The next day, I walked into my mother’s bedroom and triumphantly announced I would be getting my shit together. An empty promise she’d heard before. The drug addict, the king of the empty promise. My mom looked at me wearily. She looked old. Tired. Tired of hoping for me. Tired of trying and watching me fail. To be fair, I was also tired of failing. I truly believed that things were just going to get better on their own. I couldn’t imagine I was just going to fail. I looked at my brother and his yellow brick road to success as something that should belong to me, too, but was just out of reach.
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