You’d think by now I wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t give a shit about my parents, how they treat me, what they say. But here we are, in yet another fucked up situation. My mom gets mad, starts screaming at me. That’s typical. It happens every weekend.
Today she’s angrier than usual, more volatile, more hostile. I retreat alone, trying to hide, escape her directed wrath.
I just wanted to enjoy my morning. Things get thrown, slammed, she’s still yelling. It wasn’t until she started throwing things at my door that I lost it. Everything came flooding back. I was instantly terrified and brought back to every single moment in my life where things have been this way.
Flooded with adrenaline and fear, there’s no good way to handle this. There is nothing I can do but accept it. I can’t fight back, I can’t yell, I can’t stand up for myself, and I can’t leave. My kids are outside playing happily and I don’t want them to see me this way.
There’s nothing I can do to calm myself down, to convince my body that it’s okay, that we’re safe. Except that’s not true now, is it. I have alcohol. Loads and loads of fucking alcohol. Everything I need, right here.
I’m afraid to move. I don’t want to make a sound, be seen, remind them of my presence. But this panic is persistent.
I’m not afraid of alcohol. I’m not afraid of fucking myself up in the name of escaping.
I can’t leave, I can’t fight. There’s nothing I can do.
But I sure as shit can douse the flames with liquor, that will help. It always does.
Wait…doesn’t alcohol make flames bigger?
Ah, oh well. I guess we’ll let future me deal with that. Right now, it seems like a great idea. Even if it’s not.