The sun and moon a tragic love story.
A love story of a mother and daughter, always on opposite ends until one day.
The cold dark night hugged my small town. As she drank her last bottle of wine. I asked the wind if she would ever give it up.
She doesn’t love you I’d scream to the wind acting like her addiction could hear me and fear me.
Not much is happening these days, as her hands have sewn into the glass bottle. I wonder what kind of love must pour from it. She doesn’t even look in my direction as I appear like a ghost floating about the room. She doesn’t remember that she loves me. She doesn’t remember that she loves herself. My mom’s eyes have only filled with hatred lately. I want to use the glass from the wine bottle to cut my wrist. She would dance in my blood.
She is cold and shaking. I look with empty eyes. How could it have gotten here? Why are we here? I remember being alone a lot as a child. Weekends were filled with the blue light on the TV screen. I’d sit in silence in the dark house. I felt scared to just move. No one is around it’s past midnight. I never wondered where my mom was. I only focused on what lingered in the darkness.
At 12 years old I went down for a glass of water. I had found my mother laying halfway on the couch. Dangling off the side of the couch,half way on the floor what a terrifying sight. Was that what life has to offer? Is that where I’d end up? Going over with unease, I gently shocked her to find that she did respond. I got her up, undressed from her jeans, and put her to bed. I remember standing back and looking at the surface of her skin. She is so beautiful she has a laugh that’ll fill a room. Her smile would invite you even into the darkest places. I loved her so much it hurt. I wasn’t a happy kid. I didn’t know what a good life consisted of. I thought people pretended to be happy. That scared me. I was scared of living and I was scared of dying. I found myself missing her. I wasn’t sure what I missed though.
The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. I did what I learned. I used anything to fill empty voids. At this point in my life, I was 22 years old. In recovery for 8 months, I finally felt the wind and it didn’t suffocate me. The sun is warm on my skin.
Cold sweats and empty bottles. I feel like I saw my mother for the first time as a lost broken soul. How could she be so beautiful with all that pain she wears around? She went to the ER sick not knowing what was going on. When I arrived they had IV fluids pumping into her arm. She tells me she is cold. I ask for a heated blanket and I tell the nurse she missed her vein and the fluid is pumping into her arm. I should know I’ve been an IV user for years before I began my recovery. Her eyes were clear, more clear than I’ve seen in a long time. She seemed so sad. I thought the worst and I choked on the words as they got stuck in my throat. She is withdrawing from alcohol. Fear saturated me.
I know withdrawal best. I sat in a jail cell as I slowly became alive again, it took months. My childhood memory and the thought hit me like a train. Is this what I’ll become. The thought seemed to own me. I snapped to reality and looked where I was standing. I stood speechless in front of my mother as she shakes and lies hooked up to a machine. I was still sober and I decided then I will choose my own recovery for myself.
They took her blood and ran a test for the flu. They looked at every option. When they asked about her drinking her eyes darted to me as the lie flowed easily off her lips. They admit they don’t know what’s wrong with her. I think she got the picture. The first thing she did when she got home was drink wine. Later she told me she feels better. Anger, fear, and disappointment burst at my seams.
“Mom, you were withdrawing from alcohol early. I can’t be years down this road with children having you call me. Saying you can’t keep a drink down but you need to drink to feel better. Puking every time you swig one down.”
As the light in her eyes flickers for a moment, she says back to me “If it ever gets to that point I hope you help me, sis.”
How could she say that to me? Did she really expect me to actually help her? She knows right now she has a problem but won’t face it. My mother has only ever said she had a drinking problem when she was drunk. That doesn’t help anyone. You can’t blame her though. Alcohol was just who she was as a person it made her, her.
Brave. The definition of brave- ready to face and endure danger or pain; showing courage. I am all the best parts of my mother. She had a goal to write a book. She is good at writing. I never knew I’d be more than three years into recovery with a month old son. Being brave enough to become a writer, welcoming everyone into the parts of me I don’t look at. Releasing, learning, and healing all due to writing. To that I thank you.
