The Tragic Irony of Becoming Addicted To The Thing You Despise The Most

I had myself convinced I’d be different than my mother.

My mom was an alcoholic. She has been sober for 24 years now and this is something I’ll forever be grateful for. I had a good childhood. I had a roof over my head, food on the table, and knew I was loved.

I knew I was loved, but I also lived in fear of Mom disappearing for the night, not knowing where she was, or finding her passed out on the couch when she didn’t pick my brother and me up from school.

She never abused us. She never hit us or yelled at us. I never complained because there were so many kids who had it so much worse. But, I lived in constant caretaker mode, wanting to pick up the pieces of my broken mother and help her to not numb out anymore.

I remember being as young as 7 years old and sensing that Mom wasn’t there anymore after a few Michelobs. I knew she was “gone” for the night, even if she was physically there. She retreated somewhere else in her brain becoming less of my mother and more of the sad little girl she was desperately trying to console and nurture.

Her slurred sentences loudly rang in my ears while she stumbled to find her footing night after night. Our roles reversed and I mothered her, telling her she’d be okay and help with my brother.

I vowed to never drink. I hated alcohol with a fiery rage in my belly that only a child of an addict would understand. I wanted to pour out all of the booze. I secretly prayed for her to have such terrible hangovers that she would finally quit. I prayed and prayed for her sobriety because as a child, this is all I could do.

I would secretly laugh when she was throwing up from her previous night’s binge and I’d become annoyingly persistent in telling her that she shouldn’t drink. But, nothing worked.

I was 13 when she was found by a police officer, just before attempting to end her life. I had already gone to bed for the night, accepting the fact that I had no idea where she was — terrified she would never come home. She woke me the next day with tearful eyes, telling me she was going back to rehab.

This time, she received the help she so desperately needed. She was properly diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and accepted that she was an alcoholic. To say I am proud of her hard work is an understatement.

I was on edge the entire year after she was out of rehab. I was anticipating the day she’d start drinking again, just like before. I lived with a constant fear of her picking up the bottle again. But she didn’t. And the longer she stayed sober, the more I felt my guard let down slowly.

When I was 15, my parents got divorced. My friends were all partying and I wasn’t being invited because they all knew where my stance was on alcohol. I was angry I wasn’t being included. I was angry at my parents. I was angry at the whole world. So, I said fuck it.

I was so acutely aware of addiction running in my family, that I knew I always had to keep an eye on my drinking. But, I was strong. And I knew I’d be different.

I had to be different.

My drinking started innocently enough. I wanted to let loose, forget about my abandonment issues and grab the attention of the boys I thought were cute. I no longer had to worry about my mom and my brother. I just wanted to forget about my non-existent self-esteem. And alcohol helped me with that.

Or so I thought.

For the next 18 years, I lived in denial. I had fleeting thoughts here and there that I wasn’t well, but it never stopped me. I was not like my mother. I was not an alcoholic. I had it under control because I was educated to know that I had to “keep myself in check.”

As long as I was acutely aware that I was drinking too much, I could tell myself to cut back, or take breaks. This means I did not have an issue! (I shake my head looking back at these thoughts now).

I followed directly in my mom’s footprints… right down to attempting to take my own life.

How is that for irony? The very thing I focused on not becoming, is exactly what I became. I sincerely had myself convinced that I was different. 🙄

I’m now 3 years sober and the person I’m becoming is who I always wanted to be. My mind is not focused so hard on trying to not be someone, but on becoming the person that I needed when I was young. To be the woman I imagined I would become when I was a child.

My mom is now also the woman she imagined — she has found peace in her sobriety. I too have found peace and passion again.

The only thing that was standing in the way of both of our successes was alcohol and ourselves.