Kelita -Author, Coach, Singer, Songwriter: Part 2 - Escape in a Slurpee Cup

I began indulging in some serious drinking by Grade 8—around the age of 14, to the best of my knowledge. “Serious” might be a stretch, but at the time, it felt grown-up and dangerous. We’d make jungle juice—this dubious, barely drinkable concoction pulled from someone’s parents’ liquor cabinet. It was so detestable that if you dared show any sign of disdain, you’d get the side-eye from your crew. So, we all bravely sucked it down like it was the nectar of the gods, even though it tasted like a chemistry class gone sideways.

We'd hide behind the 7-Eleven with large Slurpee cups and guzzle it down. The goal was to be drunk in 15 minutes, because curfew was 11 p.m., and we had to make it an early night. We’d wander the streets of our neighborhood laughing too loud, or take shelter in a friend’s basement, grateful for their absent parents and a warm place to ride out the wave. We’d lie low long enough to sober up—at least partially—so we could stumble home without being obvious.

I'm grateful now that my stepfather was a deep sleeper. He rarely heard me come in, which is probably part of the reason I kept obeying the curfew. That, and the fact that he was mean. I didn’t dare break the rules—I just bent the truth around them. Honestly, his snoring was so loud it probably drowned out any creaky floorboards, doors, or even teenage guilt. I figured if I could slip past the chainsaw in the hallway, I was golden.

Looking back, it’s clear to me now: this was how I coped. The laughter, the sneaking around, the buzz that numbed my body just enough—all of it helped me manage the pain and trauma I carried in my young life. Drinking became the escape hatch no one knew I needed. It wasn’t about partying. It was about disappearing for a while.

And sometimes, those disappearances led me into danger I couldn’t see coming.

There’s a chapter in my memoir that recounts one such moment—an encounter that came frighteningly close to date rape, fueled by alcohol, vulnerability, and my desperate need to be seen. It’s hard to tell stories like that. But I believe we need to. Because too many of us have stories like that.

Author’s Note:

Some of us grew up too fast. Some of us disappeared before anyone even knew we were hurting.

If this chapter of my story brings something up for you, please know you’re not alone. I explore these early years of coping and survival more fully in my memoir Reason to Sing – An Inspiring Journey Overcoming Trauma, Abuse, and Betrayal.

It’s okay to revisit the past—especially when it leads to healing.

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