I come from a long line of addicts. My biological father, Michael, is a recovering alcoholic. My biological mother, Heather, is also an alcoholic. Though she'll tell you that she's not a drunk. She's denied her own alcoholism since I can remember. She drank with at least three out of six of her kids while she was pregnant with them. Possibly four, but that one is unconfirmed. She's been told over and over again that she's got issues and she needs to get help. She never has. Instead, she's pickling her liver. Her husband is also pickling his liver. I mean, the woman tripped at work because she was wasted. She was fired because she was drinking on the job and stealing alcohol. So yeah, she's a drunk. Her biological father, Ted, who passed away a few years ago, was a drunk. I think even his father was a drunk. Michael's biological father, whom I don't think he's even met, I believe was also a drunk. The point is that there is a lot of addiction and alcoholism in my family, But there's a lot of trauma as well. I don't know if those correlate. They probably do a little. I don't know a lot about my family history. My mother lies. Everything is shrouded in mystery. Or, you know, hazy from booze-filled dreams.
I'm not an addict. Nor am I an alcoholic. I don't like drinking. Sure, I'll drink socially, but even then, I don't like it. I'd rather dance. When I think of alcohol, I think about my mother. I think about her wine breath as I tuck her into bed. I think about cleaning up her vomit from the floor. It doesn't have good memories associated with it. I made that choice a long time ago that I wasn't going to be like her. I wasn't going to drown my sorrows and pain in alcohol. Just like I made the choice to not do drugs.
Sure, I've smoked pot. I've had some edibles. but that is the extent of my drug usage. Frankly, the reason why I don't like drinking I don't want to be like my mother. The reason why I don't do any hard drugs is because I don't want to be like my brother Tristan.
Now, I've talked about him a few times. My poem "Demons" is about him. He's featured in a few pieces from "I Don't See You Anywhere." Those pieces are "Speculations" and "Parental Repercussions."
if you know me then you know that I love my siblings more than anything. Tristan is my best friend. He's 28 and I'll be turning 30 in June, so we've always been close. I'll admit that I've always had rose-colored glasses on when it comes to him. Maybe I've babied him a bit too much. Maybe a part of me did that because I felt bad that he didn't get a good mother. Sure, I didn't either. Yet sometimes it seems like he suffered more from our shitty drunk mother. maybe that was wrong. Maybe that was wrong to baby him. maybe, in a way, by babying him, I was enabling him, too.
That's hard for me to admit.
I love my brother. I'd die for him. I'd probably kill for him. But I also know that he's not perfect.
Tristan started using cocaine again. So much so that his wife Natalie kicked him out. I can't blame her there. And I made sure to tell her that I supported her decision. He left it out where his daughter could get it, and that's not okay.
Do you know who that reminds me of?
Our mother. It reminds me of Heather.
When I was about 14 or 15, Heather started dating this guy named Rusty. He was like, ten years younger than her. He was just using her for money. One day, I got home from school to find that he had left his drug paraphernalia out on the coffee table where my little brother Kody (who was, like, 5 at the time) could reach it. And when I say drug paraphernalia, just know I'm not talking about pot. It was some hard-core drugs. Possibly cocaine or meth. I don't know. All I know is that my little brother held it in his hands.
That was terrifying.
I trashed it all. Then I cleaned him up. He could've died from that.
My niece, Ellie, could've died had she gotten in Tristan's stash. that's his daughter.
And I see the same thing repeating. Repeating. Over and over again.
It used to make me sad.
Now? It pisses me off.
Because Tristan knows what that is like. To grow up in that chaos. To grow up with a parent who cared more about getting her next drink than her own kids. You've read it all on here with "Bottles in the Closet," "Drink Yourself to the Grave," "What You Taught Me," "Narcissism," and so many other pieces from "I Don't See You Anywhere" that clearly lays out what it was like growing up with a drunk as a mother. I've been frank and honest about my childhood with Heather. It's been healing and relieving. Like letting out pus from a wound. I may not be fully healed. I know I still have trauma. I'm pretty sure I can trace my reluctance to drive, to move out to my mother. I know all that. I do know that I'm not the same as I was when I first came to Arkansas at 19. I've grown and I've changed. I've come to terms with my shitty childhood.
Yeah, I deserved a hell of a lot better than what I got. But you know what? I can't do anything about that. It's in the past. I can't let it control my every actions. That's not to say that it doesn't. Like, I said, I'm certain I could trace my anxiety driving and moving out on my own to my mother. I'm working on it. I'm a work in progress. But I work every single damn day to make sure that I am nothing like my mother. Every day I make that choice.
I look at Tristan, and I see my mother. I see how she makes herself the victim in everything. How she never takes responsibility for her actions. How she blames everyone but doesn't look in the damn mirror. How she lies and manipulates to get her way. How she uses alcohol to cope with her own issues rather than use the resources she has. Tristan may have admitted that he's an addict, but he still chooses to do drugs. He made one step and yet is stagnant.
And yeah, he can blame our shitty childhood. But at a certain point, he's got to take responsibility for his own actions. He chooses drugs over his family. He makes that choice because it is easier to be high than to be sober and admit that he's fucked up. And maybe I've been too gentle on him. Maybe that's on me. Maybe I should've been giving him more tough love.
