Wednesday, March 2, 2011


It's two in the morning.

I don't feel like sleeping.

I can't sleep, more to the point.

I've realized how fragile sobriety is. I am the adult child of an alcoholic. I am the baby sister of another addict. While I have imbibed myself more than a time or two, I can safely say I am not an addict. I can never drink again and I won't miss it.

I won't pretend that quitting the codeine I was prescribed for my pain wasn't hard, especially after months of being pumped full of other pain killers... Especially when, to a point, I needed it. I needed help to manage my pain.

But I was never an addict.

Statistically, I am incredibly likely to become addicted at some point in my life. I've been warned by professionals. It was never a warning I needed.

I remember screaming fights. I remember my father hitting my mother. I remember breaking glass. I remember most--being afraid.

I'm twenty one years old. I haven't spoken to my father in eight years. I'm really afraid of him. He could and would lift his hand to me. He did when I was a child. I remember him being drunk and slapping me for laughing at the table.

The booze makes him a very unpleasant person.

OlderBrother is the same way. Booze makes him a not so nice person. He and I have had screaming fights. I have reduced him to tears. He has reduced me to tears. He has, more importantly, reduced She Who Must Be Kept to tears.

He's an addict. He has admitted that alcohol and marijuana are the only ways that he can feel okay. He has bought/begged/and I suspect stolen prescription drugs from my mother and myself. He is headed to a very bad place very quickly.

I get frightened when I drink, sometimes. I snap. I yell. I get angry.

It's not a place I like being.

And yet....

I still drink sometimes.

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