Alcoholism does not only affect the alcoholic; it mentally (and sometimes even permanently) damages their loved ones. It usually impacts children into their adulthood. Today, I recognize that I am mentally fractured from nearly two decades of neglect. Here are my honest feelings; from a child of an alcoholic and how it has impacted me. Honestly, I knew she frustrated me. Oh my God did she ever make the volcano erupt. Yet, I didn't clearly recognize she was an alcoholic until about a year ago. I don't remember a night where I wasn't isolating myself in my room, or throwing picture frames at my bedroom wall, or ripping apart her “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to say all of the cruel things that I did. I love you. Will you forgive me? I'm sorry Rayne. I love you so much” letters into shreds as I would stutter out the words; “If she was sorry, she would have stopped saying such disgusting things.” I was aware of the fact that she was drinking every night. Merlot would flow down her throat, and after the bottle was spotless, another one would appear. As the wine soaked into her lips, her personality changed. Her uncomfortable presence grew into a mellowed woman. It should be the other way around; but she was constantly hungover, so she never was calm. I tried avoiding personal topics. It never turned out that way. She would always pry. I had no interest engaging in conversation, because it was never a happy ending. I didn't realize it then, but looking back, she had tangled me up in a fucked up routine. She would drink herself stupid, then she would get agitated because of how I answered her questions; to which I had answered a handful of times. “Yes Mom, I use protection. Yes, I know what condoms are.” “No, I'm not self-harming anymore. Yes, I'm sure.” Her eyes were always attached to the television or her cell-phone, so it really didn't matter how I responded to her uncomfortable questions, she wouldn't listen. Most of the time, I ran off to my bedroom, followed by slamming the door behind me; immediately locking it as the stomping became noticeable. 95% of the time I was ordered to remove myself from hiding. I wouldn't even be three feet away from the outdated sofa before she would yell at me; “Come back here when you're ready to act like an adult. Stop being a bitch.” My face was flushed, and my eyelids were half shut from constantly crying, I was at stage one of having a panic attack. How inconsiderate of me, I'm such a bitch for having valid emotions. (This is part 1 of this blog. I am not yet finished. Stay tuned for the rest!)