Sorry, but rules are rulesOriginally Posted by Rules
The light of our living room is dimmed, and we watch television while passing just some of the great amount of time we spend together everyday. I sit on the hard floor as my mother relaxes above me in her La-Z-Boy recliner. My ears become aware of the sound of a liquid clapping against the interior of a glass, followed by a swallow, and I turn my head to look up at her. I am eight years old and looking up to my mother is something I am familiar with, but this time, I sense an alteration of mood throughout the room. I see that glossiness has taken over the sheer shine of her big blue eyes, and she constantly squints them, even with her glasses on. My attention strays from the movie as I watch blue and white lights bounce on and off her face, and as she takes sip after sip of what I would soon name my arch nemesis, an action of hers that would complicate my life significantly and mold me into the person I have struggled to become.
I cannot comprehend at such a young age the seriousness of the situation and I have no opinion nor emotion towards it, apart from curiosity. However, as time passes, I realize that there is a daily presence of something in my home that makes my life different from those of my friends and classmates. By age 10, a lonely and worried feeling ensues due to an increase of my motherís sipping. I watch as she begins to drown herself out of reality by succumbing to alcoholic beverages throughout the majority of each day.
The person she becomes when she is drinking is fond of saying and doing mean and angry things to anyone she sets her eyes on. She acts so unintelligent, defensive, and aggravated. She argues things that arenít at all rational, and it cripples me. At age 11, she smashes my stereo against the floor because I forget to fold my socks. After every attack, I can feel my heart beating out of my chest, and tears stinging my cheeks as they fall from my face. I can hardly fathom what I do to deserve them. The communication in the relationship between my mother and I suffers greatly. I do not trust her for the reason that when I do tell her my actual words from deep within, she uses them against me in the corrupted court of intoxication. Anytime that she is not sober, a dark cloud surrounds her and downpours on me. Thus, I live in my own home with a constant fear of being struck by lightning. I still love my mother, but her drinking is causing me pain.
In school, I continue my work as usual, it has never really been a bother to me. However, I begin to seclude myself from all of the other children at school I barely talk to anyone unless I am spoken to. Thus, I become dangerously shy. Nobody knows me. I wonít allow it because I cannot bring myself to trusting anyone given that thereís always a possibility of disappointment. At age 12, I stop inviting my friends to come over my house at all. I cannot risk having them see my new mother, nor her new ways. Nobody knows about the dysfunction that is occurring in my home, and it is necessary for me to keep it that way. Otherwise, they will think that I am different, as I know I am because I can feel my innocence disappearing bit by bit each time I observe my motherís drinking and the evil that extrudes all the while. I am ashamed.
In seventh grade, my mother forces me into a charter school, different from the public school that my only friends go to attend, and although she may think it is in my best interest, I can only comprehend it as her hate for me. My head contains a large amount frustration towards my motherís addiction and towards the shyness and damaged confidence I had developed as a result that prevents me from making any new friends at my new school. I cannot get to sleep at night until hours after an appropriate bedtime. Thus, my only desire when I get home from school is to sleep, of which I choose over homework, preparing for exams, and accepting friendsí invitations to go out so often that my grades suffer significantly and my skin turns pale by the lack of sunlight I encounter. I am aware that I have entered into a depression that has locked me deep inside, and it is one that will not return the key until years later.
By the ninth grade, I have lost almost all respect for my mother because even with efforts of telling her how much I hate the fact that she feels the need to drink all the time, and how much energy it takes out of me everyday to deal with it, she remains the same. My anger towards her blinds me from the reasons her brain function this way. It isnít just my eyes, though, that cannot see. Her big blue eyes have failed her too, and they have failed me. I no longer can look into them and feel safe as I had as a child. I feel disgusted, because she knows she is killing herself, and weakening me day by day, and she will do nothing to change it. I take her repudiating response as her lack of love for me and come to the conclusion that she is no longer my mother, just a drunk. I soon come to the recognition that the only way to get away from the Woman is to go to college. I forget about my life at home while I am at school to the best of my ability, give the work all of my effort, and I earn my position on the honor roll every term.
In the beginning of my senior year of high school, a terrible fight between the Drunk Woman and I takes flight. It is late at night and I am only in the presence of her kitchen because I am thirsty, but she feels she must say something so I will join in her evil little game. She bashes on every move I make. I am usually able to brush off her drunken insults, but this time she sets off a bomb. She fires curses at me, and I immaturely curse back, for the reason that my anger did have to be expressed in some way. Due to her provocation, I tell her that I will never speak to her again, that she will not be attending my wedding in the future, nor ever meeting my children, and I without doubt mean every word.
I go three months without saying one word to the Woman. Within the second month, though, an old family friend discovers that there is conflict between her and I, and thus approaches me to make an attempt at healing our relationship. He must have said it 20 times, for the words ďYour mother will always be your mother!Ē have still not left my mind. I see the disappointment in his eyes as I automatically dismiss his advice. I feel that Jimís support of a drunk is completely bias, and that I cannot possibly forgive the Woman who had sacrificed the relationship between us to intoxicate herself. Jim gives up on me as he returns to his home in Florida, but before he departs, he makes sure to say, ďThink about our little chat.Ē
By the next month, I am talking to my mother again. It takes strength and contemplation, but I finally bring myself to forgiving her. I learn to accept things for what they are and I recognize that my motherís drinking is a disease, not a hobby, and that it is not something that she would be able to stop in the snap of a finger. I realize that I donít have to be angry all the time that she is near, nor even angry when she is drunk. I realize that there are reasons she feels the need to block out reality, such as the loss of both her parents, two failed marriages, and even my own disowning of her. I see that once our communication begins again, a smile on her face is never absent, and I am pleased.
I have never had any diseases, no mental disorders, no physical nor learning disabilities, not even a broken bone. I have always had some quantity of friends and no one entirely close to me has ever passed away. I am grateful to have had these fortunes, yet, I grew up feeling alone through the actions of my mother. Iíd love to be able to say that growing up for me so far has been a blast, but I canít. I wish I could say that my parents tucked me into bed every night, that everyday was Family Day, and that there never was a time when I had to worry, but that has only ever happened in my dreams. Most people probably couldnít say the same without having to lie, either, and Iím well aware that most families in this world suffer from some sort of dysfunction. However, the dysfunction that has occurred in my family, I know, has made me who I am today, because our families, the people we are forced to look at everyday, and the people that we learn to live around, are the people that make us who we are. Growing up with my mother, and with the disease that she acquired, I have become independent and tolerant of the weaknesses of others. I am well prepared to walk straight into any college and face any challenge, and open to meet anyone and everyone.
Sorry, but rules are rulesOriginally Posted by Rules
sorry. please leave feedback on my essay* much appreciated.