real. Sometimes when Jack makes me so mad that I feel like exploding, Max calms me down, and his mom, who only has one job, gives me home made chocolate chip cookies. She says that she’d rather live in an apartment and have one job than live in a fancy house and be away from Max while working two or three jobs. She pinches his cheek and he turns red, but I think she’s awesome. I don’t know why my mom can’t be like her. I think I know why, though. One day when Mom andDadweremadatmebecauseJackhadn’tn-ished his chores, I hid in the attic and found a box of old photos. They were black and white, curled at the edges. In one, there was a bunch of scruffy kids dressed in rags, hanging around the door of a shack. As I looked closely, it was obvious that the little girl in the front was Mom… I could tell by her hair. Sometimes I think that Mom’s so ashamed of coming from such a poor family that she overcompensates and wants to show the whole world that she’s as good as the next person.

13É Ñ I think I understand why she feels that way, but I don’t understand it all. When I look at Max and his mom, and I see how close they are, I think they’ve got it right and we’ve got it wrong. But there’s no way I could ever tell Mom and Dad that. Man, they’d kill me. The reason we have everything we want and live in a fancy house is because Mom and Dad both have three jobs. They head off for work at six thirty in the morning, and Mom works double shifts Monday through Friday. I only see her in the morning for half an hour, but she’s too busy getting ready so that she can outdo the girls she works with, to be bothered with me. She’s got a weekend job, too, but at least she’shomebyveonSaturdaysandSundays.Dadworks twelve-hour shifts and rushes home to change into his security guard uniform at seven, except on Fridays when he doesn’t have to go in. He works on the weekend, too. Every day Mom and Dad remind us how hard they work so that we can live in our fancy house. That’s the bit I don’t get. They say that we’re the reason they work so hard, yet it feels like they do it for themselves. I’d rather live Max’s life. Every day’s the same. I make breakfast, and then, after Mom and Dad have gone to work, I have to clean up and get Willie ready for school. Jack never does anything to help, yet he always com-plains about breakfast. Every morning I slam the

14É Ñdoor and head off down the road holding Willie’s hand, with my heart pounding with anger. I hurry along the road trying to put distance between me and Jack, but he speeds up just so he can taunt me. In religious education we’re told that it’s wrong to hate your brother. Well, I must be damned for all time, because I sure as hell hate mine. It’s hard to concentrate in class while I think about all the chores I have to do when I get home. Mom got on my case yesterday when Willie brought a note home from school that said he hadn’t been doing his homework—he has to read three pages every night. It was my fault. Mom made me feel guilty by saying she was working her ass off for me, and I should help more and not be so ungrateful. Dad went crazy and yelled at me. His anger scared me andIhatedmyselfwhenmyeyeslledwithtears.Ican feel my teeth clench as I think about it. “Pay attention, Simon,” my teacher snaps, but I can’t help it, I drift off. “What kind of son are you?” Dad had said. I could feel the scorn dripping off him. It wasn’t a question; it was more like a statement, one that told me what kind of son I was to him—a useless one. I’d been trying to do my own homework, which wasn’teasybecauseInditsohardtoconcentrateat school, and I was trying to get Jack to do his chores so that I wouldn’t get into trouble when Dad

15É Ñgot in. It was too easy to let Willie watch the TV so that he’d be happy and not whine. I should have known better. Dad had gone crazy when he saw the note Willie’s teacher sent home, and his anger scared me. It always scares me. I see something in his eyes, something horrible, something unsaid. I know that he thinks I’m a waste of space—useless. He calls me a wimp all the time. He did last night when he saw tears in my eyes. I was so mad at myself for wanting to cry. Hell, what’s wrong with me? Why do I feel so scared all the time? There’s also something else I see in his face and it sickens me—he thinks Jack’s great. Every time Jack says something sarcastic, there’s something on Dad’s face that looks triumphant. Sometimes I’ve seen them glance at each other, as if they belong to a secret club, or something. It shuts me out and makes me feel like I’m dirt, and like, no matter what I do, I can never win. I go through the motions at school. It’s as if I’m here in person but not in spirit. It’s too hard to be here in spirit, and so I spend most of my time in class daydreaming. I get into trouble all the time, and what’s worse is that Jack, who never does any homework, gets straight “A’s” all the time. All my teachers compare me to him. “Why can’t you be more like Jack—he gives it everything?” “What a shame you’re not as clever as your brother.” Every time my teachers say those things, I hate them a

