So I'm 25 and I often have funny reactions when I order water every time I'm out. There are questions either in words or awkward glances when I'm out with my friends at dinner or at work parties and events or even when I'm just relaxing at my friends houses after a long week. My friends for the most part have stopped questioning, but when it comes to people who hardly know me, I'm certainly an abnormality. I am happy to have my glass of water and rarely have I actually answered the question. I usually don't need to, a side glance or "it's a long story" usually does the trick. But I guess eventually everyone needs to come out with their problems.
I don't drink because of my mother. And my father. I don't drink because of my past. I don't drink because drinking is in my blood. Addiction is rooted as deeply in me than my brown hair or my green eyes, my freckles and my awful mood swings. Since I was just a little girl addiction has played a part in my life, when I was younger it was more subdued. I was "kept out of it". I was just a kid and no one talked to us kids about it. But I remember it. My stories are not the kind you hear when you think of "adult children of alcoholics". I was never without shelter, food or guidance. One or both of my parents was always with us. But there was fighting and there was stress. There was "where could your father be?" and "Mom, why are you acting so weird".
My dad cleaned up his act when I was about ten and his interactions with alcohol since have been minimal, annoying as hell, but minimal. But my mom, she has a problem. She has been working on it for years. But she does have a problem. My mom self medicates, with alcohol and anxiety medication. Regularly. She is a very stressed person who carries her anxiety around like it is a a tumor, and alcohol is her chemo. With years of study of psychology and a few of my own couch sessions under my belt I can understand that this is a coping mechanism, that she does this to help herself feel normal, less stressed. But she is blind to the fact that it makes her anything but normal. It takes her quiet, beautiful demeanor and makes it a little too... bubbly, a little too... chatty, a little too... loud and a lot too not my mom. She seems to think I have a superhuman sense for telling when she's had a drink but it's not super at all. It's a curse. I can hear it on the phone, in the way her voice bounces up and down just slightly too much, and octave too high. I can see it in her eyes, a little more empty, a little less soulful. It hurts me so much when she drinks because no matter how many conversations I have with her about it she can't seem to walk away. And then the hate pours from me, bubbles like an angry volcano with just a bit too much pressure under the cap. It starts with a crack and before I know it I explode. My mom is my best friend but in those moments all I see is black. Because as much as I love her when those chemicals are in her veins I don't know her anymore. She becomes someone else and that someone brings someone else in me out. A hidden being that I've kept under wraps since my own age of self medication. The times after I left college when I snuck to the bathroom every night and threw up. And before that when I'd wait until it was dark at night before I pulled out my razor from whatever hiding place it was kept that day and drag it along my limbs. Never deep enough to mame, just enough to make the pain go away, to burn the pain away. I think that's probably the same way she feels when she has a glass of wine or a Xanax. Like in those moments theres some overwhelming belief. But those were the most pained, dangerous, times of my life. They were times when all I saw was black all the time.
When my Mom comes out of the black, when I come out of the black... we are back to normal. But in those moments, for those hours or nights, I've lost my best friend. My most precious being. My sanity. And I feel like every moment I spend in the black I miss a moment in the amazing lightness that is my mom. I wish I could explain this to her. To make her see it like I see it. To make her see why I hate the chemicals, not her, I hate her in those moments. Why all I see then is black. Why there's no empathy or caring or love in those places.
But those are the reasons I don't drink. Because every time I drink I think of the hatred I pour out on my mom when she does and I just can't be that hypocrite.
Tonight is one of those black nights but I just wish we could meet somewhere in the grey and be together in our pain.
I don't drink because of my mother. And my father. I don't drink because of my past. I don't drink because drinking is in my blood. Addiction is rooted as deeply in me than my brown hair or my green eyes, my freckles and my awful mood swings. Since I was just a little girl addiction has played a part in my life, when I was younger it was more subdued. I was "kept out of it". I was just a kid and no one talked to us kids about it. But I remember it. My stories are not the kind you hear when you think of "adult children of alcoholics". I was never without shelter, food or guidance. One or both of my parents was always with us. But there was fighting and there was stress. There was "where could your father be?" and "Mom, why are you acting so weird".
My dad cleaned up his act when I was about ten and his interactions with alcohol since have been minimal, annoying as hell, but minimal. But my mom, she has a problem. She has been working on it for years. But she does have a problem. My mom self medicates, with alcohol and anxiety medication. Regularly. She is a very stressed person who carries her anxiety around like it is a a tumor, and alcohol is her chemo. With years of study of psychology and a few of my own couch sessions under my belt I can understand that this is a coping mechanism, that she does this to help herself feel normal, less stressed. But she is blind to the fact that it makes her anything but normal. It takes her quiet, beautiful demeanor and makes it a little too... bubbly, a little too... chatty, a little too... loud and a lot too not my mom. She seems to think I have a superhuman sense for telling when she's had a drink but it's not super at all. It's a curse. I can hear it on the phone, in the way her voice bounces up and down just slightly too much, and octave too high. I can see it in her eyes, a little more empty, a little less soulful. It hurts me so much when she drinks because no matter how many conversations I have with her about it she can't seem to walk away. And then the hate pours from me, bubbles like an angry volcano with just a bit too much pressure under the cap. It starts with a crack and before I know it I explode. My mom is my best friend but in those moments all I see is black. Because as much as I love her when those chemicals are in her veins I don't know her anymore. She becomes someone else and that someone brings someone else in me out. A hidden being that I've kept under wraps since my own age of self medication. The times after I left college when I snuck to the bathroom every night and threw up. And before that when I'd wait until it was dark at night before I pulled out my razor from whatever hiding place it was kept that day and drag it along my limbs. Never deep enough to mame, just enough to make the pain go away, to burn the pain away. I think that's probably the same way she feels when she has a glass of wine or a Xanax. Like in those moments theres some overwhelming belief. But those were the most pained, dangerous, times of my life. They were times when all I saw was black all the time.
When my Mom comes out of the black, when I come out of the black... we are back to normal. But in those moments, for those hours or nights, I've lost my best friend. My most precious being. My sanity. And I feel like every moment I spend in the black I miss a moment in the amazing lightness that is my mom. I wish I could explain this to her. To make her see it like I see it. To make her see why I hate the chemicals, not her, I hate her in those moments. Why all I see then is black. Why there's no empathy or caring or love in those places.
But those are the reasons I don't drink. Because every time I drink I think of the hatred I pour out on my mom when she does and I just can't be that hypocrite.
Tonight is one of those black nights but I just wish we could meet somewhere in the grey and be together in our pain.
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