Mothers & Daughters

Being a daughter is hard. And being the daughter of an alcoholic mother is even more difficult.

My mother and I had a typical mother/daughter relationship, I think. We argued, we laughed. I remember occasionally asking her to hold me in her arms and rock me to sleep in the recliner when I was probably much to old. We even had “salon” nights, where she and I would do each other’s hair in different hairdos.

I loved my mom very much. So when she started drinking heavily during my late middle school years, I had to learn to navigate new ground.

She was very sad. She was very anxious. The survivor of incest abuse, my mother had so much pain. Her son had abandoned her, refused to let her see her grandchildren. Her grandparents, who she adored, passed away. I think it just became too much for her and she did what she could to numb the pain.

I was always so torn during these years. I knew how much pain my mom was in, so my heart broke for her. But I was also so angry! She would get belligerent and scream and yell, give me irrational rules I needed to follow that she would forget about later anyway. Every time she slurred her words, fury would ice my veins. When my dad fell from the roof my senior year of high school, after we returned home from the hospital that night, she told me she was going to her cousin’s house because she “couldn’t handle” the stress she was under. I knew a large bottle of  merlot was waiting for her there as well.

I remember jumping in my car the second she left and speeding to my friend’s house. I knew my friend wasn’t even home, but I knew her mom was.

She was waiting for me at the door, concern all over her face. And my 17-year-old self just crumbled when she wrapped her arms around me. I began sobbing and crying that I didn’t want to have to deal with this stuff yet… that I was still just a kid and that I needed parents. She just held me and stroked my hair while I wept. We were still in the entryway when my friend and her boyfriend came home. My friend held me as I wept and her boyfriend rubbed my back. I needed a mom so badly that night, knowing how severe my father’s injuries were, and just left me. Just… left.

There was also one afternoon when she was sitting in her recliner, drinking her wine, and she was crying. She was upset about my brother and not being able to see her grandsons. I was angry with her, mad that she didn’t just sue for visitation rights. My dad was in the room as well. I don’t remember what I said to my mom next, but I know it wasn’t kind because she just started crying harder, infuriating me even more. I got up to walk away and my father caught me in the hallway. “Don’t you realize she’s suicidal? Don’t you get how sad she is?” he yelled at me. “You might as well just put the gun in her mouth yourself!” he said as he turned away from me.

I knew she was suicidal. So was I. I remember I was so mad… I was hurt by my father’s words but I also remember thinking she wouldn’t be so damn sad if my brother wasn’t being so cruel to her. In a rage I stormed out to my car and drove the 20-minute drive to my brother’s house. I was going to tell him how much I hated him and his wife – tell him how much pain he was causing our mother. Tears of fury escaped from my eyes as I started banging on the front door as hard as I could.

No answer.

I kept pounding the door. I was going to fix this, damn it! I was going to fight for my mom because she couldn’t fight for herself. I banged on the door until my hand hurt. I knew they weren’t home but I kept slamming my fist against the door.

Finally, I sat on the porch, utterly exhausted, and broke down weeping. This was too much. I was just a kid. Why did everything have to hurt so much?

Being the daughter of an alcoholic forces you to grow up faster than most kids. And you feel like if you just did this well in school, had good friends, and stayed out of trouble… then maybe it would help. But it doesn’t matter. Because you eventually learn you can’t help them change or “get better.” Not until they are ready and they want to.

My mom was ready March of 2008. She joined AA and worked the program like her life depended on it. I remember not trusting it – thinking this was only temporary. But it wasn’t. For the last 2.5 years of my mom’s life, she was sober. And I have never been more proud of my mom than I was when I saw her life change. She was my hero. I was her number one fan, too. I wrote her a poem for her 1-year sobriety birthday. It was titled “Warrior.” I remember my mom reading it and crying. And this is when I knew my mom and I were healing together, and it’s one of my fondest memories of her:

She turned and looked at me, with tears in her eyes, and just quietly said, “You get it, don’t you? You really understand what it’s all about.”

I’d like to think I get some of it, mom. But I learned the most from you.