Life as an adult COA
I stayed in my family home this weekend. It’s been a while since I came here. Thinking about it, the last time I stayed was five years ago. I came to spend time with my dad. He’s the only reason I’m here. My parents are still together. It’s difficult to separate my relationship with my mum, when my parents are still under one roof.
The feeling of stress and anxiety came flooding back the moment I stepped foot across the front door. I was back in a situation I never wanted to be in again. Sleeping in the room next to my mother, hearing the draws open and close, hearing the “clink” of the bottle lid open as she guzzles down the poison. I looked at the time: 9:20am.
I arrived late the night before, and she’s still yet to speak to me, or come out of her room. I long for her to greet me as mother should, after not seeing her daughter for months. The only communication we’ve had since Christmas has been nothing but toxic. The un-provoked message she sends, “Never talk to me again”, “You’re no daughter of mine”, “delete my number and never contact me”. Countless messages telling me how she never wants to see me again, or how awful I am as a daughter because I’ve moved away.
Why doesn’t she care enough to stay sober for one day?
An entire day passes with no sight of her. I start to worry. I go into the bedroom and try wake her up. You can see she’s passed out. The bedroom smells of stale alcohol. She’ doesn’t even know I’m here. I moved her weighted, limp body into a position to prevent her choking if she was sick.
I instantly feel guilty for leaving her alone in the house. My mind races with the thought of her harming herself. Should I stay? I’m terrified to leave the house in fear. I’m left standing over her feeling conflicted with what to do. Why does she do this? She knew I was visiting this weekend. Then within an instant my guilt turns to anger, “Why doesn’t she care enough to stay sober for one day?”.
I leave the house asking myself how am I here again, thirty-five and this is still happening. I spend the day seeing friends. In the back on my mind I’m thinking about her, checking my phone, the time, wondering how long I should leave her, asking myself over and over should I go back and check on her. My dad calls. He’s home from work. I feel myself relax slightly. I ask him if Mum’s okay. She’s still sleeping. I then wonder how much longer her body will take this abuse. How long does she have left?
The emotional torment is physically draining
Saturday arrives. She wakes up and I hear her leave her bedroom. She greets me like I’ve just arrived. The emotional torment is physically draining. How do I act? I go along with her pretending she’s “normal”. At this stage in my life, even If I only get five minutes of “normality”, I take it. I want my mother, but realising I lost her a long time ago, I try cling on to those moments in between, even though they are short lived.
Are you going out? I want to go to the shop she says. It would be nice for us to spend some time together. Though she is over the limit the drive, so she’s using me to go buy another bottle of whatever she’s choosing to drink today. I don’t want to argue with her, so I think carefully about what I say next. Not today, I’m going out to see friends. Even that was wrong. I then get accused of treating my family home like a hotel. “I’m going home today, I’ve been here two days”, I say.
“You’re selfish, never speak to me again.” She goes back upstairs and I leave knowing how long it will be until I see her or hear from her again. The drive home is always the worst part, although I’m looking forward to being in my own space, I always leave feeling sad. The small amount of hope I had had disappeared. I thought this town may be different. I’m confused, angry, disappointed and also mourning for my mother who is physically still here but has also been taken my her addiction. Her addiction takes over. She’s gone, and I doubt I’ll ever get her back.
Jen
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