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The boys that saved me...
Posted by The one and only "B"...
on
9:44 PM
(A note from B: I am going to go ahead and warn you, that this isn’t exactly a happy story. It’s not going to be like any of our previous blogs, where we joke about the people we know, or the situations we find ourselves in. This blog is a little different. So if you don’t want to read this story, I completely understand. I will say this though; I think it has a happy ending.)
This story isn’t exactly an easy one for me to tell. Even as I’m writing this, I’m debating upon whether or not I should, but I feel like it's one that I need to tell. At least for my own sanity, even though I'm afraid of what everyone else will think. But with my birthday being last Sunday, this story has been weighing on my mind heavily. Part of me thinks that maybe if I write about it, it won’t be so hard anymore, and I can say some of the things that I’m not really good at saying out loud. This story is about why I moved to Jersey (the first time), and eventually how I met the boys.
When I was seventeen, I was living in Salt Lake City with my mom, her husband, and my half-sister. Things between my mom and I were… tense to say the least. I spent most of my time working or involved with extra-curricular activities, because I didn’t want to go home. My mom had a problem, and that problem affected every aspect of my life. Except for a few close friends, and my boyfriend at the time, no one knew what was going on with my home life. I was, and have always been, a good kid. I never got into any trouble, I took mostly AP classes, and I worked hard in everything I did. The reason why I say this is so that when you hear this next part, you’ll try not to think of me as some punk ass kid. That I was some trouble maker or something. I was just a good kid in a bad situation.
A few days before my eighteenth birthday, I ran away from home. Things between me and my mom had become too much for me to handle. I won’t go into all the details, that doesn’t really matter anymore. The point is, I finally stood up for myself.
I spent the weekend at my best friend’s house. Her mom baked me chocolate chip cookies, and we hung out with her dad watching Band of Brothers and playing Call of Duty. My friend’s mom sat me down Sunday morning for pancakes, and to talk about my situation. At the end of it, she convinced me to try to talk to my Mom. To this day, I still hear her voice saying to me, “Thirty years from now she’ll still be your mother.”
I won’t go into all the details of what happened when my friend and I went back to my house. All you need to know is that it didn’t end well, and my friend called the cops trying to protect me. Two officers of the Draper police met us back at my friend’s house, we told them what happened, and they said, because I was still a minor and my mother had sole custody of me, I had to go back. There was a lot of dispute about this, not only from me, but my friend and her family, but we were unsuccessful with changing the officer’s mind.
They took me back to my mother’s house. One of the police officers was not so kind to me. He didn’t believe what we said happened, and told me I was, and I quote, “Just another spoiled rich kid, trying to escape responsibility.” Luckily, the other officer handling the case did take it seriously. He convinced my mom to call my dad, and let me go to Jersey to stay with him for a few days until things settled down.
Fast forward through the next 33 hours… By eleven o’clock p.m. on Monday, February 26th, I was through customs, and buying food so I could use the pay phone to call my friend. I told her I was alright, and that I was on the last flight to New Jersey. My plan was to go to my Dad’s for three days, then come home, find an apartment, and finish out my senior year. My friend wished me happy birthday, two minutes to midnight, and I got on the plane.
Usually when I tell this story, someone will ask me if I knew I wasn’t going to go back. I didn’t. My flight landed at six in the morning of my birthday, and my Dad made sure we were speeding down the parkway before he told me that that was a one way ticket. I wouldn’t be going back to Utah. At first, I went ballistic. I didn’t get to say goodbye to any of my friends, let alone my boyfriend. All my clothes, my car, my most precious possessions were back in Utah. I had left everything. That day was easily the worst day of my entire life. I’m crying just thinking about it, and I am NOT a cry-er. And don’t worry; it’s not like broken sobs and blubbering. No none of that nonsense. Just a few involuntary tears that I’ll wipe away and make fun of myself for later.
