I am the proud daughter of an addict. Now, one must be thinking, "How on Earth can you be proud of something like that?" I'll tell you: If my mom wasn't the person she is, then I wouldn't be the person I am and that would be a shame.

I was like most kids--I went to school, came home, ate a snack, and spent a lot of my time watching Spongebob; however, I also spent a lot of time trailing after my mom, turning off lights she left on at 1 am, making sure she didn't run into glass doors and checking to see if she actually put clothes on before going out in public. To some people that might seem almost comical, but it was the sad (and sometimes scary) reality an eight-year-old me had to live with.

My dad spent most of his time working to provide for our family. He spent a majority of his marriage trying to help his wife who didn't want to be helped. My dad did the best he could to hold our family together because he thought it was the right thing to do for me. Too many times was my mom in rehab, unable to communicate with the exception of sending the same recycled cards they provided in the rehabilitation center.

Too many times did an eager, young girl yearning for a mother figure spent nights huddled under the blankets with a flashlight, reading the same promises over and over again: "I promise you I will get better. I promise you this is the last time." Too many times was I let down, crying in my closet where no one could see because my mom would be in the hospital again due to another overdose, another suicide attempt. When I was nine years old, my parents filed for divorce. When I was ten years old, my mother moved away.

I spent a large majority of my adolescent life questioning why the person who gave me life didn't love me enough to give up something that was killing her. I spent a lot of my time angry at the world, jealous of my peers who gave their moms the title of "best friend." My birthday, which almost always falls on the weekend of Mother's Day, produced nothing but anxiety and tears.

My teenage years were full of silent rebellion, looking for something to fill the hole that had been left by my mother's absence. I turned to boys, friends, food--anything but myself. When I was fifteen, I started self-harming. I had spent so much time holding on to my heartache, I had no idea how to express all that pain, longing and feeling of worthlessness. The physical pain seemed more manageable than the emotional pain. It took years of Jesus, introspection, therapy, and love from family, for me to finally be proud of my background.

My mom's lack of responsibility instilled a strong sense of responsibility in myself. I have known hardship and that has given me the motivation and experience to help others who have experienced similar events in their lives. I have known loss at a young age and that has prepared me for drastic changes that have occurred in the previous years. My mom's addiction has taught me compassion, love and most importantly, it has taught me the act of forgiveness.

My mom is no longer a part of my life and hasn't been for quite some time. She has missed my sweet sixteen, my first kiss, first boyfriend, my high school graduation, my transition into college. She will miss my first internship, my college graduation, my first "grown-up" job, my engagement, my wedding, etc. Every mile stone I experience is one I will walk without her. It is in those times, that I remember forgiveness. Addiction is a disease and I hope and pray for the day that my mom is no longer a victim of its vicious cycle; until then, I will constantly forgive and most importantly, I will constantly love.