I knew I shouldn't have judged my mother's choice of actions, but I had ran out of excuses from too much time wasted.

After my dad divorced my mother, I understood that she became very depressed, and so did I. Though, I'm not going to lie; losing my dad was hard and very emotional. It took me some time to adjust to the new change.

Unlike my mother, I grew out of my depression to take care of the family I had left, but she decided to take the long way to recovery. Alcohol became her favorite companion for coping, but I didn't know how severe it was.

It became a huge problem when I'd walk into the house after school, reeking of alcohol, rotting garbage, and a passed-out drunken mother. While trying to save my nose hairs from burning, I knew something needed to be done. The worst dilemma that I had to face was not how to cure my mother's drinking problem, but how to explain the situation to my little brother, Dillan.

First and foremost, I physically fought my mother to go take a shower and freshen up. Maybe then, I had bought myself more time to prepare the "your mother is drinking her life away" speech. I had also picked out some clean clothes for her, and switched out the dirty sheets to her bed. However, there was a lot more to accomplish before Dillan got home, so I made a mental note about the laundry as I exited her room.

Next, I cleaned the house of its horrid odor and causable evidence. I opened the windows, lighted a few candles, and hand-washed the dishes, countertops, and floors. By the time I was done, my mother came downstairs fresher than before, but the struggle was still evident on her face.

Staring blankly into my eyes, my skin crawled with disgust at her physical state—her eyes were dull and almost lifeless, yet they were puffy and sunken in from crying herself to exhaustion. She was like a walking, living zombie, but I hoped that she knew I was only trying to help. My hope was soon answered with the small smile she gave.

After the house was spotless and cleared of filth, Dillan came home from his after-school program without getting the slightest clue of what I had witnessed. I had safely tucked that speech for a later time and started to make dinner for the evening.

The rest of our evening was very quiet and uneventful. I was okay, Dillan was okay, and my mother seemed okay from my perspective. I had nothing to worry about. And I figured that if I continued to help her out, then she wouldn't spiral into the darkness again.

Oh how I was so wrong...

The same thing happened two days later: the stench, the fight, the cleaning, and the "acting like everything is fine" feelings. It became a reoccurring event in our lives, and the need to talk to my mother kept growing.

Flopping into the seat next to her, I told her about my concerns and what needed to change. I don't know what would happen if this were to continue any longer.

"Mom, I understand that you're sad that Dad left, but Dillan and I really need you to be the parent. I try to help you get better, but I wouldn't be surprised if this family broke further than it already has. You can't surrender into the darkness anymore. It's not right for me, for Dillan... not even for you. I need you to listen. I cannot be the parent anymore. I can barely go out with my friends and have a social life anymore. I seriously need you to stop surrendering yourself to death."

A river of tears shined in the light as they fell down her face. Her eyes held a lot of sorrow and sympathy, and I knew that my words got to her. I understood that she was hurting, but Dillan and I were suffering.

"I-I'm so s-sorry."

"I hope you are, but we need you to help us. After all, we're a family. I need you to promise me."

"I promise," she sniffled.

"I need you to swear that you promise. We can't live life this way."

"I swear... I promise."

A week later, we were back at square one for the fourth time. And this time, I wanted to give up myself. I told my little brother the truth because he deserved to know. I was tired of trying to look after my mother, and I wanted to surrender.

"When is it my turn!" I thought. When is it my turn to get a break and escape from my reality?

Can I really afford it, though?