This piece by nineteen year old Reagan Fetcher captures brutal honesty in imperfect families that never quite fit in the flawless cookie-cutter American family stereotype.
It’s for anyone who knows the feeling of nothing, of everything at once, whose hearts feel like they’re melting and it’s for anyone who knows the taste of blood and the smell of vodka too well.
My mom taught me to never do anything I wasn’t comfortable doing with boys when I was seven but I watched her cook meals and take slaps and cry in the shower. Now I’m nineteen and I can never say no and everything I do now I took from her influence.
My dad warned me to stay away from alcohol and drugs and he’d say it as he took a swig of jack or stuffed dip in his lower jaw, it’s been ten years and he never goes to bed sober. He’s proud I don’t drink- yet he watches me down pills to keep me awake and pills to put me asleep and pills to make me happy and a pill to make the headaches stop and the nausea disappear, addiction runs in the family.
Both my parents told me to stay away from boys or expect heartbreak, and maybe that’s the only advice they’d ever been spot on with. I pick boys to ruin my insides and make me feel alive since the pills don’t, I pick boys to hit me the way my dad hit my mom, I pick boys to drug my system and empty their pain in me because if I can’t feel anything I’d rather feel someone elses ache. I call these boys “Daddy,” and they somehow fit the job when they wreck my brain and make me cry and pressure me to the brink of death.
My mom warned me that life carries demons but she never told me I’d never escape Him.