I’ve always felt like there was a hole in me that I just couldn’t fill. And that’s due to what my parents left me.
As a kid, I didn’t know what addiction was. I didn’t know what the long red streaks on the inside of my mother’s forearms meant, and why she would pass out for hours at a time, or why her eyes would have that faraway look, or why she might faint after a fresh one appeared. I didn’t know what the syringes were for that I occasionally found around the house, sometimes drops of blood still at their tips.