Dear Mom,

As I attempt to be more positive and grateful I am feeling a need to get some stuff off my chest. I am hoping by doing this I can rid myself of some negativity. Think of it as a cleanse. I want to tell you about some of the shitty things I did as a teenager.

You know everything that I am about to tell you. At least most of it. As much as I tried to get away with as a teenager, and thought I got away with, you knew most of what was going on. You were gracious enough to let me think I had gotten away with it, but you were wise and saw the truth.

I don’t feel guilty that I did these things. I was young and very stupid. But I do feel guilty that I didn’t confess these actions to you while you were alive. You deserved my honesty.

So here it is. My confessions. Not all that I did wrong as a kid, but some of the big instances that stick out in my memory.

That time I came home on a school night and fell up the stairs on my way to bed, and then had to come home the next day from school because I couldn’t stop puking, you were right. I had been drinking. You knew all along, but even a few years ago when you brought it up to me, I still refused to confess. I still held onto my lie. I can’t tell you why. It was so many years ago and you didn’t care anymore. But I needed, for some unknown and illogical reason, to stick to my original story. And that story was that I was “sick” with some sort of bug.

But here is the true story of what happened that night.

I was hanging out a friend’s house. It was two of my girlfriends and I. We spent the night sitting on the driveway drinking. It was likely rum. Maybe Captain Morgan, but could have very well been Bacardi since that was my drink of choice. For some reason I recall it being a brown liquor so likely Captain, but could have also been whiskey. Who knows? We drank anything we could get our hands on back then. Although, our hands got on pretty much anything we wanted since I had a perfect fake I.D. I do know that we were passing the bottle around taking turns taking swigs.

Anyway, we were drinking. It was getting late but my curfew was extended because the following day was going to be a “Late Arrival” at school, which was when the day was shortened and we had the opportunity to go in later than normal. It was customary for kids to get high before these days, getting together at someone’s house for “breakfast” before hand, consisting of a pipe and possibly vodka and orange juice. But we decided to drink the night before and go in hung-over. I guess that was normal for us, but for some reason this night was different.

This wasn’t too long after Paul had passed away and they were asking me how I felt about losing my brother. Clearly, I needed to talk about it. I was having a tough time stopping the conversation. I wanted to continue talking to them about this. I needed to process his death, which was still very much affecting me, and this was the best way I knew how. Drinking with my friends on a school night.

But you kept calling me, reminding me to come home. I kept asking for extensions on my curfew, you’d say OK, I’d ask again, until finally you put your foot down and told me to come home. Dad was out of town, so I got to stay out later than normal as it was, but you weren’t going to let me stay out all night. I asked to sleep at my friend’s house but you refused.

I should have told you that I was too drunk to drive. But that would have been smart, and I was in no state to think logically.

The other girl who was there asked for a ride home, she only lived up the street so I didn’t think it was a big deal. Her house was on a narrow gravel road lined with trees. I don’t remember hitting a tree as I left her. It wasn’t that bad. Just smashed my side view mirror, I believe the driver’s side. I didn’t notice it until the following morning, when I made sure to move the car to the opposite side of our street so you wouldn’t notice the damage.

I drove all the way home. Google Maps tells me it was about 6 miles. Not sure how I made it all the way. I was extremely intoxicated.  But I arrived on our street, with no more damage done.

I parked the car and quietly shut the door.

I then ran up the street to a neighbor’s house and puked in their lawn.

When I walked into the house you were waiting for me. You followed me upstairs. I tripped and fell as I walked up. I believe I then resulted to crawling.

You were yelling at me. Demanding that I tell you what was wrong with me. Was I drunk? Was I on drugs? I simply said I wasn’t feeling good. I thought I was seriously sick. Was dizzy and feeling faint and “out of it” all night. I said I needed to sleep.

You finally left me alone.

The next morning I picked up my friends to drive them to school. I took Dad’s Jeep instead of my car. Luckily that was planned since it was a bigger car and had more room for my friends, or else I would have had to explain why I wasn’t going to take my car.

We went to McDonald’s for breakfast. I got an order of hash browns. Nothing else sounded appealing to me. It didn’t sit well in my stomach.

I spent the first hour at school puking in the bathroom. A friend, the same one who I drove home the night before, suggested I go sleep it off in the nurse’s office.

That plan backfired. The nurse called you. I was sent home.

And then I was grounded. It was a Friday and I had big plans that night. But, no, I spent it alone. Sick and contemplating stories of what could have possibly happened to my car.

You were pretty cool to not tell Dad about it, at least not at first. I would have been in a lot more trouble. You recognized that I felt bad enough, both physically and emotionally, so you didn’t’ bring it up again. It wasn’t until years later when you said you knew I was drunk, and I still denied it. That must have been super annoying, having your daughter still holding on to a stupid lie from her teen years. But that’s what I did back then. I lied. I got away with things just by not admitting anything and not having any concrete proof. But you always knew.

For this I am sorry. For all the nights I worried you and for all the times I disappointed you by not confessing, I am truly sorry.

That is enough for now. I will confess more next week. There are plenty more stories.

I love you, Mom.

Rachel