Fall to Pieces: A Memoir of Drugs, Rock 'N' Roll, and Mental Illness Read Online Free
Author: Mary Forsberg Weiland, Larkin Warren
better learn to catch it, Mary, or you’re gonna get hit!” Wise words.
Mom was the queen of coupons and a master of strategy: she knew how to squeeze a nickel to the squeaking point, and could plan a menu for a month at a time and never bend the budget. When we got to the market, she’d pull out her list, give me a handful of coupons, give my brother, Johnny, another handful, and the three of us would fan out, then go through separate checkout lines to get even more discounted multiple boxes of Wheaties and Cheerios.
There was a point when I insisted we take the food stamps and coupons to grocery stores far away from where we lived, so I wouldn’t see anybody I went to school with. One day, the government cheese line was very long, stretching out into the parking lot under the hot summer sun. “I can’t believe we have to do this,” I whined.
“Be glad that we can,” said my mother calmly. “We don’t waste money; we don’t waste food.”
I may still have the coupon-clipping habit, but I cannot go near a box of Wheaties, and I would rather mix rat poison with water than ever again drink powdered milk. Whenever there’s a food drive in my neighborhood, I buy and donate the best vegetables, the best sauces, the top-brand fruits and juices. When I think of someone who’s poor, struggling, or sad because they have to eat generic crap and Day-Glo cheese, it just makes me angry.
In spite of their hardships , my parents had music playing all the time: in the house, in the car—the radio was free. On my fifth birthday, they gave me the coolest fold-up portable record player that played 45s. The label on the inside read, DEJAY HAPPY TUNES/PHONOGRAPH PLAYER . It was covered in a denim print, and when you flipped it open, a little cord came out of a hole in the back and plugged into the wall. Along with this beautiful piece of art came three records—“Pac-Man Fever,” “867–5309/Jenny” (Tommy Tutone!), and my favorite song ever, Joan Jett’s version of “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll.” That song had me playing air guitar and flying off my bed like Eddie Van Halen.
A few years ago, I actually met Joan Jett. Despite that I was well into adulthood, I thought I’d pass out from excitement. I managed to hold it together and blurt, in a super-fan kind of way, “‘I Love Rock ’n’ Roll’ was my first record!” She smiled and looked at me with that pleasant but safe-distance expression that most celebrities wear when someone’s blurting at them. It’s the “Hmm, she’s just a little bit bananas, isn’t she?” look.
No artist was safe from me and my little denim record machine. Madonna, New Edition, the Cure. Yes, I know these artists don’t belong together—even now, my iPod looks like some kind of cyber malfunction downloaded the history of all music but in no particular order. It’s not my fault that I have no musical boundaries: My father’s favorite record is still David Bowie’s Diamond Dogs ; my stepdad’s is Prince’s Purple Rain . Most nights, I fall asleep with headphones on, and before my eyes are 100 percent open in the morning, I’ve already inhaled at least three songs, the majority of them ridiculouslyloud rock. I require large amounts of caffeine and an earthquake of music to get going, and I am filled with gratitude every day for all the artists who get me out of bed and back into the world.
I never played dress-up when I was a kid, except for the times Mom and I played rock star, taking turns wearing her special Saturday-night outfit, the burgundy wrap skirt with the matching long-sleeved leotard. We’d put on layers of her mascara and the pink cheek stain from the little pot she carried in her purse, then stand in front of the mirror and wail like Stevie Nicks into our hairbrushes. My air guitar was, in fact, all air. I would’ve played with a tennis racket if I’d had a tennis racket, but I didn’t; I had a hairbrush and Joan Jett.
Accessing memories is so much
Mom was the queen of coupons and a master of strategy: she knew how to squeeze a nickel to the squeaking point, and could plan a menu for a month at a time and never bend the budget. When we got to the market, she’d pull out her list, give me a handful of coupons, give my brother, Johnny, another handful, and the three of us would fan out, then go through separate checkout lines to get even more discounted multiple boxes of Wheaties and Cheerios.
There was a point when I insisted we take the food stamps and coupons to grocery stores far away from where we lived, so I wouldn’t see anybody I went to school with. One day, the government cheese line was very long, stretching out into the parking lot under the hot summer sun. “I can’t believe we have to do this,” I whined.
“Be glad that we can,” said my mother calmly. “We don’t waste money; we don’t waste food.”
I may still have the coupon-clipping habit, but I cannot go near a box of Wheaties, and I would rather mix rat poison with water than ever again drink powdered milk. Whenever there’s a food drive in my neighborhood, I buy and donate the best vegetables, the best sauces, the top-brand fruits and juices. When I think of someone who’s poor, struggling, or sad because they have to eat generic crap and Day-Glo cheese, it just makes me angry.
In spite of their hardships , my parents had music playing all the time: in the house, in the car—the radio was free. On my fifth birthday, they gave me the coolest fold-up portable record player that played 45s. The label on the inside read, DEJAY HAPPY TUNES/PHONOGRAPH PLAYER . It was covered in a denim print, and when you flipped it open, a little cord came out of a hole in the back and plugged into the wall. Along with this beautiful piece of art came three records—“Pac-Man Fever,” “867–5309/Jenny” (Tommy Tutone!), and my favorite song ever, Joan Jett’s version of “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll.” That song had me playing air guitar and flying off my bed like Eddie Van Halen.
A few years ago, I actually met Joan Jett. Despite that I was well into adulthood, I thought I’d pass out from excitement. I managed to hold it together and blurt, in a super-fan kind of way, “‘I Love Rock ’n’ Roll’ was my first record!” She smiled and looked at me with that pleasant but safe-distance expression that most celebrities wear when someone’s blurting at them. It’s the “Hmm, she’s just a little bit bananas, isn’t she?” look.
No artist was safe from me and my little denim record machine. Madonna, New Edition, the Cure. Yes, I know these artists don’t belong together—even now, my iPod looks like some kind of cyber malfunction downloaded the history of all music but in no particular order. It’s not my fault that I have no musical boundaries: My father’s favorite record is still David Bowie’s Diamond Dogs ; my stepdad’s is Prince’s Purple Rain . Most nights, I fall asleep with headphones on, and before my eyes are 100 percent open in the morning, I’ve already inhaled at least three songs, the majority of them ridiculouslyloud rock. I require large amounts of caffeine and an earthquake of music to get going, and I am filled with gratitude every day for all the artists who get me out of bed and back into the world.
I never played dress-up when I was a kid, except for the times Mom and I played rock star, taking turns wearing her special Saturday-night outfit, the burgundy wrap skirt with the matching long-sleeved leotard. We’d put on layers of her mascara and the pink cheek stain from the little pot she carried in her purse, then stand in front of the mirror and wail like Stevie Nicks into our hairbrushes. My air guitar was, in fact, all air. I would’ve played with a tennis racket if I’d had a tennis racket, but I didn’t; I had a hairbrush and Joan Jett.
Accessing memories is so much
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