FUCK.

Fuck,  Nate

I wish you were here. 

I had to tell our birth mom you died. (she was almost relieved it was you and not Grandpa.. You know how much I love him, but he has 70 years on you..WTF!? ) I called our birth dad too. That was hard. I just wish you were here so I could punch you. And then I would hug you and NEVER let go.

Do you remember that time when mom left us in the bathtub for hours? She had just gotten us back the day before-and was already drinking. We were both so cold and hungry. Although I remember this as a story- I know we both remember the shivering hunger in our bodies. Especially because we re-experienced it many times in our addiction.

Sometimes when the screaming and fighting would begin, I would take you outside- crawling through the raspberry bushes, we would swing until the screaming grew faint- or the sirens came. Sometimes we hid in the closet. I used to bribe you with candy to keep you quiet and read you the boxcar children until you fell asleep. I wonder if you remember this..

Before we were adopted, we lived with Rachelle and Denny. I know you remember this. You would always sneak into our room at night and without fail make us laugh. Somehow mom always caught us, as quiet and sneaky as we thought we were. We would always get put in the corner and proceed our conversations through the sliding of notes and secret code hand symbols. 
On vacation, when we didn't have to sit on the floor and no longer got to ride in the bed of the truck (see: the one where seat belts became a thing) we would turn our seats around facing the back window (me, you, Rachelle, and Crystal) and escape into a whole other world. 

The best was when we were being baby-sat by our love-drunk teenage foster siblings. (Remember Crystal and Dean?) You would always run away and get them in trouble for some reason or another. You were definitely the ring leader of every adventure that ended in spankings, time-outs, or groundings. Secretly, these were my favorite adventures. We were both so patient when it came to hiding from grown-ups, I think we both mastered this at an age far too young. I was definitely better at the hiding and seeking, but you were pretty good too. I guess we can call it a tie.

I'm sorry for that time I choked you after you pulled out a chunk of my hair. Also, it wasn't an accident when I ran into your skateboard with my bike and you had to get stitches. I know you already know that- I just wish you would admit that it's your fault I got blood all over my Lion King outfit and couldn't bring in cupcakes for my 1st grade birthday. I hope that was one of your biggest regrets.

There are so many things I wish I could say to you, so many questions left unasked. I regret that we were both so persistently stubborn, that neither of us could be vulnerable enough to admit defeat. 

I wonder if you were afraid that night, if you knew you were going to die. I wonder what your last thought was-if you felt any pain at all. I'm told you felt fucking amazing before everything went black. That makes me feel good. 

You were supposed to call me back that night- I wish I would have called you. I knew in your voice something was off. It sucks that we learned so early to never trust our guts.

I wonder where you are now.. I know it must be better than here. People we love believe you are burning in hell, and that makes me cringe😡

I thought us both invincible. We had survived so much. HOW CAN YOU BE THE ONE THAT'S DEAD- AND OUR SICKO BIRTH PARENTS ARE STILL ALIVE? This makes me SO angry. She was dead. It should be her-not you. I want it to be her, and I don't feel bad about that. It's their fault we have this disease! This is the unfairest thing of all the unfair things! Life is so hard and beyond confusing. I wish we could go back to building forts and swimming outside for hours on end, to watching reruns of Rugrats and Land Before Time. 

I'll never be okay with this.. just like I was never okay with you pushing my pillow out the window on our way to Tennessee. Life seems even more daunting without you here. You were my sidekick, a serious kick in my side. (you ALWAYS kicked me when we had to share the couch at Aunt Judy's) You were the only other human who had been through it all with me, who got it without having to say so, who knew the fear without speaking a word, who got the same twisted feeling in their stomach when they heard the word God.

They put your middle name in the obituary. I told them you would hate that. Mom and Dad are SO beyond devastated, everyone is! I've never heard them cry like that. The funeral service was a Christian convert ceremony beyond compare--even though not everyone in that building worshipped a power named God or even believed in one- I know this wouldn't surprise you. Regardless of spiritual/political beliefs, everyone in the sanctuary shared the same love and deep sadness for you. Your friends even got up to speak and share their favorite memories- this would have made you smile.

I really hate life right now, and I especially hate the word God. I'm still sober, but it really sucks. I wish you were here. I wish you were here. I just really wish you were fucking here.

(Mom doesn't care if we say fuck if we're REALLY mad, remember?)

FUCK THIS. FUCK THIS. FUCK THIS. FUCK THIS.

</3 Nat

unrequited

I once fell in love with someone who couldn't love me back..

