On a crisp autumn day, much like today, with the sun beaming and families enjoying the outdoors, I find myself curled up on a park bench, trying to fend off the tremors of alcohol withdrawal and the gnawing hunger in my stomach.
I observe the families around me. A mother beams with joy as her family plays catch with their spirited Golden Retriever, while her children race through the grass, vying for the ball. The dog always emerges victorious. She pulls out snacks, sharing them with her kids, along with juice boxes. The father chuckles at the mess, shaking his head in good-natured disbelief.
That will never be my reality.
They are aware of my presence, yet they don’t truly see me. I don’t want to be seen. They pretend I’m invisible as they relish their lovely Sunday—one they’ve anticipated all week. I understand their avoidance. I wouldn’t want to acknowledge my existence either; I remind them that there are sick and sorrowful people in the world, the ones they strive to shield their children from while ensuring their own feel secure. I get it. So I remain a silent observer.
I am vulnerable, shaken from a binge, with my heart, soul, and body steeped in regret, remorse, and despair.
A nearby football game draws my attention—men laughing and drinking beer. I can no longer find joy in such moments. I do whatever it takes to scrape together enough change for cheap vodka and perhaps a dollar menu item at McDonald’s, having gone two days without food.
It’s astonishing how resilient my body has become, weighing in at just 110 pounds, nourished solely by vodka for days. If I can focus long enough to steady my shaking hands, I can use the restroom at McDonald’s to wash my face and hands, praying no children wander in during those five minutes.
I ache. My body protests every movement. My soul feels hollow and despondent, and I must find something to numb the pain. My heart aches, and I can’t allow myself to feel that hurt for too long—because if I do, I might be compelled to change something, to confront it. No, not now. So I continue to walk.
I am one of those individuals you see on the streets on a beautiful day, a sight that might disturb you if you pause to consider, “What happened to her?” I appear disheveled, inappropriately dressed, acting a bit suspiciously, leaving you uncertain of my next move as you pass by. I’ve grown accustomed to the curious glances followed by averted eyes. Life unfolds around me, yet I feel utterly disconnected.
As night descends, I slip into a drunken haze, likely blacked out, functioning without memory. I drift off in the park, beneath a tree, exposed to the elements. There is no real rest, just a brief intermission my body takes to stave off further drinking until it might consume me. My alert mind has no defenses against my unraveling self.
Despite needing rest, I find myself walking again—strolling through the city in the middle of the night, aimless and without a destination. I walk and walk, a restless search for a reason to change my life. I’m hungry, angry, lonely, and exhausted. The cycle of withdrawal begins anew, echoing the patterns of yesterday and likely tomorrow, repeating until I either perish or declare, “Enough.”
That was twelve years ago.
Today, I am a mother after overcoming infertility. I have a wonderful husband and twin ten-month-olds. Although we struggle financially and often worry about how to make ends meet, the mere fact that I have these challenges is a precious gift. My past goal was to simply survive another day, or on darker days, to escape it all. Yet here I am, alive and grateful.
Much like the “walkers” in The Walking Dead, I was a lost soul, both physically and spiritually. I drifted through life, numbing myself and feeling nothing. That’s no way to exist.
I’m not one-of-a-kind; many wanderers never get their chance. I simply grew tired of being sick and tired. I’m a second-chancer, just like countless others out there who are still waiting for their moment of hope to ignite their lives. You never know who’s on the edge, waiting for that spark. An act of kindness in an uncomfortable situation could make all the difference.
You might think this could never happen to you. But I am you. I grew up in a loving, safe environment, only to lose my way. I lost faith and hope after encountering the harsh realities of life. In my despair, I turned to alcohol, and when hope vanished, I didn’t want it back. Hopelessness is a dark pit that swallows reason until, by grace, you glimpse what you’ve been yearning for all along.
Hope is everything. It drives you to fight with a fervor you’ve never known, pushing you to reclaim your life. You grasp onto those who can support you, clawing your way back to solid ground.
Today, on a bright fall Sunday, I find myself seated on a park bench in a new Chicago park, surrounded by my family, filled with gratitude and hope. I cannot return to the place where I spent so much time lost, but perhaps someday I will. Today, my perspective is transformed through hope-colored lenses. I see the hopeful and the hopeless alike and feel a pang in my gut because I’ve been there.
I keep my past close to ensure I don’t repeat it. I may have fear, but I face it head-on instead of running away. We are not worthless; we are deserving. We just need to recognize it within ourselves. And today, I see us.
Summary
The author reflects on their past struggles with addiction and despair, contrasting it with their current life as a grateful mother. They highlight the importance of hope, resilience, and kindness, encouraging readers to recognize the potential for change in themselves and others.