On a bright autumn day, just like today, I find myself seated on a park bench, attempting to fend off the tremors of alcohol withdrawal and the gnawing pangs of hunger. I observe families enjoying their day, a mother reveling in the joy of her children as they play fetch with their exuberant Golden Retriever. The kids tumble through the grass, racing to claim the ball, which the dog inevitably retrieves first. The mother shares snacks and juice with her delighted children, while the father, though slightly exasperated by the mess, chuckles good-naturedly.
That life feels impossibly distant from my own. While they may glance in my direction, they don’t truly see me. I don’t wish to be seen, either. I represent a harsh reality that people often shield their children from—a reminder of the pain and suffering present in the world. I understand their avoidance; I wouldn’t want to confront my existence, either. So, I sit back and watch.
In this moment, I am vulnerable. My body, heart, and soul are wracked with regret, remorse, and a profound sense of hopelessness. Nearby, a group of men cheers at a football game, their laughter ringing out as they drink beers. I remember when laughter accompanied my drinking, but that laughter has faded away. Now, I scrounge for coins to buy cheap vodka and perhaps a dollar menu item at McDonald’s, as I haven’t eaten in nearly two days.
It’s astonishing how resilient my body has become, maintaining a fragile 110 pounds while subsisting solely on vodka. If I can muster the strength to control my trembling for just a few minutes, I can wash my hands and face in the McDonald’s restroom, avoiding the curious gazes of children and their parents.
I ache; my body protests with every movement. My soul feels hollow and despairing, and I need something to numb the pain. I dread the thought of feeling my heartache for too long, as it might force me to confront the reality of my existence and make a much-needed change. So, I walk. I walk endlessly, a figure on the street that might shake you to your core. You might wonder, “What happened to her?” I appear unkempt, dressed inappropriately, and my actions may seem suspicious. I’m accustomed to the stares that quickly shift away, leaving me in my isolation.
As night descends, I find myself in a drunken haze, likely blacked out. I sleep—or rather, pass out—beneath a tree in the park, exposed and defenseless. This isn’t rest; it’s merely a brief cessation, a temporary reprieve from the relentless urge to drink. My alert self remains unshielded.
Awake again in the early hours, I wander through the city streets without a destination. I walk and walk. People notice me; some tease, but most leave me to my solitude. I’m fortunate, though I’m not aware of just how fortunate I am.
As dawn breaks, I continue my aimless journey. I walk as if my very survival depends on it. What am I searching for? A reason to end the cycle of despair. Hope eludes me, and until it graces me with its presence, I’ll keep walking, searching, and drinking. The familiar feelings of hunger, anger, loneliness, and fatigue begin to envelop me once more, signaling the onset of withdrawal. This cycle repeats, much like it did yesterday and will again tomorrow—endlessly, until either death or a resounding declaration of “enough.”
That was 12 years ago.
Today, I am a mother, having triumphed over infertility. I share my life with a wonderful husband and our two ten-month-old twins. While we struggle to make ends meet like many families, the mere fact that I have these challenges is a gift. Back then, my goal was to survive another day, and now I’m living a life filled with joy. I am, quite frankly, a fortunate survivor.
Similar to the “walkers” in The Walking Dead, I was once a transient, lost both physically and spiritually. I numbed myself as I drifted through life, devoid of feeling. But I’m not unique; countless others are still waiting for their moment. I simply grew weary of the pain. I’m a second-chancer, as are many others who wander through life, yet to discover their spark of hope. And who knows? You might be the one to ignite that spark in someone else.
You may believe this can’t happen to you. But I am you. I grew up in a loving home, yet I lost my way, my hope, and my sense of self in the chaos of life. It felt unfair, and I sought solace in alcohol until I reached a point where hope seemed irretrievable. Hopelessness is a relentless pit that consumes all reason until, by grace, a glimmer emerges—the very thing I had been searching for all along.
Hope is essential; it ignites the urgency within you to fight. You choose to battle fiercely against despair and refuse to take a single moment for granted. Each day is a fight to remain above that pit, to heal and help those around you. When you feel the ground shift beneath you, threatening to pull you back down, you grasp onto those who can assist you in your struggle for life.
Today, on another crisp autumn Sunday, I find myself sitting on a park bench in a different Chicago park. Surrounded by my family, gratitude fills my heart. I can’t revisit the park from my past just yet; perhaps someday, but not today. Today, I see through hope-tinted lenses. I witness both the hopeful and the hopeless, and it strikes me deeply because I’ve been there.
I keep my past close, a reminder of where I’ve been, so I don’t repeat those mistakes. Fear may linger, but I face it head-on instead of succumbing to the urge to walk away. We are not garbage; we are worthy. We just need to recognize that within ourselves, when the time is right. I see you, and I see us.
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