On a crisp autumn day much like today, with the sun gleaming down and families enjoying the outdoors, I find myself curled up on a park bench, battling the shakes of alcohol withdrawal and the gnawing pangs of hunger.
I observe the families around me. There’s a mother, the picture of joy, surrounded by her loved ones as they play catch with their exuberant Golden Retriever. The children tumble through the grass, eager to be the first to retrieve the ball, while the dog easily prevails. The mother hands out snacks and juice boxes, while the father chuckles at the mess they create, shaking his head in amusement.
But that kind of life? It feels unattainable for me.
Though they see me sitting there, I know they don’t truly see me. I don’t want to be seen. To them, I’m an unpleasant reminder of the less fortunate, the ones they try to shield their children from in an effort to create a bubble of safety and happiness. I understand their discomfort, so I remain a silent observer.
In this vulnerable moment, as I grapple with regret and hopelessness, I spot a group of guys enjoying a football game, beers in hand, laughter echoing in the air. For me, drinking has turned into a hollow experience; it no longer brings joy. My days have devolved into a desperate search for cheap vodka and a $1 item from McDonald’s because my stomach has been empty for two days.
It’s astonishing how my body has adapted to this life, weighing in at just 110 pounds, surviving solely on alcohol. I’ve become resourceful, seeking out restrooms to wash my hands and face, all while battling the tremors that threaten to expose me to the world.
Pain resonates throughout my body; every movement is a reminder of my condition. My soul feels like a void, aching for something—anything—to fill the emptiness, to cover the hurt. But acknowledging that pain means confronting the possibility of change, and I’m not ready for that. So I walk.
I become one of those people you pass on the street on a beautiful day, a sight that jolts you because you can’t help but wonder, “What happened to her?” I’m disheveled, dressed inappropriately, and acting in a way that makes you cautious. I’m used to the looks followed by averted gazes. I’m surrounded by life yet feel utterly disconnected.
As night falls, I slip into a drunken stupor, likely blacked out, wandering aimlessly until I collapse under a tree in the park. This isn’t rest; it’s merely a momentary pause before the cycle resumes, a temporary escape before my body compels me to drink again.
Despite my need for sleep, I find myself awake and walking through the city streets. I have no destination, just a relentless urge to keep moving. I encounter some people who engage with me, while most simply ignore my presence. I don’t realize just how fortunate I truly am.
Dawn breaks, and I’m still walking, as though my survival depends on it. What am I searching for? A reason to end this cycle of despair. I feel furious, lonely, and exhausted, but I know the routine is about to begin anew, just like it has every day before.
That was 12 years ago.
Today, I’m a mother after enduring the trials of infertility. I share my life with a wonderful husband and our twin 10-month-olds. Although we struggle financially, the fact that I even face these challenges is a gift. Back then, my only goal was to survive another day, or at times, to wish for the end. Yet here I am, miraculously alive.
Much like the zombie “walkers” from The Walking Dead, I was once a transient—lost both physically and, more importantly, spiritually. I numbed myself, stumbling through life without truly feeling anything. That’s no way to exist.
I’m not extraordinary; many who walk this path may never find their way back. I simply grew weary of being depleted. I’m a second-chancer, as are countless others. They may not have found their moment yet, but that doesn’t mean they’re done.
You might think this could never happen to you, but I was just like you. I had a loving home, yet I lost my way. I let hopelessness consume me, drowning my pain in alcohol. When hope vanished, I couldn’t see a way back. But when you finally catch a glimpse of that elusive hope, it ignites a fierce determination to fight for your life.
On this beautiful fall Sunday, 12 years later, I sit on a park bench in a different Chicago park, surrounded by my family, filled with gratitude and hope. I can’t return to that old park where I spent so much time lost; perhaps one day I will. For now, I see the world through hope-tinted glasses.
I notice both the hopeful and the hopeless around me, and it hits me hard because I’ve been in that position. I keep my past close to my heart to avoid repeating it. I still feel fear, but I confront it head-on rather than retreating. We are not worthless; we are deserving of love and kindness.
I SEE YOU.
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Summary
This piece reflects on a transformative journey from despair to hope. It shares the struggles of addiction and the long, arduous path towards recovery and motherhood. Through candid observations and reflections, it emphasizes the importance of kindness and understanding towards those who may be lost, while also celebrating the gift of second chances and the power of hope.
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