Forgotten but not forgiven.

This story includes sensitive subjects involving substance abuse, self harm, sexual situations, and mental health problems.

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 The air tends to smell of freshly fallen rain. The type of scent that reminds you of your childhood, of slightly damp mud. The scent that would always end up in wet grass stains on your Sunday outfit.

 I am cold. I feel the humidity deep in my bones. Maybe one more drink will warm me up? I ask myself, already knowing the answer. The bitter end of the bottle brings me dizziness but not warmth; it doesn’t bring me peace.  I taste the burn of cheap alcohol as it falls down my throat and ends in my stomach. I thought I had finished this bottle already. Yet, it always has enough for one last drink.

I don’t know if it’s the whisky or the guilt, but I feel the tears streaming down my face, like a raging river, they run intensely as I feel my heart break in a million pieces. Why can’t I stop drinking?

Running down the stairs, trying to turn my tears into a smile. My messy hair and stale breath hidden by the promise of one more hug. I want my son in my arms, laughing like he used to laugh, a sound so powerful that could make flowers bloom. His warm, small body, pressed against mine as he tells me with his sweet voice, ‘I love you, mommy.’

If I could only figure it out, why do I feel so sad all the time? Why does everything feel so impossible to attain? Getting up from bed, making breakfast, taking a shower. Everyday things that used to come so naturally to me are now a task that requires weeks of preparation. I’ve forgotten when the last time was, I did a load of laundry.

I don’t remember the last time I made love to my husband, or the last time I spoke to my son instead of yelling at him. He hides now when he sees me, I don’t look, sound or smell like I used to. My skin has aged prematurely. I’ve added twenty years to my face. My once, soft voice, would sing out-of-tune lullabies to my baby, now has turned into a screeching, raspy sound. And the smell, that smell of sour sweat, of alcohol and an old ashtray. Maybe if I took a quick shower, sprayed some perfume, if I could just quit drinking, if I could just put the bottle down. If I could forgive myself for feeling this way.

My head feels like it’s splitting in half, I can feel palpitations inside my brain. I search the house for any bottles that will bring me comfort, anything to numb the pain. As I slept in a drunken slumber, my husband dried out the house of any drop of elixir. My only comfort has been flushed down the toilet. I lay down in the bed, it won’t be long before the shakes start. It won’t be long before anger takes over my body and I turn into the horrible monster my son so fears. Why can’t they understand me? Why can’t they feel my sadness and my pain?

My bed is soft and warm, but my body burns and aches for more than a blanket. I need another drink. Everything is spinning, I cannot stand the sunlight peeking through the curtains, I yell at my husband to make me feel better. I demand he gets me a drink and he refuses. He lays down next to me as I cry, covered in my own vomit. How did I become this person? I had it all figured out, I attended PTA meetings, baked brownies for bake sales, I volunteered at the community center, I fed the homeless as I gave them fake smiles and complained about the way they smelled, the same smell that emanates from my body now.

I hear my son laughing downstairs as he plays something on the TV. My head pounds and the pain is so intense that it makes me vomit again. I am angry, all I want is quiet. And one more drink.

I stumble out of bed as my husband tries to stop me, I am strong for someone so frail. I push him out of the way, and I make my way downstairs, ready to make sure the brat stays quiet so I can sleep my hangover off.

It is all dark, the house is empty. All I can feel is the humidity in my bones and the smell of dampness. The house looks like I feel; a once lovely place is now filled with bugs and darkness. Nothing left to save, nothing left to forgive, just the bones of a home rotten to the core by addiction and anger. Just like me, I am a forgotten soul waiting for forgiveness that will never come. I don’t know how long it’s been, days, months, maybe years.

Most days, everything is the same; I get up and drink, sleep it off and wake up only to have another drink. The bottle never fails me, it is always there, waiting for me to feed a fire that never dies. The thirst is never quenched.

But there are some rare days, some strange instances where a higher power makes my memories clear, and I remember it all.

I was laying down, with my head buried under the pillow, trying to suffocate the urge to drink and to find as much darkness as possible to give my head a rest from spinning. My husband tried to love me, regardless of what I had become. He still laid next to my body, covered in my own filth, desperately trying to find any redeeming quality I might still possess. The noises from the bottom floor bothered me, and in my drunken rage and desperation for quietness, I ran downstairs to yell at the only human being I still love. To break free from my husband’s arms, I stumbled like a leaf in the wind, my frail body falling down the stairs like a rag doll. I can still hear the loud crack of my neck breaking. That was the morning my body died, my soul had been rotting away longer than I can remember, trying to find peace in another sip.

Escaping to bars in the middle of the night, allowing strange men to use my body so that I could have another drink.  Stealing from small shops, getting disgusted looks by women who used to eat overpriced salads with me.

I had it all.

I was the woman people envied.

I drank it all away.

I pushed everyone away, including those who loved me the most. I refused all help; I just wanted another drink.

Through the fights, the cheating, the yelling, they forgave me. They loved me. And I, still, drank it all away.

I am stuck in this eternal loop, reliving that day. The whisky bottle is always full enough for one last drink. Full enough for one last sip of rage. And as I lay here, covered in my own vomit and urine I hope one day, I can forgive myself. And that if there is a god, that he will allow me to move on from this hell.

Forgive me, please. Forgive me.

I mumble as I close my eyes, knowing I will soon wake up and live it all again. Maybe, I pray, maybe this time I will remember I’m dead.