When she comes home she has a routine. I can't remember when this nightly ritual started, but it wasn't always like this. She used to be fun. She used to play and laugh with us. Now she walks through the door, pours a glass, changes her clothes and turns on the t.v., pours another, starts to cook dinner, pours another, watches t.v. while dinner cooks, during a commercial break, pours another, with dinner another glass, after dinner another glass, finally one more glass before bed.
She might polish off a bottle a night. I don't count anymore. I have become comfortably numb. When the lazy drunk comes home we usually don't say much. I go to night school or work anyway, so we never get a chance to share the moment together. When the angry drunk comes home there are problems. Everything is a problem, from work to our family, to my cat.
I've noticed how controlling she is when she drinks. Much more controlling than she is during the day. That speaks in volumes, believe me.
I try to brush it off.
I have my own life to live.
But it's hard to live you life when your puppet master runs a drunken operation.
Nothing is fun anymore. It's loud. It's yelling, and tears. It's confusing, and sad. It hurts.
I can't stand to look at my own mother sometimes.
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