Speaking Out: Our Kids Deserve to Know

I sat crouched in the woods behind my house as the driving rain continued to lash my thoroughly drenched body. The temperature had dropped into the 40s, and I wasn’t wearing a jacket because I hadn’t planned to spend any time outside. I was drunk. Beyond drunk, really. I was in blackout territory as the lights of my teenage memory flickered in and out.

I had been at a party with high school friends. I mixed beer with shots of vodka, youthful exuberance, encouraging friends and overwhelming ignorance. I had gotten in a fight with my best friend about something as significant as who loved Led Zeppelin more or if crunchy or smooth peanut butter was better. It was enough to send me reeling home (the party was at his house, after all) shouting slurred insults over my shoulder as I stumbled down the street toward my house. When I arrived, I was surprised to see lights on in the family room. My father was still up watching TV, and I had just barely enough connection to reality to know I couldn’t pull off a quiet and stealthy entry. I would have to wait for him to go to bed.

The only thing that protected me from the pain of the bitter-cold rain was the drunken numbness that had overtaken my body. I eventually passed out in a pile of wet leaves as my heart rate and breathing slowed to a near-hibernated state. I awoke in the pre-dawn hours almost too cold to…