SEVEN

The door was cracked open to our apartment once again. I knew this meant she wasn’t sober but the mystery of her mood started the racing heart in my chest. School went well that day for once and I even had a skip in my step on the way home. That skip quickly went from my feet to my heart when I found her passed out and not moving on her bed. Was this the time she was not going to wake up? My seven year old self began the routine I was all too familiar with. I began to tap on her cheeks yelling her name. Nothing. I determined she must be hungry so I fed her some watermelon. Nothing. She never swallowed. Running down to the caretakers apartment I remember thinking this is the day that she won’t wake up again. The paramedics filled our small space adding great fear and a feeling of claustrophobia. Her body was jostled and shocked as I watched. Why was this happening? Did I not hide her liquor or flush her pills that morning? This had to be my fault I thought.  

After she was stabilized and admitted I was allowed to see her. The overwhelming emotions stuffed deep down and smile on I walked in her room knowing what to expect. The tears and the apologies and the promises flowing I smiled and forgave her. I was seven. I was in control. I was the parent.

The select and blurred memories began as I simply couldn’t take it all in any longer. Feelings I refused to feel through the prison wall I placed securely around my heart were kept at bay. This was my life and I was no weak victim, I was in charge and I would survive.