Scarlett Dombrowski

I tried my best to understand what was happening around me, but I was only a kid.

The inanimate objects held far too much power for anyone to have.

Bottles plagued my old house.

They sat at the bottom of the kitchen sink, already consumed, accompanied by nothing else, as the ones who drank the very liquid that remained inside of them were not enticed by the idea of washing any other glass dishes. It was far too much work by the time they were placed there, the drink that was sloshing inside already having its effect. Sometimes they sat on countertops and nightstands. I could find one in every corner of the house if I looked hard enough, stacking up to be countless upon countless piles. Each bottle in that mountain was a piece that was lost to the fight of alcoholism, stories remaining untouched, and memories unmade.

Bottles sabotaged the ones I loved. They took away the personalities of people I cared about, turning them into walking zombies as they carelessly listened to me rant about my school day.

I was only eight years old, but even then, I understood there was a timer ticking away the seconds until their attention was diverted. The intoxication of the drink has ripped my time away.

My words quickly fell flat, forgotten in the haze of inebriety. In the following days, they would ask me why I hadn’t spoken to them; I would wonder how they could’ve discarded what I had so excitedly mentioned. I questioned how my importance could hold so little significance. Even though I know it isn’t true, the feeling won’t subside. It just became easier to ignore.

The bottles are all to blame.

I envied how they took up space, acting as an unsolicited family member that received every last ounce of attention. It tore me from building connections with the people I loved. It was like watching a house burn with me inside; I accepted that, at some point, it would break, but I couldn’t find an exit within it all. The flames had reached my face, but my head still rose to meet them. If I were to surrender myself to the concurrent battles I faced, I would be admitting defeat in a fight I refused to lose.

They’ve all gotten better, now. My loved ones are safe and healthy. I do not write this to judge them, as I understand that it was never truly their intention to put me through what I’ve seen. I share my experience to emphasize that making decisions comes with consequences, and they can spread to be larger than ever imagined. We have grown to be stronger, but with this comes a herd of healing that will take years to recover from. I have accepted that I will never be the same as I was. I’m okay with that.

But I fear being 21.

Whenever I tell people that I don’t want to drink, I’m disregarded. At some point, my peers say, I will give in, that I will eventually indulge in the item that has so greatly ruined my innocence. It single-handedly peeled back the layers that kept me a child, putting me on a pedestal to face the monsters that most adults will never encounter in their lifetime.

Addiction has woven itself into my childhood, its branches starting from simple seeds in my loved ones’ lives and forcibly inserting themselves into mine. It is not just a single person wrapped in its wrath; it’s a tree of learning such behavior, a chain connecting each loved one that brings the possibility of infection.

To face the age of 21 means the chance of passing on that trauma to the next generation.

I will break that chain.