Rolling Away : My Agony with Ecstasy

by Lynn Marie Smith

• ISBN13: 9780743490436
• ISBN10: 0743490436
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2005-05-03
• Publisher: Atria

Summary

Lynn Smith never wanted to be an addict. It just happened. One day, she was living a so-called normal life, and the next she woke up to reality. In the mirror she saw the face of a grinning skull and, in her head, the world was turned upside down. Afte

Table of Contents

Introduction: Am I Dead?	1	(8)
part 1 thE drop
No Place Like Home	9	(4)
Gee, I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here...	13	(8)
It Was Because of Chuck Taylor	21	(4)
Uncovering Ecstacy	25	(9)
Academy 101	34	(3)
Lust for Life	37	(7)
What Trip?	44	(8)
A Second Chance	52	(5)
part 2 thE rush
On the Verge	57	(7)
Waiting	64	(4)
On the Rocks	68	(3)
Ruin	71	(6)
part 3 thE roll
No Swearing	77	(7)
Feelin' It	84	(5)
Stop, Drop, and Roll	89	(3)
After Hours	92	(3)
Pretty Poison	95	(2)
Creep	97	(4)
Rolling Away	101	(3)
Two for Jump	104	(4)
Just Say Yes	108	(7)
part 4 thE crash
You're Next	115	(3)
The Breakthrough	118	(4)
Better Off Alone	122	(4)
It's Not Christmas	126	(8)
The Marlboro Man	134	(6)
Visiting Hours	140	(6)
Believing in Tyler Durden	146	(8)
Walking on Sunshine	154	(6)
Gram Witmer	160	(5)
The Homecoming	165	(9)
"House for Sale, Dad Gone..."	174	(8)
Hello, Operator?	182	(7)
Tomorrow, Tomorrow	189	(4)
Fun, Food, and Fantasy	193	(5)
Walking Through a Spiderweb	198	(4)
The Truth Sucks	202	(4)
Memories	206	(6)
Naked Blue	212	(6)
Tick Tock	218	(5)
Big Brass Bed	223	(6)
Take Two, and Call Me...	229	(5)
I Used To...	234	(1)
Snow Falling	235	(2)
Talking to the Dead	237	(9)
Sticking Together	246	(7)
part 5 coming clEan
Ashes	253	(3)
Put on a Little Makeup	256	(2)
A Phone Call	258	(3)
Hi, My Name Is ...	261	(6)
Are You Ready?	267	(4)
Welcome Home	271	(4)
aftErword	275	(4)
rEsources	279	(4)
Acknowledgments	283

Excerpts

Chapter 1: No Place Like Home From the outside my house looks like every other one on Bloom Street. A ranch home, two-car garage, groomed shrubs lining the front of it, and a rose bush by the entrance. But we have something that the others didn't. In our front yard stands a giant, old oak tree. No matter how many times my father trimmed it back, the tree seemed to grow bigger and bigger each spring. It shaded everything and prevented the sunlight from ever shining through the front windows. Driving past 1320 Bloom Street, you might not even know there is a house there because it is always hiding behind that big oak.When I was in high school, I stayed away from the house as much as possible. If I wasn't in class, I was rehearsing for a play. I lived in the school's theater. The stage was my one true home. I felt safe there. My mother, friends, and teachers told me that I had a gift, a real talent. But I knew the only reason that I excelled in acting was because I had spent my whole life doing it. Practice makes perfect. I performed every day, putting on a show free of charge, for my family, friends, and teachers. If there was ever a lull in conversation or an uncomfortable silence, you could always count on me to chime in with a joke or kooky observation, anything to avoid the tension in the air. I could read a room, get a laugh, and work a crowd with my eyes closed. Acting was my survival and my greatest defense.From my earliest memories I remember my mother crying. My father had yelled at her for buying clothes for us that he thought we didn't need or she was upset that he was too hung over on Christmas morning to open gifts with us. There was an endless supply of reasons for her to cry and that's what she was always doing, at least to my young ears. I would crouch down in the hallway outside her bedroom door and listen to her sniffling. She didn't want my sisters and I to see her like that. She was protecting us, but it only made me more scared and distrustful to live in that house.There was a routine that she and my father had perfected: he would bring something up, asking for an argument, throwing a lit match on the gasoline, and then came my mother's yelling. My father would just sit in his chair with his leg crossed, nodding at her like she was a child. Then he would go outside to mow the lawn or disappear to the bar. My mother would rush to her bedroom, and later magically resurface with a big smile, lie on the floor, and play Chutes and Ladders with us. The whole time I would stare at her glossy eyes and watch little bits of mascara crawl down her cheeks.My sisters and I dealt with it very differently. Stacey, the oldest, was the good girl, straightening and cleaning her room. Stephanie, the youngest, would become even more introverted and quietly hold onto my mom's leg. I took center stage. I would do a crazy dance or impression and watch my mother's face light up. I learned early on that laughter is more like Novocain than real medicine. I was the comic relief. So this "gift" that people said that I had was actually a survival strategy, although later it became a tool of manipulation.Growing up in chaos, in a home where any second the floor could give way, I learned to dodge bullets and keep on movin'. It was every man for himself. If I stood still I was an easy target. I wanted to be a kid and have fun. Instead I was busy worrying about when the next disaster or argument would break out between my father and any one of us.My father is not what you would call a cruel man. He kept his distance both emotionally and physically from all of us. He never asked me or my sisters questions about life, school, boys, the weather, or anything, ever. He simply didn't care. The only time he did communicate was to tell us something was wrong. "Jesus Christ, Kathy, why didn't you pay this bill?...Lynnie, clean up your room...Stacey, move the car into the garage..