I had the choice of moving down to south Jersey with my Dad, or living with my Grandparents and Aunt in Holmdel. I, obviously, chose Holmdel. Not because I didn’t want to live with my Dad, I love my Dad. He’s amazing. But my dad, like me, isn’t in to the whole crying thing and being upset deal. I knew I needed someone who I could lean on and talk to, that’s why I chose to live with my Grand mom and Aunt. Plus, I basically spent all my time in Holmdel when I would visit. So it felt natural for me to be there. My family let me wait a few weeks before enrolling me at school. This was a good thing because I was kind of a mess. Besides dealing with what happened with my mom, I also broke up with my boyfriend. Who had his own problems at the time, with his parents getting divorced. He attempted suicide a week after we broke up, and for a long time I blamed myself.
This brings me to my first few months at Holmdel High School. I don’t remember very much of it to be honest. For the most part, it’s like those first weeks at school didn’t even happen. I was on auto-pilot just going through the motions. But when I think really hard about my first few months, the pieces I do remember are all ones where I was with the boys. Playing Frisbee after school, fighting with light sabers during lunch, going to some school hosted film festival, or hanging out in CS’s basement playing video games.
In fact, it was when I was with all the boys that I actually remember “waking up”. I use quotations because that’s what I call the moment that I was actually aware of what was going on around me. It was like I snapped out of whatever place I was in, and woke up to this whole new life I had built without even trying. It was the night of CS’s Cinco de Mayo party. I was laughing, surrounded by all these new friends, watching A tap dance on top of plastic storage lids (because we forced him to, but let's face it. We all know that A secretly likes to show off his tap dancing skills). It was at that moment that I realized how lucky I was. I had been given a second chance to live a normal life, where I could be happy all the time, have friends that cared about me, and finally be able to go home without being afraid of what would be waiting for me. I would go home to a family that loves me and supports me… and calls me out on my bullshit when needed.
To be honest, I owe everything to the boys. Because of them, I’ve been able to do and see so many amazing things. In all honesty, I kind of hero-worship them. In my mind, they’re the ones that saved me, even though they didn't know I needed saving. When I moved away eight months or so later, when ever I came back for a visit, it was like I never left. They taught me how to be truly happy and content with life. Most of them don’t know the story of how I came to live here the first time. Hell, up until a few months ago, not even my Grandparents and Aunt knew what really happened. It’s not that I didn’t want to tell them, but it’s never really come up. Besides, whenever we hang out we spend most of our time laughing, telling stories, or coming up with ridiculous shit, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I mean, it’s because of what we do that I moved back in the first place. I’d rather be hanging out with my jersey boys, than be anywhere else.
And that, is my happy ending.
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This story isn’t exactly an easy one for me to tell. Even as I’m writing this, I’m debating upon whether or not I should, but I feel like it's one that I need to tell. At least for my own sanity, even though I'm afraid of what everyone else will think. But with my birthday being last Sunday, this story has been weighing on my mind heavily. Part of me thinks that maybe if I write about it, it won’t be so hard anymore, and I can say some of the things that I’m not really good at saying out loud. This story is about why I moved to Jersey (the first time), and eventually how I met the boys.
When I was seventeen, I was living in Salt Lake City with my mom, her husband, and my half-sister. Things between my mom and I were… tense to say the least. I spent most of my time working or involved with extra-curricular activities, because I didn’t want to go home. My mom had a problem, and that problem affected every aspect of my life. Except for a few close friends, and my boyfriend at the time, no one knew what was going on with my home life. I was, and have always been, a good kid. I never got into any trouble, I took mostly AP classes, and I worked hard in everything I did. The reason why I say this is so that when you hear this next part, you’ll try not to think of me as some punk ass kid. That I was some trouble maker or something. I was just a good kid in a bad situation.
A few days before my eighteenth birthday, I ran away from home. Things between me and my mom had become too much for me to handle. I won’t go into all the details, that doesn’t really matter anymore. The point is, I finally stood up for myself.
I spent the weekend at my best friend’s house. Her mom baked me chocolate chip cookies, and we hung out with her dad watching Band of Brothers and playing Call of Duty. My friend’s mom sat me down Sunday morning for pancakes, and to talk about my situation. At the end of it, she convinced me to try to talk to my Mom. To this day, I still hear her voice saying to me, “Thirty years from now she’ll still be your mother.”
I won’t go into all the details of what happened when my friend and I went back to my house. All you need to know is that it didn’t end well, and my friend called the cops trying to protect me. Two officers of the Draper police met us back at my friend’s house, we told them what happened, and they said, because I was still a minor and my mother had sole custody of me, I had to go back. There was a lot of dispute about this, not only from me, but my friend and her family, but we were unsuccessful with changing the officer’s mind.