Just an infant at the time, I didn't have the words. But I do remember.

 I remember in my chest, that tightens every time I ask for help and no one is seemingly there; I remember in my blood, that rushes to my head, every time I hear glass shatter; I remember in my lungs, that to this day, stop breathing in cautious expectation, every time I hear a car halt its engine.

I once fell in love with someone who couldn't love me back. 

At just the age of four, I had the words, but with my egocentric mind, I knew that everything bad and scary around me was my doing. I remember being too loud and too quiet, too daring and too afraid.

I remember in my fingers, that learned to lock together when no one else was there to hold my hand; I  remember in my stomach, that still eases every time I get on a swing, from days of rocking back and forth to calm the storming waves within; I remember in my shoulders, that still jolt each time I hear approaching sirens.

I once fell in love with someone who couldn't love me back. Not just someone- but some'two'. 

At 6 through 14, I was eager to please, to be seen as enough in their eyes, to be seen.

I remember in my knees, that bent down at the altar praying for love and acceptance for all; my eyes that squeezed back tears so many nights, realizing in my family it was not okay to be who I was- but they chose me, they saved me, and I owed them a daughter who could do right in their eyes. 

I once fell in love with someone that couldn't love me back. 

They took on a different name depending on the night: Jack, Jameson, Charles Shaw.. At age 15, they brought me a warmth that I had never felt before, a safety blanket that drowned out the infinite fear burning inside me. But this liquid love was one that knew no bounds and didn't have limits. When I consumed it, I was consumed by it. I could never have enough. And cunningly concealed beneath this seemingly safe blanket came horrors that I would never remember.

I remember in my back, stiff from all of the nights spent sleeping on cement floors, stock rooms, bathroom tiles-from nights I'll never remember; I remember in my throat, each time I go to swallow a pill and can still feel a cold metal blade pressed against my neck;  I remember in my sleep, when I wake up  sweating and screaming haunted by faces and spaces of my past. 

I once fell in love with someone who could love me back- all of me.

And their ability to do so challenged long standing beliefs about myself. 

I remember this in my chest, the way it slowed down when they held me in their arms, and in my deepest core where for the first time I felt seen and understood. I remember this in my eyes, that met theirs and could see a better version of me reflected back.

But I couldn't love them back... 

                     because I didn't know how.

                                      BUT I could learn.

I remember

Scene 1: Shame

The first time I remember encountering alcohol, I was four. I remember watching a man hold my mother down as she kicked her legs and cried, the sound of shattering glass and screaming. I don’t remember if this man was my father. I remember leaving our room to make sure my mother was okay and to remind her that my brother was still hungry- she screamed at me with tears in her eyes: “Go back to your room, right now!” When I tiptoed out of our room again in desperation, I found my mother crying naked on the carpet. I told her I didn’t like it when she cried. She comforted me assuring me she was going to drink “her medicine” and she would feel better soon. For some reason I knew that “her medicine” would only make things worse. She instructed me to let her finish drinking “her medicine” so she could take a nap. She reminded me, I knew where the kitchen was, and she directed me to get some food for my brother, adding one final warning, “Do not make your brother cry. Mommy is really tired. And that will only make her more sad.”

Pro-tips for not “making” a two-year old cry: Know how to tie their shoes (not too loose; but definitely not too tight), let them spill their milk on the carpet repeatedly, and if you really don’t want them to throw a tantrum and wake up your mother-- Let them climb on the counter and play with the knobs on the stove.

I remember believing that it was my fault she was so angry and so sad, and promising myself I would behave better the next time, so my mother wouldn’t leave us again. Little did I know, one day I would be crying on the floor kicking and screaming, as my mother lay in the room next door taking another one of her all day naps.

Scene 2) Shame-er

The first time I smoked a cigarette, I was eleven. I had been adopted almost six years. I was sitting behind my cousins' friend's four-wheeler in a wooded area in the mountains. The three of us smoked the whole pack together. I proceeded to vomit a colorful blend of Superman ice-cream and hot Cheetos. I remember thinking I would paint my room that color. I remember asking myself, "Why do so many people smoke these?", before soothing my throat with a Budweiser my cousins' friend passed my way. This was also the first time I willingly took my clothes off for a boy. And reluctantly allowed him to push his tongue down my throat. I remember walking back home, covered in dirt and guilt. I showered for two hours that night.

