The realization of being sick was like barreling into ice cold water
Lying in my bed from dawn till dusk was the norm
The deep feeling of utter despair was as typical as a stomach full of butterflies
The constant weight of heavy eyelids was just a bad night's sleep
Or a bad week
A bad month
A bad year
Sadness became my schedule, and I followed it to a tee
Depression became my comfort
It is the one constant in my life
If I were to get help, if I were to get better
Who would I be?
I learned to hate myself before I learned photosynthesis or geometry  
I am wrapped in a blanket of hate and grief that I so badly want to shed

But if I let that blanket slip

What part of me will possibly be left?

I don't believe every person has one soulmate

I think they have hundreds

The best friends who care about you when you can't care for yourself

The woman working at the deli down the street who always gives you a dollar off your sandwich because she knows money is always tight  

The man working at the bookstore who sets books he knows you'll like in the back so no one else can buy them

The little girl at park who's face illuminated with joy when you played hide-and-go-seek with her

Soulmates are not one person out of seven billion

They are everyday people

Ones who take the time to make your day a little bit better

I think I love you
But not in the way a daughter should.
I don't love the thought of you
I love you because you raised me
I love you because it is my obligation

I think I love you
But then I hear someone yell or a door slam and I'm thrown back into the abyss of my childhood
When you put your fist through my bedroom wall
And called me a ***** before I knew what the word meant

I thought I loved you until I saw my friend's father
He went to her ballet concerts and watched her soccer games with delight
And when she missed a goal he gave her a hug anyway

I thought I loved you
But only because you say you love me

Don't call me pretty

I am not pretty

I am a warrior molded from hot iron

Beaten down to conform to a shape

To conform to a number

To conform to a scale

I forgave the people who ripped me apart

I crawled tooth and nail out of the ashes that trapped me

I get up every morning with a purpose to change

So don't call me pretty

Because I am so much more

You are allowed to be angry.

You are allowed to be angry that you missed out on childhood.

That the sound of a slamming door terrifies you.

That the slightest touch of a hand makes you flinch.

You are allowed to be angry that it took you years to be able to look at yourself in the mirror.

You are allowed to be angry at the way you were treated.

You are allowed to be angry at people who hurt you.

You are allowed to be angry.

Sometimes I wish you were never apart of my life.

But if it wasn't for you, what the hell would be left of me?

Would all of the cuts and scratches and scars disappear? All of these ugly, little things that tell my story would simply evaporate?

It's because of you that I can tell the good days from the bad.

And it's because of you I appreciate the small things.

I appreciate smooth roads because I've driven on rocky.

Some days I close my eyes so tight they hurt. I beg and I beg and I beg that when I wake up, all of the bad is gone.

The memories.

The hurt.

The ache.

But I open my eyes and I'm still just here. So I exist.

And some days, that's all I need to do,

Simply exist.

I never learned how to heal

I learned whiskey from *****, and love from fear

But I don't know how to pick myself up after I fall

Or fix all the pieces that someone else broke

one
Be gentle, because they don’t know any better. I know that you’re the child, and I know that you’re scared, and I know that it isn’t your job to be gentile or kind but I also know that being gentile is easier than being angry.

two
Make sure to give up your heart and soul first. Take your feeling and put them into a box, and shove that box far away because God knows that they’ll only heart them anyways.

three
Read well and often. Send your mind into a new, completely different world for a little while. You need it. We all need it.

four
Learn how to be distant. Learn how to love from afar. Being close will only hurt more in the long run.

five
The most important part of loving an alcoholic is loving you first. You are not your parent’s mistakes. You are not what caused them to break so harshly that they turned to a bottle rather than a book, a drink rather than their daughter.

I learned how to love an alcoholic before I learned to love myself. And to this day, I’m still learning.

I grew up drowning in whiskey.

I grew up quickly.

I grew up alone in my thoughts.

And now when I look in the mirror and see myself,

I know that I hardly grew up at all.

You called her beautiful, but that’s not what she was.

She was fire and flood. her words pounded against the sand like waves.

Her hands created art from pain, each stroke a painful stitch.

Her thoughts were flames from a wildfire, taking the world by smoke and ash.

She was not beautiful, and anyone who called her that felt her wrath.

I always thought I knew what cologne smelled like.
It was harsh and made my eyes water and nose burn.
All I knew is that my dad wore it religiously.
I always thought my dad wore cologne.
I was ten years old when I learned what whiskey smelt like.

I was sixteen years old when I took my first sip of whiskey.
It was weak, mixed with diet coke, but it still left my throat burning.
I never liked the taste, but when I brought the cup to my nose and smelt the bitterness and I saw the eyes of my father, I knew that the smell was so much worse.
It was that moment when I understood why people drank to forget.

That night I closed my eyes and I saw the black label of Jack Daniels Whiskey, I saw the long brown paper bags that my dad hid in the cupboards, I saw the coke cans littered around our trash can.

I was too young to understand, but with whiskey running through my own veins I connected each individual dot like each sign a constellation.

I set the cup down and winced.
My friends laughed, of course.
They didn’t know.
They’d never even guess.
They probably thought I was a lightweight, a girl who couldn’t even handle a sip of whiskey.
I smiled, too.

I don’t think I’ll ever drink whiskey again.

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.