“Hi, I’m here because I'm an addict,” the words still echo in my head a year and nine months later.  They were words I never thought I’d hear myself say.  I had lived the definition of the sheltered life: I’d never had to go through a divorce because my parents were still together.  I’d never done drugs or drank alcohol.  Hell, I didn’t even have guys in my classes with the exception of my 8th grade year.  My friends didn’t openly discuss about getting high or drunk or laid.  I had lived in my own little bubble, completely cut off from the dark side of the world.  A kid overdosing was something I heard about on the news or read about in the paper.  I was almost untouchable, but not unfeeling, towards the bad stuff that happened because I didn’t have any idea of the commonality of it all.  But my picturesque life, the life I was familiar with came to a screeching halt in the 9th grade. 

For my 9th and half of my 10th grade years I attended a semi-private, semi-parochial Catholic high school in Wilmington.  The summer before my 9th grade year, my school introduced the One-to-One laptop program.  The One-to–One program was a program where the school would distribute a MacBook Air laptop to every student.  My freshman class, the class of 2016, was the first freshman class in the history of the scbool to take part in this laptop program.  Normally, for your average student, this program wouldn’t be a problem.  Students were expected to be able to self-monitor themselves and focus solely on getting their work done.  I, however, was in the small percentage of students who had serious problems with focusing on my schoolwork when there was a laptop in front of me.  My lack of control became a serious worry shortly before Christmas, which was around the time when my parents began to realize that I wasn’t turning in any of my assignments.  Because the school owned and supplied the laptops they could decide to take a laptop away from a student and search it, they could go into your history, and also had the ability to take your laptop away completely. 

Unfortunately school wasn’t the only place where the laptop and my lack of control were causing problems.  At the start of the New Year my problems began to bleed into my home-life as well.  My mother, whom I barely get along with on a good day, and I were getting into shouting matches that eventually escalated into physical fights.  It got so bad that Child Protective Services came out to my house; as a result of a fight we had that got out of hand.  On one occasion my mom and dad tried to take the laptop away and I threw a fit.  This would be scary enough, but was made worse by the fact that I couldn’t seem to figure out what I was doing wrong or remember what I had done while throwing said fits.  My mom later told me that I would start breathing heavily, pacing in circles, muttering under my breath, and running my fingers through my hair… while it was still up in its ponytail.  By the end of February my mom, dad, and the administrators at school had gotten fed up.  My parents and the school had a meeting where the school basically told my parents that in order for me to continue my education I would need to seek help for my issues.  I didn’t know what the school thought my issues were until the meet and greet with Doug, the program’s director.  Apparently the school thought that I, not only had an addiction to the computer, more specifically the internet, but they also said that I was depressed. 

I knew then, just as anyone who has ever met me for less than 2 minutes probably knows, it is probably extremely unlikely that I was depressed.  When I asked for evidence of my “depression” they told me that I was depressed because I didn’t talk to people enough, which of course as a result had me on the edge of having a raging fit.  Me? Depressed? I could accept addiction because it was an entirely plausible possibility, but depression?! It didn’t matter though because I had made my bed and I was going to have to lie in it.  This meant that I was attending the out-patient young adult program that I mentioned earlier.

You know now that I think about it, the program wasn’t actually all that bad.  The therapists were pretty cool, the kids were an interesting bunch to be around, and the actual therapy sessions weren’t all that bad.  I couldn’t admit this at the time of course because I felt like I didn’t need to be there and didn’t want to be there, either. 

On my first day I was introduced to the group of kids with which I would end up spending most of my time with, as well as my therapist, Tracey.  I was placed in the addiction group therapy session, after further examination it was decided that I definitely was not depressed.  Any time that we didn’t spent in our therapy sessions, we spent doing homework and schoolwork in the classroom they had set up for us. 

Two weeks into my time at the program we had, what we would later refer to as the breakthrough, occurred. School started at 9 o’clock in the morning.  At around 9:15, Terrin called me into her office and said that I was missing five assignments when I had told her that I had turned them in.  If there’s one thing I hate it’s when people say I’m lying when I know I’m telling the truth.  Unfortunately I am an angry crier.  So when Terrin basically accused me of lying I was understandably upset.  After Terrin and I had sorted out the problem, Tracey took me to her office and we talked for around 2 ½ hours. 

