Personal Narrative: Alcoholism Changed My Life

Six and a half years ago, on a sweltering August morning, I began my freshman campaign. I remember stepping out of Jones and thinking, “Wow, every girl here is ridiculously pretty.” Hyperbole aside, I was raring to launch. During that fall semester, I had a public speaking class on Tuesdays and Thursdays that started at 7:30 in the morning. I can never remember, but it was either just before or just after the time change, when it’s still dark out at 7:00. Regardless, even under such uncanny conditions, I still had to make that long and winding trek to Burton Hall twice a week. I recall one morning in particular, when a cyclist pedaled right past me as I walked down the sidewalk. For reasons I’m still not entirely sure about, I immediately started …show more content…
My biological father was never a positive contributing factor throughout my childhood, which is something I battled internally for years. Alcoholism is a very real disease, and I have seen firsthand how divisive it can be. For me, the worst part of it all was having to grow up and see how his absence affected my sister. Naturally I tried to assume the role, but I could only do so much. The few memories I have of my parents together are loud, only loud. He still lives nearby, and he’s been sober for over a decade now, but the damage has certainly taken its toll on our relationship. On the rare occasions I do see him he gives me money, probably because he feels guilty for every thing he did and didn’t do for us. I’ve since grown into my own man, without his guidance or his wisdom. Sure I would have preferred that he’d have been here for all the times I acted out in school, or that one time when I made the honor roll, but I have since forgiven him, even though my mother never …show more content…
She’s not the type to unleash a furious wrath when something goes wrong, but I can tell when she’s disappointed, which honestly might be worse. Those months when I was left to my own two feet felt like I was in a cyclist’s limbo. I was living in my own Hell, sans a bicycle. The thing I enjoy most about riding a bike is that weightless feeling I get when I pedal so fast before freezing in place and letting my momentum carry me along. The best moments are when I’m at the top of a hill, and I take my feet off the pedals. As I roll down the hill, I stick my legs out to the side, almost as wide as the smile on my face. The wind fights against my chest; it flows through my soul. Conversely, it’s absolutely disheartening whenever the chain breaks, or one of the tires flatten, but such is life. The last time I saw my father was this past Thanksgiving. In a way he finally did something for me, because I used the money he gave me to buy another bike. I anticipate that over the course of my time with this bike I’ll experience more chances at love, more side-splitting laughter, and more agonizing hardships. Though I’m on my third bicycle, chances are I’m not on my last. And even though it might not be much, it’s enough to keep me