I Broke a Cycle

I’m a 45-year-old woman whose kids have never seen her drink. They have never seen her fall off her chair or down the stairs. They have never had to rescue her after a night at the bar or intervene while she got in a drunken brawl with some stranger.

My kids have never seen me hungover or inebriated in any fashion.

I have been sober since before they were born.

In fact, I was 8 months sober when I found out I was expecting, 23 years ago.

I grew up with all the drunken rage I could handle and knew it had to end with me.

I had to be the cycle breaker I felt a call, a tug.

I wanted to rise up and say, “this ends with me.”

I did it.

I broke the cycle of addiction and alcoholism, mental illness, and suicide.

I broke the cycle of fistfights and 911 calls.

I broke the cycle of darkness and terror.

I broke the cycle of lost respect and slurred lies.

I broke the cycle of codependency and bitter resentments.

I broke the cycle of a puff of smoke pouring out of my mouth at every sentence.

I broke the cycle of a smoky haze for a living room.

I broke the cycle of, “we can’t afford it” while I guzzle my gallon of wine.

I broke the cycle of incarceration, institutions, and death.

I broke the cycle.

I continue to break the cycle of generational trauma and peel back the layers that were slathered into my DNA.

I continue to take steps forward to dig myself out of the early grave I was supposed to land in.

I walk forward each day and not backward. I keep my eyes ahead, too scared to stop moving.

I watch my back for the perpetrator, always trying to pull me back.

I keep my eye on the prize.

A life I don’t need to escape from.

Apologies I don’t need to make.

Shame I don’t need to feel.

Regret that doesn’t plague me.

I broke a cycle.