CHILDHOOD TRAUMA AND THE ECHOS OF ADDICTION
To outsiders, my mother’s addiction seemed like a distant shadow—but it shaped every corner of my world, twisting my understanding of love and loyalty before I even knew what they meant.
It suffocated everything, wrapping itself around my childhood like a chain I couldn’t break. Every day felt like walking on broken glass, an unpredictable storm I had to navigate.
Love wasn’t something I felt safe with—it was this distant idea, something I had to invent in my mind from fleeting moments that barely existed. I can still remember those rare flashes when her love felt real—like the sun breaking through clouds for just a second—but they were so brief.
And the darkness? That’s what stayed. The darkness is what I carry. As I grow older, I wonder more and more what life could have been. What she could have been if addiction hadn’t devoured her.
Sometimes I can’t help but think—would there even be an “us” if she hadn’t met him? That question sticks in my throat, because it feels like betrayal to even think it. But it’s always there, lingering in the back of my mind. If she hadn’t been pulled into that side of life, would she have lived out the dreams she once had?
I try to picture her—standing on a stage somewhere, her voice filling the room, making people stop in their tracks.
She loved to sing.
Her voice was everything. It had this power, this raw beauty that could have moved people to tears. But instead, it was silenced by her addiction, lost, trapped beneath the weight of her struggle.
And her mind— God, she was brilliant. She had this way of thinking, of seeing the world, that was so much bigger than the small, broken life she ended up trapped in. She knew so much, had this quiet intelligence that people never gave her credit for.
But through her words—within her beautiful mind—it all got tangled up, lost in the slurred speech, the incoherent rambles.
People didn’t see her brilliance. They saw her as a overwhelming pile of mess, someone to be pitied, or worse—someone to be ignored. Her genius was mistaken for insanity, and no one saw the girl she once was.
It’s the hardest thing, trying to picture her as she must have been before it all. Before addiction took everything. She was a little girl once. One that had a favorite stuffed animal. She must have loved bedtime stories and the thrill of learning something new in school. She had dreams—big ones, bright ones. I try so hard to see her that way—before the darkness took over. Before addiction ripped her away from herself. Before she disappeared. Before I lost her.
A Life Shaped by Trauma.
Addiction didn’t just consume her—it swallowed me whole too. I grew up in its wake, absorbing the chaos, the unpredictability. My understanding of love became warped, tangled in fear and uncertainty. Love felt fragile, like something you could never hold onto for too long.
And now, I wonder how much of that I’ve carried with me, how much of it has shaped who I am.
There are moments where I feel like I’m chasing something—a high, a rush, some kind of validation. Not in the way my mother did, not with substances—
but in the way I seek out love and connection.
I crave intensity.
I’m drawn to the electric pull of love, the dizzying allure of lust,
the need to be seen. to feel wanted.
But the highs always fade, and I’m left with that same emptiness.
There’s a part of me that recognizes this for what it is—a reflection of her. I’m repeating the same patterns, the same cycles of searching and seeking, always hoping the next thing will fill the void.
And then the cycle of seeking lurks. Time and time again.
I realize now that what I’m chasing isn’t just love. It’s her. Or maybe, it’s the version of her I never got. The warmth, the safety, the presence that was missing during her darkest moments. Addiction isn’t just about substances—it seeps into everything. It’s in the way I’ve learned to need approval, to crave connection, to seek out love that feels just out of reach.
It’s a cycle I can’t seem to break. I keep reaching, hoping that the next person, the next love, will be enough to make me feel whole. But it never is. And I’m left, again, facing the emptiness.
