Causes Of Teen Substance Abuse

When I was inspired by Helium to write about "Teen Substance Abuse", it wasn't a topic of grave interest to me, nor was it a subject I cared to reflect back on in my naïve days of adolescence. The subject: "The Cause of Teen Substance" abuse normally sifts down into one fine grain of impulse, and that, in my own opinion and experience, is "choice". As the middle child of two brothers raised in a strict military family, we were told, or should I say, "Ordered to behave in a particular manner. sOur heads were shaved bi-weekly - by order, we were "conditioned" to stand straight, stomachs in, chests out...at full attention at all times.

Every first and last word out of our mouths was either "Sir", or "Ma'am". There was not a dare of denial of an order by neither my Father nor my Mother, manifested by pure fear of severe punishment.

My life was a boot camp: All rooms and beds had to be in inspection order by 0800 hrs; study desks had to be cleared of all unnecessary items. There were times when he (my Father) would bounce a quarter on the bed to check for adequate preparation for the day. Then, we were free. Leaving that house to attend school was a great relief to us (especially me), as I hated my home life...what my father was, what he stood for, what he represented, and most of all...how he inspired the military life within our home with the ultimatum of "fear".

Yes, we were afraid of him. We hated everything about him. Not as a human, as he did show kindness, humor, and compassion, but it was the "military setting" he adorned the house with that made me not want to come home, everyday. As a young officer there would be many parties at my home; there he would (as most fathers might) want to "show us off"...so he would call us down in front of all of his guests...have us line up at full attention, replay the "Sirs", "Yes Sir", "No Sir", and so forth; but the worst and most embarrassing aspect of this spectacle, was that he would make us do exercises in front of his guests while they were smoking cigars and having their drinks. I wanted to be far away somewhere...anywhere but there.

At one party, when I was ten or so years old, he had another of his parties. Everyone was stoned drunk. He poured a shot of whiskey in a small glass, handed it to me and said: "You're not a real man until you have tasted a taste of good whiskey..." I don't know where my brothers were at that moment, but I wanted it. I knew I hated the smell, and didn't like how it changed people, but I wanted it. So I chugged it down. I gagged and coughed, and he gave me some water...but I didn't throw it up. The warm sensation was overwhelming. I started acting funny and everyone laughed at me. I was the clown. I was the show of the party. I wanted more, but no more was given.

But a very peculiar sensation came over me...I was not myself as I normally felt who I was in this damned "boot camp" household. I felt so warm, funny, and giddy to say the least...and I was not afraid.

The fear was gone. That is the earliest memory I have of a particular substance I knew I could count on to always be there to take away my fear, my inhibitions, and my self-respect; but why did I need self-respect? It was so embarrassing enough for people, especially what few friends I had to come over and taste the life I lived...but with this magical mix of wonder, it took it all away.

My older brother was a born soldier...he fit in the family brotherhood like a glove. Never a problem arose (or rarely) with him. And as for my younger brother? Well, he was the quiet one. He either stood or hid in a corner as to escape any harsh treatment or hide behind the iron curtain of Mother...who was the typical military wife. She did what she was expected to do, with the exception of allowing any grave physical harm to those of us that were being punished for some menial action that truthfully was of no great deed resulting in meaningful loss of one of my father's "most valued" possessions.

To fully understand how this topic relates to this story of how I was raised, I must first inform the reader of a typical military life of a child of a military family. Moving. From duty station to duty station. We never stayed at one base for more than two years or more...then it was time to pack, sell the house, and say goodbye to your friends, if any. I truly believe that was the aspect of my life that I hated the most, especially when while I was a young teenager growing into a new world of wonder;

Moving from the mid-west to the east coast of Washington D.C. was most definitely a change in lifestyle that could affect your life and lifestyle for as long as you live.

And it did.

At first in late grade school, just before I started High School, I made friends with a strange sort of fellow...one would call a "nurd". This lasted about a year, but the military household life was not left behind in the mid-west. It was still there. HE was still there. The orders, the rules, the "Sirs", the "Ma'ams", the curfews; nothing really too ordinarily out of place, as most households with teenagers do have rules and curfews. But this was different. There was something that was embedded inside of me that was instilled since childhood...and even though I couldn't quite figure what it was, but it was there. And it set me far apart from the others especially when I started High School. My designated High School was one of the toughest public schools in D.C., very rough. You had the nurds, the jocks, the freaks, and the rowdies. I was lost...I didn't know who to turn to, and I no longer knew where to run.

In the mountains of Colorado, I could always run into my secret places in the hills where no one could find me...a place where my only friends were the bears, the bobcats, and many other creatures. You see, they didn't judge me...they didn't yell at me...they didn't hit me or tell me what to do...I felt so safe there. There was a time when I didn't come home for three days. And when you are moving state to state every other year, you have a tendency not to want to make friends. You don't want friends. Your walls go up and you don't let anyone in...not even your family. You shut down, and you stay to yourself. This was my shield...my protection. For if you have no one to be close to, you have no one to say goodbye to and feel the pain of departure.

