This is me.  I’m a positive person with AB-negative blood coursing through my veins.  I overwork myself and yet I consistently have low blood pressure.  Though my heart is overflowing with the passion I have for life, there is a hole that constantly serves as a daily reminder.

My mother is an addict.

My childhood is stained with her slurs, the swerve of her car, and her hidden liquor bottles.  Her neglect and desertion has stunted me emotionally.

When I turned twenty-five, I received  text from my mother.  “I wish we could be closer,” she wrote.  “Let me know how you feel.”

I hadn’t spoken to her in nearly a year.  I had called her the instant I found out she had been in the hospital for a few days.  She said she was fine, that she had cracked her hip and didn’t reach out because she didn’t want to bother me.

I wrote back, “Let me know when you’re available.”

Now the stopwatch resets and I move forward.


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