Being Raised By Alcoholics Forged My Identity
Knowing where my pain came from helped me to overcome it
“I have some handouts I wanted to give to you,” said Richard.
We sat at opposite ends of his cramped downtown office. I accepted the papers without needing to stretch. “Thanks,” I said, though it probably sounded more like a question.
“Have you given any thought to what we talked about last time?” he asked. His eyes were eager, hopeful.
I scanned the wall to my left, lined with filing cabinets and banker’s boxes filled with so much paper, before my eyes finally and reluctantly rested on him. “Not really,” I said. “I mean, it makes sense, but I’m not really sure how it’s supposed to help.”
He nodded to the papers, now rolled in my fidgeting hands. “Take a look.”
Self-conscious, I unrolled them and tried to scan the information. There was a heading. There were some bullet points below. But I wasn’t absorbing anything. This wasn’t why I’d come here.
I was twenty-six and in my fourth year of teaching kindergarten, and I didn’t really have any problems, except for one: My mind just wouldn’t stop. Since I’d begun my career, I didn’t feel like I’d gotten any rest at all. I’d go to sleep at night, have one seemingly continuous…
