When I get home from school or work, one of the first things I do is look at your eyes. I’m checking to see if they’re glazed over. I’m noticing if they’re drooping or not. This is my observation that will determine where I spend my night. If I know you’re already drinking, I go to my room and I try my best to stay there.
Sometimes when it happens, you’re really mean. You swear a lot. You complain that no one appreciates you and we tell you that we do. You get really angry sometimes and I feel bad for leaving my mom alone in your company.
She loves you. She loves you even though you drink the nights away. She loves you even though you call her a bitch and tell her to shut up. She loves you so much that she let me walk away so she could make sure you pulled through. I have trouble understanding how she can love you despite all of this, but she does. Unconditionally. What you do and what you say isn’t fair to her.You just said “die bitch”, how could you do that to her?
When you’re sober, you’re a nice guy. That’s what makes this so sad. That you can be caring and polite and nice and then one drink later, you’re a completely different person. Which one are you? Are you a gentleman who falls into the evils of alcohol or are you a monster and alcohol just brings it to the surface?
They’re are moments of your drunken behavior that I will never be able to forget. Moments that I fear will happen again and again when I come home to your droopy eye lids, the drink by your side.
When it happens, it’s like nothing ever satisfies you. It’s this never ending rant on how everyone and everything around you is so unfair. how you work so hard, for nothing. How you try so hard, but it doesn’t show. How no one loves you, cares for you, respects you.
You are sitting on the couch drunk at 5pm, how can I respect you? You have a woman who loves you by your side and you’re using her as a yelling tool, how could I love you while you hurt the one I love? You are slowly killing yourself and I care that it’s happening …but you never listen when I try to tell you I care and you never listen when I try to tell you to stop drinking.
Hundreds of conversations that we’ve had go over your head and we have them again and again because you’re too drunk to listen and remember. Hundreds of conversations that are burned into my mind of what the drunk version of you thinks of me. Those conversations that I’ll never forget where you call me useless, a whore, childish, a slob, a brat, lazy, fat, bitchy, a fuckhead and on, and on, and ON. These conversations that you don’t even remember.
And you wake up in the morning and you wish me a good day and I spend my day dreading coming home to the drunken version of my step-father.