I Inherited Her Bottle, But Not Her Ending.
I was thirteen the first time I got drunk.
Too young to even know who I was, but old enough to already be drowning. My mom was right there beside me, handing me bottles, laughing, clinking her glass against mine like it was normal. The smell of beer and cigarette smoke hung thick in the air—like it had seeped into the wallpaper, like it belonged there.
That became my life.
We didn’t just drink; we lived in it. The sound of loud music shaking the walls, the burn of cheap vodka slicing down my throat, the sting making my eyes water—but I swallowed anyway. I wanted to keep up. Sometimes it was just us at home, sometimes bars, sometimes strangers’ houses where we pretended we fit in.
One night, the screaming started again. Glass shattered. I felt the heat of rage crawl up my throat. We were both so drunk that we ended up throwing punches—mother against daughter. Her slurred voice, the sound of my own sobbing, the chaos—it all blurred together. That night never really ended. It just became my normal.
When I met my husband, it felt familiar. The chaos, the drinking—it was already stitched into my story, so of course it stitched into my marriage too. Bottles rattling in the trash. Laughter that always turned hollow once the buzz faded. Later, when I reconnected with my aunt, alcohol was there again, like glue holding together the only kind of love I thought I knew.
Then I got pregnant.
For nine months, I stopped. My body started to clear, but my mind never followed. I told myself I was doing it for the baby, but deep down, I knew I was counting down the days until I could drink again.
After my second child, I made a decision that still haunts me. I tied my tubes. I called it “freedom,” but the truth? I didn’t want pregnancy to interrupt my partying again. I told myself it was empowerment, but it was really surrender. Now I carry that ache like a stone in my chest—a choice I can never undo, a regret that hums quietly beneath my skin.
Once that door closed, I went all in.
Weekends disappeared. Nights bled into mornings. The smell of whiskey clung to my skin. My laughter got louder, my eyes emptier.
Then DFS showed up. Someone reported me. Maybe it was just a rumor—but it didn’t matter. Instead of sobering me up, it sent me spiraling even deeper.
I’d tuck my kids into bed, kiss their foreheads, whisper “I love you,” then slip outside with a bottle. The night air bit at my skin while the alcohol burned in my chest. I’d drink until the birds started singing—until the world blurred and I forgot where I ended and the bottle began. Some mornings I’d wake up on the bathroom floor, cheek pressed against cold tile, the sharp sting of bleach mixing with the sour stench of liquor.
One night, I opened my eyes and saw my child standing in the doorway.
Their face—confusion, fear, heartbreak—all at once.
The sound of their small footsteps walking away—too quiet, too heavy for someone so young—is something I’ll never forget. That sound still haunts me.
And still, I drank.
I sat under the stars, crying out to God. Begging Him to make it stop. To numb the ache of betrayal, the loneliness, the guilt. But every sunrise brought the same pounding head, the same trembling hands, the same shame curling in my stomach.
And then my mom died.
The silence after that phone call is something I’ll never forget.
It was like the world stopped moving.
In that stillness, I saw my future laid out before me—and it looked exactly like hers. I wasn’t invincible. I wasn’t different. I was walking the same road toward the same early grave. And my kids would be left behind, carrying the same emptiness I had lived with all my life.
That realization broke me.
Because I knew that ache. I knew what it meant to live with that hole in your chest. And I couldn’t let them inherit it.
I wish I could say that was the day I never picked up another drink. But it doesn’t work like that.
Recovery isn’t a straight line—it’s a war you fight in silence, over and over. Some days I win. Some days I don’t. Some days I crave it so badly I can almost taste the burn again.
But the difference now is that I fight.
Every single day, I fight. For my kids. For myself. For the life I almost destroyed.
I’m still here. Still standing. Still fighting.
I’m not perfect. I’m not healed. I’m still learning how to live without numbing the pain. But I’m proud of how far I’ve come. Proud that I broke the silence. Proud that I’m still standing.
And for the first time in my life—
I believe my story isn’t over.
It’s just beginning.