One word to describe my “mother” is a drunk. When I was little, ever since I can remember, she would come home without even a "hello" or "how was your day" and she would sit at the table pull out a red solo cup and fill it halfway with Coke-a-Cola the other half with any alcohol she had. I always thought this was how a mother was supposed to act. When she would come tuck me in at night she would trip walking into my room. I thought it was because I didn’t pick up my toys, later I learned that it was one of the side effects of being drunk. My own mother a lady who was supposed to protect me and be a role model couldn’t even tuck me into bed at night. I never told anyone afraid that she would leave me just as my father did when I was born.

Alcohol filled the house. No matter where you looked, there it would be in the kitchen, the bedrooms, the bathroom and even in the car. She drank while she drove, when we were home, after work, all the time. I remember she would keep it under the driver’s seat. Tucked far enough back no one could see it but close enough that she could reach it. I was so scared anytime I got in the car with her. I could remember gripping onto the door acting as if it would keep me alive. I could remember looking down at my knuckles and they would be as white as a ghost from holding on so tight. When the car would swerve I would sit staring forward trying to make the car go straight, as hard as I tried it never went straight. The night was the worst never knowing if as she swerved going into the opposing lane who or what would be there. I never spoke a word about my fears to her. I knew the moment I would bring it up she would turn into an angry monster. With her face turning a shade of red that was brighter than a fire engine, tripping over her words like word vomit, she was so close I could feel her spit hitting my face as she yelled. My sister knew of her drinking but had a baby to watch over, she didn’t care much about my well-being.

We lived in a small town called Perryville with nothing in it except a ball field and an ice cream shop. The town had nothing that made you want to stay in it any longer then you had to. It was a town that you would pass through and go “Eww, who would ever live in such a run down place like Perryville?” In order to do anything you had to go over the bridge that connected us and the next town over. The bridge was always under construction, which only added to my fear that came with driving with my mother. Every week we headed over the bridge she needed her weekly fix of booze, sometimes it didn’t last even that long. Over the bridge we went to a small liquor store, the same one each week. Just by looking at the front of the building, the old fashion barn that stood on the corner of a busy intersection it was a liquor store, with a large amount of foot traffic from the regulars and walk-ins. My mother of course was a regular, they even knew her name and mine. It smelled like a combination of cigarettes and alcohol. But I was little and the workers there were so nice every time I went in there I knew they would give me a Dum-Dum Cotton Candy Lollipop. Stopping and seeing those people every week seemed like a normal thing. Until one day we went over the bridge. It was a cold Saturday morning softball season. We had to get back in time for tryouts at the local high school. I will never forget what happened next.

Riding home from the liquor store was always worse than the ride over. My mom fiddling with her new bottle of vodka, like a child playing with the toys the just received on Christmas morning. I would sit in the car looking out the window into the Chesapeake Bay, a blue green sea that seemed to go on forever. As we reached the end of the bridge we had to go through a toll booth. My mom was drinking her new bottle of vodka she just bought she had already mixed it with coke, like always. The smell of the vodka was so bad I had to put down my window. She had just spilt some of her drink on her lap so she was cursing and trying to find a napkin to clean herself up with. BOOM! We crashed into the car in front of us. I was freaking out because I was seven and sitting in the passenger side of the car in the front. The middle aged toll both tendent stepped out of her booth yelling, "Alright lets keep it moving", as she directed us to pull over to the side. We did as she said pulling over on the side of the road. My mom was talking with the lady from the other car. When the police officer showed up.

The six foot tall bald police officer stepped out of his car with his lights on. As he walked behind the car in what seemed to be slow motion, I could feel the fear coming over me, or was it the look my mother was giving me as if not to say a word. He looked inside of the the car saw me sitting there, shaking in fear then he started talking to my mom, than the other lady. Then when he came over to talk to me he asked me if I was okay. I said yes with a mouse like voice. Then he asked me the hardest question I had ever been asked to answer “Do you know why your Mom hit this lady?” The answer was yes a million times yes, she had been drinking, she is drunk! I took me awhile to think of what to say. I could feel the police officer's eyes watching me waiting for a response. I knew what I should had said to him, what I wanted to say but I could see my Mom’s look. She was giving me a look like a sad puppy dog who didn't realize they did anything wrong. So I just responded with a “No, officer.” The answer haunts me to this day. If I could go back to anytime in my life I would change my answer to that officer. Why didn’t I say the truth? I asked myself this a lot. Why? Why not tell the truth? What was wrong with the truth?

That day what I didn’t know was that my mom was taken to the hospital to be seen. She got admitted for "back pain" she was having. Later I learned that "back pain" meant she wanted drugs. When she "healed" from that they sent her upstairs to the psychiatric ward. That is when the whole family learned of my mom’s heavy drinking problem that she hid for years. That was the last time I was ever alone with my mother. Once my mom was sent upstairs she was going through withdraw. She tried to kill herself three times. She told the doctors she had no reason to live. My mother was so close to death in the hospital it was scary. But no one told me what was going on, they told me she was fine, but I overheard my Grandma talking with other people.

Maybe it would be easier now if she had died. Then I wouldn’t have spent all that time worrying about someone who didn't feel the need to live for her daughter. To this day I still regret the answer I gave that cop. I have always felt guilty about never telling anyone about how much she drank and used drugs. I decided she wasn't worth my time, my energy or my tears. My "mother" will always be the lady who gave birth to me but, as far as I'm concerned I never truly think she is my mother.