Forgiving the Bottle
Overcoming My Mother's Alcoholism

Photo Illustration by Sage Nenyuel VOX Staff

By Alyssa*
VOX Staff

I lived in fear, afraid that someone would smell the bitter booze on her breath or notice her slurred words and stumbling step. As she flirted with random men and made a fool of herself, my eyes, head, and heart lowered in shame and embarrassment. For years I prayed that no one would notice my biggest burden, that my mother was an alcoholic.

Any teen who has had or still has a parent addicted to alcohol, cocaine, heroin, marijuana, or any other harmful substance knows the hardest thing in the world is to watch someone you love damage his or her life and not be able to help. The difficulty increases when you think you’re stuck in the situation alone, even though you’re not. Approximately one in four U.S. children is exposed to alcohol abuse and/or dependence in the family, according to the American Journal of Public Health. Living with an alcoholic parent can demolish a person’s social life and mental state, but you can overcome it! I did.

Brown-Bottled Booze
Hi. My name is Alyssa, and I’m the daughter of an alcoholic. My mother had been consuming poisonous, liver-deteriorating booze for as long as I could remember. One of my first memories is of my frail, drunken mom lying limply on the tiled floor with one arm grasping a bottle and the other trailing the toilet rim, uttering slurred words. As a little girl I didn’t understand why my mother would seem normal some days, and act loose and loony on others. But eventually I learned. The glaring sideways glances, the sharp-as-knives whispers and the generally disconcerting atmosphere taught me. I realized that she only acted this way when she drank from a brown bottle with a seven on its label.

I despised that brown bottle. I was the only kid on the street who didn’t have sleepovers. My friends in the neighborhood told me they couldn’t spend the night because of it. And I was always the last kid stuck at school, waiting for a friend’s parent to pick me up because my drunk mother had forgotten. I hated that bottle so much that whenever I would find it, I would pour out its stinky contents until my mother and I started playing hide-n-seek: She hid the bottles, I searched for them.

When I was only 6 years old, I had to take care of my younger brother and sister because of that mud bottle. My younger siblings didn’t know what to do without Mom there to tuck them in and help them say their prayers; so I began to fill her shoes. I would go through the house and do what she used to before retreating to her room every sober night. I turned off the television in the living room and all of the lights except for the bathroom light. I then climbed into my bed, said my own prayers and cried myself to sleep.

My father was in the Navy, so he was hardly home to help. When he did come home, my parents argued, my sister cried, and I ran away. I’d go to the park or my friend’s house. It wouldn’t take long for someone to find me, but it was enough time for my mind to clear, for my tears to cleanse my soul and for my wound to scab.

Developing Scars
When I was 7 years old, we moved to Chicago because my dad was transferred to a naval base in Illinois. My first friend there, Jessica, lived two houses down from me and always invited me over to play with her fancy toys. We played at the park, my house and her house. We were together everyday. I was finally happy.

But slowly, my mother’s old alcoholic habits started reappearing. She would lock herself up in her room or in the bathroom. She became reckless and unreliable. I told my dad what was happening, but I can’t recall him doing anything about it. I was puzzled but figured that maybe this was normal if my dad wasn’t worried. Then things turned serious.

One night, a loud thud woke me up from my sleep. When I got up to investigate, I found my mom sprawled out on the bathroom floor, shaking violently. Her unfocused eyes stared off into space as drool slid from the side of her mouth. My heartbeat quickened as my eyes hastily scanned the scene, and I screamed in fright. My dad woke up and rushed to see what had happened, and as soon as he saw his helpless wife, he called 9-1-1. An ambulance came, and she was carried away to the hospital. Later my dad explained to me that she’d had a seizure due to her high level of alcohol consumption.

The next day I went to Jessica’s house to see if she could play, and her mom said she couldn’t come out. I tried again the day after that and got the same reply. About a week later I finally saw Jessica walking home from school. She explained how her mother had forbidden her to play with me anymore because of my mom before she hurried home. Her words burned like salt thrown in my eyes. We never spoke again.

Can’t Take it Anymore
I was heartbroken. It was bad enough that I had to deal with hell at home, but now I no longer had my best friend to ease my sufferings. It became hard for me to trust anyone. I never talked to my friends about my mom’s alcoholism; I was afraid they would stop hanging out with me, too. Loneliness consumed me like a black hole.

My mom didn’t stop drinking when she got out of the hospital. A month or two later she had another seizure, and we were told she might die if she continued to drink.

I fell back into the rabbit hole of confusion. Why would my mom keep drinking if she knew she could die? Did she want to die? Was it my fault? Why was she doing this to us? Wasn’t there anything I could do? I wanted to help her, but telling her to stop drinking wasn’t enough. I grew even more bitter and depressed.

One day my mom showed up to my elementary school drunk, and they discovered her problem. They sent my siblings and me to counselors to “talk about our feelings.” I remember the anger that pumped through my body as this counselor patronized me. How could this old woman possibly know what I was feeling? Was her mother an alcoholic who caused her unbelievable sadness and shame? It felt like my mom was the little kid, hiding her addiction, and I was the parent.

I couldn’t take it any longer. I locked my emotions away and turned to writing as my outlet. My journal became my only solace.

