Denial becomes your best friend without ever introducing itself.

Deny, Deny, Deny.

You never realize when you’re in denial. You never acknowledge the problem; you simply act as if it is not real.

Alcoholism is the most prominent theme in my story, and I have definitely been denying it. Too hurtful to think that those who were suppose to love me most have actually hurt me the most. Too painful to think that they should’ve been there when they weren’t. Too gut-wrenching to think that I wouldn’t be so broken if they just didn’t drink.

Anger.

Why me / why was I given the cards of two alcoholic parents / why was I given the family that I wouldn’t even give the title family to / why was I abandoned

Resentment.

You did this to me / you are the very reason why my self-esteem is so low / you are the very reason why I feel like I am never enough / you never even gave me a second thought / it’s all about you, mom / it’s all about you, dad / sorry that i’ve become such an interruption in your lives

Guilt.

Am I never enough /  would this not happen if i was better / if i wasnt such a problem / if i wasnt such a burden / if i was more

Blame.

It’s my fault that my mom started drinking / she never would have drank if he didn’t leave / he wouldn’t have left if she didn’t have me / am i the beginning of this miserable journey that they have begun

Denial.

I am different from them / this does not have an effect on me / i have conquered this demon of alcohol / it doesn’t effect me anymore

Acceptance.

I was lying / it effects every part of myself / it wasn’t until now that I even realized it though…

Healing

When will it’s hand deliver me from this mess that I have made my bed in?

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I made it, mama.

“I finally made it, Mama.”

Not that you care that I did,
because you always claim that you were behind me from the start

but is that true?

I bet you forgot about all of your druken stuppors that happened
not once in awhile,
but every single night,
and on the bad nights you would yell until your throat was sore,

Claiming that, “you will never make it.
you won’t ever go to college.
you won’t be able to get out of this hell hole.”

Well mom,
I made it.

And for the record,
I’m not mad at you for spending all of our government funds on those bottles of vodka,
I’m not mad that you chose to spend countless hours at that ratty old tavern every night,
I’m not mad that you never came to my games or paid attention to my grades,

I’m mostly sad,
and in the strangest way,
happy with it all.

I wear these scars as battle wounds,
To show that I am proud of where I came from.
I wouldn’t be who I am without the constant trials that I was plauged with,
I wouldn’t be who I am without the requirement of being completely independent by the age of ten.

I’m sad that you never realized what you missed because you were so concerned with finding the bottom of that bottle,
And even now when you’ve lost it all,
Even when you’ve had time to reflect,
You still don’t even see that
you missed it.
You missed out on the key moments of my life.

When I find time to reminisce, I usually find myself alone in those memories,
because you just weren’t there.

I still have some hurt left that I need to redeem, but I do forgive you.
Every last thing that you did to me,
I forgive every single word that you would sling at me.
The unmentionable utters that should have never been muttered,
especially to your own daughter.

I cast that away from me,
From these cities to the slums,
I forgive what you have done.

Not because I am great or mighty,
but because I serve the One who is.
I lift up praises and thanks because He made a way,
and the story that was written did not go to waste.

Mama, I made it.

And I hope that one day,
you can make it too.