I Fucking Hate The Holidays

I hated Thanksgiving and I’m dreading the next wave of festive crap.  I’ve hated them for the entirety of my life.  The hate of them is different than when I was a child.  As a child I hated them from fear.


I guess in some ways, fear is still the base feeling at play.  Grown up fear is different.

There are parts of me that hate my mothers drunken child rearing and the extra special fun it is being an ACOA.

She’s dead.  My marriage is over.  I can’t thank addiction and/or alcoholism enough for tainting two of the most important relationships of ones life.

She drank herself to death at 42yo.  I was eating strawberry ice cream, it was a snowy, cold February day when the police came to my house.  She was found on someone’s front porch.  She died alone, cold and on her own vomit.  I was just 18.

I’m thankful every day for the obvious.  The obvious is the easier stuff – that shit that drives you crazy, gives you the feeling of being alive.  That’s the good shit right there.  Hold it tight because life is a series of very unpredictable events.  There are people who don’t give a fuck others hurt or need, there are people who can’t and of course, there are people that do.

It was a close call as to whether there would be a turkey on the table this year, or a tree the day after – like every other year.  Our traditions where pretty close to having to be rewritten again, albeit differently, this year, but it worked out.  The turkey was smaller and the tree is shorter, shorter than me actually and I believe will be perpetually crocked because the trunk is too thin for the base.

The children enjoy fucking with me.  “The tree isn’t straight…”.  I don’t like children.

Holidays suck, I try to not feel they suck – haven’t mastered that yet.  Substance abuse is so fucking destructive and its ripple effect is emotionally exhausting.  I’ll always be the child of a drunk, I will always carry traits from growing up with a drunk mother.  My Christmas morning was her passed out half naked, some guy on the couch and presents from ‘Santa’ half wrapped.

Intellectually I know why those trapped in addiction do what they do, say what they say.  Shift responsibility to anything but themselves.   I see the red flags in my own marriage, the ones that say he hasn’t hit his bottom yet.  My own red flags, my own adult child issues that are constant battles.

I got one good Thanksgiving and one good Christmas from my mother.  She was in recovery and sober for 4 months before she died.  She was living in a half-way house, I never had a sober mother.  Before she got clean for those 4 months, she was living on the streets.

She was thrown out of her half-way house for drinking.  She came to my house, she was drunk.  I wouldn’t let her in my house drinking.  Boundaries and all… fuck boundaries.

That was the last time I saw her alive.  She was drunk, I told her to leave.  She died on her own vomit.  Alone.

Last day I had being a wife, my husband was strung out or drunk and that didn’t end well.  I told him to leave too…with the help the police.

Not a daughter.  Not a wife.

Happy Fucking Holidays



Fuck it, I lost count.

The cycle.  That’s what the therapist says, cycle with a meek little smirk.  I supposes he’sidiot the one with the Masters and I, well, not so much.  Could there be truth to that?

Probably.  All you need to do is put enough quarters in the crap ass washing machines at the laundromat and they’ll keep going, even if they wash for shit.

Masters or not, the cycle has begun and even I, the one and I quote, who knows “very little about substance abuse” can see the impending doom (per the estranged addict husband – funny shit right!).

Like that of the ill-fated basket of clothes you just put in the front loader.  That delusion clean clothes will emerge even when you’ve over loaded the mother fucker and shoved that bitch ass door shut like an over filled piece of luggage you sit on to zip closed.

Just put it on heavy duty cycle.. it *will* come out clean, right?  Right.

The damn therapist also handed me a book on writing, told me I should keep writing.  At least once a week.  I failed, I find humor in that too but I’m writing tonight so quarters or not I’ll pat myself on the back. 

Back to cycles..(in full disclosure, this was *not* the cycle the therapist was alluding to.  In psychology,  there is probably deep meaning to my avoiding.  I’m just waiting on my chicken tenders to finish heating up in the toaster oven… shit, there ago passive aggressively avoiding…again.  

But hey… cycles and all.

Can we guess who’s drinking, AGAIN?  Oh hell ya, that would be Kleo.  Yes, the same one who is living at the transitional housing that he’s not *allowed* to drink at.  Guess that whole sobriety thing got in the way for him…again. 

We should all place bets on when the next online drug that isn’t a drug order but makes him psychotic and break peoples hands, ante in anyone?  (true – he ‘allegedly’ broke a cops hand at the VA Hospital last drug spree while living at moms house because she *had* to help him, he only needs help, just ask)

World beware, he’s back to drinking and even though I got a scathing email on how little I know about anything and god knows being a child of an alcoholic I know absolutely *nothing*.. about alcoholism.

What I do know is this; How long before he hurts another person in drug, alcohol or combo of both, psychotic induced state?  It happens every time. Every.single.time.

I can’t tell you how mother fucking awesome it is to know that the person who tried to push you out a closed window, held your neck so hard that you had broken blood vessels in your eyes and has a list of innocent humans he’s hurt in this state.  How awesome it is to know he’s back in the game.  And how sad it doesn’t matter where on earth he would be, that fear sticks with you, it becomes a dark dance and the fabric of your being.  You make friends with it but it never goes away.

Life free of remorse for the growing list of physical assaults on the ones he claims to think he loves and the poor random people unlucky enough to cross his path.

How many times do I need to say don’t contact me asshole.  You made your choice.  I made mine, I don’t want to end up dead next time.

Here are some quarters, go take your drunk…soon to be drug using self and find a front loader.  It will help absolve the guilt not felt.

When I was a child, that child of a drunk Mother in the 80’s – made my estranged husband abuse issues looks like a two year old throwing a fit ove not getting what he wanted and acting out.

I guess there  is a learning curve after all.

I’d hide in the dryer, not the washer as child.  Hiding from my drunk mohter.  Guess I didn’t have life shit on by substance abuse I needed washer vs. the dryer.

What’s one more night of being afraid of the one person who took vows to honor and protect…

Here is a roll of quarters.  They work just as well at the packy as they do the laundromat.

I guess that’s something.