DREGS OF LATE WINTER
A frigid February slouched into an ugly March, still full of cutting, bitterly cold winds and dirty, slushy snow. As the dregs of winter dragged on, my loneliness deepened.
I had stopped talking to people. I didn't answer phone calls. I never looked at social media anymore. Why punish myself by looking at other people's fantastic travels and fancy meals? The last thing I wanted to see was their happy, smiling family photos. That stuff only made me feel worse about my shrinking, pathetic life of frozen dinners and booze.
I hadn't been touched romantically by another human being since my divorce two years before. Actually, my ex had lost interest in me even before that, so it had been more years than I cared to admit. I had gotten by for a while with my fingers and a vibrator, but now masturbation just felt stupid. I felt old and unlovable. I couldn't even love myself. Vodka was a poor substitute for romance, but at least we were faithful to each other.
Which was the main problem. I was drinking more than ever. The only thing that I cared about was putting my nose in a rocks glass, sucking down "my happy juice." That's what my mother used to call it. But she sure hadn't been happy.
In fact, my mother got to be such a bitter, abusive drunk that I left home when I was seventeen. It wasn't lost on me that winter that, at eighteen, Tracie was nearly the same age.
I always swore to myself I'd never be like my mother. I'd be a good mom, the kind who showed up for all my children's sports. I'd converse with other parents at all the school events and be friends with other moms. I'd keep a clean, happy house that my daughter would be glad to bring her friends home to. When other parents talked about me, they would say good things.
For ten years, I succeeded at all that. And every time when Tracie saw me in the bleachers at a volleyball match or basketball game and she smiled and waved, I thought about how lucky I was. She and I adored each other. I don't think I could have loved a biological child any more.
Growing up, little Tracie loved to hug me when she got home from school. When she wrapped her arms around my waist, it was like pure sunshine that lifted my heart. She liked to hold my hand when we went out. Even into high school, every time we were in line somewhere, like at a fast-food counter, she'd stand next to me, leaning against my arm. Then she'd wander to my other side and lean on that arm. I'd feel the weight on my shoulder as she held onto my purse strap. I loved feeling her touch my back.
No one ever guessed she was only my stepdaughter. We were so close. Tracie and I used to say it was "you and me against the world."
Not anymore. My drinking had gotten so bad, she couldn't stand to be in the same room with me. Or maybe it was that I couldn't stand for her to see me, so I kept away from her. Either way, we hardly saw each other anymore, let alone talked.
If my love for my daughter couldn't stop me from sliding into drinking and depression, nothing could.
I wasn't myself anymore. I had become my mother, a lonely, depressed, unemployed drunk. I liked to tell myself that at least I wasn't cruel and abusive to Tracie like my mother had been to me. But that was cold comfort as the most important relationship in my life was dying.
I no longer went by calendar days - I went by bottles. Before I knew it, spring had come around. I had little memory of winter, and practically none of April.
Though cold and rainy weather suited my mood better, May was well underway. The days were longer, sunnier, and warmer, but I was desensitized to everything. Tracie's junior year of high school was nearing its end. I had missed most of it, my nose in a rocks glass. I'm sure I had become as much of an embarrassment to Tracie as my mother had been to me.
