I find no comfort in knowing that the majority of my peers think getting wasted drunk and snapping some risqué party pictures is the idea of a good time. Perhaps I’m just a cynical, lonely sixteen year old with a hyper-critical eye… or possibly, I’ve just seen the effects of a no-class culture on the lives of many. Growing up in Gulf-coast Florida, I have seen my fair share of alcoholism and overly tanned women wandering the corners of 4th street. As a little girl raised by a Southern mother, I was never quite sure what to make of this style of behavior, as it supremely contradicted everything Disney princesses had taught me about grace and soft-spoken femininity.
To this day, I am continually intrigued by the seamy underbelly of life, with its perilous downfalls and raw emotion. However, I am in no way an advocate for trashy behavior. My uncle was addicted to methamphetamines and recently died due to a series of drug and alcohol related health problems. Here was a man who had literally contributed nothing to society, and left behind only used needles and stories about his lack of empathy. About a week ago, I went down to visit my grandmother, who is currently living in an assisted living facility. My sister and I went back to her old home to gather a few old photo albums to bring back to her, in hopes of making her smile. While looking around, I walked down to the basement my uncle had lived before he made guest appearances in various trailer parks and motels. This room was essentially a busted-up couch, which I could remember sitting on when I was five years old, a box television set, and a shelf scattered with a tube, spoon, and used needles. Trashed. Glancing around, I knew this was where my uncle and his drug-addict buddies used to sit and get high on meth, all while my grandmother sat upstairs watching Judge Judy in utter denial. It was so pathetic, that he had ruined his life and that the one highlight of his days was sitting, stoned in a cold basement in the suburbs of Atlanta. And to think, in high school, my uncle had been one of the most popular boys in his school. I have seen drug use demolish a family, cause fist-fights at Thanksgiving dinner, and set a perfect example of imperfection. The extreme case of uncle is what my aunt and mother refer to as “a blessing in disguise,” as now I have had an education in the area of decayed morals and substance abuse.
Since seventh grade, when random kids began advocating for drugs and general irresponsibility, I would just stare in disbelief. I knew all they had seen was the pop-culture version of these topics: the glamourized version. But there I would be, that shy girl who never talked, listening in and wondering if everyone my age was so incredibly dense. Without goals and aspirations, what’s the purpose of life? There is no purpose, there is no dream, there is no passion that drives everything you do. I’m all about truly living free, but to me that means addressing the past, finding your soul, and completely embracing yourself, no matter if people don’t understand that. Conforming to the social norm, with the stereotypical teenage attitude and lack of perspective – that is in no way living free. That is the exploitation of the mind, soul, and body to become socially accepted. Living is not sitting in a frigid cellar, passing around a needle. There is nothing glamorous about going bankrupt, or draining your elderly mother’s credit account to fuel an addiction so fierce that it replaces passion.