The Struggles of the Alcoholic’s Spawn

I tried chanting to myself to not let it consume me. I tried to suppress my anguish, my anger and my grief. I have to shut my eyes, as if I was slapped in the face, every time I hear the Latin themed music blaring from the other room. A room I no longer slept in.

I remember dreading sleeping in that room, once upon a time. Especially during those times. It was so loud I could feel it jumping with my stomach. I thought that one day my ears would bleed and I would pass out from the pain. Soon I had to sleep on the couch or with my dad when I couldn't stand the music, the crying and the smell.

God, I hated that smell.

My mother's a drunk, I'm sure. She always has been. But when I was little my innocent mind couldn't comprehend the extent of her early drinking. She usually bought an eighteen pack of Modelo from the convenience store and slunk into her bedroom. Behind the shut door was the depressed drunk in a lifeless marriage.

Once I almost cried because she drove to the store drunk, just for more beer.

For a fucking beer.

Don't you care, Mom? Don't you care that you're hurting your relationships with all of us? Do you not realize how your own husband and son now avoid you at all costs when you swing that door open and stumble into the living room? Don't you care that one day, if you decide to drive in that car intoxicated again you could potentially not only kill yourself in a crash, but another person. Another young girl's mother who she loves so dearly?

Don't you care about us anymore?

But of course you don't. All you care about is your precious booze and those who died long ago in your life. And I'm sorry you lost your mother and brother, I really am, but you can always find healthier ways to cope. To not let the grief consume you. I'm afraid that it already has.

But what do I know? After all I'm just an angsty teenager worrying myself to death about school, college, and how I'm going to be able to pay for college after senior year of high school. Right now I'm just a junior trying to find extracurricular activities. That's all I am, nothing more to you except your daughter. Why am I still worried? Why am I getting angrier and angrier every time I hear your slurred speech from the living room? Why am I finding it so difficult to gather every ounce of my being just to keep up a pleasant conversation with you, if it even is that.

Why, why, why?