You little ****. Who gave you the right to decide that for me? I am my own person, if you don't like my choices then leave. Talk to me and we'll figure something out, that's how easy it'd be. If you would help me out, rather than call me out, sobriety would be an easier goal to achieve. But no, you shout and you shout, telling me I've done wrong. Commanding me to change rather than asking how to help me stop... You don't know half of the things I've seen and I've done. What happened to me to make me want to replace the missing pieces. The dark parts of my childhood, how I became a woman at the age of eight. How my step father touched me in that place. That place no little girl should have touched at that age. How dealing with high expectations that I know I cannot meet, not because I don't want to, but because my disability ties down my hands and feet. Feeling trapped by what happened to me. Living with that monster, pretending it's all okay. Controlling all my flashbacks and panic attacks. Pretending to be strong for five younger siblings who look up to me. Setting a perfect example, wearing myself down, ripping myself apart to satisfy everyone's needs. Trying my hardest to keep everyone around me happy because I know what it's like to hate yourself so much your pores ooze self doubt and insecurities. So sorry I drink and smoke **** and I don't meet your religious needs. Just let me finish this last cigarette please.