16É Ñlittle more for their stupidity. Why can’t they see through Jack? Why can’t they see what’s going on inside me? They’re adults, they’re supposed to know these things. Yet they don’t, and their ignorance makes me feel even more alone. Dad didn’t care that I was upset; all he cared about was making me look like a fool. I was mad at him for blaming me for not hearing Willie read every night, but I was more mad at myself for appearing weak in front of my dad. It’s a strange thing—something I don’t understand—but if I ever show my feelings, Dad makes me feel totally stupid. It’s like he can’t handle feelings, but then neither can I. I muddle through the rest of the day at school, myheadlledwithchoresthatIhavetodowhenI get home, and how to make Jack do his so that I don’t get a beating. I leave with my bag full of books and assignments slung over my shoulder, and I head off up the road to pick up Willie from “After School Club.” I tell myself that I have to make him read his three pages before I start on my own homework. Willie’s so cool. He’s just a little kid and he gets excited really easily. When he sees me, he charges down the path and slams into me. The “After School Club” worker waves at me and I can see her writ-ing on a clipboard. I guess she’s signing Willie out… “Picked up by family.” Some family!

17É Ñ We wander up the road and Willie talks non-stop. I wish I had his enthusiasm, but I don’t. I’m lled with dread. How’s it going to be tonight? IsJack going to keep me in suspense, waiting until the very last moment to get his chores done? My beat-ings depend on his choice. He can choose to get his chores done or he can choose to ignore them, and if he does, I’m damned. As Willie’s hand is in mine, and he’s chattering about everything he’s done today, I feel as if I’m going crazy. I live in a world that’s different from everyone else’s—I live with fear, with craziness, with snobbery and without love. But worst of all, I live with the consequences of my brother’s manipu-lation of me. What he does, and how he feels, will determine what happens to me this evening. As we wander up the road, I hear Jack shout after us, “Wait for me.” We keep on walking. Willie grabs my hand tight. “Hey! Wait for me,” Jack calls, as he runs up behind us. “What’s for dinner tonight?” Instantly I feel mad at him. Why can’t he make dinner sometimes? But Willie asks the same and I can’t ignore him, so I have to answer. Why is it that I feel manipulated the whole time, as if I’m a pup-pet? I don’t feel as if I have any control over my life at all. I feel like I’m trying to make it right for everyone in this family—Mom and Dad, because they

18É Ñare too busy showing off to the neighbors, trying to make them think that we’re better than they are. I cover for Jack because if I don’t, it’s me that’ll get the beating, not him. And I cover for Mom who’s too busy to be there for my little brother, who didn’t ask to be born into this family. And as my head spins with all my thoughts that are out of control, one thought, just one, surfaces above all the others… I didn’t ask to be born into this family either. I put the key in the door and Jack pushes past me.He’srsttothefridge.Ifeelmyjawclenchasthe word “selsh” springs into my mind. Willie issweating. It’s ninety degrees outside and he needs a drink, but we have to wait until Jack gets out of the way. “Don’t forget your chores,” I call after him, as he heads towards his room. “Whatever!” Willie looks anxious and I try to set my face straight. I don’t want him to feel worried, so I smile at him and blow Jack off. “You want some cookies?” I ask him. The anxiety on his face disappears and he sits up at the counter, dipping cookies into his milk. It’s so hot inside that it’s hard to breathe, so I turn up the air conditioning. Minutes later cool jets of air slice through the heavy heat and it feels better. “Shallwedoyourreadingrst,thenyoucango

19É Ñand play?” I suggest to Willie. He pouts, but I per-suade him. “C’mon. It’s the last time you have to do it. Tomorrow’s the last day of the school year, then you’ve got all summer to play.” That does it for him. He gets his book and falters through three pages. It’s boring, but I follow him word for word and prompt him when he gets stuck. Finally he gets through the three pages and I don’t know who’s more relieved, him or me. Why do they make early reading books so boring? I guess it’s got something to do with how exciting you can make three and four letter words. I don’t know; it’s too hot to think. I look at my list of chores and anxiety twists my stomach. I have to do the laundry, dust everywhere, vacuum the bedroom carpets, mop the bathrooms andkitchenoorsandputthetrashout.ThenIhaveto make dinner. Jack’s list of chores is nowhere near as long as mine and I feel mad and anxious at the same time. It’s not fair. He has to water the plants in the front yard, pick up any stray trash that pass-ers-by may have thrown on our lawn—Mom likes it to look perfect. He has to scrub the bathrooms. He drives me crazy because he waits so long to start his choresthathewalksonmymoppedbathroomoorsand messes them up when he cleans the tub and the basins.Heatlyrefusestocleanthetoilets. I sit Willie in front of the television with a bag of chips and head upstairs with a duster. I open Jack’s

