I Knew Better I Just Didn't Know Enough- Lois



I think you didn’t realize I saw you – all those times – days and nights – with a glass in your hand; clear inside. You told me it was water.   I knew better.
I think you didn’t realize I heard you – all those times – coming home late at night from “the lodge” – and being so loud and angry with Mom.  You always said it was her.  About money.  Or church.  Or the weather.  Or dinner.   Or something.  I knew better.
I think you didn’t realize I was wounded by it all – deeply and forever.  All those times.  All the time.  I tried to ignore it.   It became me.  I knew better.
I knew that you were drinking cocktails – only for grown-ups.   But there was no cocktail party; you were just drinking.  A lot.  
I guess you were unhappy; that you didn’t like your life.  But I thought you didn’t like me.  Mostly, I knew you didn’t want to be at home – where I was.  So you weren’t.  But I was.  And with her.  I now kind of understand “why” you drank.  She was difficult.  She was difficult all the time – all those times with you – and without you.   But you left me there with her.  I lived through what you chose to escape.  I knew better.
I knew well enough to get up on the stepstool.  I knew how to get into the cabinet above the refrigerator.  I knew that you drank the clear stuff; the stuff that looked like water.  I knew to hold my finger on the spot on the outside of the bottle where the liquid was and how to keep it there while I poured it all down the drain.  And I knew how to fill it up to the place my finger was holding - with water. Often.  I knew better.


I knew that when you added your soda pop to the clear stuff that your drink had a soda-pop-like taste and you never even noticed the clear stuff was water.   I knew different.  I knew better.  
But I did not know enough.
I did not know what to do.  I did not know what to say.  That after you’d have words with her - when you’d leave – roar out of the house – always with a drink in your hand - drive the car up the hill – and head to “the lodge” – where you’d drink more and more clear stuff with soda pop for hours and hours and eventually come home and yell with and at Mom.  It was so loud.  It always woke me up.  I didn’t know enough to know that everyone’s family wasn’t doing this, too.    I just did not know enough.
It was always the same.   Fight.  Drink.  Leave.  Return.  Fight.  Drink.  Fight. Drink.  More. More. More.  For years and years and years.   That’s why I hid cookies in the pocket of my pajamas.  They didn’t talk back or fight or ignore me.  They were sweet and made me feel better.  I couldn’t get enough.


I thought I knew better.  But I didn’t know enough.  I was only a kid.   

And I was never stupid.

Lois

© Copyright 2010
Lois is a life coach. Find out more about her and the cool stuff she does here: reflectivebeings.com

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