A Mother's Bond

60

"Thank you, Sarayah," Cynthia said, nodding at me. "I appreciate your participation. In our group sessions we place an emphasis on telling our stories. You're all going through an ordeal that is uncommon to the average person, and yet you share much of the same experience. When you're talking to friends or family about your struggles most of the time you're met with sympathy, because that's all they can give you. As much as they want to understand, they don't know what you're going through. They don't know how difficult it is to struggle with addiction."

"Here, you don't have to worry about that," she continued, looking at each of us. "Everyone in this room, myself included, has struggled with addiction in some form. That connects us in a very real way. And while no, this isn't the first club I would sign up for. I think I'd try bowling first or something equally cool–"

She waited for laughter which surprisingly, a few people gave her.

"But this club is the most helpful. So, give it a chance. Share. Express your feelings. This is one of the few places in the world where you won't be judged, because we've all done some shit. Now, who wants to start us off?"

One of the clone guys nodded at her. She smiled. "Okay, go ahead Michael."

He told his story which basically consisted of him partying from a young age and getting caught up in some dark shit after blowing through his trust fund. I sat unmoved as the next few people said their own versions of the same story in different words. I was beginning to think this place was not for me.

"Does anyone else have anything to share?" Cynthia asked, looking around the room again. "Madelyn, you've been unusually quiet today. Do you wanna share something?"

We all turned to look at Madelyn, a dark-haired, 30-something-year-old white woman with a debatably unhealthy fondness for piercings. She blinked at us, mildly surprised by the turn of events.

"Uh sure. Sure." Madelyn mumbled, sitting up from her slouched position. "Well, I think I had a breakthrough yesterday. My dad came to visit for the first time. As most of you guys know, I've been struggling with my sobriety since I was 13, so I've been in and out of rehabs most of my life. He hasn't visited once. Not even on my birthday. Not even on Christmas. But for some reason, he decided yesterday was the day."

She scoffed bitterly. "For a long time, I wasn't ready to accept why I am the way I am. Why I've struggled so much. But when I saw him standing in my doorway..." She shook her head. "It was like–It was like being right back in that house with him...To summarize, he uh–he did some shit to me when I was younger. People knew about it, after. But nothing ever happened to him because, well, powerful men and all that."

A few people in the room nodded, mumbling in agreement. She chuckled humorlessly.

"Well, anyway. One day–I must've been like five at the time, I don't know–but my mom walked in. After that he stopped. I rarely ever saw him. Wherever I was, he wasn't. Everything was swept under the rug. It was like it never happened. No one acknowledged it. I wasn't allowed to talk about it. By the time I was 10, I wasn't even sure it had happened. Up until yesterday I thought I'd made it up, because that's what they told me. Made me think I was crazy. Did it so well I actually went a little crazy."

She scratched at her arm, drawing attention to the track marks along her forearm. She quickly realized what she'd been doing and pulled her sleeves down to cover her scars.

"So now, fast forward to yesterday. I see him, and it all comes back. Well not all, but enough. All these years, I've been running, but I never knew what I was running from. Not until I saw him standing in that fucking doorway."

Her face contorted in rage. "In that moment I decided I'm done pretending for them. I'm done running. I refuse to let that man and his twisted family hold any more power over me. I won't let him take any more of my time away from me."