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Jiu Jitsu Jesus Not Today Satan Shirt, hoodie, tank top
I can’t relax into a cosy afterlife of recovery, because this drunk mother is me. She is not a person I can leave behind. I can’t graduate from her through time or healing or therapy or the Twelve Steps. The second I forget her is the second my babies are no longer safe. If I think that I have changed or that I am somehow different, then I am as good as adding bleach to their bedtime milk or leaving them wandering alone on a cliff’s edge. Jiu Jitsu Jesus Not Today Satan Shirt, hoodie, tank top
Even just writing about the addled years of their babyhood when I was soaked in wine and grief feels dangerous. I deserve to be exposed in this way, but them? I’m not sure.
The particularly Irish threat of ‘people will talk’ hangs heavy over this part of the story. They will be the boys with the drunk mother. Whatever happens to them it will be, ‘No wonder, do you not know about the mother?’ Even if they excel, it will be viewed through the prism of ‘and all that in spite of the mother’. The drunk mother. I cringe at the idea that they will one day read how I bathed them drunk and closed one eye to better focus on Dr Seuss at bedtime. Oh the places you’ll go (and leave me behind). They’ll hate me for this, I’m positive. And I will deserve that. It will be the delayed retribution that I deserve. The delayed retribution that maybe I even need.
I don’t know how else to atone for what I have done to them. In a way, them hating me seems like it could be easier, more appropriate than their current sweet well-spring of love. Right now I bask in their outpouring of kisses and cuddles and it feels like I am on the run. I am getting away with something. When they hate me maybe it’ll be easier. I won’t feel so vile and undeserving.
Committing this to record is an act of insurance on my part. A living declaration: I am an alcoholic, a liar and a manipulator. And I’m good. I’ll convince you that I am fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. I’ll give you my whole shtick but if you see me and I am blurred and smeared by alcohol don’t listen to my cheery lies; I am drowning. I am being hounded by the obsession once more and my babies are not safe.