Mother Dearest (Journal Entry)

broken-mirror

I hate my reflection. A daily reminder of the fool I came to be. Every imperfection, every self-inflicted scar. Every time I look into those sullen eyes it’s like the record hits play on every memory I wish I could forget.

When I was younger I had so many dreams, so much hope for a beautiful life. The one thing I lacked is what drove me into hell.

Mother Dearest always said I was her best friend. Turns out she was the worst friend anyone could ever have. After enduring a childhood shrouded in AA meetings and trips to the psych ward, Mother Dearest opted to ditch the recovery toolbox she skipped out on me to obtain, and rather decided the best thing for me was to drink and smoke in her presence.

God forbid I might find refuge in a proverbial toolbox of my own, or embrace the fellowship she rejected.

I hate my reflection. A daily reminder of Mother Dearest, the fool I’ve come to be. But there comes a time in every addict’s life when that fork in the road becomes an inescapable choice. To wallow in the never-ending cycle of self-destruction or move forward day-by-day, hour-by-hour, minute-by-minute toward a new life founded on serenity.

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