The Suppressed Story of a Dipsomaniac, non-fiction by Jessica Carter

I was just about nine years old when my mom told me my aunt had died. She wasn’t blood related to me, my Auntie Crystal. She was just someone who was there for my mother while she was struggling with addiction. I remember laying on the floor at 7am, after just finishing pulling one of my first all nighters, watching My Little Pony, clutching my stuffed dog, Cupcake, when my mom told me.

She pulled me into what seemed like an impenetrable embrace and whispered to me in tears, “Everything will be okay.” I had no idea what she was talking about and I continued thinking about it, until next thing you know, I was all dressed up in my navy and black, floral dress that following Thursday at my aunt’s funeral.

After the funeral, things were different with mom. It was strange seeing your mom break down so hard and for so long all the time and being unable to help because you truly didn’t understand. Especially when you knew less about your mom than you thought.

~~~

“Jessieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!”

I groan in annoyance as I see my niece jump on my bed.

“Raya, it’s like 9 am, I don’t wake up this early.”

“Mommy wants to talk to you,” Raya says practically kicking me out of my bed and turning on my TV.

Defeated, I trudge into the living room and look up to see my oldest sister sitting on the couch. “Yes, Timika?” I say with contempt just wanting to go back to bed.

“Is everything alright with Momma?”

    In that moment, only being eleven,  all I can remember is the feeling of confusion filling my body. All I was wondering was ‘why would mom not be okay?’ So I just nodded and ignored the question buzzing in my skull.

“Call me if anything goes wrong. Okay?”

Although I nodded at the time, I never did call her when I started noticing everything change for me.

~~~

“I mean, yeah I guess things are okay at home…”

The woman pushes her brown frames up on her face, looking at me with a curious expression like I’m a true enigma. At this point, I’m use to this expression from adults.

I look down, avoiding her piercing blues, but they call me back. I look in her eyes as she clicks her tongue  – figuring out what to say. “What do you mean by ‘I guess’?”

“I just mean…I guess, I don’t know.”

She clicks her pen and puts her face in her hand, defeated. I don’t mean to be so difficult, but I can’t help but be speculative. Purely out of fear for the effects. She writes me a pass back to class. Leaving her mystery unsolved.

I mean I’m not stupid, I know that if I make it seem like I’m just a confused child, they can’t call any type of child protection anything on me. Not that they would need to.

~~~

‘This mirror is disgusting’ I think to myself. Everytime someone brushes their teeth in this house, they never think about how the toothpaste is all over the mirror. Now I get stuck with cleaning it, but it’s okay. I’m used to being the domestic.

I amble into the kitchen to look through the cabinet for the Windex. I find it’s not in the front like usual. Aggravated, I pull everything out one by one, careful not to make too much noise to wake up my mother. Finally, in the very back, I find the bright, blue spray bottle, but behind it I find an empty glass bottle. I pick it up and look at it perplexed, because I knew exactly what it was.

‘Amsterdam?’ I repeat quietly. I open it and take a whiff. I flinch at its strong and potent smell. Now I have a race of questions speeding through my mind. Why is this here? Who drank it? It was probably Timika, probably had friends over before she left and didn’t want mom to know…? Either way, I just decided to go out to the dumpsters, not outside our house but, up the street, to throw it away.

If it was Timika, I’m sure she wouldn’t want mom finding out.

I come back inside, seeing mom’s door still closed, I sigh in relief. I grab the Windex, a paper towel, and go back to what I was planning on doing originally..

~~~

“Bunny!”

“Give me a sec!”

“Get in here now!”

I roll my eyes and get up. I was in the middle of a very important Youtube video, Mom. Nevertheless, I still head to living room, where my mom sat.

“I’m going to start working overnights at work, so I trust you can stay at home by yourself. Yes?”

“No…that’s scary. I don’t want to do that.”

“Well, you have no choice. If you like the lights you use or the food you eat, then I suggest you get on board.”

“But mom-”

“Jessica, we have an alarm and Ms. Lee will keep an eye on you like always! You are 12 years old. If you old enough to ride the bus to and from school, you are old enough to stay alone in your very own home!” She vocalizes very angrily gazing into my eyes. I flinch and just say ‘Okay.’

“Thank you, I’m getting tired of the disrespect.”

I just say ‘Okay’ again and go back into my room.

The first night alone was terrifying, but I grew use to it. Mom would come home about 7 every morning to take me to school. Things were pretty consistent. Until I started noticing some night’s alone, I didn’t have to be alone.

