I hated riding in the car when my drunk step-father was driving. In the winter it was the worst. He would become manically giddy sliding and doing doughnuts on the slippery roads, laughing crazily and having the time of his life. My little sister and I would be in the backseat clutching our seatbelts, hanging on for dear life. As my sister sat frozen, crying, I would be praying silently for God to get us home safe. I was terrified that he would kill us all. Sometimes he would land in the ditch and be able to back out. Other times we would get a tow from helpful passerby. One time we slid into the ditch and rocked to a sudden halt thanks to a chain link fence. These terror ridden rides filled me with a poison for trusting others. How could one person be having an insane thrill by driving wildly through the streets, when two little girls and his wife were buckled in with a thin strap for safety sake, and the weight of helplessness with no sight of escaping his torture? I love to watch the snow and even consider it pretty. I am filled with trepidation and anxiety when I have to drive in it. Thank God those times have slid away, but I will write about them and remember them. I will share them so that other kids might understand, endure, and grasp at hope that they may one day also be free from the terrors of an alcoholic parent.