15 April 2013
When given this assignment to describe what kind of writer I am, I panicked. I spent hours staring at a blank page, trying to decide whether to fabricate a story, describe my feelings of inadequacy in the area of writing or simply drop this class. The truth is my past is very blurry, I may have been an excellent writer at one time in my life, but the chances of me remembering that are very slim. So this is not so much a story from my life, it is more of the story of why I can’t remember my life. I was seventeen, on vacation with my mom. Like every teenager I was anxious to get back home, but I wasn’t like most normal teenagers. When we were fifteen minutes outside of Salem we stopped in a small town to get coffee. We pulled up outside of a building where I saw my dad’s car parked and I instantly knew, my parents were checking me into a drug rehabilitation program. Like I said before I wasn’t like most normal teenagers, I was addicted to methamphetamine. So, my initial reaction was, I’ve done this before, I can do it again. But my parents were prepared for that, because this was unlike any drug program I had ever heard of. The first three weeks consisted of nothing but silently backpacking through the desert. Aside from the one hour of designated group time every night, we were to remain in complete silence. I am not sure when, but sometime during those first three weeks, I began to feel like the only friend I had left in the world was my journal, it turned into the voice that had temporarily been taken away from me. I think that’s the first time I realized writing didn’t have to be a stressful, miserable task. Journal writing was my only way of speaking for seven weeks, and to a teenage girl, seven weeks can feel like an eternity. Especially at that time in my life, when there were so many questions left unanswered like, will my parents forgive me? Did my parents put me in here because they just can’t...