The shame and secrecy of having an alcoholic mother

She was an alcoholic. My mother was an alcoholic. So much shame and secrecy surrounded that word as I was growing up.

My acting skills were so on point that I almost had myself convinced everything was fine and that these were just normal family dynamics: a mother, her two children, a bottle of Vermouth and an elephant in the room.

Many mothers enjoy a drink, do they not? Mine just took preference in drinking in secret, bottles hidden from view in the tumble dryer and beside a bottle of mouthwash in the cupboard under the kitchen sink.

My teachers had no idea

I can recall a piece of homework set in my first year of secondary school that required us students to describe our parents, and the confusion that followed as I questioned how best to tackle the work at hand.

My biological father had seemingly vanished into thin air. Though aware of her passing just five months prior, my teachers had no idea of the circumstances surrounding my mother’s death. 

“Hi, class. My name’s Belle. I am eleven years old. My mum died from alcoholism just before I left primary school. Her drink of choice was Vermouth. The one in the green glass bottle. It is lovely to meet you all”.

Imagine the looks that I would have got if I had dropped this into conversation during one of many classroom icebreakers that I tried my best to avoid.

Instead, much to my brother’s dismay, I took the chance to share my secret, as if I was unburdening myself almost.

I cannot truly ascertain why it was that I needed this teacher to know. It may well have been the religious subject that she taught, believing that she would not judge my mother for the demons that she carried.

Or it may have been more because I was tired of protecting a mother who, in my young and very naïve mind, had done nothing to protect me. An internal battle ensued.

I lied for my mother

As a child, I lied for my mother. As an adult, I am inclined to be the protector that I yearned for in her later years, both for myself and for her.

Much like that one school project, I am often torn between the shame of oversharing and staying quiet about Mum’s addiction when asked to describe her to them. 

Overshadowed by addiction

My young age meant that, with our time together limited, I did not know her as a person. The final years of our relationship were overshadowed by her addiction.

I could not tell you her favourite film or song choice. But I could tell you the measurements of alcohol that she preferred and describe her exact movements as she navigated our local shop for her next bottle. Her body hunched and shaking as the disease permeated through her fragile being. 

In this moment I was embarrassed by her, and it is only now that I can admit that. She was not her addiction, her trauma, no. But both were major contributory factors to the person, the mother, that she became, and the trauma that I now carry because of it.

Belle

For more experiences, find Support and Advice.

Belle’s memoir Mother’s Ruin: A Mother’s Addiction and Her Daughter’s Survival Kindle Edition is available here.