While my mom and my stepdad regained a sense of normalcy at home, I moved in with three guys, one of whom I dated briefly. It was a stereotypical party house with people coming in and out all the time to party and get high. The place reeked of booze and stale cigarettes. The fridge was always empty except for beer and ketchup. The kitchen was a disaster—plastic garbage bags filled with empty bottles and pizza boxes littering the floor. But it was home, and there was nobody to yell at me and get me upset.
School wasn’t a priority. I went every now and then, when I felt like it. When I did show up, I was stoned or drunk or both. When I didn’t go, I was either sleeping or partying. The schedule was pretty consistent: Party at night until 6:00 a.m. Sleep all day. Party at night until 6:00 a.m. Sleep all day. I know, very inspiring.
I worked odd jobs to get money for rent and to fuel my drug habit. I worked the midnight shift as a cashier in a gas station for a while. As a night owl, I loved the hours.
All kinds of customers showed up in the wee hours of the morning—weary travelers breaking up a long trip, waitresses ending their day, cops starting theirs. I’d sit half-awake in the claustrophobic kiosk of the station that consisted of two tiny rooms and an even smaller washroom that could barely fit a toilet and sink. I spent my shifts swiping credit cards, giving change, selling cigarettes, and occasionally giving directions to a lost traveler.
Just before midnight one night, I started a shift as my best friend, who also worked there, ended hers. I washed my hands, mentally psyching myself up for the next eight hours. My friend, who was cashing out in the tiny adjoining room, droned on and on about the annoying customer who hit on her again. I laughed, secretly fantasizing that I was back in my warm bed, cozy and comfortable under the covers.
As I stood behind the sliding pane of glass in the kiosk, waiting for my first customer, a man entered the station wearing a dark ski mask. He pointed a gun directly at my face. “Open the door! Open the f—ing door now!” he yelled. My heart raced. I was paralyzed by fear, my eyes bulging out of my head like I was a cartoon character.
He motioned with his gun toward the kiosk door and thundered again, “Open the door!” From the corner of my eye, I could see another masked gunman by that door, impatiently waiting for me to unlock it.
Instead of obeying his instruction, I panicked. I let out a bloodcurdling scream and dove headfirst for safety into the adjoining room where the cash was locked up. I think I scared him more than he scared me.
Preoccupied, my friend hadn’t heard the raving gunman but was startled by my piercing scream and hard landing. “What’s your problem?” she shrieked. She turned her head toward the direction I had just flown out of and saw the gunmen. As the guy by the door yelled at her to open it, she too panicked—and opened the door for him.
Both men shoved their way into the kiosk. One made his way toward me, his steel-toed boots heavily pounding on the floor. As he dragged me into the washroom, I could hear his buddy yell at my friend, “Put the money in the bag! And some cigarettes too!”
My gunman whipped out a long piece of rope and started wrapping it around my wrists. I sat on the floor in an awkward position. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned. Slamming the washroom door shut, he left me alone in the dark. I felt a mixture of fear and the chill of the toilet tank pressed against my face. I shivered, listening to the gunmen order my friend around and her whimpers to please not hurt her. I almost didn’t believe what was happening. Are they going to kill us? Rape us? Is this even real?
Then as quickly as it began, the robbery ended. The men left with thousands of dollars and a pillowcase-sized bag full of cartons of cigarettes. Less than five minutes after the gunmen forced their way in, my best friend stumbled into the washroom to get me. Her hands shook like a bowl of jelly as she untied the rope around my wrists. We dialed the police and waited in fear, hoping to God that the gunmen wouldn’t be back. It was the last day I’d ever work there. There was no way I was risking another robbery or something even worse.
