Just Another Day in the LIfe

When I was twelve, one night my dad was staggering drunk, could barely stand, and was trying to leave the house. My mother tried to stop him. He went and got his pistol and pointed it at her. He told her he would shoot her if she didn’t let him alone and let him leave. My 8 year old sister, 6 year old brother and I were watching all of this play out. I ran to my father and grabbed him. I was screaming and crying, begging him to stop, begging him not to shoot my mother. Eventually, he put the gun down and left. I have no idea how he was able to drive when he couldn’t even stand. Once he was gone, my mother (totally sober, never a drinker, just a co-dependent), mocked me for trying to stop him. “He wasn’t going to do anything! Did you really think he would shoot me?” And more comments like that, basically making fun of me for being upset about the situation.
I am 46 years old now. That memory is burned into my soul. Over the years, my mother’s words have cut me deeper than my father’s drinking ever did. It’s no wonder I’m a fucked up mess of a human.

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