The sound of hollow, brown, glass bottles clanking against our sturdy oak table kept me up most nights. I counted the time it took for them to complete a full cycle; pick up the bottle, press it to their lips, place the bottle back down, pick up a cigarette, light it, take a drag, die it out, grab the pipe, light it, take a drag, and then repeat. A skillful routine mastered by my parents. Don’t get me wrong, it takes talent to juggle all of that and be in perfect synchrony with each other. I can’t complain, I had it good growing up; a roof over my head, food on the table, what else could a seven-year-old need? I rolled over my twin size mattress to face my Barbie alarm clock. The clock matched my neon pink bed sheets and the Barbie curtains I had gotten for Christmas that year. The time read 2:37 am. I tried to force myself to ignore the exhalation sounds coming from the living room a few feet away from my fortress, but a part of me could not help but become enthralled in the danger that came with each hit.  

I sat in bed and stared up at my white ceiling. I put glow in the dark star stickers up there to help me sleep better at night, because I was always scared of what was inside the darkness. My eyes felt heavy, but my thoughts wouldn’t stop moving. I wondered if any of my friends felt a tightness in their chest, or struggled to catch their breath like me. I wanted to see my mommy. I was scared, I was tired, I was curious. I threw the corner of my pink sheets over to the right side of my body. I creeped out of my bed, as quietly as I could. I tip toed to my door and reached out for the door knob. I felt the gold plated handle rub against my hand as I attempted to turn it. As the door opened as discreetly as I could, once again noticing the rotation again, pick up the bottle, press the bottle to their lips. I waited until they were completely done with the cycle to walk out of my beige carpeted sanctuary, to the cold, uneven tiles that lead me to the living room. I held my breath for as long as I could to avoid anyone noticed me. As I peeked my head around the corner, I heard my father’s deep and ferocious voice scream, “What are you doing, get to bed.” Mommy always tucked me back in when I escaped. When I climbed back into my bed, I tried once again to file away my anxieties, telling myself that what they were doing was normal. Mommy kissed me on the head, told me she loved me, and quietly shut the door behind her as she left. My heart sank. 

When I finally heard the rotation begin again, I climbed out of bed once more. I got down on my knees, folded my hands, and prayed to God. I asked him every night if he would watch over my mommy and daddy, and made sure they were coherent enough to react to their alarm the next morning. I loved them. The thought of one day waking up to finding one of my beloved parents face down, pressed against the tiled floor, replayed over and over, until I received the strength to sling myself back into bed. I eventually fell asleep. The last thing I remember before I rested my eyes was thinking, how could people hurt and worry the ones they love without a second thought? 

Daddy always told me to never ask questions, so I didn’t. In my mind, my parents were hero’s. A hard working father, working from nine till five, greeted with a warm, and expected chicken dinner that my talented mother had prepared that night. Those two were a power duo, we were the epitome of a happy family. Family outings, movie nights, countless laughs and memories I will forever hold so close to my heart. I thought, how could I ever worry about my family falling apart, we are happy, we are healthy, right?

I remember taking a introduction to psychology class when I was in high school. There was a whole chapter dedicated to drugs, and the effects that they have on family’s of the one’s who use. I remember feeling that tightness in my chest again as my teacher discussed the signs and symptoms of drug abuse. It was then and there I realized that my family was not that picture perfect after all..