Dysfunction: The Memoirs of a Junkie Who No Longer Exists

By Larianne Kristan Swanner

Dysfunction is full of one family s shocking stories that will drop your jaw, turn your stomach, and keep you enthralled to the very end. Take a ride on the rollercoaster of emotions as you follow Larianne through her twisted childhood, hazy teen years, and finally her obsession with drugs where she reaches a fork in her road and must decide what path to take; does she choose DEATH or does she choose LIFE?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781682132944

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Memoirs of a Junkie Who

No Longer Exists

Dysfunction

Larianne Kristan Swanner

Copyright © 2015 Larianne Kristan Swanner

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2015

ISBN 978-1-68213-293-7 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-68213-294-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To Bruce, without your Love and unwavering support, I wouldn’t be alive today. I love you forever and ever!

To my Family, without which these pages wouldn’t be possible, thank you for putting up with me all these years. Here’s to many more.

Also, to all those who I’ve met along the way, you were essential in saving my life. I will be forever grateful!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Reflections

Present Day

Introduction

Ifrequently wish I had known the unavoidable price I’d pay for the orgasm of the mind. I’ve lost many years I can never regain because the sting of a needle and the twenty seconds of ecstasy that followed that tiny prick. The chase to relive those few seconds caused excitement, danger, and escape. Those feelings disguised the inevitable havoc that commences when one starts doing drugs. In actuality, sufficient warnings didn’t stop me from partaking in such horrendous behavior. In my lifespan, there were plenty cautionary signs—I ignored them.

My name is Larianne. Since my father was not granted a boy to carry on his name, he always introduced me as Lari. I pretended to be annoyed by it, but being Lari Jr. made me feel special and important for a moment. The reality was, when I was young, my father’s priorities didn’t really include me or my siblings. We all know how bad the truth hurts, but in order to overcome hurt and pain, I had to face the facts. I’m a drug addict. I’m in recovery, and the steps I work aid me in reaching the best version of myself. In order for me to stay clean, I had to do a complete overhaul. Needing to go to rehab wasn’t enough; the key was my want to be there. I was attempting treatment for the fifth time when I finally intended to put forth real effort towards a change. My previous trips were plays to shut someone up or get them off my back. My last experience at Cornerstone, I didn’t encounter one obnoxious thirst and had never felt more alive. I woke up every morning and had a spreading sensation I couldn’t quite pinpoint. I was told to explain what I was feeling. Hell, I hadn’t felt anything for years except buzzed or high. The simple truth was I didn’t know how. My first stab at a description was being empowered by possibilities. For the first time in my adult life, anything was achievable. I came to realize what I was feeling was hope. By replacing my fear with hope and faith, I saved my life. To understand the present, we must visit the past. Hang on. This is going to get bumpy.

Chapter 1

Ancient Times

Larry stood six feet tall with a lanky build and had long red locks that flowed down his back most of his life. It appeared as if his hair equaled his strength as Samson’s did in the Bible. My sister cut it once, and as she did, we all cried together as if to mourn his mane’s death. It was a very strange moment I think about often. I was grateful he was able to grow it back without any problems because it defined him. In time, the only gray that took root was in his mustache, which he frequently called his whiskers. He was so much more than what met the eye. For Dad, mathematics was simple, crossword puzzles were easy, and he could answer every question asked on one of his favorite shows, Jeopardy .

Daddy had green eyes, big feet, a witty sense of humor, and a taste for ice cream. He always made everything fun and exciting. There was never a dull moment in his presence. Daddy was a rebel, always refusing to conform. He’d do the exact opposite of what he was told with a grin on his face. He was immature, but I think he was afraid of growing old. I believe his mentality was, if he didn’t act his age, then he wouldn’t feel ancient. It appeared to most he was selfish, and maybe he was, but Dad understood to be happy, he needed to please no one but himself. He was a collector of many things; even if it was assumed junk, a place was found for it. I don’t know if he felt thrown away by many that caused him to connect with his pieces or if he just hoarded to have scores of various items. Whatever the case, I would describe it as one of his addictions. Larry had many. Throughout his lifetime, he accumulated a variety of names. First and foremost was his legal title, Larry Scott Manning. Subsequently, there were Willie Fuckin’ Nelson, the PBD (Professional Beer Drinker), Old Bastard, Asshole, Old Man, and the last one granted to him, the Egg Man. Even though some of them sound horrible, he assumed each one proudly, and they were all furnished to him out of admiration and love.

Larry did his best never to judge anyone, aspiring that they would lend him the same courtesy. In time, he gained the ability to be honest with himself and would admit his wrongdoings, but only once. He did not appreciate someone continuously pointing out his mistakes. We all tried to talk to him about his past, but Dad was very weary and always changed the subject or made excuses as to why he wouldn’t. Facing personal faults was challenging for the old bastard, reminding him of his personal pain and the hurts he caused. Larry was one of eleven children. From what I’m told, while growing up, they were supposed to bury feelings and put on a facade, never allowing the truth to be exposed. Larry continued on pretending for most of his life. The old man had a few different loves in his time. The most consistent love was his relationship with music. Southern/classic rock and metal were above any other genres in his mind. I’m grateful he raised me on some of the greatest artists and bands to ever walk the planet. My personal favorite is Lynyrd Skynyrd! They don’t just present melodies, every song they’ve given the world tells a story. They offered up That Smell, which described Larry Manning as if he was the member of the band they based the lyrics on. I couldn’t tell you who his favorite group was. Basically, if he could air guitar to what was blaring out of the speakers, it was his jam! You would know how he felt because he’d lean over with his hair, falling over his face, and repeat That’s good fucking shit at least three times, slobbering through each sentence. He was very eclectic also, admiring Patsy Cline with her original country twang, Jethro Tull with their beloved flute, and a couple others such as ABBA and Duran Duran. I don’t really see what my parents had in common other than their strong need to walk through life inebriated and to steer clear of owning any responsibility. I can say my mother tried to be different because she had chunks of sobriety in her past. She was either living a life of constant Bible study or allowing her insatiable need to dismiss realty drive her.