I decided to look at Mom’s schedule tucked behind her calendar so, I can know when I’ll be alone. But I noticed something odd.

‘Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday’ I read. Then on the far side of the paper I see ‘Not Scheduled’. It’s currently Wednesday night, and she was gone both Monday and Tuesday, meaning she’s been doing other things besides working.

Now, this, this is when a child has to decide whether to stay in a child’s place. ‘But she could be in danger? But she’s been coming to pick me up every morning since Monday…so she’s okay. I’ll ask her in the morning’ With the decision made, I go to sleep anxious about the moment where I ask my mom about her recent whereabouts.

~~~

I wait patiently by the front door, like every morning, for my mom to pick me up. Rehearsing over and over again how I will ask my mom without sounding prying or disrespectful. I’m just concerned.

As she pulls up, I set the alarm, grab my things, and head outside into the cold toward the warm car.

“Hey Bunny, how’d you sleep?” She says, helping me into the car.

“I slept good.” Complete lie. Too anxious to sleep ‘good’.

“That’s good.”

We drive in silence for a while. The tension is suffocating to the point I switch my breathing from autopilot to manual, but most likely, it’s just me feeling anxious.

I take a deep breath and say, “Hey Mom?”

“Yes?”

‘No turning back now’ “Were you at work last night?”

I see her shoulders tense up. “Why would you ask that? Of course I was.”

I start panicking now, but I need to know. So I push the subject. “I just saw on your schedule that you weren’t scheduled.”

“Are you calling me a liar, Jessica?!” She says her voice raised, now looking at me, as she speeds up.

“Can you please slow do-”

“You are not the adult in this house! You are so selfish and inconsiderate and I do not tolerate such disrespect! Give me your phone.”

“Mom pleas-” She grabs me by my shoulder and squeezes it. “Give it to me”

I hand it to her as I burst into tears, grabbing my arm, but she smacks my hand away. As we stop at a stoplight, she turns to me and looks me dead in the eye.

“You.will.not.disrespect.me.anymore.” She says poking me in the chest with each word, ending with a sharp pain with each poke. “Do you understand?”

In that moment, this familiar smell from a few weeks earlier emitted from her breath.The smell of the Amsterdam found in the kitchen cabinet. This is where my question was answered. And I knew exactly where she was last night and what she was doing.

“Am I speaking a foreign language?! Do.you.under.stand?!’

I turn away from her and grab my shoulder possessing deep indents from her nails and reply with “Yes ma’am”.

I look out the window and try my very hardest not to burst into tears as I replay over and over in my head how stupid I am for not realizing earlier how the way she treats me is not normal and how she retaliates isn’t healthy. Because, she doesn’t know how to control her anger and doesn’t know how to cope. All these years since my Aunt’s death, my mom relapsed and I was too naive to notice. Or even understand.

~~~

After realizing my mom’s relapse, I started doing research on alcoholism. How to help an alcoholic, how to live with an alcoholic, etc. Couldn’t find much help. Mom seemed to be her own type of breed, unlike others. Impossible to be reckoned with. Although, I did find a new word for it: Dipsomaniac. I learned it was a term to describe an impulsive, binge drinker. Much like my mom.

I began being more in tune with the situation. Or she just stopped caring and it was easier for me to notice.

She started coming home around 3 in the morning after being heavily inebriated more often. It escalated from it happening on nights she didn’t work to every night.

I lived in fear of pissing off a drunk just by saying ‘Good Morning’. Even though that seems to be all I did.

She was always angry with me. For everything. I’d say ‘How are you’ and her response would be ‘Like you care. I’d say ‘I’m sorry’ yet she rebuttals with ‘Stop saying things you don’t mean’ for her to turn around and say I never say sorry or take responsibility for anything I do. I’d say ‘I love you’ and she would reply with ‘Whatever’.

The feeling of burdening your mother for so many years truly takes a toll on a child, even as child as old as thirteen.  

The situation escalated quickly and everything mental turned physical until I was no more than a scared child locked in a cage. A cage I put myself into and my mom only guarded.

I still continued on in counselling sessions like everything was okay at home.

“How are you?”

“Good.” Currently spiraling into a deep depression with my anxiety and panic attacks becoming more apparent.

“How’s your mom?”

“Good.” Caught her using our gas money to buy Pineapple Amsterdam last night, only leading to her getting poisoning later that night. But she’s fine.

“How are your siblings?”

“Good.” I’m sure they are great. They surely know what mom is and what she is doing, but as long as they’re not the ones living with her anymore everything is fan-freaking-tastic.

