I Was Abused, So Why Do I Drink?
Abused child, alcoholic teenager That is why
Abused Why Do I Drink?
You ask me why I drink?
I drink to forget.
To blur the memories.
his voice like a curse,
his fists like thunder
falling on a child
too small to fight back.
He was the monster in my room,
the shadow behind every door.
My stepfather.
Pure evil
wrapped in a man
they told me to call him “dad.”
My mother laughed
when I tried to tell.
My sister smacked me,
said I was lying,
always lying.
But I wasn’t.
I was bleeding truth,
spilling pieces of myself
just to be seen.
And still they said,
“Stop telling these lies.”
I drink
because no one believed me.
Because silence
was safer than the truth.
Because the child inside me
never stopped shaking.
I drink
to hush the screams
only I can still hear.
To drown the weight
of what they refused to see.
I drink
not for escape,
but to survive
what they chose
to forget.
When he died,
I was so happy.
I spit on his grave.
Now,
he can’t hurt me
no more.
So why won’t it all go away?
It started
as laughs and vodka
at friends’ houses,
at parties.
Then it ended,
in a mental breakdown.
And I was happy,
because the doctors
believed me.
When the world
turned away
from a ten-year-old’s “lies,”
they forgot,
it started
when I was just six.
Now an alcoholic at 26
they believe me
Thank you god.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (10)
Your poem is raw, unflinching, and deeply moving. The way you trace the path from childhood trauma to the struggle with alcohol is heartbreaking yet powerful.
BLESSINGS to you.
Hugs to you. I was beaten as a child and drank a lot, but one day in a bar in Guatemala I picked a fight with a police officer with a gun. My friend threw me into the street and yelled at me to stop drinking. He saved me. I stopped drinking. I miss my friend.
So happy, I spit on his graves. Many who have been hurt must be feeling that way.
Very sad full written and really I like your poets.
Powerful admissions, Marie. There is no excuse for abuse, and way too many times, the cries of those affected are not heard but silenced, as you have experienced.
I used food to deal with my father's abuse. It is very hard to make others understand and to have to confess what the truth is. A very brave piece of work, Marie.
This was so sad and disturbing. Marie I don't know what to say but I am glad you can express yourself through your poetry. Nicely written but very very sad.
Oh my heart. I feel the pain of deep wounds and the desire to be heard and to freely breathe in every word of this poem.
Can I talk with you?