20É Ñdoor and say, “Can you clean the bathrooms now, so thatIcanmoptheoor?” I ask the same thing every day, and every day he gives me the same answer, “Get lost.” Sometimes his response is ruder. I feel the tension in me rise. Perhaps I should clean the bathrooms myself and thenwhenI’vemoppedtheoor,Iknowitwon’tgetmessedup.ButifIdothat,Iwon’thavetimeton-ish my own chores before Dad gets home and checks it all. I feel helpless and manipulated. I don’t know what to do with the anger I feel. It rages through me with nowhere to go. I glance at my watch as I plow my way through my chores and I’m eaten up with apprehension; Dad’ll be home soon. I hurry, but that doesn’t help. Jack is still in his room and hasn’t done any of his chores. His television is blaring. I’m hungry. The gnawing in my stomach reminds me that I have to make dinner in time for Dad to come home. He grabs something to eat while he changes into his security guard uniform, and it had better be good. Every night he tells me that the least I can do to repay him for everything he gives us is to have something ready for him to eat. I feel as if I’m running a race—the minutes are ticking by too fast. My hands are everywhere, put-ting salad into a bowl, toasting buns and warming Sloppy Joe mix. My stomach’s in shreds. Jack still hasn’t come out of his room to do his chores, and I

21É Ñknow he’s leaving it as long as he can. I hate him.Iglanceattheclock.It’sfteenminutestillsev-en. I hear him come out of his room and he shoots down the stairs to water the plants outside before heading towards the upstairs bathroom. He races through his chores and, as always, smirks as he gets them done with moments to spare before Dad walks through the door. As Dad asks what’s for dinner, I feel battered. I can’t take it anymore. It’s just a game to Jack, that’s all, but to me it’s the bridge between hav-ing a good evening or a bad one. I hate myself as I realize that I’ll do anything to make Mom and Dad happy so that they don’t pick on me. “Did Willie read his three pages?” Dad asks, as he empties out his workbag of empty chip packets and yogurt containers. “Yes, he did good.” Dad glances at me and I get the feeling that he’s disappointed that he can’t nd anything to pickfault with. He tries again. “Have you done all your chores? And have you made sure that Jack’s done all his? You know, you’re in charge and it’s up to you.” “Yes, it’s all done,” I say with my heart hammer-ing in my chest. Only just, I think, but I don’t say anything. It’s not worth it. I know I’m right when Jack suddenly appears on the stairs. “Hey, Dad. How was your day?” he asks, and my

22É Ñfeeling that there’s something between Dad and Jack is conrmed, because Dad smiles at him ina way that he never does towards me, and Dad’s shoulders seem to drop when he answers him. It’s obvious to me that being around Jack makes Dad chill out. I don’t get it, but that’s how it seems to be. Dad’s tone changes back to being harsh when he addresses me. “How long until dinner?” “It’s nearly ready,” I say, as I stir the Sloppy Joe mix so that it doesn’t get stuck on the bottom of the pan. Dad grunts and heads up the stairs to take a shower. Jack smirks at me and walks away. He opsdownnexttoWillieonthesofainthefamilyroom and takes the controls away from Willie so that he can change channels. “Hey,” Willie protests, but Jack ignores him and icksthroughallthechannelsuntilhegetstotheone he wants. I’m too busy to vent my feelings; not that it would do any good. I work fast, knowing that Dad has only a few spare minutes to be able to eat before head-ing off to his second job. I put silverware on the table in the dining room—Mom and Dad like us to eat as if we’re in a restaurant—and shout out that dinner’s ready. Dad comes down the stairs in his uniform and Willie runs to the table. Jack saunters behind him and sits down. I put everything out and they dig in.

23É ÑI don’t feel like eating. This happens every night. I do everything I’m supposed to. I fret over Jack and the games he plays to instigate and control me, and I fret over whether my chores are done properly. I fret over whether the dinner is going to be okay for Dad. If he thinks it’s rubbish, he’ll blame me and I’ll get it in the neck. Mom’s still at work, at her second job, and she won’t be home until we’re in bed. Even though she doesn’tstandupformewhenDadndsfault,Imissher. Sometimes, when Dad’s not around, she hugs me—not often, but sometimes—usually when she’s had a drink. When she’s drunk, she tells me how special I am—her precious son. We all sit around the dining room table and everyone digs in, but me. My stomach’s in shreds. There’s so much tension around the table that I just can’t eat. The phone rings and I jump up to get it. It’s Mom. “Have you remembered that it’s the last day of the school year tomorrow?” she asks me. “Yeah, I’m on it,” I reply. “Willie’s done his read-ing, and we’ve done our chores.” “Good boy,” Mom says, as if I’m nine years old. I don’t tell her that Jack is the same as he is every day… belligerent and hateful, or that he doesn’t give a damn about anyone other than himself, and he makes my life miserable. She says she’ll see me

