I thought this was a story about my son.
Turns out, it was about a different little boy. The one inside. Hurt. Scared. Alone. Praying for some sort of rescue.
For me. For my dad. My brother.
I could not save anyone. I am struggling at times to save myself. I guess that’s how this story all came about. A therapist suggested I write it all down, what was happening, what I remembered of my childhood. A timeline of my own tumbles into madness. It was like Alice and the rabbit hole, I drank the potion, jumped in with glee and energy, wound up rescuing myself in the process. We know we can save another person or convince them to quit drinking. That’s not how it works.
I’m not going to show you how it works either, because I don’t know. I’m going to share what I remember, what I know now, and how things are going today.
Just For Today. I’m going to tell the story of a father and son. Two stories, I guess. My dad story and my son story. I am clearly the monkey in the middle.
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