Personal Narrative: Bottles

Bottles At school they tell you ‘Don’t do drugs’, but at home I got a different message. A message that came to me, day after day, in the form of smelly beer bottles that cluttered my house. My parents, drunk and disorderly, fell asleep each night either too early or too late and would blame me for their headache. The painkillers they used came in the form of overpriced bottles of beer that ate away at our money like cockroaches. The house was a mess, and I never knew what to do; my homework, or clean. For each one I picked, I got in-trouble for not doing the one I chose it over. “I must be doing something wrong”, is the story of my life. “Life” is not my favorite story, nor is it the best. If I could rewrite the plot of my own life I would make the setting one with flowers in my yard, not weeds. I would have pitchers of sweet and sour pink lemonade in my fridge, not strategically placed bottles of beer. I would rewrite the “characters” into those who think about their actions and how they affect the people around them. What a boring story it would be, I know, but a peaceful change from the disaster it is now. Though, life isn’t just a story that I can write to my liking. I make life my own by writing in the margins and filling the empty space with what makes me happy. Friends who kept me

They were watered by the alcohol I poured down the drain to keep my parents sober. Sixth to seventh grade became the period of my life where I thought nothing would get better. My teachers would tell me “The sky’s the limit!”, but I didn’t understand. I couldn’t even get off the ground. The red ink marks my homework bled were mirrored on my body as battle scars as the result of my poor grades and lack of interest in what the school was teaching me. Every day in class made me feel even more surrounded in darkness and I thought, “The light will never find me; it’s way too dark in