The year is ending. I'm 31 in 2021. I am rising in my own life. My greatest wealth is the people around me. Without them, I'd have died six years ago choking on my vomit while I slept, my body trying to purge itself from all the alcohol I binged, too drunk to wake up.
I remember waking up the next day feeling hungover but not the worst I've ever felt. I'm confused, as I usually am after I blackout. I look around my bedroom, trying to connect the missing pieces.
At 25, I returned to my parents. Betrayed by someone I considered a brother and heartbroken by a kind soul, I was at my lowest. The closest companions I kept were Pabst, Jameson, Beefeater, and any other who'd invite itself with more than 3% ABV.
I would've died at 25 if my parents hadn't welcomed me home. My dad rolled me on my side and scooped out the chunks to clear my throat that night. They cleaned me and cleaned my mess. Love.
What they did after was remarkable, and if my parents hadn't done what they did, my rage would have exploded in their faces.
They held space for me to go through my shit. They didn't make me feel ashamed or guilty, but they didn't hide their fear of losing me nor the pain from seeing what I was doing to myself.
And here I am, six years later, in Costa Rica.
Take this story however you want. If you didn't have the chance I had, you had/will have your own. We can't trade but we can share.
It mainly taught me about parenthood. We are all parents: mother and father to the child that lives within us. My past is still in my present.
When the waves come, let them, thank them, and ride them. You can't fight them, control them, and your insults or criticisms mean nothing. I am a wave.
I am my wave.