Insatiable [h.s]

01

May 8th, 2020

I never had much of a family life growing up.

I didn't actually see much of my father other than him stumbling in through the front door too drunk to stand straight, destroying anything in his path as he made his way for more alcohol in our kitchen. He never cared if it was furniture or a person that was in his way. As long as he was able to supply himself with more alcohol he was fine with it.

I was my mother though. She didn't work so I spent my days trying to avoid her mostly. She would complain daily about my father and about the mess that he made, a mess that I was told to clean up. But even after all of her complaints she never stood up to him. She was too scared of him to try and fix anything but I guess it's understandable.

She took his abuse everyday swearing that it was love. She said no matter what, despite all of the abuse, she knew he loved her.

But love doesn't permit pain.

I would cling to the only stuffed animal I ever had, a teddy bear, and watch as my parents screamed at each other or threw random objects across our house at the other. Somehow that teddy bear, something that wasn't even real, gave me more love and security than my own family.

But after a while even my teddy bear couldn't save me from the destruction that they ensued.

I watched as my mom started to lose herself more and more everyday as a result. Each day another piece of her would die as she continued on with my father. I could see her eyes fading as she slowly became more and more addicted to her stupid pills, her mind slipping further away from reality as she tried to find peace within herself.

At some point she started to blame me for ruining their lives. She said that everything was my fault and that all of the damage was created because of me. I remember how loud she would get when she would start to list off every way I ruined her life. Her hands would always shake and she ended up gripping her hair at her roots as if the volume of her own voice was too much for her to handle.

Generally speaking, I think that all of this was a lot for her to lay on a nine year old.

She was never a good mom, but she progressively got worse over the years. She started drinking like my father on top of all of the pills she'd take. She told herself she wasn't addicted and that she just needed something to take the edge off. I would hear her rambling under her breath to herself as she rummaged through the drawers of the bathroom in search of a pill bottle that she hadn't emptied. But even as young as I was I knew the truth of it.

She was as bad as my father in her own way.

I'd hide in my room every night as my parents fought. I'd pray to whatever was out there just desperately hoping that someone was listening. I'd end up crying as I prayed, begging for help. I begged for someone to save me.

But no one ever did.

When I was twelve my father hit me for the first time. He didn't punch me, it was just a slap, but it was enough to knock me to the ground and make me even more terrified of him if that was somehow possible.

I remember so vividly how I looked up from the floor as the tears began to cloud my vision. I remember how my mom was just sitting at our table watching the whole thing as she popped another pill out of that stupid orange bottle.

She didn't seem surprised as she watched me look up to her from the floor. She wasn't shocked or even angry. She watched me with a blank expression as she put her head back, tossing the pill into her mouth before she washed it down with the rest of the cheap wine filling her glass.