When I was eight years old I caught my mother in the bathroom doing cocaine.  I think it hurt her more than it did me.  She had lied to me a long time about doing drugs.  I think it was more important than anything for me to think that she was a good person.  She was hooked and I’m not sure that I blame her.

At that point in her life I doubt that there was much else that could dull the pain she must have been feeling about her life.  She was abused as a child, we were poor, my father had been to jail, and she was bound to the house like a prison.  I think it’s just a vicious cycle people get in.  One thing leads to another and soon the alcohol become cocaine and soon you are searching the counters and floors for dust you might have missed, just to get a little more high and dull the pain away a little more too.

I don’t justify my mother’s actions.  I guess just writing about it I want to understand.  My life has been pretty good, at least compared to hers – and I certainly feel like I could go insane sometimes.  I can only imagine how she must feel, how she feels today.  She was raised poor and abused, married young, and knew nothing else except the poor examples of life she saw around her.  I’m not saying one cannot conquer those odds, I feel I have, but she couldn’t, she just couldn’t.

I guess the more I think about the details of my mother’s life, the more I can admit that I can’t understand, but at the same time I can.  I think that is called compassion, maybe.  I haven’t given much of that to anyone.  I think there are just too many factors in ones life – not to mention everyone else’s life to really judge or harbor any hatred or contempt.  I can’t expect anything out of anyone because they have failed in my eyes – I have no idea all of the subtle details that led them down this path.

I blindly feel like I have conquered so much, but who knows, maybe I was one bad incident away from addiction and poverty myself.  Also, I can’t ignore the things my parents did do for me.  They supported me.  They always let me know that I could do anything.  I had confidence in that.  They backed me up and praised me.  They didn’t abuse me, they loved me.  What more can you ask for?

This entry was posted in Life in General on by .

About Atticus C.

I was born in raised in Georgia, now approaching 30. I have traveled to 13 countries and have bachelors and masters degrees in business. I am fortunate enough to call my beautiful wife and daughter family. I've been writing here since 2011.

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