Leave me to my shitty mood
So I can sit and cry and brood
So do not try to cheer me up
I'm mad about my half-empty cup
If you attempt to make me smile
It will surely piss me off
I want to be angry for a while
And sit around and scoff
So get your happy away from me
It's really an insult
From joy, I want to be free
This is my misery assault
There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. There are children, and then there are alcoholics. One will never harmonize with the other.
Because alcoholics are never parents. They are shells, empty casings of love mixed with a burning taste of whiskey.
They are echoes of slurred, “Goodnight, I love you.” and “See you in the morning.” Each word filled with love, but blinded by the haze of liquor, so strong it fills your eyes with tears.
But most importantly, a child of an alcoholic will never be a child. No matter their age, they have gained the experience of those five times their age. They have watched life end with each tip of the bottle, but begin again when the sun breaks through their window.
I read stories about children who spend their days without a care in the world. And as a child, I wanted nothing more than that for myself. I wanted the carelessness, not the impossible burden of responsibility and secrecy that I held, hand in hand with resentment and hatred for the people who raised me.
There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. It’s not that we don’t exist— we do. But a child will never be a child when their parents can never be a parent.
The future screams to me
And so does the past
It wants me to succeed
It tells me of my torments
I want it
I want nothing to do with it
I hear it screaming begging waiting
I hear it whispering whimpering waiting