Scene 3) Shame-est

The first time I blacked-out from alcohol, I was at my best friend's aunt's apartment in Memphis. I was fifteen. My last memory was lying in the bathtub with her, fully clothed, the hot water showering upon us, as we laughed uncontrollably. I remember feeling like I never felt so connected to another human. We then kissed, and I remember thinking how beautiful she was, and seriously questioning my sexuality. As this thought passed, I was filled with intense shame and fear. I remember waiting for God to strike me dead, bracing myself for the lightning to strike our porcelain coffin. Instead, I let the hot water wash away my sins, as these thoughts and my memory faded into a black hole. It would take me years to find out how deep and inescapable this black hole really was.

Waking up the next day I felt a sickness I had never felt before, and the shock of being unable to piece together memories from the previous night. More than that, I remember thinking "I can't wait to feel this way again. My mind just shuts off and I don't feel anything!" I sought out any opportunity to acquire that feeling from that day forward. The nights I couldn't remember became a normal weekend routine. And my preference of drinking alone, grew into a relationship I came to know as love. Thus, my “I remembers” grew increasingly rare as I sought out this new love and inched closer to my legal homecoming.

Scene 4) No shame, no game

On my 21st birthday, I remember my friends surrounding me in my dorm's common living space, showering me with gifts and hugs, the room filled with genuine smiles and laughter. We then proceeded to the bar I would soon think of as my second home. I had 8 shots of Patron (buy 1 get 1 free) within the first 20 minutes. I remember sipping (inhaling) a gin & tonic as I signed up for multiple karaoke performances. I remember tripping up the stairs and staring into the spinning audience. I stood on the stage, placing one arm on my best friend's shoulder and wrapping the other around the mike's stand for balance purposes. I don't remember anything after that. I do know that I never touched Patron again. And that I rocked the stage that night. 

Bars would become my nightly (and eventually, daily) refuge.

Final Scene) A shame that slowly suffocates

 

It wouldn't be five more years until I even entertained the question of whether I was an alcoholic. Yes, both of my biological parents were, but I was nothing like them. What I couldn't see then, was I had the perfect recipe inside me for addiction: Genes, plenty of trauma, and a brain that wanted to kill me. And of course a paralyzing fear of everything inside me and around me.

The moment I remember officially accepting this identity, came a few days after my MSW graduation, (the best [sober] day of life). It was 11am and I was sitting alone at the bar, whiskey in one hand and beer in the other. I had fresh stitches down my arm, yet another black eye, and could locate a new bruise or scratch every time I had to pee. Which was pretty often. I remember observing the couple a few seats down from me at the bar, as I was finishing my last assignment--twenty-three tortuous pages. As usual, I used my fail-proof technique of drinking a glass of wine for each page I finished. Moving on to more effective liquids, as I finished the final paragraph. I remember watching this couple get up and leave with a glass “half-full” of beer and being equally shocked and horrified that they could just walk away and waste such precious alcohol. I thought about that pint of beer for days to follow. I remember asking myself, “do others spend as much energy thinking about things like this?", and realizing it was unlikely anybody would obsess to that degree about a lipstick stained, almost empty, pint of craft beer. I continued to drink in the subsequent days, a steady stream of blurred blackouts and stoned slumber. I checked into rehab a week later.  

         Forthcoming realizations:

• I could rarely limit my drink intake, even when I seriously tried. And I was willing to try almost anything once I had enough drinks in me. 
•  I almost always ended my day or night in a black-out, ideally after finishing the tasks that were required of me, but this was never guaranteed.
•  I ended almost every night/morning crying on the porch or on the couch or in someone's bed. No matter what the setting was, I always ended up crying uncontrollably. And doing things I couldn't remember but would always regret.
•  During my last semester, I frequently drank during class breaks, sitting on the floor in the handicap bathroom of the basement of the school of social work. I kept my wine and whisky bottles in the “closet” I found in the corner of the stall, filling up my thermos of coffee with Whiskey or my Starbucks Venti cup with a bottle of wine, so I could fully take in my lecture. Towards the end of the semester, I  often sat in class for half of the three-hour session, and then honestly decided I needed to go to the bar or get high before returning back to class, so I could really make the most of it.

My name is Natalie and I am not my mother, and I am not my father, but I am an alcoholic.

Today I am four months sober, or as I sometimes need to count:  178,560 minutes sober. I am committed to facing the pain and shame that I’ve drowned out for years with alcohol and other drugs, with sobriety, therapy, and vulnerability. I have alcoholism, but I also have a Master’s degree and a light up turtle that makes ocean sounds. I am broken, but not unfixable. I can do this, but not without help.