The only thing my mother had to say on the topic of my

new little habits was, “Stop it.” She knew the signs,

being a connoisseur of fine drugs and self harm

herself, and was annoyed that I’d decided to steal her

signature looks. It didn’t bother me that she was semi

upset that I was stealing her ideas. That was Mom.

Since I was six years old, I had known that my family

was different and my mother wasn’t fit to be a parent.

I reached this conclusion during my first play date at

my best friend Matty’s house. His mom was a hoverer,

asking if we wanted cookies, juice, a different board

game, and what time my mommy expected me home. I’d

remarked “She doesn’t care.” The look on Mrs. Lynch’s

face was one of bewilderment and disbelief. Matty

later told me his mommy wouldn’t let him play outside

after seven, and he was supposed to be home from

people’s houses by 6:30, so he could eat dinner with

his family, which included his mom, dad, and little

brother, Alex.

That was another way I could tell we were different.

It was just us. I’d been born with a dad, who shortly

after left me and Mom. She was bitter and angry, which

I think contributed a lot to the amount of time I

spent alone as I grew up. I’d stayed by myself after

school from the time I was seven, filling the time

with nothing but TV and books. I was either at home or

at Matty’s, which quickly became my safe haven when

things were rough.

Matty’s parents believed in privacy, and that what one

family did was no one’s business but that family’s. So

when I came over, red faced, and often crying, they

did nothing but give me a hug and tell me I was

welcome. Maty was a different story. We’d got in many

fights because I refused to tell him what went on at

my house. The drugs, the gang bangs, the yelling at me

to stay in my room and keep quiet. I didn’t want Matty

to know about it all. Our friendship has survived all those fights, but I wasn't so sure it would survive finding out about all this.

Because of my mother, I had made a deal with myself in fourth grade on drug day that I was never going to try drugs, not even to experiment. With her history, it was just all too...risky. And I didn't want to be risky. I wanted to be safe. But when you're nine years old, everything seems really black and white. I won't do drugs. There. It's been said, therefore, it's going to happen. I didn't count on peer pressure. I didn't count on my mother's background playing a negative part in what happened. But mostly, I never expected it to go as far as it did.

Maybe, before I get in to my story too far, I should regroup and start at the beginning. My name is Nicholas Hall, but everybody calls me Nick. I live in a medium sized town called Walling in Vermont, and, yes, my house is the stereotypical log cabin. Most are, in my area. I was what you might call an accident, because my mom never wanted me, and she's never been above letting me know it. She likes to talk to her druggie friends about how selfless it was to keep me, how she was so young, only 19, and how easy it would've been to just dump me on the side of the road and forget about me. "But, no," she likes to stoically say, "I knew I had to do the right thing, and the right thing was keeping little Nicky." And occasionally she would add that in with a motherly hair tousling. That story pissed me off to no end, especially as I got older. "Nobody's called my Nicky since I was 8!" I would yell, and stalk off. "So moody." She would mutter to her friends, who would nod before demanding that she break out the stash.

I've known Matty since we were five, in kidnergarten. I like to think he's my better half. I think he kept me straight for a long time...but eventually everything becomes too much and suddenly you're doing the things you never thought you were going to.

Like smoking. I started smoking cigarettes when I was 14, which cooled me out when things were rough. I was past the age of running to Matty's when things were bad, and all I could think of to chill out was to light up. Mom knew I smoked, but her only words about it were, "Don't do it in my house." So I didn't. I didn't relish going against what my mom said, always afraid she'd pop me one.

I switched to pot when I was 15, smoking it behind dumpsters with random people I found, who I tended to see a lot of. One's name was McAllistor, who I still talk to sometimes.

Things only went from bad to worse when I was 16 and got into cocaine.