I am an addict. This isn't a metaphor. My mother held a lineage of poor discipline, handed it off to me and begged me to continue it. Despite my brutal rejection of the genes within me, I found my way into the preying hands of selfish endeavours and let them devour me whole. I found every person who reminded me of the mother I couldn't save and let them run circles around me like she did before. I took their cigs, I took their pot, I took their liquor, I took there pills, I took their cough syrup, I took their angel dust, I took their coke, I took it all for years. At first I was looking for answers, then I was looking to drown out my questions. I've since stopped trying to explain her behaviours, and simultaneously my own. I've learned, however, how to recognize the patterns. I didn't find god, or reevaluate my faith or purpose. Instead, a number of almost-dying-but-not-quiet-and-maybe-I'm-just-not-supposed-to-die-just-yet's made me stop trying. Can't quite kick the nicotine, and sure I miss the way my face is so, so, beautiful in the bathroom mirror as I gnash my teeth together, but it wasn't worth it. That's the only difference I found. She decided we weren't worth it. I love my siblings more than a mother loves her kids. and it wasn't worth it.
E.L.T / 7-25-2026












