Thoughts on Dad’s Alcoholism While Driving through McDonald’s

What is it like?
To be a child of the bottle?
To never break its seal
but ever feel its wrath?

It is to tip-toe around 
your own home, 
never knowing 
whether 
you’ve said or done, 
the right thing.
The Wrong Thing?

It is to listen,
just a little at least, 
to a small, sweet voice
which believes,
just a little, 
in oneself,
despite a vortex of insanity 
which says you—
you are always
The Problem.

It is to show up 
from birth
in an unsafe world—
just as all the others do,
but with an inherited message 
which says,
this unsafeness—
it comes from within. 
This darkness—
it is your birthright.

A message which says,
other places, 
far away lands,
and romantic relationships—
other people,
they have access. 
but you—
you are not enough.
Not at this moment.

Maybe later, you’ll do better. 
Maybe later, you won’t be so upsetting.
So disruptive
So disgusting. 
Maybe later, you’ll
Be. 
Worth listening to. 
Maybe later, you can escape. 
Maybe later, 
You’ll be.
You’ll be. 
You’ll be.

To be a child of the bottle is
to hold on 
to the goodness of your being
Despite.
Despite. 
Despite.

It is to hold the message,
alone,
and in spite of the pervasive 
black-hole-lonliness—
that you are worth 
Being.

To be a child of the bottle 
is to emerge 
into an adult form 
who, if lucky,
connects 
the unconnected dots. 
One who sees the child as
a child
and loves her.

It is to find wonder,
and gratitude 
for a little girl who held on
to herself.

It is to celebrate 
the unbelievable courage
and bravery it takes
to hold the too-much-ness 
of a too-much-little life 
with far too few choices.

It is to emerge.
To show kindness and
gratitude to a body and spirit 
that are whole.
That have 
always, 
always been whole. 
Always, 
always, been enough. 
It is to just be, and feel, 
so, so damn lucky. 

---

Poem: © 2022 Ashley Wolpert Miller
Photo credit: © Stanislav / Adobe Stock