It Leaves Shame Festering Inside the Heart.
One night, when my parents left for the evening, I went to the park to drink. With them gone, I had no fear of ramifications at home. I drank and drank and drank and drank.
There is a sense of lost time with every drunk episode for me – not because I was killing brain cells and blacking out, because that didn’t happen until way later. But with rare exception – say, when I kissed a boy I really liked – I remember every party as something like this:
I am walking into this party. I am scared. Where is the beer? A keg? Cool. Non-stop beer! I will drink one while I stand here by the keg, then I can fill up my cup again. Oh yuck, I hate beer. I won’t taste it if I drink it fast. Okay, second beer. I could probably mingle. (Takes one step away from keg) Just one more beer first. Okay, this is good. I am feeling better. I am less scared. I should talk to someone. I will wander over there and sit down. (Sits 30 feet away from everyone else) Good. I will just sit here and if someone talks to me, I can talk back. Plus I can see the keg from here so I’ll know if it’s running out.
My life wasn’t all “yay! drink! party! fun!” It was “need beer need beer need beer.”
This never changed.
So on that particular night, when the beer finally ran out or the cops broke up the party (whatever came first), I wandered back toward my house, 100% wasted but feeling safe from the wrath of my parents.
And then I saw their car in the driveway. My parents were already home.
I prepped my ridiculous story as I walked in, blurting something about a group of bikers chasing us all out of the park; I claimed I’d been running for my life.
My parents just stared at me.
Forty years later, I vividly remember the look on my mother’s face. It is a look that only a true addict can comprehend – a look that cuts deep without words. It leaves shame festering inside the heart for life. But it’s not a look of anger; it’s a look of terror and disappointment and agonizing concern.
My parents had gone to my mom’s high school reunion. They’d been having a great time and were headed to a friend’s house afterward. When they found me gone instead of caring for my little sisters as I probably said I would, they had to stay home. It’s a night that crushed my mom. I took that from her.
I took a lot from my parents. I took their confidence and their security and tossed them out a window. I drove stakes through their hearts with every stupid decision I made. I stole their comfort at night and replaced it with searing fear. I took their dreams and substituted the constant worry that I would be dead before morning. I took their sanity and their peace and their hope.
That night, for the first time, I saw what I was doing to them. I realized that my actions have consequences, that I could hurt other people with my behavior. It was the first time I knew, unequivocally, that my choices hurt my parents.
I decided not to care. It hurt me too much to care about them, and my pain was all that mattered.
That night didn’t stop me from drinking. The shame, in fact, spiraled into my downfall.