My parents did a lot of drugs around me growing up but always lied about them. They were sharing "cigarettes," snorting nasal medicine, the little mirrors were for applying makeup, and they went into the bathroom with groups of their friends for long periods of time for protection. My weekend sporting events always culminated in a huge rager at one of the coach's houses (where at some point late in the night the head coach's wife would lick my eyeballs, Bert would put slugs up his nose to sneeze them out in front of us kids, and I'd wind up locked in a closet as the youngest teammate).

In some ways I'm glad I didn't know what was going on, especially with the harder drugs. Although, it was confusing for me and admitting it might've been the best thing for my parents. The accountability might've saved them from divorce, the loneliness they find themselves living now, and their continued addictions.

I smoked pot for the first time at 12 out of a pipe my friends made out of tinfoil. One day before school at 14, I drank so much tequila I puked on the bus, blacked out in a bush before class, then was wheeled to the middle of principal's office where I puked again and finally put in an ambulance. In high school, I'd steal pot from my dad during our monthly visits passing over the powders in plastic bags. I started growing pot at 16, reading a book about growing in my classes (I had fashioned a cover for it). My mom lived with her boyfriend when she wasn't getting arrested or entering and exiting rehab, and my younger sister lived with my aunt, so I was mostly left alone and had drunken get togethers with a small group of friends most weekends. I flunked out of high school at 17 and moved out.

I'd only do things around my children I wouldn't mind them doing.