Can you do self-insemination at home ?
At six years old, I remember my parents fighting. This particular argument was about a missed field trip, and I could hear the shouting echoing through our home. When I peeked into the kitchen, I saw my father push my mother against the glass door. It’s a vivid memory, one of the earliest I have of them.
Fast forward to age 12, and my parents are drinking again—like they do every night. My sister and I lie in our bunk beds, trying to sleep for school, but the fighting resumes. This time, I take on the blame. “I should be doing more to shield my sister.” “Is it my fault?” We sneak into the kitchen to dump some of their alcohol down the drain, hoping it will curb their drinking. “If they stop drinking now, I swear I’ll never touch alcohol.”
When I turn 14, I bake my own birthday cake. My mother allows me to do so, and it’s usually a fun activity. But that night, my parents bought a fifth of Crown Royal to celebrate me, which felt twisted. Alone in the kitchen, I sing “Happy Birthday” to myself while they party in the living room.
At 16, I’m offered my first drink. I think about all the sleepless nights spent crying over my parents’ drinking. I visualize my sister’s disappointed eyes if I were to accept. I decline the offer easily, convinced I won’t drink until I’m 19.
At 20, my parents file for divorce, and it’s a disaster. My father is spiraling into deep benders, making threats against my mother. I’m pregnant with my first child, concerned for my mother, and dealing with a high-risk pregnancy.
By 21, I’m a new mother. My son spent ten weeks in the NICU, and I embrace the “mommy wine” stereotype. What starts as a weekly glass of wine quickly becomes several times a week. I keep convincing myself I’m in control; I know the warning signs.
At 26, I find myself pulled over with flashing police lights behind me. I think, “What have I done?” After a night in jail, I brush it off. Everyone I know has had a DUI. But a week later, while blackout drunk, I tell paramedics I want to die. It was true.
Now at 28, I’m court-ordered to attend two AA meetings weekly. I go just to get my paper signed, dismissing the wisdom of those who claim decades of sobriety. I’m drinking a half a fifth of rum daily, buried in depression and anxiety. I tell myself I don’t have a problem; I can stop whenever I want.
I keep going to meetings. Nine months in, a shift occurs. I realize I’ve become just like my parents, even down to fighting with my husband. My life is chaotic, and I’m in denial.
I wake up in panic each day, unsure of what I did the night before. The migraines from hangovers become my new normal. On November 14, 2020, I declare, “Enough.” I want to break free from alcohol. I dive into “Quit-Lit,” create a separate Instagram account for my sobriety journey, and start attending AA four times a week. I discover new hobbies and focus on self-care.
I’m still 28, and almost six months sober, waking up before dawn to make coffee and care for my children. I kiss my husband goodbye as he heads to work and savor the calm of my morning routine. Life is finally good.
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In summary, my journey from being a child of two alcoholics to becoming an alcoholic myself and eventually breaking that cycle has been challenging but transformative. Through determination and support, I have found stability and contentment in sobriety.