You’re An Alcoholic.
I don’t remember where I was beforehand, the night that I came home and puked out my guts for hours. I only remember my mom holding my hair back out of my face, like she did when I was little.
But I was a teenager. We were alone in the bathroom: me with my head in the toilet, her overcome with exhaustion and worry, loving me anyway.
I remember wondering why she was being so nice to me; I was sure she couldn’t stand me. But she was actually sweet, talking to me between heaves. She wanted to understand what was going on with me. Now as a parent, I finally understand this. But then? I was completely confused.
“Why do you drink?” She really wanted to know. “Why do you do this to yourself?”
I didn’t understand “do this to yourself.” I hadn’t done anything to myself. The alcohol had done this to me. It wasn’t my fault! I was in heavy denial even then. Nothing was ever my fault.
But why did I drink? I had no doubt about that. Drinking was the only thing that gave me peace from the mess that was inside my head. It was the only way I could fit into a crowd of people. It took away the angst that occurred after every single word I spoke. Drinking was the one thing that allowed me – I thought – to be the person I’d always wanted to be.
But none of that had gelled in my brain yet. I was a kid and my entire goal in life was to feel good.
So I told my mom: “Because it’s fun!” Then I wretched again.
“You’re an alcoholic,” my mom replied. “I know you’re an alcoholic.”
She doesn’t remember saying this, but I remember.
I knew the word, but I didn’t really know what that meant. My mom wasn’t an alcoholic; my dad wasn’t an alcoholic. In fact, I didn’t know any alcoholics – not in my entire extended family or any of my friends’ families.
But my mom did. Her dad died of alcoholism. And even though she grew up with a mostly absent father, she recognized an alcoholic when she saw one.
She told me I was an alcoholic when I was 17 years old, vomiting in the safety of her arms, believing I was still okay. I didn’t understand and I didn’t believe.
I drank regularly until I was 25. By then I’d been threatened, terrified, attacked, assaulted, raped, nearly arrested multiple times and thrown out of more than one home. I’d sacrificed all of my dignity, morality and sanity in order to stay drunk. And that’s just the surface of the horror that was my life.
But I still didn’t understand alcoholism. As I drank, I believed that alcoholics were simply able to drink more than other people, and I definitely could do that. I sang loudly with my friends to the tune of Juke Box Hero: “… and be an AL-CO-HOLIC!” as loudly and proudly as I knew how to sing. I still didn’t get it.
But my mom knew. “Why do you drink?” she said.
“Because it’s fun!” I said, and wretched again.