Tequila. Surely someone spiked it. I knew I felt woozy as I was trying to be sexy sitting on the console of my boyfriend's Ford Bronco, all of 17. I announce that I would say the multiplication tables starting from 9 and go backwards to stay focused. I was told I was somewhere in the middle of the 8's when I passed out, slumped forward and slid between the gas pedal and the console.
And, yes, we were moving. My boyfriend was flying down an unfamiliar highway in the backwoods of central Texas at 80, drinking himself.
Somewhere in the process of driving from Bastrop to his parents' home in San Antonio, I lost control of my bodily fluids and pissed myself as well as puked on myself and the car. I was completely gone, so I didn't even know he had changed my clothes for me at some point.
We arrived at his parents' home and I experienced one of the most demoralizing moments of my life. I could not move. I could, however, hear and see a little. The boyfriend drug me into his house with one arm over his shoulders. I could not move my legs to walk, or anything. Couldn't really pick up my head. But I heard his father say, 'Jeee SUS Christ, son, what! IS! THAT?!?!"
I wished I were dead. Or at least buried. So ashamed.
His wonderful family took care of me, cleaned me up, and put me to bed.
The following morning they called my mom and were very honest that they were going to let my mom know the severity of the situation.
I was scared of what mom would say, especially that maybe I wouldn't be able to see the boyfriend.
But, you know what Mom said? She said that I had had a very difficult week. Lots of stress. That I probably just blew off some steam. And that was that.
That's when I knew. Even though the last thing I wanted was punishment, I knew I should have it and that something was very wrong.
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