Okay, I seriously think that this piece is my best piece to date. I don't why, but it just gives me that feeling that I know means that it's amazing!
Enjoy the story! :D
How come I still love her? Why should I still love her? After all she's put me through, why would I still try to help her? Is it because we're family? Is it because I take pity on her? No, it's defiantly not that last one. Why should I take pity on a drunk like her? All she does all day is getting wasted and black out. When she blacks out, she becomes a monster with a mouth that has a knack for destroying people with its words filled with hate.
She'll stumble over to me and say in a sly and wicked tone, "Why did I keep you around? I should have thrown you in a ditch right when I left the hospital with you. You're such a worthless piece of garbage."
Even though I know she doesn't know what she's saying, it still rips me to shreds. Every hateful word she says to me pulls apart my heart until it tears in two. I stopped trying to help her during her blackouts when I was around eight. That's when I realized that she will just try to hurt me when she's like this. Now, I lock myself in my room and try not to cry as I hear her stumbling around the room, throwing objects against the walls, and cursing both mine and my father's name. I try to stay out of her way, but she'll slowly stagger over to my door and start to pound on it with her fist.
"You worthless brat," she yells, "Open this door and I won't bust a bottle over your head!"
No matter how many times she calls me names or says she hates me or says she'll hurt me, I don't open the door. Instead, I lean up against my bed and cover my ears like a small child hiding from their parents after they broke a valuable. I try my hardest to block out her curses and her fist hitting the door harder and harder with each strike, but it still doesn't work. Why haven't I gotten used to this yet? It's been going on as long as I can remember. Maybe it's because she's supposed to love me. Yeah, that's a good one. If she loved me and my father, she would've quit a long time ago. She said she was going to quit multiple times and even made an effort once. But ultimately her love for alcohol surpassed her love for her husband and her son.
I don't understand why my father hasn't divorced her yet. Why hasn't he left her behind and taken me far away from her? Is it because she wasn't like this when they married and he wants to get her back to the way she used to be? Or is it because she was like this before they married and he married her out of pity? What if he left and didn't take me with him? He ran away from his drunken wife and worthless son and he went on to have a new family. One with a wife that was loyal to him, not booze, and a son that had courage and didn't cower in his room all the time. If he did that, I'd probably run away from my mom. But then I would feel guilty for leaving her alone and go back. Then I'd get either scared or angry with her when she drank and I leave again. It would be a never ending cycle of wanting to love and nurture her back to sobriety, and abandoning her after getting fed up with her behavior.
Why can't I choose what I want to do? I don't want to become totally disconnected from her, but I don't want to get so hurt when she does blackout everyday. Why do I even still try to care about her? Even after all the times I've said she can't get better, I still have a faint hope that she'll pull through this. But that tiny flame of hope is destroyed when she kicks and punches my door and curses at me and tells me I'm not her son. Then when I find her passed out on the floor each morning before I leave for school, I still say to myself "She'll be better today. She'll throw the bottles away and start a new life today." And then the same exact thing happens every day when I come home.
I can't let anyone know about her. I can't have any of my friends over because of her. They'll look at her in disgust. They'll sneer and say to themselves "What a worthless drunk! What a stain on society! Her son will end up just like that. After all, he is the son of a worthless drunk."
They'll think she's garbage and think that I'm just as bad because I'm her son. They'll think our family is white-trash. They'll think we're nothing but the waste society has decided to kick to the curb and leave behind. They'll think we're just the typical white-trash family with a drunken mother, a father that doesn't care for his wife and son, and a son that's nothing but a bi-product of their mistakes and will no doubt turn out exactly like his alcoholic mother.
Then again, why don't I think those things? She's proven time and time again that she can't be helped and that she's society's definition of garbage. But I still think she can recover and she still has some worth deep inside her. Even if she did recover, it wouldn't erase the shame. The everlasting shame she brought on herself and her family will carry on for generations. It won't erase the shame I feel. I'll still be ashamed of her whether she recovers or not. I'll never be able to look her in the eye without thinking to myself that she's the same person that threatened to beat me and cursed my name. How will I explain her to my wife and children? How will I explain this to my friends if they ever ask why I never let them come over or why I never mention my mother? She's shamed us so much that nothing will ever be the same again. No family member will not think that she's a worthless drunk. No friend will say to themselves "I'll still look at you the same as I did before you became a alcoholic." No person will ever look at my father and I and not think "That idiot husband. Why did he marry a drunk? Why didn't he divorce her when he had the chance? That poor kid. He'll end up exactly like his drunken mother."
No matter what I do, it will follow me for the rest of my life. The rest of my years have been devoured my mother. She has consumed whatever chance of a normal life I had left. It will linger in my mind for as long as I walk the earth. Her drinking, her insults, her threats, her spiteful tongue, her fists pounding on my doors, her screams of hate and wrath, and her breath that always smelled of booze. It will follow me into the grave. When people ask about what I did when she became a blacked out monster, what will I say? That I hid in very back corner of my room with my hands over my ears as I desperately tried to block out her yelling and her fists and feet trying to break down my door. How I felt so torn apart when I saw her passed out on the floor in the morning and that was the image she left me with all day. How I felt so enraged when I came home and she didn't apologize for her actions and she acted like it never even occurred. How I felt so looked over and invisible when she would walk right past me, not even glancing at me, and she would start to drink before it was even 6:45 in the evening. They would think I'm a coward for not trying to stop her.
No amount of love or nurturing can stop me from hearing the haunting sounds of her curses, screams,and fists hitting my door before I drift off into sleep. No amount of pity or sympathy can stop me from lying awake all night, trying to figure out a reason for why I care about her. No amount of emotional strength or forgiveness (if I can even bring myself to forgive her) can stop me from remembering her fake promises, her drunken fits, and her black outs that have been cemented in my memory forever. And no matter how much I age or how many blackouts she has. No matter how many times she tries to break my doors down. No matter how many times I cower in a corner with my hands over my ears, trying to silence the horrifying sounds. No matter how many times I see her passed out on her floor. No matter how many times she says she should have gotten rid of an abomination like me. No matter how many times she lies to me, I'll still say to myself,
How come I still love you?
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