Right now I'm sad, but I'm also mad. I'm pissed off. Because I see him repeating exactly what our mother did to us. I want to yell and scream at him. I want to shake him. I want to ask him how you can do this. How can you do the same thing to Ellie that Heather did to us? That's what he's doing. He can't see a way out of the drugs. He's got a whole damn support system. He's got Natalie. Me. Mom (when I say Mom know I mean Wendy, my aunt who adopted me last May and is Heather's older sister). He's got a whole cheer squad in the wings, willing and able to be there. But we can't make him be sober. We can't drag him kicking and screaming. He has to make that choice.
So yeah, I cried when I found out he got kicked out. Just like I cried when I spent Christmas break with him and a week before he would've been sober for a year (January 3rd), he relapsed. I felt like I should've done more. Mom was right. what more could I have done that I hadn't already done? Hadn't I spent hours trying to talk to him? Give him advice? tell him all the things that he hears from his therapist and his sponsor. Haven't I done everything I could to make him see? Maybe I should've taken a different approach.
Maybe I should've said this instead:
Do you now remember scaring Kody and Camron because you came home high out your gourd from taking god knows what? Your best friend Trai was over and he locked you out. Neither Trai nor I would let you in until we knew you were sober. Do you not remember that? Because I do. You're not the one who had to come up with a lie to tell our little brothers. You know, your little brothers who adore you.
Do you not remember coming down from a high and wrapping your hand around my throat? All because I wouldn't give you money for more drugs? Do you not remember that? Because I do. I remember being afraid of you for the first time in my life. Because you're bigger than me. I remember you apologizing the next day. But I also remember you stealing from my wallet. I bet you didn't think I knew.
That is what drugs has done to you.
I'm sure there are more memories like that. I wasn't dumb. I knew he was using when he was a kid. Probably mostly popping pills. Maybe that's why I was too soft on him. Because a part of me blamed myself. Maybe I should've done more. Should've, would've, could've. Like a damn line from a song. I guess I forgot that I was also a kid. What the hell was I supposed to do about my addict brother? What could I do? So yeah, maybe that's why I was too soft.
It's taken me a long time to realize that as much as I want to help, sometimes there's nothing I can do. I can't make him get sober, and I can't make him see that there is a better way. That's a hard pill to swallow. No pun intended.
And yeah, that was humor.
I cope with my trauma with humor.
I cope by smiling and faking it until I make it.
I listen to music.
I hide in my art, my books, my fanfiction. Whatever I can to not have to deal with the trauma. A common thread in every story, whether my original story or fanfiction, is a girl trying to find a home and a family. That's real. That's me. Maybe that's what I'm still looking for. Maybe I'll always be looking for that.
And while I have Mom and she's a damn godsend, there are still some things I can't tell her. Somethings I'm afraid to tell her.
I can't tell her that I'm an overachiever because I'm terrified if I don't do anything, if I'm not the best in school if I don't get this master's, she won't want me anymore. That she'll look at me and maybe all she'll see is Heather. Maybe she won't love me anymore. That if I don't help with chores, she'll think I'm worthless.
Yeah, I know that's bullshit. I know that logically. She's not going to think that. That's my stupid brain. You can't rewire a brain once it's been so warped by a drunk mother.
Hell, Mom would probably be happy if I was an underachiever.
But being an overachiever? That's my trauma manifesting. That's me trying to be the best that I can be. That's me trying to make sure I am seen. Growing up that's all I wanted from Heather. I wanted to be seen. I wanted her to come to my choir concerts, to look at my art, and to take an interest in my writing. She never did.
Being an overachiever is me hiding the fact that, honestly, I'm depressed a lot. I'm fucking tired all the time.
I don't want to be in school anymore. Sure, I'm nailed in for social work, and I'm excited about that program, but I also wish I had realized what I wanted to do years ago. I feel like an idiot sometimes for not figuring that out. I've been in school for ten years. I feel like I haven't grown or changed. I'm stagnant. I'm almost 30 and I can't drive. I don't know why there's that block. Maybe I feel bad for bothering Mom if I want to drive. Who knows?
The truth is that I'd love to just relax. I want to travel. Not just in the states. I want to go everywhere. I want to get over this damn block when it comes to driving, take a few weeks of work off and say fuck it. Go on a cross-country trip because why the hell not?
I want to do all the shit I never got to do.
I want to paint every day and not give two fucks if it looks good.
I want to spend hours writing on stories.
I want to audition for every single play and musical, and maybe one day, I'll get to be a tree.
I want to dress up for no other reason than it makes me happy.
Hell, yes, I still want to throw a masquerade ball.
I want to take vocal lessons and learn ballet, and sometimes, I want to binge-watch my favorite shows.
But you know what?
I also want to be an underachiever. I want someone to take over. I can pass them the damn baton.
Here you go! It's your turn.
Or hell, no one takes over.
I'm so damn tired of trying to be perfect. Of pretending. Of acting like everything is hunky dory. I'm just fucking tired. Being the oldest? It fucking blows. Everyone looks at you like you're perfect. They seem to forget that you're human too. But I think I forgot I was human too.
So yeah, I'm still angry with Tristan. I still want to shake him. But it's his choice. His decision. It's out of my hands. I'd like to say that I at least broke the cycle of addiction and alcoholism. I don't think I did. I think I just replaced it with something else. I haven't figured out if my coping skills are any better than his. Maybe they aren't.
My current theme song is "I Can Do It With a Broken Heart." Check out the lyrics below.
-K
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