I want to hate her, but I just can’t. She is my mother, after all. No matter what happens, we’ll still be family. But I couldn’t think like that then, only now, after years have passed can I reflect on one of my most distinct memories as a child.
I remember vividly, almost as if it happened yesterday, how I stared at her through tired eyes, laying on our once white couch, (that was closer to a grey now), still dressed in the clothes she wore last night, a small amount of drool crusted on her face, clutching an empty beer bottle.

Sighing, more apathetic than anything, I walked over to my mother, yanking the bottle out of her hand, not caring that I might wake her up. Slowly, I made my way over to the trashcan, dumping the bottle in it before walking to the hallway closet, pulling down a blanket.

I covered her with the blanket, making sure it was snug before removing her pointy black high heels. For a brief moment, it seemed as though she woke up, but my eyes had been deceived. She just continued to snore, oblivious to the world around her.

As I opened the door to my room, I looked over my shoulder, glaring at her. Walking into my room, I slammed the door throwing myself on the bed as I clutched my pillow, tears of frustration freely escaping my eyes as they slid down my cheeks. I wanted to hate her. I really did. After everything she’s done: forcing my nine year old sister to act like my mother when I was five, Alex and I having to take care of her, the alcohol abuse, the DUIs, and eventually loosing our house because she couldn’t pay the bills. Believe me. I wanted to hate her; to yell and scream; to tell her she’s ruining our family. But I couldn’t. After everything, I just can’t bring myself to hate her. She is my mother.

And when those brief moments of sobriety occurred, and she pretended to care about me, I smiled. I laughed. None of it was genuine, not that she would know. And even if she did, she wouldn’t have cared.

But that was then. And this is now. It’s been a roller coaster of emotion. We had our ups just like we had our downs. Honestly, I only remember a few moments of my childhood involving my mother. The ones I do remember, she was almost always drunk. I guess I blacked out some of my memories, only to remember them in the terrors of my nightmares. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to fully forgive her for all she’s done, but she is my family, through thick and thin.