Taking Control of My Life
One Saturday when I was about 11, my mother took my two siblings and me to the local recreational center. We were free to go swimming, play sports and do whatever we wanted to do. When she dropped us off, I felt liberated to enjoy my childhood.

My mother told us that she would be back to pick us up around 5 p.m. We played air hockey and shot basketball hoops. Soon it was 5:30 p.m., and my mother was nowhere to be found. We waited and waited for her. I tried calling, but the phone just rang and went to the answering machine. After about an hour, I went outside to see if she was waiting for us in the parking lot. The scene that met my eyes made me sick.

My mother was sitting on the dirty cement, drunk and flirting with some random guy in a pickup truck. I was a boiling teapot about to blow. My eyes began to get hot and watery, but I refused to let any more tears drop for this woman.

I angrily stormed back inside. When she stumbled into the lobby to collect us, I crossed my arms and didn’t budge. My mind was made. I had heard too many drug -awareness lectures at school to know that you’re not supposed to get in the car with a drunk driver, no matter who she is. When my mother realized that I wasn’t moving, she threatened me with punishment. “I’d rather be grounded than dead!” I yelled at her. Her face blushed tomato red as she continued to try and plead with me. People started staring at the scene, so she finally tried to grab me as I fought to wrestle free.

I screamed and screamed as my mom pulled me by the skin on my back and dragged me outside against all my might. I looked around and desperately yelled for help, but all anyone did was stare! No one had the courage to interfere and rescue me. Finally, a man helped free me from my mother’s grip. As I bawled like a baby at his feet, she ran off with my other siblings, hopped in the car and abandoned me.

Someone called the police, and my mother ended up with a DUI. Later, she got another one and eventually ended up in jail. As her situation worsened, my hatred for her grew. I couldn’t call her my mom anymore. I never wanted to talk to her. I never said, “I love you.”

By standing up to my mother in her drunken state and telling her that I was finished with letting her alcoholism control my life, I became a stronger person. I decided, from that moment on, I wouldn’t let her bring me down. My childhood was stolen from me. I had to tell myself I wanted a better life. Although I had no control over my mother’s drinking, I still had control of how I chose to live. I vowed to never do drugs nor let others influence me and to always stand up for myself.

My siblings and I didn’t talk about our mother’s alcoholism. I think we all felt that it was easier to ignore it and pretend like nothing was wrong.

I never told anyone else about our homelife because I was worried that they would judge me. This worked in the beginning, but it’s hard keeping all of your emotions to yourself. I still felt I couldn’t trust anyone — until six years ago when I received a life-changing phone call.

Sharing My Story to Help Others
All I heard were sobs. I could barely understand the words of my new best friend, Dianne. She cried to me about her parents divorcing and her father’s addiction to alcohol. She told me how awful she felt every day and how she just wanted to “go to sleep and never wake up.”

This shocked me. Here was someone facing a situation similar to mine. Dianne’s pain was devastating, but I couldn’t believe that she would want to kill herself. Although my life also sucked at the time, I realized the bad situation with my mother was beyond my control. I wanted to live longer to get to the good parts of life!

So in attempt to save Dianne’s life, I told her my story. It was the first time I had ever willingly shared my story and my emotions with anyone outside of my family. I cried, she cried. We let out every pain and fear and hurt with every teardrop. And it felt amazing! The explosion of emotion I had built up inside rejuvenated me upon release like a river bursting through a dam. My sufferings helped Dianne conquer her sufferings and live to see another day.

Helping to Heal
I’ve recently met other teenagers who have alcoholic parents. Touched by their stories, I felt a duty to try and help. My mom’s life finally changed after receiving two DUIs, attending rehab, getting arrested and going to jail for 30 days. I asked my mother what made the difference. She told me she just had to make a choice, because otherwise she knew she would end up dead or in prison for life. She changed because she chose to change.

The helplessness felt by children of substance abusers is one of the worst pains imaginable because our parents can only stop when they want to stop. We can’t do anything about it. We kids normally feel like it’s our fault they don’t want to stop, but it’s not. We can’t blame ourselves.

I’ve learned that in order to heal, we have to open up instead of putting up an emotional wall. That way we won’t feel so alone. Every time I meet someone in a similar situation, my old emotions return, my eyes water and my mouth opens to share my story. I’ve realized that just being there and listening can change lives.

Forgiving My Mother
It took a long time for me to believe that my mother was sincerely sober. It took even longer for me to show any type of compassion or respect toward her, but eventually I did. When you have years of bad experiences with the person who gave you life, you can’t just get over it. Like a physical wound, it only heals with time. I pushed her away when she tried to get close because I didn’t trust her. But I eventually realized that I was holding unnecessary anger inside of me and that neither I, nor my mother, could change the past and that the only way to make the future better, was to forgive her. We had to talk it out and communicate how we felt.

My mom now tries to be more involved in my siblings’ lives and mine, academically and socially. She works a lot to be able to buy us the things we want and need. More importantly, I can tell that she truly cares and is sincerely sorry.

My mother has been sober for about five years now, and our relationship is more peaceful and open. We try to live life in the present and not dwell on the past. My mother and I are both better people because of what we’ve learned from the experience. Her alcoholism made me the strong, independent and determined person that I am today.

Alyssa is a metro-Atlanta high school senior.
*Last name withheld.

Al-Anon/Alateen serves families coping with alcoholism. For help call 404-687-0466.