Pilly

When I was a little child, I remember seeing my mother, whom I loved dearly, shaking hands with a man who was covered in tattoos. I noticed her take money out of her hand and when she returned to the vehicle, she had a little baggy. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but I understand it all too well now. I once walked in on her taking four of those little white pills. I asked, “Mommy, what is wrong? You look sad.” She told, “This world is a sad place, babydoll, and I am just trying my best to make sure you don’t see that part of it.” She’s protecting me, I thought. She wants me to be better than her, than what she has ever overcame. Then I started admiring her more. I kept a special eye out for my mom. I figured since she wanted to protect me, I should protect her, right? She popped the pills more often than she should have. It mainly happened when her and my step-father got into a fight (which, also, happened often). She said it helped her escape from the pain. At first, I thought it was the physical pain she was experiencing. He would beat her. Then us kids. Then her, again, for saving us. It continued for years. I eventually moved out, but I’m sure it still continues to this day.

Now, I’m the adult. I don’t have a family of my own, but I do live with the pain that she, along with others, have embedded in my life. It aches. I can’t sleep without help. I can’t stay awake without help. I can’t survive without help. The same relief my mother was addicted to has entered my life. How do you stop relying on the little white pills when it’s all you’ve grown to know? How can you finally defeat the monsters in your head when they are just as bad when you look through your eyes? I wouldn’t say I’m an addict, but I also wouldn’t say that I don’t fantasize my next high. When I’m busy at work and school, I seem to be distracted enough to keep my demons away, but when I’m not busy, they haunt me alive.

I’m not sure how much longer I can take of this.