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Two Sides to the Same Alcoholic Story
It was over. It was time to move on. The regrets had been overwhelming. In fact, the debilitating shame was the only thing powerful enough to force my hand and mandate my need for behavioral change. The stigma, the embarrassment, the broken promises, the trust I crushed under my clumsy heel like an insignificant ant — all of it accumulated into a malignant mass that had to be cut out of my soul for my very survival. And I did just that. I changed for the only reason anyone ever makes significant change. Pain. I was drowning in pain.
But even the deepest, most fundamental change was not enough for her. The trillions of sincere apologies. The remorse. The repentance. The reparations. None of it was enough. It was never enough.
Time had passed. No new transgressions emerged. By all accounts, he seemed as though he would make it this time. After years and decades of ignoring my pleas, he finally heard something. A different voice, the creaking floorboards under the weight of approaching doom, or the whimpering sounds of my broken heart.
He changed. The chaos subsided, but the trauma lingered. It seemed nothing could ever heal the wounds. I never wanted nor needed his incessant apologies. His pathetic pleas for forgiveness were like nails on the chalkboard of our innocent youth.
