“So almost a year and a half? That’s when it gets hard,” my friend replied over the phone.
He was asking about my sober number.
Addiction is a confusing thing. We all have a vice, but our perception, reaction, and understanding of that vice varies. It’s haunting, really— the way it makes you question whether it’s ever even affected you.
I remember once saying I didn’t trust people who didn’t drink. As if I could trust myself when I did.
It was hard to call myself an alcoholic. I didn’t drink from morning till night, so how could I be one?
But addiction’s definition is like a cornfield— and you are a beanstalk, surrounded on all sides, foreign, but rooted. A million alcoholics, not one the same.
Then he said, “Then my grandma died.”
Silence flooded the space between us.
“That’s when I relapsed the first time,” he added, his voice cracking behind some invisible rubber wall.
The world is a tough place. An open gate to the same fate. Addiction feels like this, too.
This post is a response to the WordPress Daily Prompt: What’s the oldest thing you own that you still use daily?
I know these daily prompts are usually attacked with more authentic, off-the-cuff language. But as a writer with a million emotions flooding my frontal lobe at any given moment, I can’t help but respond with nostalgia to most. This one is dear to my heart, and fresh.
“You better be careful washing that every day. You’re not gonna have much of it left,” my momma often says to me.
I always joke that she should get me one of those flag display cases so I can finally put it away, but not away away. Just… maybe stop sleeping with it, per se.
My sanction from birth. A gift from my grandma. On my dad’s side. The Teddy Bear Blanket.
“You used to call it your Teddy Bear Blankey,” my grandma reminded me once, her voice caught between a chuckle. “You’d pinch a piece between your fingers and rub them together all the time,” she added, smiling, but her eyes had that glassy, distant kind of warmth. The kind that says I miss those days, too.
We don’t see each other much in my adult years, but these memories, the ones she gives me, without even trying—stain my twenties in the best possible way.
My Teddy Bear Blanket is cream in nature, but stained from the many years’ debris. It is soft to the touch, worn thin by three decades of closeness. She’s wounded in a few places, little scars where fluff tries to escape. But I’ve gotten good at tucking it all back in, doing my best to keep her whole. Fluffy, or not.
It’s funny how something so small can hold so much: The scent of childhood. The feel of safety.
I used to think I just liked the way it felt, that little frayed corner between my thumb and index finger. But looking back, I think I was anchoring myself. That blanket wasn’t just softness and scent; it was silence. It helped muffle the chaos — the raised voices, the sudden crashes, the footsteps that made my stomach drop. While I sat on the floor with cartoons playing too loud, that scrap of fabric steadied me. It knew more than I did then, about the walls we don’t talk about, and the women who survived behind them.
One early evening, not long ago, an application from our local coffee shop, The Cup, practically shouted at me: What are three fun facts about yourself?
I still sleep with my baby blanket.
I have a cat with one eye.
My dog’s name is Oso.
I left the coffee shop, texting a friend on the way out: “I’m so weird!” But I smiled when I typed it.
Isn’t it strange, how when put on the spot, our brains forget all the soft, wonderful things about us?
Like a threadbare blanket still full of meaning. Like love, worn in. Not worn out.
There’s no easy way to explain how or why I stopped drinking. I’ve been asked before, and I still don’t have a clean answer. What I do have is a memory—a moment that split my life into “before” and “after.” This is part of that.
I don’t drink and drive anymore. I don’t drink.
One of the last times I drove myself home drunk, I was leaving a friend’s house. We were drinking water mixed with Hawaiian Punch flavor packets. First, drink down a third of the water, or dump it. Then pour in the powder, shake it good, and top it off with vodka. Tito’s, most nights.
I was halfway through my third 16.9-ounce drink when I decided it was time to go. I should have stopped after one.
Pulling into my driveway, I coasted into the garage, dragging the right side of my car along the edge. A perfect trail of drunk driving etched into Bad Brenda, the car I’d driven drunk in for the last three years.