“How are things at school?”

“Good.” Currently lying to all my friends about why I can’t do certain things. Currently receiving negative discernment from it. But at least I’m keeping my grades up enough, all things considering. Except in Algebra I.  But It’s okay. I’m only in the eighth grade.

“That’s great! I’m glad you’re doing so much better!”

“Yeah.” I’ve never felt more depressed and broken in my entire life.

~~~

Freshman.

‘Well that’s great. You went from a depressed, suicidal middle schooler to a depressed, suicidal high schooler. What an upgrade.’ I think to myself  as I roll out of my bed to get ready for school.  

Once I’m ready, I open my mom’s door to the smell of stale alcohol. Which in my opinion, is one of the most putrid and repulsive smells ever created by mankind. But, use to it, I just go wake up my mom, so she can drive me to school.

“Hey mom. Time to wake up. It’s 7.” In reality, it’s 6:50 but she takes a long time to get up so, I wake her up 10 minutes early. She turns over and groans in annoyance. “Why can’t you just take the bus to school?”

“I don’t have any money.” And with that, she gets up and trudges to the bathroom.

I take notice she’s still intoxicated every morning, but there’s nothing I can do about it. So I just pray to God to protect us on the street. And up until the day after Thanksgiving, he was doing a pretty good job.

~~~

I curl myself into a ball onto the patterned rug, replaying the words of a heavily intoxicated mom over and over in my head. It was just another outburst, but this really hit me. ‘Did she really think I was a burden?’ ‘Am I really the reason she drinks?’ ‘Did she really not love me?’ Everything in that moment just seemed so pointless. Until I hear the house phone ring.

I uncurl from my fetal position to answer the phone. On the caller ID reads: ‘Lucy Dent, 8:50pm’ My grandmother.

I wipe my face, take a deep breath, and put on my best ‘everything is okay’ attitude and answer the phone with, “Hi Yaya! How are you?”

“Sweetheart, your mom seems to have gotten into a car crash.”

In that moment, my face dropped. A cauldron of emotions heating up and overlapping to make an overwhelming recipe. Anger. Fear. Sadness. I didn’t know how to feel or react.

“Hello? Sweetheart, are you there?” My grandma whispers into the phone.

For a second, I snap back into reality. “Um yeah…I’m still here.”

“Well, I’m coming to pick you up, pack a bag for the weekend.”

“Ok.” The phone clicks and now it’s just me. And my thoughts. But I do as my grandmother says and pack a bag for the weekend and Monday.

After that everything seemed to go by so fast.

Rushing to the hospital, seeing your mom moan in pain due to multiple broken bones throughout her body isn’t something a child wants to experience.

Hearing the doctor tell my mom “Your alcohol levels are extremely high” so high that if they had given her pain medication it could’ve killed her isn’t something I wanted to hear.

“She’s probably going to lose her license, if I’m being honest, she honestly should,” my Aunt says, motioning towards my unconscious mother. Then she turns towards me and says, “You should move in with me honey your mom obviously doesn’t care enough about you to stay sober.” In that moment, I just felt anger fill my body. But it quickly turns into sadness, because what if it was true? But the truth was: I would rather die than live with anyone on my mom’s side. So the short version: No thank you. “Mhm,” my grandma nods in agreement I should probably become your primary caretaker, if you would like to continuing residing in Saint Louis.” I just kept silent.

Reaching nearly 1 in the morning, I’m still sitting in the waiting room across from my Auntie Minnie and Yaya, who have persistently decided to talk about how terrible my mom is the entire 3 hours. I get it: she sucks. But she’s still a person.

The doctor comes in, finally, just to tell us basically what we already knew.