24É Ñin the morning and I put the phone down. Dad looks at me scornfully and mutters “Mom-my’s boy” under his breath. He leaves the house as soon as he’s nished eating. He tells me to cleanthe dishes, and that he’ll be checking to make sure they shine when he gets in. I go to bed with a heavy heart. I feel exhausted and angry. I toss and turn in the heat, and even though the air is on, I’m too hot to sleep. Why doesn’t Dad like me? I know he doesn’t—I can tell from his face and the way he speaks to me. What have I done? It’s obvious that he likes Jack, and I just don’t understand that. Jack’s so mean. It seems that the better I behave, and the more I’m helpful at home, the less Dad likes me. What’s that all about? I don’t get it. I wish I had the guts to run away, but I don’t—I couldn’t leave Willie. As I lie in my bed, I hear Mom come home, and because I can’t sleep, I go downstairs. She kicks off her shoes and sinks into the sofa. “Hi, honey, will you get me a drink?” she asks, when she sees me at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m exhausted.” I go to the cabinet and pour her a whiskey and Coke. She pats the sofa and I sit next to her. “You should have heard the girls at work today. They were so jealous of my new shoes.” She laughs. She downs her drink in one, and hands me the

25É Ñglass. “Get me another one, babe, and get yourself a wine cooler if you want one.” I pour her another drink. I’m not surprised when she tells me to get a drink because it’s happened before. I don’t know; maybe she doesn’t like to drink alone, or maybe she thinks I’m old enough to be able to drink. I don’t want her to think I’m a wimp, so I get a wine cooler out of the fridge. I sit next to her and she pats my hand. “You’re a good boy, Simon,” she says. “I know your dad’s hard on you sometimes, but it’s only because he loves you.” I shake my head. “He’s not hard on Jack, though. Why?” She shrugs and shakes her head. “Your dad’s just your dad. He has his funny little ways. He doesn’t mean any harm. We must make him feel good.” I take a gulp from the bottle and it warms my stomach. Her answer is a non-answer. It doesn’t make any sense to me, and I get the feeling that she doesn’t want me to question Dad’s ways or why he’s harder on me than he is on Jack. And I don’t get why we have to make him feel good. What about me feeling good? She changes the subject. “How was school? It’s the last day tomorrow, isn’t it? Hey, how about we have a barbecue. I’ve got the evening off. We can invite everybody.” “Even Max?” I ask. She frowns at me and says, “If you must.”

26É Ñ “He’s my best friend.” She makes a clicking noise with her tongue and shakes her head.  “Whydon’tyoundyourselfanicefriendfroma good family?” I feel angry. “He is nice.” “Yes, but…” “Don’t Mom, he’s my best friend.” She mutters under her breath and then drains her glass and hands it to me again. “I’ve had a hard day,” she slurs. “Get me another; it’ll help me sleep. Have another one yourself.” I’m mad at her for being mean about Max, so I get another wine cooler out of the fridge and drink it as fast as she drinks her whiskey. I feel pain course through me as I realize that I can never invite Max in case Mom and Dad humiliate him. He’s my best friend and I could never hurt him like that. My head’s spinning with confusion, yet my heart is racing with anger. Mom slurs, and as she cups my face with her hand, she says, “You’re a good boy, Simon. Be good around your Dad. He only wants what’s best for you. Don’t rile him.” She’s not making any sense. My head hurts as I wonder if it’s me that’s not understanding what she’s saying, or whether she’s not making any sense. AsItrytogureitoutinmywoozyhead,suddenlyI get it. She’s keeping me sweet by telling me that

27É ÑI’m good. She’s telling me to be good—that means do everything Dad tells me to do and don’t rock the boat. Don’t question his treatment of me. And she’s telling me that the way Dad treats me is for my own good. How can that be? Yet as she says it, she silences me. I can’t object to the way he treats me, because she’s made him out to be the good guy… he only wants what’s best for me. I don’t know what to say, and so I say nothing. I get up, put my bottle in the trash, and head up the stairs to my room.