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I didn't do this to him. I know that to some extent. I didn't give him his first joint, his first tab of acid, his first cap of ecstasy or his first line of cocaine. I didn't let him drink under-age (though I also didn't do much to stop him stealing any alcohol in the house). I wouldn't even know most drugs if I saw them sitting on the counter.
And yet. I can't stop hating myself. Feeling I failed him. Remembering the times I hit him in anger, or battered him with words. Thinking of all the times I could have done more to try and stop this descent. Thinking of all the things I didn't know but probably should have. All the things I couldn't protect him from. All the dark corners I didn't look into.
It's easier, to hate my body. To prove with every bite of chocolate and every scoop of ice cream, that I am weak. It's easier to choke down more food than even feels good than to sit with all of my bubbling emotions.
But it's not helping either of us.