Without the gas station job, my money quickly ran dry. Soon I found myself with empty pockets, trying to maintain a high party lifestyle and still pay rent. I had to figure out a way to make money somehow. Ironically, I began a small-potatoes scheme of stealing cigarettes from a low-end chain store. I’d walk in the store, grab a few cartons, hide them under my puffy Starter jacket, and walk out the front door. No one suspected me. My jacket was so huge, I could easily fit four cartons underneath that oversized thing. A pack of cigarettes cost about eight bucks back then, and I sold the entire ten-pack carton for twenty-five. It was a steal (pun intended), but it still didn’t give me the kind of cash flow I needed to keep up my partying.
So I started dealing pot. Other people were doing it at school and making a ton of money. It was quick and easy, and because I looked so young and clean-cut, I was the most unsuspecting drug dealer you could find. I’d buy a few ounces of marijuana or hash and sell it in quarters, half-quarters, or grams, just enough to support my habit. I even sold hash oil too. It’s a miracle I never got caught. I could have gone to jail.
As much trouble as I got into and as many bad habits as I formed in my youth, I can still say it could have been a lot worse. That sounds odd, doesn’t it—calling a drinking, smoking, doping girl who stole and dealt drugs “not that bad”? But there were lines I wouldn’t cross—lines I’m not sure would have been there without those seeds of faith that had been planted years earlier.
In the big picture, my consequences could have been a lot worse. I could have ended up robbing gas stations myself, or addicted to potent drugs like meth or crack. I’m certainly not trying to be the poster child for a recovering drug addict. I’m thankful I didn’t have to go through the painful process of recovering from alcohol or chemical dependency.
I eventually moved back home after a few months on my own. The fighting between my mom and me picked up right where it left off without even a moment’s pause. I feel terrible for what I put my mother through when I was a teenager. The anger and pain that had built up in me all those years leaked its venom on her. I didn’t know how to deal with the wrestling match in my soul—hating myself one minute, yearning for love the next; full of rage one minute, indifferent the next. I cringe when I think about how rebellious I was at home, but it also makes me sad because it came from a place of agony. I always say those who are hardest to love need it the most.
Around the same time, I also fell back into my familiar pattern with Jeremy. We reignited our toxic relationship. Jeremy and I hung out a lot with our mutual friends, either partying or doing stupid things. One time, when I was almost seventeen, we were hanging out with our group of equally troublemaking friends. It was evening but still light outside, and like usual, we were broke and bored. We were loitering around the downtown area when we found an unlocked building. (Is it breaking and entering if the door is open?)
The empty warehouse was spacious and for the most part empty. We scattered around the perimeter of the room, nosily going through closets and cupboards to find, well, something. We found a bunch of yoga mats and dragged them to the open floor where we had a mini Olympic session complete with sloppy cartwheels and lopsided handsprings. Yeah, we weren’t jocks.
After a while gymnastics got boring, so we started sneaking around the building. Still in the semi-dark, someone opened a massive cupboard that revealed a staircase. It was the strangest thing, finding a staircase in a cupboard. We starting imagining the horrible things we would find at the end of the stairs, until one of the guys dared another to be a man and check it out.
One tough guy accepted the challenge. He opened the door and slowly moved down a couple of steps farther and farther into total darkness, but then he freaked out and ran back up. Poor thing. He was teased mercilessly.
Another guy piped up at that point. With his chest puffed out he said with much confidence, “I’ll do it.” He didn’t even make it halfway down the stairs before he too got spooked and ran ba
ck up.
I thought the whole thing was silly. I mean, seriously, what on earth could we possibly find down there? I straightened up all of my four-foot-six bad self, said, “This is a job for a real woman,” and marched down the staircase. I groped my hand around on the wall, feeling for a light switch, and when I finally found one, I couldn’t believe what I saw.
I gasped. When my voice echoed up the stairs, my friends started freaking out and ran away from the door. “No, wait!” I shouted. “You guys gotta come down here. This is awesome! You’re not gonna believe this!” Though hesitant, my friends made their way down at my insistence.
“Whoa,” someone said as they all reached the bottom and looked around. “This is unreal.”