“Yvette’s alcohol levels are extremely high, so she’s in a lot of pain right now because it’s too much of a risk to medicate her. Currently her right hip is fractured, her tibia and fibula are shattered on her left leg, so we will need implants there. She has 9 broken ribs on the right side, her left collar bone is cracked, and she has a broken sternum. She will be able to walk and move around again but the recovery will be very long and very rough.” As he looks toward my Aunt for a reply his eyes quickly dart towards me. He smiles with all his teeth and says, “Everything will be okay. Your mom will be the same woman you know and love in no time.” All I could do was smile, nod, and think: That’s what I’m afraid of.

~~~

Going to school that Monday was rough, but I wouldn’t let anyone know that. All weekend was spent with my two least favorite women, them bickering and saying all things about me and my mom. I don’t need that energy. Now that it’s Monday, I need to make sure I don’t stay another week with them. But until then, I have school.

I just pretended like nothing crazy was going on in my life. Referring to my mom’s car crash as ‘not a big deal’ because she’ll be okay. I didn’t want people to suddenly feel something for me. I go to school every single day and we all live off of the idea that no one else matters, except ourselves. So I didn’t need people to pretend to care about what was going on with me just because they wanted to be nosy. It’s not right. But it also wasn’t right for me to minimize the situation like I had been.

One of my school counselors took me out of first period and into the hallway to talk.

“Hey I heard your mom got into a car crash, so I wanted to make sure everything is okay.”

I smile the smile I’ve practiced for years and say: “I’m actually good. Everything is okay, considering.”

He makes such intense eye contact like he could see right through me. The intensity made me cower back all my practiced body language and look down.

“I see the visage you’re putting up and it’s okay to not be okay. My office is open whenever you need it.” I just nod and saunter back into class.

I didn’t go to his office. Matter of fact: I didn’t go to anyone.

~~~

I lie on my back in the cold, dark room and listen. Just listen. Listen to the clock tick. Listen to static on the TV. Listen to the owls that only become known at night. Listen to my heartbeat. I do this as a small form of meditation. It helps me stay calm and helps me to understand easier. It’s what keeps me sane.

“Jess? It’s time to go. You ready?”

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

I sit straight up and head into the bathroom. I don’t look in the mirror often anymore. All I see is puffy eyes from crying, red eyes from irritation, matted hair from low maintenance, and a broken person from a sad place. I apply mascara and put on eyeliner to hide the puffiness of my eye and head out to the car.

“How was your nap, Sweetheart?” My Uncle smiles as I get comfortable in the car.

“Good.” I didn’t want to explain my nap is actually me listening to everything for 2 hours like a bat.

“That’s good,” my Aunt joins, following solemn silence with the sound of light jazz music playing in the background.

I’ve been residing with my Aunt Koliska and Uncle Marvin since I left my grandmother. My grandma wasn’t very happy when I chose them over her. But the reality is: they feel more like family than anyone blood related to me ever had.

“So that’s what you’re wearing to the Christmas party?” My Aunt speaks up referring to my choice in black skinny jeans, Panic At the Disco band-T, black converse, and red flannel.

“Yeah…I’m wearing red.”

“Alrighty.”

Thirty minutes later, we arrive at this big beautiful home in the suburbs of Saint Louis. Or what I refer to as: ‘the rich people county.’

Everyone who goes to my Aunt and Uncle’s church and my Mom’s church always seem to be rich. They thank God for their accomplishments but I always wondered why my mom and I still couldn’t even afford a couch to sit on or food to put into the fridge. But I guess, God doesn’t reward abusive drunks and their suicidal daughters.

