The Day I Learned How to Smoke Crack.
By: Brittany Taylor
Tags: Relationships, Trauma, Life Coach, Healing From Trauma, Drugs

Ok, ok… You got me. I haven’t actually smoked crack. I should have titled it “The day my dad taught me how he smoked crack.” But I didn’t. Because I’m dramatic.

But let’s just say, your girl knows a thing or two about crafting a makeshift crack pipe from a Coca-Cola can. Thanks, Dad!

By the way, I understand that written sarcasm can sometimes invite words about forgiveness, resentment, and other unsolicited advice from well-meaning people. I promise, I love my dad, I have processed this, and this is my space to share my story. I desire to connect with other people who are searching for someone to relate to, without stigma and shame.

Back to my story: I was 16. That was a big year for me. I craved stability and spent my spare time at a local church youth group, volunteering on Sundays at the welcome desk, and spending any babysitting money on a local gym membership so I could try to perform better on my next PFT in JROTC. I created stability for myself in school and church, and I was obsessed with it.

There were multiple times in my adolescence where my father would temporarily live with us. Most of the time, it was an effort for him to move down closer to us, and an attractive financial reprieve for my mother. Nothing romantic. He was a basement dweller, and often left after a couple months.

One day, I was sitting in the dining room, and I can’t for the life of me remember how drug use became a topic of conversation- but it did.

My dad became a super transparent kind of guy as I got older. I love and hate that about him. Some things, your kids should never know. But honestly, his transparency is refreshing. I have very mixed emotions about it, because while I hate to know too much, I love that he doesn’t pretend. I don’t pretend either, but I’m careful.

Ok, back to the “talk.” Dad was sitting across from me and mentioned how he’d tried crack before- he likes to “have a good time.” He was drinking a coke and as he emptied the can, he smashed it between his thumb and index finger, just enough to flatten the middle for his demonstration.

He talked about prepping the surface and even reenacted a big, exaggerated inhale. He took a deep breath, braced his arms on the table as he held his breath, eyes wide open. Then he slowly exhaled. Said it was the best feeling ever. It really helps if you picture a white Dave Chappelle when you read this.

And then, as if to wrap up this little science lesson with a shiny red bow, he finished with, “You’ll crave that feeling again. But it’s never as good as the first time.” His tone was suggestive that because we’d never match the feeling of the first high, it was pointless and going to immediately be a let down. An honest effort, but WTF.

I’m obsessed with trauma because of conversations like these. Was my life threatened? No.

But that conversation- and many conversations before that- stole my childhood.

I went to church feeling like an absolute fraud. Here I was, trying so hard to create my own safety, and somehow I’m the kid in youth group who could give you a good lesson on how to fashion a crack pipe. I hated that. I felt like I would never be innocent and naive. I knew too much, and I didn’t want anything to do with that life. I just wanted to feel ignorant. My dad often took that privilege from me. Yes, childhood is an absolute privilege.

To me, those conversations are another form of trauma- when you can’t quite process the emotions that come up from your parent stealing your sense of safety and security, so you just store it in a box and let it bubble up in adulthood.

For me, that bubbled up as the “I’m a fraud, I’m not a good person” narrative. So now, even at 32, when people display any question about my character (uh ‘em, every man I’ve ever known), it’s the most painful thing I experience.

But I’m working on it. In therapy. In coaching. My daily life.

Last week, I had a break through.

Just wait ’til I speak my truth. My story is an iceberg.

*For the record, details were removed from the instructions, so unsuspecting readers do not have the full description of how to accomplish said task.