Member-only story
I’ll keep this one relatively short because if it goes too long, it might sound self-indulgent or victim-central, and that’s not my goal here. I just want to make a quick point and get out.
When I was probably about five years old, one day I came home from kindergarten, and my mom — who was struggling with alcoholism at the time — was passed out. Now, again, I was five. My dad was at work. I lived in a doorman building so I went to the doorman to get help, and he helped me. I forget exactly how it was resolved, but there was some resolution. It took another probably 3–4 years for my mom to get clean, tho. Stuff happens only when people are ready. That’s something I’ve increasingly learned about my own problems in that area.
Sometimes in my weaker moments, I think that I’m still that five year-old boy with tons of fear and unclear where exactly to turn. Other times, I think I’m doing OK. It varies by day/week/month/whatever.
I wouldn’t say my mom “abandoned” me, because she worked hard and did a good job later — she was helpful when I got divorced, for example — but in that moment, absolutely she did. Little Fatty Ted with his backpack needed to know what to do, and there was no answer, and I had to figure it out.
I felt left on the side of the road.
