My child is an alcoholic.
There are periods when she is sober. When she is welcomed back into our lives, but she drifts back out again, taking our broken hearts with her.
If there is an end to this cycle of addiction, I cannot see it.
She spoke with her dad, said she was being kicked out of her apartment on Friday for being £700.00 in arrears. Accommodation we had paid the bond for, plus the upfront rent, we helped each month by contribution, and paid her previous arrears. ‘Sorry love,’ he said, ‘I ain’t bailing you out this time.’
How she got to here is easy to chronicle. Why she got to this point is a mystery to me. I know she has suffered, I know she is suffering; it is a dagger in this heart of mine.
There is a deep rooted appetite to satisfy ones own needs that all addicts understand. A craving that is fed at a cost to themselves and those that love them. It is a concentration of oneself to the extreme, and this is the hardest thing for any loving parent to understand.
I look back to her childhood, her rearing at my hands. Did I contribute to her downfall? I cannot find that link, the fault that led her astray. She had a happy childhood, alongside her sister. She was and is loved dearly.
She was born in January, a cold, and mean night, delivered by cesarean section; a prolonged and difficult birth. Plucked out of my belly by clinical hands, and thrust into a world of bright lights. Was her struggle into the world, or the mood of the weather a factor in her developing addiction?
It is a question. Many parents of addiction ask: why? I am in my twelve-year of asking, and believe me there is no reason why.