It’s Thanksgiving 1981, one day before my 11th birthday, Nikki and I dine with our upstairs neighbors, Teresa, 14, and her mom, Cindy. There are no men in sight. There is no turkey in sight. All I see is a blunt in my mom’s hand that she passes to Cindy and Teresa. I feel left out and that I’m a burden on their carefree afternoon. I decide I want in on the fun.

I pull Teresa aside and let her know I’m ready to smoke pot. I’m practically 11. Duh.

Teresa has mastered the art of feathered hair with the pop-up collar and thanks to a can of Aqua Net, her hair barely moves as she runs back to our mothers.

“Misty wants to smoke too,” Teresa announces.

“No way,” Nikki says.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” Teresa’s mom, Cindy offers.

“It’s Thanksgiving, it’s almost her birthday and it’s not fair that we don’t include her,” Teresa explains.

The two adults look in my direction as my baby browns plead to do drugs.

Nikki shakes her head as if ‘no’ will be her final answer, but after one more plea from Teresa…

“I’ll shotgun her,” Teresa offers.

While not officially saying “yes”, Nikki nods in consent.

Teresa jumps for joy.

I do not jump for joy.

I’m not up on drug lingo and the last thing I heard was “I’ll shotgun her.”

“What’s happening?,” I ask in Teresa’s closet.

“Just close your eyes. I’m going to take a puff and blow some in your mouth,” she explains.

Smoke is transferred into my mouth by my older friend. I have no idea what to do with the cloud in my cheeks.

I Breathe. I Cough. I Repeat.

Within minutes I mentally scold myself for assuming this would feel good. I reject this odd, mixed universe. My thoughts struggle to find mental terra firma. I’m lost. I feel more alone than I did 10 minutes ago.

I walk back into the dining room and experience being outside of myself for the first time. I want back in myself please.

The table is distorted and everyone is looking at me. I can’t make my breathing do what it’s always done naturally. Now I’m aware. Now I’m aware. Now I’m aware that I don’t want to be aware anymore.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Early the following year, Teresa and Cindy move to Kaufmann. A 30–40 minute drive from Dallas.

Cindy reaches out and invites Nikki and I to a weekend at their “new” two-story country home. Nikki jumps at the invitation, sans her attending, so she drops me off and heads home.

Teresa’s country home sports a thin coat of white wash over dark blue paint which gives the exterior a denim-ish appearance. The wraparound porch appears to show cinder blocks under her skirt.

Upon further inspection it’s easy to see Cindy’s ability to afford this grand offering. The floors have holes that must be avoided. The kitchen linoleum peels back to the heavens and there’s an older person unrelated to either Teresa or Cindy grabbing slices of ham and disappearing upstairs.

I exude a cautious excitement on my self-guided tour.

Teresa tells me her friend Amy,15, is picking us up and taking us into town. I keep a list of every person under 25 I’ve ridden in a car with. Amy will be in position number one. Amy decides to keep it on brand with a big truck and big blonde hair. She’s only a few years older than me, yet her hips and chest are light-years away from mine. She tells me she’s been driving since she was ten.

Amy and Teresa run down the night’s agenda, go to a pool hall and then see “Friday the 13th Part 2.”

We enter a smoke-filled pool hall and are instantly turned away due to my inability to look over the age of 8, much less 18. Amy and Teresa are disappointed because they were expecting to meet male companions. I’m ashamed of my youthful appearance spoiling their fun.

I’m saved from this shame spiral by two guys who follow us outside “Billiards of Kaufman.” One dude looks like David Cassidy’s country bumpkin cousin and The Cowboy is tall, dark and handsome. The Cowboy is 18 and the Tiger Beat Mishap is 16. Cowboy drives Amy’s truck as they discuss how much speed they should take for this evening’s activities. Lots of numbers are thrown around before Amy’s suggestion…

“Let’s give Misty two and see how she handles it. We’ll take double if she’s ok,” Amy submits.

The group agrees that this is a solid and safe formula for the distribution of speed.

I’m gung-ho simply because someone remembers my name.

I’m like a giddy school girl who just got handed two hits of speed, because I’m a school girl who just got handed two hits of speed.

All eyes are on me as I down two white tablets. I feel famous and scared at the same time. We drive towards the movie theatre as I settle between my new best friends.

Poor man’s David Cassidy and Teresa claim the first two seats in the row with Cowboy and Amy scooching in next to them. This leaves me in an aisle seat next to Cowboy, who has yet to acknowledge my presence.

I talk a lot and ask question after question. At first Teresa and Amy are the only ones telling me to hush, but now the entire theatre has joined in the reprimand. My exuberance level has accelerated ahead of my thoughts. I feel uncomfortable. How are people sitting down? I want to run.

I want my Mommy.

I no longer want to be an 11 year old out on the town. I would like to be in our small apartment watching “Hee Haw” and rapidly petting my cocker spaniel, Smokey.

I have no one to talk to and I don’t know what to do. The man on the ten foot screen is plunging a blade through young women’s chests and my heart emotes an explosion with each killing.

My breathing increases at an accelerated rate. I’m convinced I will die here if I witness another death on screen.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I yell down the row.

“Shhhhhh!” is all that’s returned.

I stumble up the aisle and giggle as I lean on people who have the unfortunate pleasure of being in my way.

I feel drunk, excited, scared, fantastical and worried. I think I’m going to die. I’m in a parallel dimension where nothing is as it should be. I want to be home and for my heart to stop craving to be outside my rib cage. I’ve never felt more alone in my life.

