By Bethany “BST2” Armstrong

I was about 3 months old when I had my first modified White Russian. Trauma in infancy carries forward, as I’m currently engaging in three unhealthy coping mechanisms… only one illicit I assure you. Though my “bucket list” has an array of taboo substances to indulge in before I die and my suicide ideation has evolved from cutting and gutting the flesh between my radius and ulna to “happy fun-time pills OD”; I’m fairly tame in my liberties.

I don’t indulge to excess often and I always trust the folks that supply me. I am a proud graduate of the 5th grade Dare Abuse Resistance Education class after all. But alas, DARE had no chance against trauma.

I remember my mother chatting with my aunt, bitching about my dad and talking about why they believed I was “fat”. That was the first time I heard the story behind my tubby chubby cherub cheeks, though not the first-time mother discussed me and my body like they were a disgrace, defensive in case it could be pointed to her poor parenting.

At the time, I found the story humorous. I loved my daddy… still do, but this story is anything but funny.

Maternity leave for my mother was 6 weeks; then she returned to 2nd shift nursing. That left my Father Figure responsible for feeding me and putting me to bed. Mother was a “good mother” so she pumped breastmilk. This was the late 70s, so it was much more unusual than today. She was very smug about how good she was about giving me (and my siblings) a full year of breastmilk. Weirdo.

Months passed, my pediatrician grew more and more alarmed. I was beyond a rotund 7-month-old. I had tipped the scale to childhood obesity early, a prodigy among the plump. Mother came home in tears because the Doctor had all but accused her of abuse.

That’s when dad confessed. I hated bottles and I wouldn’t stop crying one night at around 3 months, so he started putting vodka in the breast milk. I took to it like a champ and even slept through the night! After a few nights of this, I refused the bottle again. So he added strawberry syrup… does that make it a Pink Russian? I’m never sure about these things…

I tossed em back like a sorority pledge with something to prove. This continued until I was eating solid foods. Upping the vodka content didn’t even satisfy me anymore. That’s when the vanilla ice cream was added to the menu.

Poor dad got himself in too deep to confess, and I continue to pay the price. Cheers!

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