Drug Addiction
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by: Stairs
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Word Count: 499
I could dedicate an entire blog describing my mother’s life. She was as much a victim of abuse as her children have been. Even at age 7, I knew this. I believe with all my heart that she did the best she could with the abilities and resources she had.
Night for children is a time of happy dreams; dreams of horses and amusement parks. These nights, for my brothers and I, represented a ritual of emotional trauma. We were repeatedly awakened by my mother’s pleading voice. In a drug induced intoxicated state, she would relentlessly call out my brother’s name over and over again, begging for yet one more sleeping pill. My brother was 12 and the keeper of the sleeping pills.
Physically and emotionally exhausted, I would drag myself out of bed to go help my brother settle my mother. He desperately tried to reason with her but she was mostly disoriented and desperate. He often got irate with her.
My body would ache with the lack of sleep; my body felt extremely heavy but I was afraid that my older brother would hurt my mother in an attempt to quiet her down. After hours of our own pleading for her to go to sleep, we’d often concede and give her another pill. We conceded so we would be permitted to sleep and escape into unconsciousness into a world without fear or agony. Within hours, the torment would begin again.
On one occasion my brother urged me to follow him to the kitchen. We worked quickly emptying Dalmane capsules and refilling the little colored cavities with sugar. My brother smiled at his ingenuity. We were both hopeful this placebo would appease her. It provided little more than a few minutes of peace. She was not fooled. Her pleas began again. My brother’s anger and desperation escalated. On this one night, in an attempt to prevent her from getting out of bed, he grabbed her arms but somehow caught her ear. The back of her ear ripped open. I screamed. Blood was everywhere. My brother yelled at me to go get a towel then ordered me back to my room.
Sometimes I would remain in my bed, trying to ignore my mother’s slurred pleas and my brother’s angry replies. Fear kept me from crying. My brother would lose patience with my mother. He occasionally shoved her a little hard. She was usually too intoxicated to get out of bed, but when she did, she sometimes fell and her screams would echo through the house. I would run to her aid but she could barely acknowledge my presence. She kept chanting my brother’s name followed with persistent pleas.
Morning would come and somehow she would sleep. She would remain in a stupor throughout the day. This addiction continued for a period of several months ending in a heart attack.
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