But there I was...feeling beat up and battered around, lost in a concrete world of judgment and cruelty. I need someone. Someone that would help me be, well...what they expected me to be. I didn't know how to do that? I never knew who I was? I just wanted to be a part of what they were. I know what I didn't like...I didn't like sports (so being a Jock was out), I couldn't be a nurd (I really despised those type of people), so what was left? One day I met this fellow who introduced me to other friends. They were in the class known in the 70's as "Freaks", or "Hippies". Yes, they gave me the interrogation...the whole nine yards...but knowing I had a father who was an Air Force Officer didn't seem to faze them at least one bit. In fact, it raised their curiosity as to "how well can we corrupt this Military Man's son? Shall we give him the taste of the real world? Though they sort of accepted me as a trusting soul, they had their doubts. I still had very short hair...so, to be like them, I wanted to grow my hair. I finally made up my mind what façade I wished to wear...long hair, an army jacket, and old brown shoes. Maybe then they would accept me more. So my mind was made up...this was before I learned about drugs.

I went home from one day and gathered the strength to face my father and tell him of my intentions...to grow my hair. When he arrives home, I looked him in the eye, shaking with fear of what may result afterwards, and I told him: "Dad...I want to grow my hair. I no longer with to get a haircut as ordered by you, and I want to grow it as long as I want." My mother stood in total awe and of course, my obedient brothers ran for cover. His actions at first were of a verbal nature, yelling that I will do no such thing. I rejected his statement, saying that I will grow my hair and you can't make me cut it any longer. He became violent. He threw me down the stairs; started hitting as he was yelling what he felt was the right way to wear your hair, continuing to strike me all the while. I cried and screamed, but I did not yell for Mother (as I normally would as a child); as it came nearly to the point where I was to be taken to the Emergency Room, my mother ran downstairs in tears and pulled him off of me. He was still yelling all at the same time.

I stood up, battered and broken, and I looked him straight into the eye...and I remarked: "Dad, if you do not allow me to grow my hair, I will never, ever, speak to you again." And suddenly the room grew very quiet. He had a sullen look of total defeat on his face. His son took a stand, and he won.

As time went on, there was still the very uneasy feeling within the household...the looks, the suspicion, the fear of striking out and of course the stigma that all young adults with long hair do drugs. In my neighborhood, this was true. That's when I chose to try Marijuana...and I loved it. It took me out of my mind, as the first drink did when I was a child. I wanted this. It killed the pain, relinquished the fear, and made me care not as to what could ever happen to me. Of course, coming home smelling like pot with red eyes obviously would raise the foundation of hell in that household, but I would take it. Because I knew, that they could not keep me from leaving...it was law! I had to go to school. So, before, during, and after school, we would smoke. Being too young to buy alcohol, we always managed to get someone to get it for us...so that was rarely a problem. Many times I would not remember how or who brought me home some evenings. My mother would worry most, as most mothers do...my father no longer struck me...but continued to yell the consequences regarding military school, detention centers, and the like. The usual threats of "what could happen to you...".

If the occasional drug use wasn't bad enough...I believe it was him seeing hanging out at the usual "hangout" outside of a 7-11 smoking cigarettes and hoping for a score. I remember one time he would fly in the parking lot with his car, jump out, yell my name, slap the smoke out of my hands, and order me in the car, which I obliged disregarding the total embarrassment of it happening in front of "the whole world".

So, being used to this "new" way of adolescence, I would bide my time until I was free from the household once more. And, of course, I would return back to my "pack" and resume the alcohol and pot that would take me away...far away from where I did not want to be. It was my anesthesia; my pain killer, my release from hell. But then...came even more avenues of escape. High grade marijuana, speed, downers, acid, and heroin. The last four of the five mentioned took me even farther away from where I was, where I didn't want to be, and where I never wished to return. I thought to myself..."this is my new world." Drugs and alcohol. And, as most people are aware of, it all lead to failure in school, juvenile arrests, and family counseling.

I believe that the family counseling brought my father and I closer together, as we started acting as "friends" again, I'm not sure. Maybe he just finally realized how much he loved his son, which he did not want to bury his son before his time, as that is against the law of nature. So, he allowed the cigarettes, didn't bat an eye with the pot "red eyes", but stood his ground on the hard drugs.

A few years later, I was a man. I joined the military, and then a new road to hell began. But this new road is not the essence of this story. This topic is about "causes" of teen substance abuse. So many say it is "peer pressure". But honestly, looking back, I tend to disagree in many cases. In so many cases there are elements of home life where there exists infliction of emotional and physical pain upon the young one(s); this is the pain I felt. And moving all the time, alone, no friends, you feel you have nothing to turn to. You want to kill the pain that resides inside your mind and your heart. When a drug or drink is offered someone in that state of being, there is no pressure. There is the need to anesthetize the pain.

Peer pressure? It's all a matter of what you feel inside. Do you feel pain? Do you wish to escape from the reality you feel is a living hell most people refer to as "life and family"....or are you just "curious"? Call it peer pressure if you wish...that term is analogous to a recovering alcoholic being at a reunion with his "old drinking buddies" and deciding that they may think ill of him if he didn't toast just "one drink". There is no peer pressure...there is pain and the weakness to run away and escape.