All Day, Everyday.

The glass is empty when I notice it, which feels important only because everything else in the room is not. The bottle is still half-full, tipped on its side like it got tired of standing upright for me. The table is sticky, my fingers too. There’s a plate with the ghost of food on it, but it’s the glass that bothers me most. Empty like I did this already and will do it again. But I can't.

I remember being told I was a child while being handed responsibilities that felt heavier than my body could carry. Watch your sibling. Don’t embarrass me. Be good. Be grateful. Don’t cry like that. Children, apparently, were allowed feelings only if they were quiet and brief. Anything that lingered became misbehavior.

Childhood was allowed only when it was convenient. Innocence had office hours. That was too much weight for shoulders that are still growing.

No one ever explained what age I was supposed to act like when I was scared.

I grew up carrying that sentence inside me. It aged with me, adapted me into the adult I was.

When I made mistakes: You’re old enough to know better. When I struggled, other people handle this just fine. When I drank too much, it was Grow up. The language changed, but the punishment stayed the same. Shame dressed up as guidance.

I stare at it longer than I should, as if it might refill itself out of shame.

I tell myself I’ll wash it. I tell myself a lot of things. Like I'd stop before it got this bad, but none of them mean anything.

Alcohol felt like permission to be younger and older at the same time. Reckless enough to stop caring, numb enough to stop wanting. It quieted that voice that kept track of how I should be performing my adulthood. For a while, I didn’t have to act anything. I could just exist, sloppy and unmeasured.

You’re acting like a child. I thought it every time I reached for another glass.

Take care of your sibling. Watch them. Hold their hand. Don’t let them cry. Don’t let them get hurt. You’re older. You should know better.

All day, every fucking day.

I was a child, but I was the kind of child who learned how to listen for footsteps. I knew how to keep a room quiet, so I wouldn't be punished. I learned how to cut food smaller, so sharing was easier, how to translate adult moods, how to swallow fear before it became inconvenient.

Alcohol became the hero of my story.

Not because it saved me, but because it showed up every time no one else did. It was reliable. It didn’t ask questions. It didn’t need me to explain my childhood or justify my exhaustion. It just quieted the noise and called it peace.

The thing about drinking is that it never starts with a decision. It starts with an ache. A dull, background hum of wanting to be somewhere else, someone else, quieter. I don’t wake up thinking I’m going to ruin myself tonight. I wake up thinking I’m tired. And tired is a very generous word. Tired can justify anything. Tired is a doorway. Tired is how you end up with a glass in your hand before you remember standing up.

The second glass is never about the taste. It’s about momentum. The first one opens a door, and the second one makes sure it stays open. By the third, I’m no longer drinking to feel better; I’m drinking to avoid the feeling of having started. There’s a point of no return where sobriety feels more dangerous than whatever is waiting for me at the bottom of the bottle. I cross it almost every time.

Self-restraint implies a self that wants to be restrained. I don’t know if I have that. Not anymore at least.

I think about all the ways I’ve been praised for endurance. For swallowing things politely. For not making a mess. I was taught early that suffering quietly is a virtue, that if I could just hold everything in, I’d be good. Useful. Lovable. Alive.

If you must suffer, do it internally. If you must burn, don’t let anyone see the smoke.

The one who stayed late. The one who answered texts no one else would. I remember how good it felt to be useful, and how bad it felt when I wasn’t.

I don’t remember anyone telling me to stop.

I don’t know when the glass became the thing that decided my nights for me. I don’t remember agreeing to it. I remember the first time it made the room tilt in a way that felt like relief. I remember thinking, oh, this is what they mean when they say take the edge off. I remember thinking I could put it down whenever I wanted. I remember when I had the options, but I have them no longer.

People flood the room, crying at my body, but even now, I notice who takes charge. Who calls for towels and says what needs to be done. Old habits itch in me, even without a body—step in, organize, soothe.

My death is the first time I don’t answer the call.

This time, I don't have to comfort anyone.

Someone is crying too hard, the kind of crying that needs witnesses. Someone else keeps saying my name, over and over, like repetition might rewind things.

Someone says, “I wish they’d asked for help.”

My body is folded over the table, like I stopped mid task, clocking out for the rest my body desperately needed.

This is the first time I’ve been surrounded without having to hold anyone up.

A laugh starts to bubble from some dark part of me. I cover my mouth with my hands, but it keeps coming, splintering into louder, stranger bursts. It’s a laugh that’s part disbelief, part relief, the kind of cruelty that comes from knowing the end of the story while everyone else is still reading.

"We'll be fine, you can rest now."

No, you won't, but that's not my problem anymore.

The body doesn’t flinch when someone calls my name. It looks peaceful in a way I never was. Like it finally believed it was allowed to rest. Gripping onto the wine glass, still even in death.

It's just a shame I'm not there to enjoy it.