Loving my mother, fearing her drinking

My mother was an alcoholic, but not in the way she’d wake up and drink from the get-go. She is what I know now as the ‘functioning’ alcoholic. She’d work, take us to school, pick us up, and then begin to drink about 2-3 bottles a night.

I knew from a very young age that, if I was in trouble, I needed to tell my brothers. I loved my dad, but he worked away all of the time to avoid my mother. My mother would fall asleep with the oven on, candles lit everywhere. We were hungry, unwashed, and scared.

Routinely, she would wet herself on the sofa, or walk into the street and urinate in our very public garden.

Vivid memories

Most nights she would turn aggressive and violent, and every night would be terror waiting for it. I have vivid memories of hiding underneath my bed, wrapped in a blanket, listening to her abuse my brother.

If I intervened, I’d get hurt too. I still battle with the guilt of not getting involved and protecting him enough.

If I was unwell or sick in the night, I’d have to lay in it or wash and change my sheets myself, and go to school as normal the next day. No teachers ever knew.

My mother’s mental health continued to deteriorate. In total, I think she tried to commit suicide about 5 times. Normally after beating us too hard and passing out. I don’t think she could cope with what happened without shame and guilt.

It eventually came to a time when my brothers left the house as soon as they could, leaving me alone with her due to the age gap. I was what you’d call an ‘out of control’ teenager. I drank probably to mirror my mother’s actions and deal with what would happen when I came home.

Feeling abandoned and lonely

The violence ramped up, hair pulling, smashing my face into mirrors, punching, hitting, and kicking. Sometimes in front of my friends. I would barely defend myself, I would be called every name possible, and my self-esteem was ruined.

I felt abandoned, lonely, and like nobody would ever love me for who I was. I didn’t know who I was or how to escape, other than staying at my friends’ homes most of the time.

Still a functioning alcoholic

Sadly, there is still no happy ending. My mother is still a functioning alcoholic. She still pushes me and my boundaries, and if I hadn’t left the home early, I think she’d probably still be violent.

When she is sober, she can be the most caring, kind, loving woman in the world. But she will always be in denial, and I’m not strong enough yet to challenge her on this. All I can focus on now is my continued escape.

Maintaining boundaries

It has made an impact on pretty much every element of my life. My own relationship with alcohol is tricky. I either avoid it like the plague or I drink too much, take things too far, and end up hating myself for weeks after.

I’ve had substance misuse issues to avoid my problems and, most of all, I’ve spent my life dealing with a ‘mother wound’.

I’ve watched my friends call their mothers when they’re heartbroken, lost, in need, and feel the ache in my chest that it isn’t an option for me.

I don’t want to cut contact with my mother, because I love her sober, and I can maintain boundaries with her, which means we only speak when she is sober. But it doesn’t fix the damage that’s done internally.

Penny

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