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Letter To My 8 Year-Old Self
Your body is not the problem. Your family is.
Dear Eight Year Old Me,
You are scared. Your world has just been upended. A police car has driven you the less than ten minutes from the apartment you’ve lived in for the past eight months or so to your grandparents’ home. You are trying to be brave, though, because your little brother is only three and he’s more upset than you are. Taking care of him has been your job for almost four years, or at least that’s how you view it as his big sister. He’s often a brat but you love that brat so much and you’d do anything in your power to protect him.
Your mom has a problem. Right now, though, you are too young to truly understand this or what it means. It is just your life. You know not to drink from glasses of soda in the apartment because they don’t just have soda in them and vodka is disgusting. She is an alcoholic, a word you will soon learn to explain this scary situation. It will be longer still before you appreciate that this is an illness, not a choice she made to hurt you or anyone else.
In fact, it is going to take you so much time, decades really, to understand that she loves you. That this is not something she ever planned on happening, losing you and your brother. She may seem angry with you right now, for opening that door to the cop…
