Self Induced Blindness

“Alcohol ruined me financially and morally, broke my heart and the hearts of too many others. Even though it did this to me and it almost killed me and I haven’t touched a drop of it in seventeen years, sometimes I wonder if I could get away with drinking some now. I totally subscribe to the notion that alcoholism is a mental illness because thinking like that is clearly insane.”
Craig Ferguson, American on Purpose: The Improbable Adventures of an Unlikely Patriot 

“It’s a great advantage not to drink among hard drinking people.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald,
The Great Gatsby

 
misunderstood-journey

And with a deep drink, the battle begins inside. The poison seeps through every fiber of his mind, blinding it with anger. The blindness is absolute, the thinking stops and in the blackness of lost souls he wrings the sanity from every moment. Ripping the last shreds of innocence from the hosts of his sinking life, the cup’s thrown, a gauntlet of challenge against imagined foes. He pounds the friends and family surrounding him and crushes them beneath his inflamed ignorance. The pain is not enough, hearts fall deep into the void of his addiction. His breath excretes his venom of choice. No love in that world, no understanding, no chance for any to live and be well. It is a suicide, a long slow suicide, that takes everyone down with him. Nothing left, nothing gained, lives wasted. 

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The Mom That Never Was

Men are what their mothers made them.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson
narayanindia

A meeting of the minds, a discussion of a very seriousness nature, is performed under the kitchen table. My siblings, a step-brother and step-sister, began the examination, the topic? Whether or not to call my step mom, mom. I wonder how many little men and women, are wrestling with so simple a task? Though simple, this important issue presses little minds. I never knew a mom growing up, that I can remember. This new “mom” was the closest I would come, and that not very close at all, to experiencing this miracle. Having made up my mind to commit to calling her mom, I began another difficult journey, actually getting out from under the table and initiating a conversation. My terrified frame shook as I mouthed the words I longed to speak. “mmm, ooo”, the first attempt resulted in utter failure. Recovering from this botched attempt, I spoke again, sneaking it at the end. “Can I have a bowl of cereal, (uncomfortable seconds of silence) mom”. “Mom”, spoken with a hoarse whisper. I managed this feat, however, the valiant gesture was to no avail in the end. She ended up torturing me, supporting my alcoholic dad, as I again hid under the table, regretting my vulnerability in giving her the privilege of calling her mom. So much is in that name for a child. All that courage to reach out, the last and final time, to call out for a mother. Not my mother, any mother. My cries went unheeded, my hope unrequited. That name now stays in my pocket, like a toy car, just a fantasy of what should be, what could be. Simple things my friends, simple things are so important. Remember that, mothers as you look at your children, whether or not they are yours. Remember, they need just a simple thing, like being able to call you mom, and know you are there for them.