When we walked in, the big crystal chandelier hung above our heads in the foyer made me suddenly self conscious of my thick black eyeliner and red flannel, but I didn’t care too much. My Aunt and Uncle went into the family room while I found a closet to lay in and quickly fall asleep in until 8 when we could go visit my mom.

~~~

Once we pull up to the rehabilitation center, I practically fall out the car running towards the doors. Running past the desk lady, I can hear her calling after me but I just assume my aunt and uncle will explain. I have someone I need to see.

I take the elevator up to the middle floor and quickly amble down the hall.

‘242, 244, 246, ah 248’ I whisper strolling down the hall.

Once I reach room 248 I knock lightly on the door and crack it open slightly. In my eyeshot, I see a woman. She watches the TV with bruises and cuts covering her body from head to toe. I look down at her legs. They’re covered in bandages with a cast on both legs. It was always hard to recognize that woman as my mother.

“Hi Bunny.” She says groggily as she catches me watching her.

“Hi,” I say inching over to hug her – careful not to hit anything broken. Hard…considering mostly every body part was scarred in some type of way.

Soon after, my Aunt and Uncle come in. They say their hellos and chat for a bit, but after about 15 minutes they head back to the Christmas Party. Leaving just me and mom.

“Come lay next to me, Sweetheart.”

“Are you sure I’m able to? I don’t wanna hurt you…” I say walking over hesitantly.

She moves the blanket next to her over and pats the spot next to her. “I’m sure.”

For the next hour, I’m lying next to her as we watch Christmas with the Kranks, until I bring up a new subject. A subject I instantly regretted.

“So, I wanted to ask if I could get a job? Since I’m finally 14. I have my workers’ permit here,” I say unravelling the crinkled paper.

“No,” my mom says without hesitation.

Confused I ask why.

“You can barely keep your room clean, how can you possibly keep a job?”

Once again, confused, I reply with, “You were able to keep a job but your room was always a mess…” I should know I always cleaned it.

“Excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Sorry I didn’t mean it like that, but I just want to be able to help since it’s obvious you’re going to be out of a job for a while.”

I see my mom tense, eyes widening, “Obviously? Whatever, you know good and well you don’t want a job to help me. You just want one to buy everything for yourself. Nuri is trying to get a job isn’t she? You only do things your friends do.”

“What? Nuri doesn’t even talk about work, Mom. I’ve always wanted to he-”

“Don’t bring up that ‘always wanting to help’ bulls***! You’re just a selfish, inconsiderate child! I don’t even understand why you would bring this up when our night was going so well!”

“Mom what are you even talking about! How am I selfish for wanting to help?!” You’re the selfish one.

“Jessica, I don’t care how f***** up I am right now but I am still your mother! So you keep those smart-a** comments to yourself!”

“I only wanted to -”

“I’m tired of your selfishness, leave my room. You’re a burden.”

“Mom-”

“LEAVE!!”

I rush out the room in tears. I didn’t want nurses to wonder what’s all the yelling so I just leave.

I call my aunt and uncle. Neither answered the phone.

I call my Uncle Bateman, family that once again didn’t end with blood. He answers and I beg him to pick me up, frantically crying on the phone.

The next 40 minutes waiting for him to pick me up, involved me curling up into a ball next to my mom’s room. I think about what that doctor told me when she first got into the car crash.

Your mom will be the same woman you know and love in no time.

Not even a near death experience could make her change. Nothing can make her change. She will always be this way and I’ll always be her disappointment of a daughter. The burden.

~~~

After that night, I became very closed off to an extent. Enough for people to not talk to me and just enough for no one to sense something was wrong. Perfect for me. Yet unhealthy.

Continuing my life, minimizing what things were like continued to be a routine. That’s how I cope.

Along with the struggle of making it through a single school day came more problems.

My mom could no longer stay at the rehabilitation center.

‘Gotta love it when you’re insurance refuses to help with medical expenses.’ I think to myself when my aunt updates me. The problem was: her being back home lead to me being forced to move back in to take care of her.

It was hard.

We didn’t have any furniture. The two rooms that owned a bed was my room and our guest room. Since my bed was closer to the ground, mom resided in my room for a couple months as I slept in the guest room.

The biggest struggle was feeling like you’re taking care of someone that you feel like doesn’t deserve your help. I dreaded it everyday as my mental health deteriorated.

But as a realization, I remembered she was my mother once. I just lost her during her relapse. And no matter what I still loved her. So I had to suck it up. I still needed to prove to her I did everything for her. And I was always willing to do more.

~~~

The year 2017 was a blur. Life was exactly how it was before the car crash, except, mom couldn’t walk. She was constantly in and out of surgery until my Freshman year was over. And
I was always there when she got home.

She still thought I didn’t care. No matter how hard I tried.

Once June rolled around, she finally let me get a job once she realized government money wasn’t enough for everything she needed and wanted.

My employer was extremely sexist and I dreaded heading to work every single day. But I stayed. For mom.

By July, I had quit my job for my birthday and went job hunting. No luck. So, my focus, once again, became my mom and my school work.

By August, she began using a cane to walk and driving again and I could finally stop taking the bus. But just a month later, a whole new series of problems were handed to us.

Mid-September my oldest sister, Timika, temporarily moved in with her four kids. Things began to get so much worse. But not between my mom and I. between my mom and Timika.

They stayed constantly critical of one another.

My mom saw Timika as an irresponsible parent and Timika blamed mom for her ‘trauma’ and her mistakes. I couldn’t take either because I was always in the middle. I saw my mom prioritizing alcohol as irresponsible and my sister wasn’t even raised by mom. But my side:never relevant enough.

To add on, their constant arguments regarding their different religious beliefs, her young kids making a mess, my mom taking advantage of her beginning to walk again to go buy alcohol was all too much for me to handle. My life was becoming a mess again.

I never slept because I could only get homework done at night, I never ate because everyone would eat all the food, and I never went out because I always had to stay home to, once again, become the domestic. But not just for my mom, for my sister, nieces, and nephew. Exhaustion was the only thing I knew at the time.

My problems weren’t just with the alcoholic, but now loud slobs. And I could tell my sister being there didn’t help with my mom’s drinking at all.

Fortunately, my sister moved out right before 2018 hit. I was finally able to make my last five months of sophomore year the focus.

With my sister gone, my mom was able to balance our government money to get us new furniture, rugs, and a new TV. Things were ‘better’, except, my mom was still struggling with her addiction. Since she still couldn’t get a job because of her injury, being out of work drove her back to drinking.

Even though our lives looked like it was improving, in reality, it wasn’t. Living with an alcoholic never became easier.

Which lead me back to square one. I started doing research again.

Nothing.

Just that same word. Dipsomaniac. My mom continued to fit the description perfectly.

Nevertheless, we made it to the summer. Mom started ubering to make some money. I went to Boston for a science and technologist convention, came back, and became a lifeguard at Six Flags. We’re back to the same routine of me hating my job.

My coworkers were arrogant and rude, but I endured it until Hurricane Harbor closed in August.

For mom.

But even with my job, I still felt unsuccessful. Our power went out the entire month of July and August. But things seemed to be okay. A newly sober mom kept reassuring me it was okay. I began seeing her trying her best to balance everything to start a business she’s been aiming towards for a long time.

Even with our electricity cut off, for the first time, ina long time, I saw hope for mom.

For a split second, I saw hope for myself as well. But week 2 of my junior year, set us back to square one. Thus ended the once in a lifetime feeling of optimism.

