Page 212 of Tell Me I'm Enough

I shake my head in disbelief and look back at Easton. “Has he put his hands on you before?”

He looks away, and I quickly reach out, placing my hand on his chin to gently force him to look at me. “Has Dad put his hands on you when he gets angry?”

He nods, staring at me with glossy eyes. “I try to be good when he’s home.”

I pull him into me and then grab Asher.

“This isn’t your fault,” I say firmly. “You hear me? There’s no trouble you can get into that makes it okay for someone to hurt you like that.”

I pull them into my chest tightly, needing some false sense of knowing that I can protect them. I can’t handle them being hurt, especially knowing it’s because I’m not around.

I don’t want them to grow up scared and constantly walking on eggshells around authority, especially the ones who are supposed to be there to love and protect them. I don’t want them to grow up always angry themselves because that’s all they saw.

My dad and I have gotten into our altercations over the years, but he didn’t grow up beating me when I was young. Mostly because my mom was still here to protect me. He was rough, sure, but he was barely even around enough to have the time to put his hands on me. Our fights didn’t start until I was much older. I’ll be damned if I let him start doing this to them.

I used to think he loved those boys more than he ever loved me, and I was okay with that. If it meant they would get a better childhood than I did, I was okay with it.

The man can’t ever break a damn cycle, though. And it’s not just me who’s having to face the consequences for his anger and cruelty now. It’s them too.

This is what I never wanted for them.

That night, after they’re asleep, I sit alone in my room staring at the wall. I want a drink so badly it feels physical. Like an ache under my skin and in my head. Like my body is screaming for something that my brain keeps denying it.

I pace, sit, stand, and then do it all over again.

And again.

And again.

I clench my fists until my nails bite into my palms and break the skin.

It’s like my brain and body hate that I want better for it. It’s fighting me every step of the way.

The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach keeps growing louder and more painful. All I want to do is go to sleep and be able to escape this feeling. I try to lie in the bed, but my skin feels on fire, the sheets feel awful, I’m sweating, and as tired as I am, I can’t close my eyes and get any sleep.

It feels like torture.

I just want to sleep.

I just want to be unconscious.

I just want a break from feeling like this.

I have very few things to live for anymore, and I hate that those few things actually matter to me.

Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to just not have to keep doing any of this.

But I can’t think like that. Not with those two little boys across the hall who have nobody else looking out for them.

Fuck.

I hate my mind.

Hate these demons.

Hate this fucking addiction.

I wish I had a real disease. You know, one people could actually see. The one I have is invisible. It’s in my mind. Andif it kills me…if it actually ends up putting me in the ground, I’d just go out as someone who was weak. I wouldn’t die fighting off some illness that people celebrate the strength in. I’d die pathetic…because I wasn’t strong enough to overcome something I could control.