Free Hooked by Chloe Shantz-Hilkes

church. The other is a drunk.
    My parents split up when I was six years old, and around that time it became clear to me that my mom had a drinking problem. She would pick me up after school and we would drive to the liquor store. Usually she’d buy one of those big bottles of wine that holds like eight normal glasses; most nights she’d drink the whole thing before she went to bed. But she still got up every morning, took me to school, went to work, and did her job. That really confused me. I think my parents’ divorce had more to do with their relationship than her drinking, but the drinking certainly became worse after the split.
    Basically, my mom was a textbook functioning alcoholic. She worked hard and always had a job, but after seven p.m. she became a whole different person.
    A functioning alcoholic is someone who, despite their addiction, is able to lead a largely normal life. They can hold down a job and pay a mortgage, but they cannot prevent themselves from drinking routinely.
    When she got drunk, my mom was weirdly happy and disconnected. She would wander around the house and not pay any attention to what I was doing. She’d watch TV, or go into her room and close the door. She never seemed to have much of an appetite, which meant I had to fend for myself if I was hungry. She never asked me about school or wanted to see my report cards. Come to think of it, I don’t think my mom has once checked to see whether I’ve done my homework or what I got on a test. And she certainly never made a habit of talking to me about my feelings—in particular, the fact that I was transgendered.
    On my own
    Drunk or sober, my mom has always been a very hands-off parent. In her view, as soon as I was old enough to read, I was old enough to keep myself occupied with books and games. She never arranged play dates or sent me to any extracurricular activities. That meant that I spent a lot of my time with adults rather than other kids. I don’t think either of my parents has ever really enjoyed kids. I mean, they both loved me, but they worked hard to make me independent from a very young age. Things that other kids’ parents did, like make their lunches, never happened in our family. Instead, I learned to cook when I was seven because I was worried that if my mom made dinner while she was drunk, something would catch fire.
    I even had to fend for myself when I was sick. One time, shortly after my dad left us, I had a case of pediatric acid reflux so bad I missed a month of the third grade. I had no appetite and was experiencing chest pain all the time. And I have this very vivid memory of my mom being understanding and supportive during the day but then not caring at all at night. One evening I was lying on the couch in our living room, trying to explain to my mom that I was in a lot of pain, and she drunkenly threw a bottle of Pepto-Bismol at my head. I literally had to dodge it. She seemed to think I could just take a spoonful of this stuff and it would make me better. I was scared of her that night. I felt like she had violated the code of conduct that said it was her job to take care of me when I was sick. But alcohol did something to my mom that totally threw that code right out the window.
    Being transgendered
    We already had our challenges, but things were complicated further by the fact that I was transgendered: I was born in a girl’s body, but I was really a boy. The nineties were a funny time for someone like me to grow up, because nobody knew much about being transgendered. Back then, child psychologists didn’t really understand gender-bending kids like me. What I really needed was someone to help me sort out my confusion, but instead I had this neglectful mother.
    I felt misunderstood. I was misunderstood. For a long time, I was scared of social situations, and my mom didn’t help. She seemed to believe that my boyish tendencies were something I would grow out of. It