~~~

“Did you do the reading for class?”

“No. Did you?”

“Why would I be asking you if I did it?”

“Girl, I don’t know. Shut up.”

I roll my eyes at at my friend, Jermaine. This was our usual topic of conversation right before our English class.

“Man, I’m gonna fail this quiz,” he mumbles in annoyance.

“Same.”

As Jermaine goes to talk about other things, I feel my phone vibrate.

At the top of my phone I read a message saying:

From: Mom

‘I’m sorry, Bunny’

‘I love you’

Confused, but not oblivious to what was happening I frantically text back:

To: Mom

‘I love you too’

‘Sorry for what. Mom??

‘You’ve done nothing, I love you.’

When I don’t get a reply, I start to panic.

To: Mom

‘Mommmmmm’

‘Please answer’

I start trying to collect my breath, I couldn’t draw attention.

I start frantically texting my Aunt Koliska, Uncle Bateman, and my mom’s best friend, Aunt Veronica.

Right when the bell rings, I tell Jermaine I’m going to the bathroom and I’ll meet him in class. Once I’m in the stall, I call everyone to make sure mom is okay. ‘I can’t lose her.’ I think over and over to myself.

My Aunt Veronica reassures me it’s okay because she’s on her way to the house right now and she’s calling 911. I just try to say okay.

After her reply, I try to calm my breathing. ‘No anxiety attack no anxiety attack no anxiety attack’ I just repeat over and over again as I drink from my water bottle.

Once I feel okay enough, I head up to Literature right as the bell rings.

I cheese at my friend and put on my practiced body language that I haven’t had to use in months and ask, “So what’s the agenda for today?”

~~~

I lie on my back in the cold, dark room. I stare at the ceiling. Listening to everything around me. The ticking clock. The owl only apparent at night. The TV static. My heartbeat.

‘Deja vu’ I whisper. Except this wasn’t a feeling. I have lived through this before. Starting over isn’t enjoyable. I can only imagine how my mom feels right now.

October 1st, I moved back home. A week after my mom’s release from rehab again.

. Things were exactly the same.

I had began to isolate myself from mom, because I always felt like I was never going to be enough for her. I had just got on a new medication for my mental health and I wanted to focus on myself for once.

Later that month, I got a job at a restaurant. I didn’t expect to love my job, but my mistake was: I made my complete focus my job. Using it as a distraction from my home life messed up the flow both my home life and school life.

We needed a change. And still do.

It is now April 2019, and things aren’t perfect. But as I learned in my past: they could be worse. My mom apologized for everything she has put me through and apologized because I could’ve been better. She is still struggling with addiction and always will be as I will be with my mental health. But this time, we’re trying.

And I have no sure idea of what will happen with my mom once I leave high school. But I’ve seen her grow over the years, even with so many fall backs. I never would’ve thought 10 years ago that my Aunt Crystal’s death would’ve lead to the fall of my mom. And 3 years ago, I never would’ve thought that my mom could come back from that. But she’s trying and she is.

Thus the start of a new story for the Dipsomaniac. Who now I call: my mom.