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Alcoholic parents

Eighteen. My heart shattered on the floor along with the pieces of glass from her bottles of whisky, I learned to hate myself. I learned to despise myself from caring so much, whether she is ok, because while thinking of her, she is thinking of the random guy in bed next to her. I dreaded those nights. Those nights I lay alone drowning in my own tears, while she drowned herself in the bottles of vodka and whiskey, swallowing the pain until she was numb. As if she was the one who didn’t have a choice. She chose the bottle over her family, substance over her own child and yet I struggle between forgiveness and hurt. Vodka fixes everything, but, not a broken heart.

Nineteen. She is never home to see, how depression can kill, how it’s killing her own daughter, how anxiety, is poisoning me with random men sleeping under the same roof as me. She can’t see how lost I am, how many times I have tried to harm myself because of it all, but…. Instead she educated me on the importance of self-image and as long as you are at a bar, somebody will sleep with you. Yet she has never chosen to see that suicide has once been a word in my vocabulary, how she’s never been there when I needed her embrace, her reassuring words. She taught me self-reliance is inevitable, but you will never be good enough to support yourself, the world will always beat you down, and she taught me it doesn’t matter if you fight back or if you respect yourself, or if you care about anybody else because she taught me, vodka fixes everything.

Other essay:   The life of an alcoholic

Twenty. And one morning, when she still hadn’t returned home, I threw the bottles out the window and found myself in freezing snow as tears stuck to my face. I knew to get back up. I knew the battle is the hardest part in life. I knew that I was broken, shattered. I knew that she would never be sober enough to teach me one more useless thing in my life because, I deserved better. And to my own devastation, when I packed my bags and began walking towards the front door, I found my mother sprawled on the bathroom floor with blood dripping from her mouth. I saw her vodka, be the result of her downfall, and I learned that vodka doesn’t fix everything.

Twenty – seven. Hey, I’m Hope. I have been going in and out of rehab for five or so years now… I see a few familiar faces. Well my mother…

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