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How Your Inner Child Will Fight to Death if You Allow Them
The carnage of two adults battling childhood trauma is heart breaking
I rush to get to her house, er, parking lot. Yes, I rush to the parking lot but first the liquor store.
Here is my home, my comfort. I start the afternoon off by sipping on a bottle of Smirnoff Red, usually mixed with some kind of mixer. I sit in a church parking lot pondering my thoughts.
Hey, you stupid fuck! All you do is preach to her about her drinking, but you are no better! Is this what your life has become?
I sit there, and sometimes I cry. I look around at the parents picking up their kids from school and wonder if they are suffering from any childhood abuse, they will face in the coming years. It saddens me as I take another swig as it burns going down.
It’s almost time to go to her house. Damn, I am nervous! I always get nervous, especially if anyone sees me walking in her house or if her kids are home.
They aren’t blind or dumb, and they see the madness we inflict. It’s not only the madness of my girlfriend; it’s the madness I project onto her.
