Caterpillars and Butterflies
Even writing this fills me with dread. The stigma, the family I no longer speak to—what will the backlash be? Half of my mind tells me to hold back, while the other half insists, “This is your story to tell.”
The sound of clinking bottles—one I can never forget—still sends shudders down my spine. I dread recycle day, especially when the recycling truck triggers that sound of breaking glass. Shopping in a supermarket when glass bottles collide. It still gets to me to this day.
The arguments within our triangle, the sick feeling of panic every day. What or who do I have to face today. Going to work in a job I hated as a break from the secret life we were leading, filled with anger, hate and love all mixed in one.
I thought the lead-up to my mam’s death was the worst. “It can’t get any worse than this,” I thought. How naive I was. That was just the beginning of a horrific few years.
My mam was an incredible woman. Well-respected in the community, widowed at a very young age with two small children, she showed so much strength. We had a loving relationship, even with the complexities of her struggles with alcohol.
We almost lost her a year before. The doctors said that if she drank again, it would kill her. She stayed sober for three months, and during that time, she was the best version of herself. But then it started again—self-sabotage, despair, and a constant refrain: “This is hell; the next life will be heaven.”
The Day That Shook My World
We knew something was wrong that day, so I went straight over after work. Knocking on the door, I received no answer. My key didn’t work because she always left hers in on the other side, so I couldn’t get in. I went around to the front.
Mam was sitting in her chair, looking peacefully asleep. I knocked on the window, trying not to startle her. No reaction. I banged on the window, harder and harder, until it rattled, but still no movement. My worst fears were realized.
Trying to call 999, I couldn’t remember the number. Panic flooded over me. Tears blurred my vision. “What service do you need?” the operator asked. I whispered, barely able to speak, “I don’t know… I think she’s dead.”
Two police cars, an ambulance, a locksmith, and an undertaker arrived and vanished within two hours of me leaving work. Mam was always a private person, but she didn’t go quietly. It was all surreal. Sharing the news in disbelief.
Uncovering the Past
After Mam’s death, we uncovered so much—things that had happened decades before. Anger consumed me. “Why did this happen? How did this happen? She could have just asked…” Oh wait, she did ask. I did help, but it was always a secret. “Don’t tell them,” she would say. I kept so many secrets. I wonder how many others did, too.
At the time of Mam’s death, I was seeing a counsellor. I explained to the man sitting across from me how I imagined her death would unfold. “It’s just your imagination,” he told me. But when I returned just days after Mam passed, he was speechless. “Your worst fears came true,” he said. He then suggested I take a break from counselling and come back in a few months once I had processed the events.
I couldn’t believe it. Was I being dismissed like this?
In the months that followed, my sadness deepened. I was prescribed medication to help me sleep because I was having nightmares. Horrible, vivid ones about both my mam and my dad who died when I was just six years old. I was too frightened to sleep.
Some dreams were less terrifying, but they felt too real, only to wake up with the crushing realization that it was all in my head. Those were the hardest—they left me feeling unbearably heavy for the rest of the day.
Struggling to Be Seen
I was on sick leave from work due to the sleeping tablets and overall exhaustion from keeping myself awake. I’ll never forget my manager saying, “Can you log on during lunch once you’ve woken up?” I wanted to scream. “I am mentally unwell. Are you serious?”
I went back to the GP, overwhelmed with anxiety. He prescribed Sertraline, but when I asked if it was for my anxiety, he said, “No, it’s for depression.” I was called attention-seeking for taking the medication. A tense week later, there was a massive argument with a family member, and they cut me off. I was a horrible person for trying to open up about my struggles. “You’re not allowed to be struggling,” they said. It was another grief I had to process.
Three months later, one of the darkest nights of my life, I found myself curled up on the sofa, crying uncontrollably. I just wanted my mam. I climbed into bed beside my husband and, in a whisper, said, “What’s the point? If I went away, no one would care. My family has left me.”
I’ll be forever grateful for my husband and that tight hold as I cried, my rock. He was there for me through everything. He supported both me and my mam in ways not many would have. He kept our little family safe, held together through all the chaos.
Finding Strength Through Friendship
I also had my best friend. She was there for me, no matter what I said or did. Even while going through her own struggles, she supported me, and I must have been a misery to be around. I often wondered, “Why does she want to be my friend?” I’d been told time and again that I wasn’t a nice person. “Am I nice? Do I have anything to offer her?” We were so different, yet so perfectly in tune. She continues to make me proud to call her my best friend.
Healing Through Therapy
After my sessions with the counsellor who dismissed me, I sought help through my employer and found Lynn, a private therapist who changed my life. Lynn listened as I cried ugly, heartbreaking tears week after week, but she also helped me surface emotions I didn’t even know I had—about my childhood, my mam’s addiction, and the feelings of neglect from the rest of the family. I felt anger, grief, relief and love, all at once.
Through our sessions, Lynn helped me realize that my mam had struggles that had never been resolved—and that I needed to learn from that in my own life. Lynn also identified two powerful words that hit me hard: “Controlling” and “Narcissistic.” But these weren’t about my mam; they were about someone else in my life. And finally, a lightbulb went off. “Wait, I’m not these things.”
It was a turning point. I could finally accept that some relationships in my life were toxic, and breaking free from them was the best thing that happened after Mam’s passing. It was time to recover.
The Pandemic: A Time of Healing
Then, the pandemic hit. I may be the only person who actually enjoyed lockdown. For me, it was a time of recovery. Life slowed down. There were no school runs after three hours of sleep. I was safe at home with my husband and kids, and our very mischievous puppy. Lucky enough to have a garden to sit in and just breathe.
During this time, I started a secondment supporting people with COVID-related issues. The people there saw me for who I really was and pushed me to recognize my own potential. When that work ended, I had to return to my old job, which was agonizing. But I now knew I was in charge of my life, and I had the power to change.
Three months later, after 15 years, I handed in my resignation. I had no passion for my job. I took the chance to study and earned qualifications I never thought I could achieve. My career shifted in ways I never imagined.
Taking Control: Discovering My Worth
During the pandemic, I discovered Nacoa’s website. With a clearer frame of mind, one message hit me like a slap in the face:
- I didn’t cause it.
- I can’t cure it.
- I can’t control it.
- I can take care of myself.
- I can communicate my feelings.
- I can make healthy choices.
It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t cause my mam’s alcoholism. No matter how some people made me feel about it, I knew, deep in my heart, that I did everything I could to help her.
With Nacoa’s support, I took charge of my thoughts and started to heal. Four years later, I joined the charity as a volunteer. Over time, I embraced my identity as the Child of an Alcoholic. In October, after an incredibly difficult journey, I was accepted as a trustee for Nacoa. Owning my worth, my skills, and the person I have become in the eight years since my mam’s tragic death through alcoholism has been one of my proudest moments.
My mission now is to help other children of alcoholics understand their worth during their toughest times.
From Caterpillar to Butterfly
Just when the caterpillar thought the world would end, it became a butterfly.
This quote has become my guiding mantra, and I thank all the lovely people in my life who have supported or reconnected with me since losing the most significant person in my life.
I hope my mam is watching, proud of the person I’ve become—turning her pain into something positive. I love you, Mam. Thank you for helping me become the person I am today.
Emma
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