By Jean Reese
When I was little, I would run to the one place I knew was safe. To you, to anyone, it was just a closet. In it was a small white chest—nothing fancy or decorative. The only markings on it were the ones I had put there. It was filled with bits of broken crayons, headless Barbie dolls and an abundance of nonsense. To me, it was a wondrous, magical place. This was a place where I could run off to other worlds and think freely. I shoved all the bad that filled my head and my heart to the bottom and, for that moment, it was forgotten. It was a place of true happiness. Best of all, it took me away, far away, from what was happening outside that door.
Outside that door was scary. I could walk right in front of mom and dad and they wouldn’t see me. I didn’t want to be a bad kid, but if that’s what it took for them to notice me, then so be it. Mom always cried when she hit me, and I couldn’t understand why. She never cried when she called me a bitch or told me how ugly I was. She made it clear to me throughout my life that I was her mistake. I ruined what they had. I put pressure on their marriage, and I was the reason she was so damn miserable. Still, I would crave her affection and love her with all of my being.
He wanted to be a good dad. I know he did. He still does. It was his idea to even have kids. His lust for women gets in the way of his ability to be a good dad. Our family cannot even go to a restaurant and be waited on by a female waitress without him breaking his neck to look back at her ass as she walks away. As I got older and my friends started to come over, I tried my best to keep them away from him. If breasts were eyes, well, he makes great eye contact. I don’t think he can help himself.
Mom refused to give up on the only man she has ever loved. She would fight even if that made her miserable or made my brother and me miserable. She would destroy our home, her self-worth, our respect. Her children would have to witness things children should never see. How could I ever get past seeing my mom knelt in the middle of our kitchen with a knife to her chest? I can’t.
Their fights were so intense I had to get out. I was only 12 years old the first time I snuck out through my bedroom window. I matured early so it was easy to tell 18-year-old boys who had cars that I was 16. I’m not sure it would have really mattered if they knew the truth. When I realized how easy it was to sneak out, I began to do it nearly every night. I was always too scared to have sex and, miraculously, I was never forced to. However, drugs and alcohol I couldn’t resist. They numbed everything and, for that moment, I could forget what was happening at home.
By the time I was 16, I didn’t even bother with the bedroom window anymore. My parents’ fighting never stopped; if anything, it intensified. I kept leaving, and I kept using. I was what you would call a functioning addict. I functioned because I needed to get out of their house—and fast. I kept jobs and relationships for as long as I could because I wanted stability in my life. I didn’t care if either one was good for me. I never stopped wanting them to be proud of who I was. I wanted them to notice me. I wanted her to love me. I wanted him to love me. I wanted me to love me.
I met my husband when I was deep into my addiction and very much in denial that I could be an addict. It turned out he was an addict as well. Our favorite thing to do was to laugh, get high, get completely wasted, cry in each other’s arms about all the bullshit our parents put us through, and make babies. He became my safe place, my confidant, my best friend. We married and vowed to never give up.
We stayed as far away as possible from our families and started to rely on each other for everything. We never talked about how many kids we wanted to have. Getting pregnant was easy for me. I would give birth and, before I knew it, we were expecting again. We were not in the right state of mind. Money became an issue. Stress started to fill our home, and I found myself struggling to even function.
As stressed out as we were, we kept going. He was like the old white chest in my closet. I shoved onto him all my hurt, all my fears and all my insecurities. I ran to him with all I had left, shut the door, and I locked it. I put that on him. He carried both his load and mine. The load was too much.
He finally hit his bottom, facing the possibility of prison; meanwhile, I felt I was already there. His rock bottom was mine, and we were taking our children right down with us. I could not and would not allow my children to feel the wrath of our mistakes or our pasts. I made a promise to them, to me, to God that I would never use again. My husband checked himself into rehab and made his own vows. Sobriety brought our family back together. I believe wholeheartedly that we had to go through all of that to be where we are today.
The heartache of my past still very much exists. I just don’t stuff it away anymore into people or things. I learned some tremendous and powerful lessons from addiction. I learned the lesson of forgiveness. I learned to not want what may or can never be given. I learned I am worthy. I learned to not let my past define my future.
I’ve learned to love myself, even if she doesn’t.
About jour3316