They took me back to my mother’s house. One of the police officers was not so kind to me. He didn’t believe what we said happened, and told me I was, and I quote, “Just another spoiled rich kid, trying to escape responsibility.” Luckily, the other officer handling the case did take it seriously. He convinced my mom to call my dad, and let me go to Jersey to stay with him for a few days until things settled down.
Fast forward through the next 33 hours… By eleven o’clock p.m. on Monday, February 26th, I was through customs, and buying food so I could use the pay phone to call my friend. I told her I was alright, and that I was on the last flight to New Jersey. My plan was to go to my Dad’s for three days, then come home, find an apartment, and finish out my senior year. My friend wished me happy birthday, two minutes to midnight, and I got on the plane.
Usually when I tell this story, someone will ask me if I knew I wasn’t going to go back. I didn’t. My flight landed at six in the morning of my birthday, and my Dad made sure we were speeding down the parkway before he told me that that was a one way ticket. I wouldn’t be going back to Utah. At first, I went ballistic. I didn’t get to say goodbye to any of my friends, let alone my boyfriend. All my clothes, my car, my most precious possessions were back in Utah. I had left everything. That day was easily the worst day of my entire life. I’m crying just thinking about it, and I am NOT a cry-er. And don’t worry; it’s not like broken sobs and blubbering. No none of that nonsense. Just a few involuntary tears that I’ll wipe away and make fun of myself for later.
I had the choice of moving down to south Jersey with my Dad, or living with my Grandparents and Aunt in Holmdel. I, obviously, chose Holmdel. Not because I didn’t want to live with my Dad, I love my Dad. He’s amazing. But my dad, like me, isn’t in to the whole crying thing and being upset deal. I knew I needed someone who I could lean on and talk to, that’s why I chose to live with my Grand mom and Aunt. Plus, I basically spent all my time in Holmdel when I would visit. So it felt natural for me to be there. My family let me wait a few weeks before enrolling me at school. This was a good thing because I was kind of a mess. Besides dealing with what happened with my mom, I also broke up with my boyfriend. Who had his own problems at the time, with his parents getting divorced. He attempted suicide a week after we broke up, and for a long time I blamed myself.
This brings me to my first few months at Holmdel High School. I don’t remember very much of it to be honest. For the most part, it’s like those first weeks at school didn’t even happen. I was on auto-pilot just going through the motions. But when I think really hard about my first few months, the pieces I do remember are all ones where I was with the boys. Playing Frisbee after school, fighting with light sabers during lunch, going to some school hosted film festival, or hanging out in CS’s basement playing video games.
In fact, it was when I was with all the boys that I actually remember “waking up”. I use quotations because that’s what I call the moment that I was actually aware of what was going on around me. It was like I snapped out of whatever place I was in, and woke up to this whole new life I had built without even trying. It was the night of CS’s Cinco de Mayo party. I was laughing, surrounded by all these new friends, watching A tap dance on top of plastic storage lids (because we forced him to, but let's face it. We all know that A secretly likes to show off his tap dancing skills). It was at that moment that I realized how lucky I was. I had been given a second chance to live a normal life, where I could be happy all the time, have friends that cared about me, and finally be able to go home without being afraid of what would be waiting for me. I would go home to a family that loves me and supports me… and calls me out on my bullshit when needed.
To be honest, I owe everything to the boys. Because of them, I’ve been able to do and see so many amazing things. In all honesty, I kind of hero-worship them. In my mind, they’re the ones that saved me, even though they didn't know I needed saving. When I moved away eight months or so later, when ever I came back for a visit, it was like I never left. They taught me how to be truly happy and content with life. Most of them don’t know the story of how I came to live here the first time. Hell, up until a few months ago, not even my Grandparents and Aunt knew what really happened. It’s not that I didn’t want to tell them, but it’s never really come up. Besides, whenever we hang out we spend most of our time laughing, telling stories, or coming up with ridiculous shit, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I mean, it’s because of what we do that I moved back in the first place. I’d rather be hanging out with my jersey boys, than be anywhere else.
And that, is my happy ending.
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