We all stood paralyzed with disbelief in the middle of a giant room that was the equivalent of a teenagers’ playground. Video games, basketball hoops, a jukebox, and dartboards were all around us. It was like we found ourselves in a whole new world. Then it hit me. This must be the community center called the Bunker that I had read about in the local paper. We’d found it before it even opened. It was a proud moment for all of us.
For the next few hours, we were in heaven. The arcade games were open so you could put in a quarter, play a game, and get your money back to keep playing. We played game after game. We shot hoops. We blasted tunes on the jukebox. We played pool and Ping-Pong. And then we got bored.
I started investigating the place and noticed a booth in the corner that was locked. There had to be some money in there, or at least some snacks. As we huddled around the lock, trying to shake the thing open, we heard an indistinct noise on the other side of the building. We froze. Someone was there. Once we heard a door open and slam shut at an entrance other than where we had come in, we knew we had to get out of there. Fast. With our adrenaline pumping and nervous laughter, we booked it out of the building the same way we came in.
Because we found the place before opening day, we proudly hailed it as “ours.” That seal of ownership was the only reason we ever came back. It was a Christian place, after all. There were Bible verses all over the walls and a cheesy sign that said, “No Drinking. No Smoking. No Swearing.”
Right.
When the Bunker opened to the public, we were there every weekend. It gave us something to do and a place to go. We weren’t totally innocent, though. We almost always brought beer in with us and hid it in back of the toilet tank to keep it cold. I got drunk at the Bunker more times than I’d like to admit. I even used to deal drugs there.
When I didn’t feel like playing a video game or shooting pool, I’d hang out with John, the director of the center. I’ll never forget the mullet hairstyle he wore for a long time, all business in the front and party in the back. It’s still a running joke how during this time and for years afterward he looked like he was stuck in the 1980s. I’d always tell him, “Hey, John, the eighties called. They want their hair back.” Despite his questionable choice of hairstyle, I found him so easy to talk to, and we had countless debates about life. He was caring and sincere, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find an ulterior motive behind his goodness.
There was only one thing about him that bothered me. He talked about God. A lot. No matter what we talked about, he would always find a way to reroute the conversation back to God. It was annoying. But I let him ramble on and on about religious stuff because he was nice. And the truth was, I really liked him.
Even though John was kind to Jeremy, my friends, and me, he wasn’t oblivious to what we were doing. If he caught us with beer or drugs, he kicked us out of the center immediately, although of course he always let us back in the next weekend.
John was the first person who gave me a chance. Who didn’t dismiss me because I was young, stupid, or a troublemaker. John would also play matchmaker, pulling me toward a God who would forever change the course of my life.
One weekend in May of 1992, my friends and I celebrated May Two-Four (Victoria Day), a Canadian holiday celebrating Queen Victoria’s birthday that for most partiers is a drunk-fest weekend. I partied hard. Jeremy and I had broken up a week earlier, right after I found out he had slept with one of my friends. The getaway was my escape—a chance to go camping, hang out with my friends, let loose, and leave my relationship drama at home.
I was wasted the entire weekend and ended up sleeping with a guy I was acquainted with. I wasn’t a one-night-stand kind of girl. The stupid decision I made in my drunken stupor came from purely selfish reasons. I didn’t have any feelings for him; I was just rebounding from my breakup with Jeremy and used the fooling around as an opportunity to get back at him. An eye for an eye, right?
A few days later, Jeremy called, and we performed the same old song and dance routine. He apologized for cheating on me and begged me to take him back. He was saying all the right things, all the things he knew could turn me into a deep pile of mush. “Baby, I love you.” “Please come back to me.” “I’ll change.” “I can’t live without you.” “We’re so good for each other.” “You’re the only one I want.” I was hopelessly defenseless against his cajolery. Of course I would do my part and take him back. I did every time.
I figured, though, that I needed to be honest with him about what had happened on my weekend away. Better to rekindle our relationship on the right footing rather than under false pretenses. My conscience wouldn’t allow me to get back together with him without being honest.
Big mistake.