On the anniversary of buying Bad Brenda, I posted a Facebook status celebrating all the good times we’d had and the adventures we’d gone on together. Unbeknownst to my audience, most of those memories were buzzed, if not blacked out.
Most nights ended the same way: me persuading someone that I was okay to drive. Uncertainty hiding behind confident answers, spilling out as reassurance to friends and family. Their trust burning through my retinas. Lights blending in real time. Forgotten goodbyes. Memories disintegrating into the archival grounds of drunk nights.
I’d wake up to Bad Brenda still running. My seat pushed all the way back. My body deadweight. Blacked out. Washed away from reality. At 5 a.m., I’d drag myself inside, head straight to the toilet, and spew the leftovers from the night before.
Authenticity— a deep-rooted stem forcing its way out, cracking through surface lies, corroding the outside world’s perception. A unique stamp. Signed, sealed, and delivered.
For years, I wrestled with the word. I claimed authenticity while performing an edited version of myself. But my true self— dogmas erased, stigmas disintegrated into dust— emerged, little by little.
Recognition began to cease. Not everyone knows what to do with someone who finally stops pretending.
But I stood— confident like the wind spinning the arms of a northern windmill miles from my office window.
Autentik. Excruciatingly bold. Authoritative in a way only soul reflection can permit. Boundaries carved not from bitterness, but from truth.
Authenticity is not a fixed trait. It’s built. Broken. Rebuilt. Unfiltered.
And if I had to wear one outfit forever, I would still choose me.
This is an excerpt from my memoir-in-progress. I’m sharing it here to offer a glimpse into one night from my childhood that changed everything. Thank you for reading.
(Trigger warning: domestic violence)
The road ahead of us was a strip of darkness, narrowing to nothing as we barreled down the center lane. Mom’s hand tightened around my ankle, her grip a lifeline in the chaos. Dad suddenly announced he had to pee, slamming the van into park, and jumping out of the van before I could process what was happening. His footsteps crunched against the gravel like gunshots. Before he could circle the front of the van, Mom threw open the passenger door and bolted, her heels clacking against the pavement. I watched, helpless, as she stumbled and fell, her body shrinking in the distance.
“Mommy!” I screamed, but the van was already lurching forward, leaving her behind in the darkness.
But before Dad and I reached that dark stretch of road, before Mom ran for her life and I was left screaming in the back of the van, the evening had started like so many others…
Mom was so happy to see me in a dress that evening. It was probably only the fifth dress I’d worn up to that point. She would dress me up in one every year on the last day of school during elementary school. I still remember the one from kindergarten, a bright yellow dress with ruffles swarming the bottom, the perfect taste of spring. Dresses stopped after elementary when Mom finally surrendered to my constant pouting every time she mentioned putting me in one.
“Here’s some lip gloss. It’s strawberry flavor,” Mom said, opening the palm of her hand, expecting me to race to get it.
“Thanks mom,” I said, even though I hated to wear lip gloss. I already knew I would probably hide it in the car on the way to the wedding.
If this piece moved you or you’d like to read more chapters as I release them, feel free to follow or leave a comment. This memoir is a work in progress — thank you for being here.
It’s a beautiful morning. The sun gleams down, golden and soft, while the grass sways gently in the breeze like it’s breathing. The air smells of freshly cut grass—earthy, light—with a whisper of warmth tracing my skin.
Inside, coffee brews. Its scent winds through the house, rich with notes of caramel, chocolate, and roasted nuts. The air is cold and brisk, but inviting. My favorite mug waits on the counter: World’s Best Teacher, bold and proud, wrapped in a rainbow of colored pencils. It’s oversized—because it’s double the coffee or nothing.
I settle at my desk, pull the blinds open, and let the light flood in. Laptop open. Blank page staring back. Fingers ready to tap. A fresh space, waiting for words to find their way.
Self-care in the solace of all things untouched on a busy day. The love-locked pages left unread. The blank ones, still spotless—like a canvas.
Tranquility, presenting itself in the form of time. Peace.
