Dear Diary

I need to share these moments as they come to me. Part interactions throughout my day, my thoughts, my fears, my life. I need to talk to get the poison out. I never kept a diary but always envied the thought. I just finished a book, a thriller, with a diary and it pushed me back into the idea. I hadn’t thought of it since I was a teen but I need this.
I’m an alcoholic. The first time I said that aloud was to my mother just over a year ago. She held me and we cried. So strange. My mother wasnt the maternal type. She wasnt the kind that held and cried. She was always a yeller, always the one with the “great wisdom” which usually caused more harm than good, more pain than thought. She always knew better than anyone else who had ever evolved into a human with a logical brain. But she did it. She proved to me that day, she was human.
My ex husband broke me. Well, I dont know… did he? I was always a bit broken. I was more a broken windshield, you know, shattered but still in one piece. I guess I was already shattered and he pulled the strands out one by one. I hated him with all my being. I hated his face, his voice, his scent, even his breathing. I hated myself for marrying him. For years I begged for a divorce but his pride was deep and he wouldnt allow it. I turned to alcohol.
It’s always been there for me. My earliest memory I was about 3. My dad, a since recovered alcoholic, found it easier and more fun to feed me beer than to raise me. He drank well into my 20s. My grandmother on my mum’s side was also an alcoholic. It was a dear friend of the family’s.
When I found how deeply I hated my marriage and grew sick of the abuse, I’d just given up and given in. I couldn’t resolve any longer. I checked out and in doing so, I’d lost my children. They didn’t know. They didnt see. They heard but they didn’t understand what was happening to me. Inside me. My mental state.

My eyes are sleepy… another time to talk maybe


My mum came to visit as she normally did annually to see the kids and me. I had told her many times how unhappy I was. I told her how I hated my husband but she knew I couldnt afford to children alone. She told me, verbatim, “Undress him and please him however necessary.” I wanted to die. No matter what I said she told me I needed to give in to him. When he strangled me and I lost consciousness, it was my fault; not just from her but also my father and stepmother. I did press charges but let him come home after he was convicted. I had asked for a divorce many times but he refused. What could I do but drink? It started light. Just a swift getaway. As time went on it became, not yet a need but, a want. I craved it to make my day alright.

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