As the smoke entered my lungs and I tasted the bitter poison, the airy light headed feeling came with it. And as I stood there, on the empty sidewalk, cigarette in hand, I realized just why my dad drinks and my mom pops pills.
Sometimes it's good to forget, it feels nice to get away from all the worries of life and taste nothing but the nicotine on your tongue. But then I remembered I never wanted to be like my parents. I crushed the cigarette under my foot. And walked away.
When I was kid, in my princess pajamas, I'd watch my dad drink himself to sleep. I use to put my favorite Teddy bear on his chest while he was sleeping, I thought it would protect his heart so he wouldn't die. I kept that up till one time he woke and got mad. That was the first time he beat me. He grabbed the bear and shoved it in my face, knocking me down. That was my first trip the ER, for "falling down the stairs."
My mom. I'd watch her sallow the pills she'd get from the doctors, and wash them down with a shot. Or two. Or five. Vodka, that was her favorite. With whatever money we got from welfare, she spent on booze, dad's cigarettes, and prescription pills. She was hooked on them. I could always hear her cry at night, once I walked into her room to comfort her. She just got angry and yelled it was all my fault. I tried so hard to make her understand that no matter what I loved her, no matter how many times she forgot to feed me, or no matter how many times she slapped me, no matter how many times she pulled me by my hair that I'd always love her. But the love soon ran out. There was only so much I could take. So much blame I could carry on my chest. So much fault and anger aimed at me. So much hatred.
When I was 7 my dad walked out on us. Well, mostly my mom. I don't remember much of my dad before he started drinking. I remember we used to be a happy family, I remember he used hug me tight, and my mom would kiss my cheek, and they would take me out for ice cream. I used to get tucked into bed, and told I was loved every night. But those memories are long gone. I try not to remember, I try to block out the thoughts, it makes it easier to deal with the pain. Makes it easier to face the fact that my parents don't love me, they never did, it only took me 8 years to figure it out. I guess somewhere deep in my heart, under all the hearted and longing for acceptance and disire for love, there'll always be a place for my mom. She'll always be a part of me like a parasite I'll never lose, a scar that'll never heal, a memory that'll never be lost. She has cut me open and implanted her image into my blood-pumping organ. And that'll never change.
The sidewalk seemed never ending, as i walked home. No not home, just the house I live in. I just can't wait to get away, get the fuck out of here, go somewhere better, somewhere I can really call home. Where I live right now. It's not home, these parents, aren't my mom and dad. This hallow shell of a person, isn't me.
My foot steps, got louder and louder as I pounded my feet on the dirty cement, running. Trying to out run all my problems, all my anger, all my everything. I was feeling way too many emotions for my liking. Sadness, regret, emptiness, mostly though just anger. I had so much anger in me, anger at the world, at my lousy parents, at myself, at everything and everyone around me. Why did it have to be this way? I don't understand, I don't fucking understand. I'm so sick of it, sick of everything. Of all the opportunities I've missed, all the regrets I have, all these might have beens, all those tears I've cried. Nothing could ever make up for, nothing at all.
