On a crisp autumn day, like today, with sunlight gleaming and laughter filling the air, I find myself curled up on a park bench, battling the shakes of alcohol withdrawal and gnawing hunger.
I observe families around me. I see a mother, radiant with joy, enjoying a day out with her family as they toss a ball to their exuberant Golden Retriever. The kids tumble in the grass, racing to reach the ball first, but the dog always wins. The mother pulls out snacks, sharing them with each child along with a juice box. The father, though slightly annoyed by the mess, chuckles and shakes his head.
I know I’ll never have that life.
This family notices me, but they don’t truly SEE me. I don’t want them to. They’re trying to ignore my presence as they embrace their perfect Sunday, a day they’ve been looking forward to all week. I understand their instinct to shield their kids from the reality of someone like me. I wouldn’t want to see me either.
Right now, I am vulnerable, coming off a bender. My heart, soul, and body ache with regret, remorse, and despair.
Nearby, a group is enjoying a football game, beers in hand, laughter ringing out. I no longer laugh when I drink. I’ve lost that simple joy. I resort to begging, borrowing, and stealing to scrape together enough for cheap vodka and perhaps a dollar menu item from McDonald’s, having gone about 48 hours without food.
It’s astonishing how resilient my body has become at 110 pounds, subsisting solely on vodka for days. If I can focus hard enough to stop trembling for just five minutes, I might make it to the McDonald’s bathroom to wash my hands and face, keeping the little kids out for that long.
My body is in pain; every movement is a reminder. My soul feels hollow and wretched, and I need something quick to numb the ache. I can’t afford to feel my heartache for too long, or I might have to confront it. End it all? Change something? No way. Not now. So I keep moving.
I walk. I walk and walk. I’m one of those people you notice on a beautiful day, a sight that might jolt you to your core. You might think, “What happened to her?” I look disheveled, dressed inappropriately, acting a bit suspicious. I’m used to the glances that quickly turn away. I see life around me, but I feel utterly disconnected from it.
As night falls, I’m likely blacked out in a drunken stupor, functioning but with no memory of it. I sleep in the park, sprawled under a tree. With no cover, I am exposed, unable to find true rest. My body crashes, a defense mechanism against my relentless drinking. I have no defense against my aware self.
Despite my need for sleep, I find myself awake and wandering again, aimlessly strolling through the city at night. I walk and walk, caught in a cycle. I see people who see me; some mess with me, but most leave me be. I’m lucky. I have no idea how lucky I really am.
When dawn breaks, I’m still walking, as if searching for something vital. What am I looking for? A reason to stop all of this. Without hope, I’ll continue wandering, continuously seeking and drinking. I’m hungry, angry, lonely, and tired. The cycle is beginning anew, just as it did yesterday and will tomorrow—over and over until I either die or say enough.
That was 12 years ago.
Today, I’m a mother after years of battling infertility. I have a wonderful husband and twin babies who are now ten months old. We live in a warm, safe home. Yes, we’re broke and struggle like many others with finances and next steps, but even having these decisions is a gift. Back then, my goal was merely to survive another day—or on some days, to not survive at all. And yet, here I am. Lucky me. I’m still alive.
Much like the zombie “walkers” from The Walking Dead, I was once a transient, both physically and, more profoundly, spiritually. I numbed myself, drifting through life without truly feeling anything—that’s no way to live.
I’m not unique; many “walkers” never get their chance. I grew tired of being sick and tired. I’m a second-chancer, just like others still out there. They haven’t had their moment yet. Some never will. But let’s not write them off too soon; you never know who’s out there, waiting for a flicker of hope. A little kindness, even when it feels uncomfortable, might be precisely what they need right then. You could be the light they’re looking for.
You might think this could never happen to you. But I was once you. I grew up in a loving, safe environment, lost my way, and lost hope after life took its toll on me. It didn’t seem fair, and I thought I deserved better. I drank it all away. Once hope slipped through my fingers, I didn’t want it back.
Hopelessness is a dark pit that mocks reason until, by grace, you finally glimpse a glimmer of hope—a revelation that had been missing all along. You can’t quite define it, but hope is everything. With urgency like never before, you begin to fight. You choose to battle fiercely to escape and refuse to take a single moment for granted. You keep fighting every day because it’s essential to rise above despair. You start to heal and help your loved ones heal too. When you sense that old pit threatening to pull you under, you hold on to those who can support you and claw your way back to solid ground.
Today, on another crisp autumn Sunday, twelve years later, I sit on a park bench in a different Chicago park, surrounded by my family, filled with gratitude and hope. I still can’t return to that old park, where I spent so much time lost. Maybe one day I will, but not today. Today, I see things through hope-colored glasses. I notice the hopeful and the hopeless alike, and it strikes me hard because I’ve walked that path.
I keep my past close to ensure I don’t repeat it. Sure, I experience fear, but I confront it head-on instead of running away, no matter how tempting that might be. We are not garbage; we are worthy. We just need to recognize that worth when the time is right. And I see us.
I SEE YOU.