When Larry met Angie, she was a single mother of two, Big Bro and Odd Ball. After they were hitched, they popped out Lizzie and me. I was born in May of ’87 in El Paso, Texas, and became the baby girl. I’m not going to pretend that I was an angel. I was a spoiled brat. I’m told that in those early years, we somewhat resembled a family. We moved three times before I started school. When we first arrived in New York, everything seemed copasetic, but it didn’t take long for it to go awry. I don’t have a memory of my dad ever hitting my mom, but apparently, he did a few times. Daddy claimed he was going to quit drinking and that he’d change. Not long after Mom said she’d give him a chance to, I found a six-pack of beer in the creek while I was playing outside. Then my brother came home and told my mother that he caught my dad with a nineteen-year-old, and it caused their foreseeable separation.

I remember the excitement I felt my first day of school. I stood on the front steps as I watched my father pull up on his motorcycle to walk me in. I know my face gleamed with pride as I deemed him the coolest daddy ever. Looking back now, I’m so envious of the childlike bliss I felt that day. From then on, if he didn’t have plans on the weekend, that’s when I saw him. He tried to help coach the school sports teams and be there for all us kids, but he wasn’t that great at showing up. Around the age of five I received a scholarship for acrobatics, which I loved and excelled at. I knew the first time I walked into the studio that I fit in there. No one could make me feel out of place or inferior. After the instructor assessed my work, I was placed in a group of teenagers. I thought by surpassing all those children, I would become important, but the truth is Dad was usually too busy avoiding us, and Mom had to work full-time back then. When Mom attended her aerobics class, I cleaned the studio to cover my ballet lessons. Dancing came naturally to me, but I lacked the grace one must have to master ballet. Mama saved up money to buy my first bike, but since she had long hours, Lizzie taught me how to operate it. She did, however, sneak Mom’s camcorder out of the house and recorded the experience for those not able to be there.

I spent a lot of time with Dad in his old Impala. We called it either the Boat or Cloud because of its size and several primer spots spread out across the sky-blue body. There were many occasions when Dad sat me down in front of his whitewall tires with a toothbrush while he washed the rest of her. It was especially fun when Dad would spot Lizzie walking through town with a group of her friends. He’d tell me to get ready and then turn the radio up as loud as it would go to gain the young teens’ attention. We would then head-bang righteously till we were no longer in their sight. Later, when she complained about embarrassment, we’d laugh, and Dad always told her it was his responsibility as her father to do so. Discipline was never my father’s strong suit. The only form I ever saw him use was a bonk. He was performing head slaps way before Gibbs on NCIS became famous for them. His favorite and most used comment throughout the years was, "If you look up dysfunctional in the dictionary, there’s a picture of our family!"

Dad was big on manners even though he didn’t have any when he was drunk, and Larry was almost always three sheets to the wind. I did everything I could when I was a child to please him, so I learned quickly to perform as if I had etiquette. I became knowledgeable on manipulation and deception at a very young age, gifts my parents undoubtedly passed on. I come from a family whose tree has a lot of alcoholics and addicts. Both of my parents have the disease. Don’t misunderstand me; they are not responsible for my actions and/or poor judgment. I do think the environment I was born into did contribute to my horrible decision-making skills, and I could have inherited the addictive gene, but some children come from similar backgrounds and would never touch a drug. It took me a long time to stop making excuses and justifications, but eventually I took full responsibility for my deeds and mistakes.

I was about seven when I first witnessed Daddy receiving a DUI. He was in a bowling league, and they competed every Friday. That evening, when he arrived to pick me, I had a horrible sensation in the pit of my stomach. Call it a gut feeling, intuition, or just fear of knowing what was up ahead. I asked him not to drink that night. He told me that wasn’t for me to worry about. After hours of running around to the sound of Guns N’ Roses blaring out the jukebox in the smoke-filled building, we left the bowling alley, and blue lights filled the car. I can still close my eyes today and pull the image of his face leaning on the backseat window of that police car. I, later in life, was able to understand the despair I saw in his eyes. I almost became a ward of New York State that night. My mother had gone to the city with her friend to party since she was child-free for the weekend, and the cops were unable to reach her. The police refused to leave me with Odd Ball because she was under eighteen; they took us both to the station. I thank God for our pastor, who picked me up in those wee hours. Dad didn’t stay in jail long. He always seemed to get out of trouble with a slap on the wrist.

I had a childhood, but I also feel that I had to grow up sooner than most. Mom used to ask me for advice about her boyfriends. I was close to eight years old. I don’t know what she expected me to tell her. I tried though, always wanting to have someone’s attention. She would call psychic hotlines, and my sisters would get on the other extension in their room to listen. They regularly interrupted the conversation by acting as if they were her mother, and she was under eighteen. It was hilarious and sad; she was tormented by the older three kids all the time. Big Bro was the eldest and in his teens. He used to get in Mama’s face and scream, bullying her into submission. He ruled the house and terrified us all when his tantrums broke out. Growing pot plants sat in his closet, and he had a velvet black light poster on his wall stating it was a high life. The fact he taught me to read the signage and I walked around repeating my newfound statement overjoyed him. Big Bro also knew how to have fun. He would stuff my shirt with pillows, drag out the couch bed, and we’d have boxing matches. Watching him play soccer was exhilarating and made me so proud to be his sister. His talent