The Ugly Truth

"Blame the alcohol, not the person". I have heard this phrase from many people over the years in reference to my mother's disease of alcoholism. In my earlier post I had written about the fact that I feel as though I was robbed of some the special mother/daughter bond that many women have with thier mothers. To credit psychology, there is a reason that the joke is that when going into therapy the first thing that a psychiatrist will ask you is "Tell me about your mother". A mother can affect a child more than any other adult in their life. For instance, Adolf Hitler's mother was extremely controlling and over protective of him, leading him to become very self concious and schizophrenic. When she passed away from cancer, the doctor who could not save her was Jewish. Ironic? No, merely a transfer of aggression from the loss of his mother onto an entire race being blamed for an act of God.
Children aim to please thier parents, and specifically thier mother. This is true of all children, not just the ones who grow up in an alcoholic family. When a child can not appease thier mother by any means, they turn against themself with blame and ridicule. The damage can be done at a very young age and the scars will remain until death.
I can not blame the alcohol for my mother's alcoholism. No matter how many people tell me that she loved me, and that she had good intentions for the 25 years that she drank and was emotionally absent from my life. I simply can not blame a substance for her negligence. I realize that blaming her and repeating my aggressions toward her and the awful memories I have surrounding some of my childhood, could make me bitter. My theory is that I can not be bitter, with God on my side.
There is no one on this earth that can tell me that the alcohol that my mother ingested day after day after day, was done against her will. The bourbon didn't just jump into her class of cola every day at 5:30. It had to be bought. I was sent into the ABC store on many occasions as a child from around the age of 8-13 to buy her Canadian Mist. The clerks in the ABC store knew me, and mother would sit in the car, a drink already made and read the newspaper as I ran into the ABC store to pick up her bottle. This would probably not happen today, but we lived in a small town where just about everyone knew each other and that was many years ago.
Whether mom's friends and relatives want to believe it, she CHOSE to drink. The bourbon didn't choose her, she chose it. She chose it over me, over my dad and over her family. It ruled her life, and she let it. Saying that alcohol controls an alcoholic is like saying a car controls the driver. The driver has to purchase the car, get a drivers license, put the key in the ignition and press the gas pedal. A car can't drive itself, unless of course it is Kit from Night Rider. The same is true for alcohol. It has to be bought, and opened, poured into a glass or drunk from a bottle or can. The alcohol does not just magically appear in someone's blood stream. There is a premeditated process that a person has to go through to drink the alcohol.
My mother knew that it was killing her and she chose to drink it anyway. Although I do not think that she ever understood the brevity of our situation, or the neglect that she showed to me and my dad. Even after God had seen to saving her life, she would not talk about her alcoholism, but instead would say, "Let's not bring up the past" or "Well you eat like I drank and that is why you're fat". Thus ending any sort of conversation that I could have had in order to gain closure.
So, if I hear one more person telling me that she was just sick, or that it was the alcohol that caused such hell in our lives I will quite possibly kick punch them, or the air around me. You can't protect me now, those reassurances do not help. I know too much to understand the cold hard truth and that is the fact that I came second to a bottle of Canadian Mist for 25 years.
Imagine how it felt to need to talk to your mother when you were away from home in college or anywhere, and knowing that if you called after 7:30 she would be incoherant. Imagine watching helplessly as your mother passed out in the recliner with a cigarette dangling from her hand,dropping dangerous ashes onto the carpet. Or waking up in the middle of the night to find that your mother had fallen down the step in the den and broken her ankle bone in half. I was alone with her on that particular night. My parents were divorced by then and she wouldn't let me call my dad. I had to call my cousin and then we had to drag mom out to the car to take her to the ER. Then I had to sit there while the doctor, who happened to be the father of a cheerleader that I knew from another school, asked my mom if she had been drinking before she fell. Mom's reply was, "Maybe a little." and he said, "Maybe a ton. If you drink that much every day you will kill yourself." I was so embarassed that I could have crawled under the bed.
No child should ever have to go through any sort of mental or physical abuse. There are millions of children everyday who face the demon of an alcoholic parent every night. Some are beaten, some are killed, some are so neglected that they just leave or are sent into foster homes. All of this happens right under our noses every day and all we can say is, "It's the alcohol, not the person." Whatever. We were given free will by God, and we choose to use it every second of every day.
I was lucky because I had a good father who provided for us and supported me through my mom's "illness". I was able to put up a front in school, and the only people who knew my mom drank were my close friends. If they thought anything of it, they loved me enough never to say a word. My house was like a constant party, not a home. Can you blame that on the alcohol as well? No, you can't, but you can blame it on selfishness, and irresponsibility on the part of my parents.
My children have never seen me drink a drop of alcohol, and if I have it my way they never will. I will never allow myself to be inebriated in front of them, ever. Our house will be a home. A safe haven for them to come home to every day. A place of comfort and happiness that they will build lasting memories in. Even if it takes me putting on my happy face for them everyday. Even if my heart is broken and I am hurting so bad on the inside I want to scream, I will never let them see. For these boys are a gift from God to me. They are not truly mine, but His and He chose to lend them to me in order to raise them and teach them about Him. That is my mission, that is my goal. When I see God's face in Heaven I want him to tell me, "Good job". I want to make Him proud, because I love Him with all of my heart and I am so thankful to Him everyday for saving me from a future that could have been terrible and giving me a life full of love and joy.
Don't ever tell a child of an alcoholic that it was not the parent's fault. Just own up to the fact that it was, and leave it be. Because they already know the truth.