I walk into Tracey‘s office and sit down in the chair against the wall, just to stand up again in order to reach for the magnets on the shelf.  After settling back into my seat I wait a minute before Tracey walks into her office and shuts the door behind her.  She turns to me,
“What’s up?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why were you getting so upset about in Terrin’s office?”

I slowly pull my legs up onto the seat of the chair, curling myself into a ball. 

“Well,” I begin quietly, “earlier this week I had emailed a few my teachers’ assignments that I had completed.” I look up into Tracey’s eyes, and earnestly insist, “I did, and I really did.”

Tracey quietly gets up and grabs the tissue box before handing it to me, silently signaling me to continue speaking. 

“But Terrin is saying that my guidance counselor sent her an email that said that I still wasn’t turning anything in,” my voice, which had started off soft grows stronger with every word.  “I was getting upset because Terrin was basically calling me a liar when I wasn’t lying to her.  What I told her is the truth: I sent my teachers my assignments by email.  If they neglected to send my guidance counselor an email saying I turned it in, that’s their problem not mine,” I explained testily. 

Tracey sits forward, “But why did it bother you so much that Terrin thought you were lying?  I mean, nobody wants to be called a liar, but this really upset you.” 

“When I was younger,” I begin shakily, “I lied a lot.  I lied about the big things, small things, and the insubstantial things. It became a bad habit.  So whenever I’m telling the truth but am accused of lying, it upsets me.  I mean, I know I really don’t have any reason to be as upset as I seem, but it just makes me so upset to be called a liar.  It’s kind of funny actually, I really am a liar, but I hate being called one.  You know what I mean?”

“That’s completely natural,” Tracey said placated me.  

After that Tracey and I just sat there and talked about a lot of things.  I don’t really remember much of what I said, but I do remember feeling like I wasn’t controlling what was coming out of my mouth.  It felt like a literally didn’t have a filter, everything I thought spilled out my mouth with no hesitancy.  Tracey didn’t say much during that period, though even if she did say something I probably wouldn’t have realized it.  I was just so wrapped up in my thoughts and the things I was figuring out about myself that the world around me seemed meaningless.  I talked about how when I was younger my Granny used to live with us and would sometime babysit me.  I explained how my Granny, my dad’s mom, had to move out because her schizophrenia got so bad that my parents didn’t want her around me anymore.  I spoke of how affected I was by my Grandma Smith’s, my mom’s mom, death, and how it hit my entire family really hard.  I told her about how when I was younger I didn’t really feel as though I connected with any of my peers because I felt like I was forced to “dumb-down” my vocabulary in order for them to better understand me.  I recalled how when I moved to the 7th grade, it was like a jolt to my system because the work level had jumped from a four to twelve on a scale of 1 to 10.  And how because I was so used to being at 10 on the same scale in elementary school, that was unused to having to apply any kind of effort into my schoolwork.  It was amazing, the feeling I got afterward as a result of my talk with Tracey, was. 

I mentioned before that Tracey and I began to refer to this particular mom as a breakthrough, and that is because I got rediagnosed.  Tracey explained to me that she didn’t think I was actually an addict.  She said she thought I had a detachment disorder and an addictive personality.  I had no idea what either of those things were, but I could guess.  Later on I found out that having an addictive personality basically meant that it was very easy for me to become addicted to something and that it didn’t really matter what it was.  I also found out that you could be addicted to anything, not just drugs and alcohol.  I looked up detachment disorder and read that it meant that while I was physically here, I wasn’t here.  Like I was here but not emotionally.  I can react to a situation emotionally, but I won’t have like a severe emotional reaction to something. 

I spent 6 weeks there, and I couldn’t see much of a difference but everyone else did.  My parents told me that while I was always happy, I somehow became happier.  I was more pleasant to be around, and I seemed to be trying to be more social with others. I became more outgoing, and my sense of humor, which had always been somewhat muted, became more prevalent.  My mom and I had less physical altercations and arguments over stupid stuff. 

I don’t know if you can ever truly get over any of the things I was forced to confront.  My guess is that it is highly unlikely that you can or that I ever will, but I can always attempt to become a better person because of my struggles then allow them to rule my life. 

“Hi. I’m here because I'm an addict.  I’ve never been clean for any amount of time, but I’m doing just fine.  My drugs of choice are books and the Internet, and I suffer from a detachment disorder.”