I wanted to be helpful. My greatest desire was to see you let go of drugs and alcohol, and live a full and productive life YOU could be proud of.
Instead, you choose liquor and weed and whatever else. You prefer being passed out, being incoherent, being anything but productive. The more you use, the larger my failure lights up in bright neon. The years of being a drunk or user have passed by until they are too many to count.
Today, I admit my loss, and it’s not you, it is me. My identify is gone, and my will to live is slowly dwindling to nothing. I moved from the joy of living to hate of breathing. I have prayed, wished, and cried myself into death. Still, here I am. I am stuck in a life dissolving toward hating myself and giving up.
Why do I care when you don’t? Why do I try when you won’t?
Addiction has singlehandedly crushed by spirit. I no longer feel the pounding of the hammer. I am numb. Lost in pursuit of death, I miss the life I had. The dreamer no longer dreams. There is no point, as I drift through this nightmare. You may enjoy life on repeat, but I do not. I’d rather erase it all.
Every morning I wake up sad because I woke up. I still pray, but my prayers don’t align with my beliefs; they align with my need for relief. I express to God my longing to be with him, to no avail. I lose, I remain.
My final thoughts are honest. Will I ever matter? Do I count as something to anyone in this world? That’s unfair, a couple people love me unconditionally. The majority treat me as disposable trash, unworthy of respect, decency, and honor. I am nothing more than the meaningless background pieces to their foreground.
I do not know how much longer I can go on. I hate myself for being to an idiot in all the drama, for the willingness to continue in their game. I consider disappearing, flying away for good. Death sits on our doorstep. I feel the cold breath and stare into the darkness. It awaits, I long for it, and we meet. It is the fight of the most profound depression and sadness. While we encircle one another, no one knows or cares. I am fine with this truth.
Addiction is killing me, and I have never been an addict. I am the mother of addicts—the lost soul on the outskirts of their selfish hell. I would never choose hell, but I fear when all else fails, again, that is where I’ll end up. My final choice will lead me to fires I never thought I would see.
I am the mother of addicts. I do not matter or exist in their world. I am another thing to use and abuse.
There will be a day I no longer hurt or cry. A day I exist without existing for everyone else. Lit up, my name will be beautiful. I won’t be remembered; I will be forgotten as this lonely person. What remains will be priceless and forever. One day I will be more happy, content, and at peace.
For now, I hold on to the small piece of me that is a soldier, while drowning in the large part of me that is sinking. I am two different people, and unknown.
Not inspiring, not encouraging, not positive..but it is authentic.