I Hate Writing Non-Fiction

Anyone that knows me IRL knows that my mom, bless her, is just a monstrous alcoholic. She’s been one all of my life, though it was never this bad. Once upon a time, she could work, whereas last night she attacked me when I took away her two beers and whiskey backwash.

If you’ve never had an alcoholic, drug-addicted, or WoW-addicted parent, you might not know how… apathetic one can get. And I’m not saying this as an insult – truly, I’ve thought about it and I’m… weirdly okay with how hard it has become to care. I’m sure lots of people will look at that and condemn me, sure. But without some kind of religion to put faith in, or any kind of hope for willing improvement on my Mom’s part, it gets easier and easier to become very jaded. Truth be told, I was far from surprised when I heard a cry and heard her tumble down the stairs this morning. Truth be told, I expected it. I’d picked her up off of the floor twice last night.

Anyway. I crawled out of bed and jogged over to the stairs only to see her lying limp at the bottom of the stairs, which was also not unexpected. What was was that blood was quickly pooling around her head, and as I proceeded down the stairs, the fact that her eyes were glazed over and half open. Now it’s Genuine Fear Time. I immediately snatched the phone and dialed 911. When I grabbed her wrist, as I talked to the dispatcher, I couldn’t feel a pulse. Now we’re really scared. Then she started wheezing, and I realized I was probably taking her pulse wrong.

The dispatcher never told me to stay on the line, never tried to calm me, et cetera. Maybe she wasn’t a great dispatcher. Maybe I just sounded calm. In any case, having no one there to talk to made what was probably only 150 seconds before a police car arrived seem very long. What bothered me, though, was the way the cop didn’t do anything faster than a powerwalk across the street to our house. I know that the trained professionals are supposed to stay calm in emergencies, but they could put on a show for the obviously stressed family member standing in his boxers on the porch, waiting for they slow ass.

I’m not sure if they asked me her name and info 2-4 times because they needed several copies, or because the right hand didn’t know what the left was doing, or just as a mechanism to keep the kind of shrieking family they must encounter busy. Maybe it worked, because I wasn’t entirely that annoyed.

The officer that showed up first gave me a ride to the hospital, where I started writing this.

My Dad just got here, and we just went in to see her. Seeing her there, head and neck braced, bruised and tubed up like someone in the Matrix… I couldn’t stay. I had to come back here. I guess I’ve managed to write on this blog enough that it’s become… comforting.

Over the 18 years of my life I can remember, my mother has slowly degenerated from a normal person with a drinking problem into something resembling a Wretched, both physically and in her thirst for the subject of her addiction. The red marks and scratches on my arm for when I refused to give her her booze last night are proof of that. And I’ve often said when we argue that she’s not my mom anymore. She used to be, and she is sometimes when she’s sober, but it’s getting harder and harder to find within the addict. And I can’t do this forever. Babysitting her, which it increasingly is whenever I’m home along with her. And I can’t keep doing it forever without getting pulled down as well.

I left the room early. My dad stayed and asked about her. He just came back and told me that they’re afraid she might have a major brain injury, because she’s barely moved since they got to her. That’s as good a segue as anything else into what the real meat of this post is, what I’ve always been afraid to say, but I’m bad at keeping secrets, and, well, they say art is pain.

I gave in last night. For the first time in the night’s I’ve babysat her without my dad being present, I gave her the booze. She clawed me, shoved me, nearly punched me and kneed me in the groin. So I let her have the two beers and maybe 10 oz of whiskey.

Now what do I do.


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Header photo by David Reber's Hammer Photography. Many ideas and images copyright Blizzard.

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