“I’ll never be like my mom, never do that to my kids, family, the man I’m with. Most of all, I will never drink.”

Broken Promises.

I had lied to myself, fooled myself. What I would give to rewind time.
I looked in the mirror at a serious reflection. After staring hard into these lost eyes for some time, I realized all I had become but felt lost. I couldn’t find myself. I quietly whispered to the reflection as I glared deep into those fearful eyes,

“Who are you?”

I stepped closer to the mirror, enough to see the shade of browns in the iris of my eye.
Squinting, my eyebrows pointing to the top of my nose, I tried again,

“Lia-This-Is-You.”
I couldn’t believe who I was.
I couldn’t admit it.

My fright was upsetting.

“What have you become?”

I was now speaking to a stranger across from me.
A stranger.
I don’t know who I am.
Or do I?

But I hate it. I hate who I am.

My eyebrows raised, I watched my tears gather in blood-shot eyes.
Ashamed.

The fat black tears ran down my face.

“Just like your mother,” I scolded myself.

She would always let the mascara run down her face and would look like a crazed fool.
And then Me.
More drops poured down my puzzled, despicable, guilty face.
I know who I am.

The alcoholic idiot.
The repulsive liar.
The selfish – oh I slipped right under without even knowing. I was blind! I didn’t open my eyes!
I am her. Just like her!

Nervous anxiety invaded my stomach. This is the feeling we always drank away. We drowned ourselves. We tried to escape reality. All those who need us, those who care, those who may not always be there.

Each other.

The pain … Oh, the pain through my veins.

My stomach is inside-out.
My heart is shattered.
My fingers are bitten raw
craving,
waiting,
for just that first sip.

Mom doesn’t have nails.

I sat on the hard, cold bathroom floor.
“Remember?” I questioned myself.
All and everything you wanted to be,
what Mom brought to the family and me.
I promised myself I wouldn’t be like her.

All those terrible memories of childhood I wish would disappear.
start to bite my nails.
Shaky …
Craving …
Nervous …

I ran to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, rushing through fruit and shoving the milk aside.

“Where is it!” I slammed the fridge shut and climbed on the counter. Tore open the cabinets reaching far back, searching. “Please, come on, come on” I murmured knocking a mug off the shelf. Glass shattered on the hardwood floor. I didn’t look back at it. I crawled over to the next cabinet shelf and unscrewed the Vodka.

“I need this,” I convinced myself.