“If we’re going to do this,” I told Jeremy, “I have to tell you something.” I paused, imagining his response. I knew he obviously wasn’t going to react well. “I slept with someone last weekend.”
Initially, my ugly confession was met with an unbearable silence from the receiving end of the telephone. It didn’t take long, however, for chaos to break out. As I tried to choke back tears and pleaded with him to calm down, Jeremy went ballistic. All I could hear was pounding fists, heavy objects crashing, and glass shattering.
I felt terrible. Guilty and ashamed. Especially because his rage was sparked by a foolish choice I made. With the phone still nestled by my ear and the chaotic soundtrack of Jeremy’s fit surrounding me, I got dizzy from all the emotions that swirled in my head.
Still, Jeremy flipping out wasn’t something out of the ordinary. Neither was the long-winded tirade of insults he threw at me. And I knew at some point, he’d calm down. I’d say I was sorry a million times, he’d throw in a few more digs, and we’d eventually kiss and make up (only to do a repeat a few weeks later).
But this time things escalated to an all-time high. Jeremy lashed out with a threat to expose my darkest secrets—things I’d shared with him a few weeks earlier in a moment of vulnerability. I’d been certain that sharing the deepest parts of myself would bond us together. Never in a million years did I expect to have that confidence betrayed. But that was exactly what was happening.
In hindsight, I can see that everything Jeremy said came from a place of deep hurt. I had betrayed him, and he could not see further than a momentary reaction. His words were birthed from pure rage and irrationality, a destructive place both of us knew all too well.
I know all of that now. But in that moment all I could hear was a threat that cut to the deepest part of my core.
All I felt was darkness. Pure, utter darkness.
The phone dropped from my hand almost in slow motion and landed with a thud. Life as I knew it stopped. The world turned black. I couldn’t breathe.
My hands started shaking in a fit of their own, and all I could hear was the gasps coming from my throat as I struggled for oxygen. As his words echoed in my head, a wave of shame drowned my logic, and in that moment all I could think was, I have to die. And it had to happen now.
In a matter of minutes, I closed the gap between wanting to die and trying to die. My brain was littered with a frenzy of next steps. I couldn’t shoot myself because I couldn’t get a gun in Canada. I wasn’t sure how many and what kind of pills to take to get the job d
one. I was afraid of cutting my wrists because it’d take too long for me to bleed out. As I continued to eliminate suicide options to find the best one, I thought of my sister and how she was killed.
Bingo.
I walked outside the house and waited for the perfect opportunity. It had to be a truck. A big one. I didn’t want to allow for any miscalculations. I’d time my death perfectly, I thought. I watched as cars whizzed by on my street. Chevy Impala? Too small. Ford Escort? Even smaller. Minivan? Getting there. Then I caught a glimpse of an oncoming box truck. Perfect.
Adrenaline pumped in my veins like a percussion solo. As the truck got closer, I hightailed it toward the street, running across our square front lawn and the cracked sidewalk where I used to play hopscotch. A few strides farther, and I catapulted off the curb directly into the truck’s path. Midair, I could make out the face of the driver, who was turning white as a ghost.
I closed my eyes and expected to be pummeled to the ground by the moving weight of this massive vehicle. But nothing happened. The driver slammed on his brakes and adeptly maneuvered the skidding truck onto a side street right in front of my house. He missed. He was probably thanking God in that moment. I was cursing Him.
The screeching brakes pierced my ears. I was alive, with skinned knees and a few bruises to boot. I felt devastated and humiliated that I couldn’t even end my own life. I saw the truck driver run toward me, sweat pouring down the sides of his face. Poor guy. I had given him the scare of his life.
“Are you all right?” he panted, out of breath and showing genuine concern.
I was speechless. Numb. I merely nodded in a dumbfounded haze and turned toward my house. My eyes were met by a fuming neighbor who had watched me attempt to kill myself. Even from a few yards away, I could see her glare at me as if I had just killed her best friend. I certainly didn’t expect what came next.
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