Hope.

Definition:

1) a sloping plain between ridges of mountains.

2) a desire for some good, accompanied with at least a slight expectation of obtaining it, or a belief that is obtainable.

hmmmm...

You lack any sense of grace. You clunk around in your giant shoes, hunched over like a neanderthal in a button-up shirt. I don't know why this bothers me so much...

ALCHOHOLIC

Some people label themselves as an “Alcoholic” as if the label will instantly redeem them of all harmful and insensitive deeds. If a person’s life is a string of selfish and wrongful events, then that person is ostracized. Yet, the moment that they mutter the word “alcoholic”, they are instantly redeemed of all past sins. It is expected of all those in the path of their misjudgment, that the gold badge of hardship be respected. As if the mere admittance of weakness is enough to merit forgiveness.

There are two types of people in the world. There are people that identify themselves as victims, and others who understand the value of life’s struggle’s, and therefore, aren’t afraid to fight. I wasn’t given an option, because true victims know that self-defacing weakens the spirit and doesn’t leave the option for survival. When faced with rejection of any kind, a person can either recognize it and move on or let it weaken them. As I’m writing, I’m enjoying the last sip of a glass of wine. Does this make me a hypocrite? Some might say so. But before I pour another glass, I’ll relive past memories and use them as a guide for my actions.

When I was a child, I was the daughter of an alcoholic. My childhood memories were set in loud and smoky environments. I was always surrounded by adults with impaired judgment. I was usually amused by their antics, and more than a little confused. But there were also many nights that I was left alone in our unfurnished apartment, with only the company of a small black and white television, and my older sister. My mother would leave us alone at night so that she could pursue random men at the local bar, sometimes leaving us alone until the next day. The odd thing was that my sister and I valued our time alone. We knew that there were two options in the later hours of the day. Either our mom would stay at home, and get into a drunken rage. Or, we would be left alone. Although, we would oftentimes be fighting off pangs of hunger and loneliness, anything was better than the alternative.

There is one memory that I hold on to with all of my might, when I find myself slipping into the depths of alcoholism. I was five or six years old. It was one of the nights that our mother decided to stay at home, and invited some “friends” from the local bar. They were mostly men, who were most likely competing for our mom’s attention. They sat on the ground in a circle, snorting lines of coke, drinking, smoking, and cackling until dawn. I had stayed up, observing them in awe. I finally decided to go to bed (which was a blanket and pillow on the floor). I curled up in my blanket. Usually in situations like this, I managed to get to sleep at some point in the night. But tonight, the “guests” were particularly rambunctious. Finally, I walked into the living room sleepily. The room was smoky and full of a kind of tension that I didn’t fully understand until I was older. I stood behind my mom and tugged on her sleeve. She didn’t respond, and just kept sipping her beer and laughing whenever one of the men spoke.

I was used to this response. I knew that if I was persistent, she would eventually acknowledge me. I continued to tug on her sleeve, and she continued to ignore. Finally, she turned to me. There was a look of spite and intolerance in her eyes that seemed to decorate her expression more often than not, so I wasn’t taken aback. I reflected her expression, a trick that I had learned recently. It was the only thing that seemed to make her notice me. I looked at her with the same look of disdain, and spoke clearly and boldy.

“Mom, you drink too much”. Although at the time, I couldn’t pronounce my “r’s” fully, so it came out sounding more like, “Mom, you dwink too much”. Without changing her expression, she lifted the hand with the beer in it and tipped it over my head. This was the first time that I tasted beer. I remember the feeling of the cold liquid soaking through my hair and wetting my dirty clothing. As she poured, I squinted my eyes and held my breath, feeling the shock of the cold. When the bottle was empty I opened my eyes, trying to hold the stoic expression on my face. “You’re not spos’d to do that”. I said, with anger in my voice. She smiled callously and said “It’s good for your hair”. Laughter erupted in the room. My mother turned to her captive audience and bellowed with laughter. I turned, trying with all of my might not seem sheepish, and walked out of the room at the same pace that I had walked in, with my tiny fists clenched.

I went to the bathroom to clean myself before returning to my blanket and pillow, trying with every ounce of my being not to shed a tear.

To this day, I find it very hard to cry. I am terrified of showing even an ounce of weakness. I guess that I don’t understand the reasoning of an alcoholic, especially the self-defacing ones. If it’s a problem, then it shouldn’t be nurtured (unless you want it to grow). So, I’m choosing to pour myself another glass of wine. Perhaps that makes me an alcoholic. If so, then that is a choice that I’m making.

It isn’t a choice that’s making me.