There’s no one I can tell about my current, excruciating internal circumstances. Should I tug on the bearded, homely mom next to me? “Excuse me ma’am, I’m not from here and my friends out there gave me a drug that makes me feel as if I’m going to die alone tonight. Any chance you could grab your brood of sticky kids and persuade your two-ton, alcoholic husband to give me a ride into the city?” I think or say out loud. I’m not sure any more.

While I am scared I might die tonight, I’m more afraid of embarrassing myself and bothering Teresa and her friends.

Teresa grabs my arm through the door of the bathroom and drags me into the lobby.

“Why are you in the men’s bathroom?” she asks.

I look back and see a few men laughing in our direction as they exit the facilities.

I look around the lobby and feel everyone laughing at me. I giggle self-consciously to be ‘in’ on the joke of me, and hope we can turn our attention to another passerby soon. Teresa shakes my shoulders.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I don’t feel good,” I admit.

Teresa rolls her eyes. The thought of having to get her friends out of the movie and take me home makes us both cringe.

I’m unable to resume normal breathing capacity and the lobby feels full of thick, stiff air that clamors down my lungs and bangs on my pulmonary system to “let it in.”

I grab my neck and sway.

Teresa grows concerned and yet still unwilling to disrupt everyone’s evening.

I pat her arm and let her know non-verbally that I can manage till the end.

I want to call my mom. I want to talk to her before I die. I will probably make the news, though.

I realize it would be just as inconvenient for Nikki to come get me. Calling to say I feel weird and want to come home will not go over well.

Back to Friday the 13th (Pt 2), a couple sits gasping for air. Having just escaped the killer’s clutches, they hear a scratching sound and brace themselves for another round of Jason. Instead it’s Muffin, the lead character’s dog! Until… Jason jumps through a window, blade in hand. The entire theatre screams in perfect horror-movie fashion.

We make it back to Amy’s truck and they realize I’m not well. It’s dawns on them that killing a child might get everyone in hot water and suddenly I’m a focal point. Cowboy stops at a convenience store and purchases a bottle of milk. I’m encouraged to down the milk to settle my heart.

I hate milk, but I don’t hate the much-needed attention.

Cowboy knows of a home for sale where we can continue this evening’s activities.

Wait. What?

I want to go home. Please God let this evening end.

I find myself in a townhouse with wall-to-wall carpeting that smacks of being lived in. Cowboy and Amy waste no time finding a bedroom upstairs. Teresa and fake David Cassidy sit down on the couch with me. Teresa asks if I’m ok.

“I feel odd. Not good, not as bad. I feel like I did at my friend Carol’s birthday party. She had a magician come and he picked me to unclick the rings, only I couldn’t and he kept saying it was easy, ‘just unclick the rings’ and everyone was staring at me and I wanted to unclick the rings but they wouldn’t unclick…I tried everything,” I explain.

I look up to see Teresa and Cassidy kissing in a grotesque fashion. I watch his thick tongue expunge the bacteria in my friend’s mouth and then dart his tongue back in again.

The milk in my stomach rumbles.

“I’m going to be sick,” I state as I head towards a bathroom.

I heave the contents of my stomach into a toilet, that’s in a home, for sale, in Kauffman.

I regroup at the sink. I’m confronted by my reflection and we have a lot to say to one another.

How are you here? Why are you so ugly that no one wants to spend time with you much less remove the human flora from your mouth? You have no friends. No one loves you. No one will ever love you. It’s silly that you think you’re cared for. Who you are repulses even your only caregiver.

My image berates me with cruel thoughts from my head. Every insult resonates with a deep-seated fear and therefore reeks of validity.

The bathroom grows dark sans a spotlight from above. Like a Judy Garland solo, I peel my eyes open and lean closer to my reflection.

“Who’s in there?” I inquire.

No response but my heart is flipping in on itself and I’ve accepted that I might croak in this bathroom. It’s serious enough that I no longer care about embarrassment.

“Teresa!” I call as I run outside the bathroom.

She’s not on the couch. There’s no one here, I think.

“Teresa!” I yell again.

Nothing.

I go back to the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub.

“You’re nothing. You will always be nothing. A waste of space,” my head declares.

Another voice jumps up and tells me to “fake it.

Whoever or whomever is telling you that you’re a piece of shit is probably right. But here’s the beauty of this being an internal struggle, no one has to know. You can fake that you’re as worthy as everyone else. You can pretend that you’re worth something,” this new, shiny voice offers.

“I don’t know,” I say out loud.

“We got this! If anyone laughs at a joke, you laugh harder. If anyone says, ‘did you know?’ you quickly respond that you did know. ‘Have you read this book?’ the answer is, ‘Why yes, I have’. Just twist your personality into something that everyone wants to hear and don’t have any needs. People hate needs. Be self-sufficient, don’t let anyone in on your brain and don’t be yourself. Got it?” shiny, happy voice exclaims.

I have hope for the first time all night. There’s a way out of all this without dying and starting over. Just allow my inner self to die and start over.

I go sit down on the couch and wait for my older cohorts to finish their evening/early morning activities. I don’t rush them or disturb them because I’m not some needy 11 year-old who wants to know when we’re going home. I’m Misty, the easiest, happiest person in the world.

Nikki picks me up the next morning and doesn’t yet know that I’ve changed. Soon, she will see I’ve learned it’s going to take lots of drugs not to be me.