You told me your stories, your past to present, but today lead us to another dimension.

I wasn't there when you dealt with your demons, but now you have me so let's be fair.

You told me you were an alcoholic drunk, with no self luck, ambition or love for life. I never judged you and understood your story.

But now it's time to deplete your new mission.
You left without a say
You parted your lips to the bottled glass and began your sipping.
Waited 8 hours wondering where you were, and it sure felt like forever.

When you came back to me, you told me what happened, but you had a new demon inside you, growing like I never seen before.
You hurt my feelings, because you lied to my face, but I guess that's what happens when you're dealing with the addictions you must really face.

No more you said, You don't like the taste, your stomach hurts but now again you repeat the same mistakes from many years before.

I try to help, frustrated I' am, sad I' am, crying I' am, but you do not care, you're emotionless, because to you, I' am the mean one.

What is it I must do, you tell me to dump you, but meanwhile you tell me you love me, so what is it?

confusion, haste, anger, malice,
you left within a clip of air once again,
because after our talk, you had to disappear from the truth, the bitter cold truth that bit your tongue like a scared cat in the middle of a dark alley way.

I cannot forgive you, not yet, not now, prove yourself first to me and then we will see...

Infinity is the inner edge of ever
there is no outer edge,
ever never ends.

Any where in ever is possible
or it is not.
no where is not here, when ever is.

Never is imaginable but
never realizable
after ever begins.

8 billion people in the world—
and here i am drowning in an infinity pool of self-pity.
i tell myself one day i will stop.
swim back towards the edge, gasping for breath, a new life to transform into.
and here i am drowning in an infinity pool of self pity.

He comes home…
We never know exactly when.
I used to think he was cheating on my mother.

Maybe he always was.
But the liquor stole him first.
It held him tighter than we ever could.
He felt safer there,
had more fun with the bottle.
With every beer that slid down his throat,
he was more and more at home.
He loved us—
but the beer loved him more.
It pulled him under,
blurred his vision,
made him forget.

When he’d stumble in during the daylight,
his body swayed like a boat on rough waters.
I never appreciated enough
that he made it home at all in that condition.
His words would slur,
each end of a word colliding
with the beginning of the next.
Sometimes, he’d get so lost in thought,
so tangled in his own mind,
that he’d forget what we were even talking about.

My mother was always mad.
I used to be mad too—
and never knew why.
Until one day,
I gave in.
Gave him my forgiveness,
the one he never asked for.

You can’t teach an old dog new tricks…

I tried to support him,
but it’s so hard.
My mom is so tired—
just wanting a husband to come home to,
not a ghost of the man she married.
Someone to help around the house,
to string together a single clear thought,
to spend more time here than at the bar.

It breaks my heart.
I don’t know who to support.
I love them both.
W
h
y
is it so hard to be the daughter of a drunk?

There was no violence, no bruises,
just the fogginess of his absence,
just the late-night entrances
and the screams of my parents.
I used to wish they’d get divorced
just so the fighting would stop.

Sometimes, he wasn’t around at all.
But I have the good memories too.
He truly did love me.

It’s an addiction, you know?
Maybe if he had the power,
the knowledge,
the tools,
he would have chosen us
instead of the liquor.

He is my father,
and I love him nonetheless.
One of the coolest guys I know.
A real respectable man—
a true OG from the outfields of Humboldt Park.

A man who never got the healing he needed.
A man trapped in addiction,
drowning out the echoes of his past.
A man whose baby daughter chose her mother’s side,
who had to face the weight of two women’s anger.
Who could he turn to,
other than the bottle—
the one thing that never judged him?

A man repeating the steps of his father,
walking the only path he knew.
A man who tried his best,
who fought the fight,
but sometimes the fight was too strong.

A man who never learned therapy was an option.
A man who feared his own tears,
who thought vulnerability was weakness.
A man who drank to forget,
who drank to silence the noise.

And I forgive him.
I always will.

This is what it means
to be the daughter of a drunk.