I sometimes wonder where I fit in when it comes to my family.
All of us seem to share one thing in common; my alcoholic mother. Whose complete lack of concern or compassion regarding OUR lives, that revolve around her every whim, leave us rarely any time to focus on or take care of each other…but taking her out of the picture leaves questions about why my perspective on all the drama is so utterly different from what anyone else sees; and I’m struggling with it.
I am not blinded. I see things, and understand them for what they are. I have since I was old enough to know that my mommy was different then the other ones, and that slurred speech and breath I could light a cigarette with weren’t the norm for a 13-year-old girl with a 7-year-old sister, whose dad busted his ass working all day. He had tried to provide everything an all american family could ever dream of, and for some reason, my mother never reacted with that same light hearted spirit. For whatever reason, creating a home in the nest of a beautiful suburb street, with two bright and hopeful girls, and a doting husband, was just one piece of good news too many. Part of my heart aches for her, who, like me at times, didn’t and still doesn’t know how to handle excessive amounts of happiness. The future was too bright for her, and all of the expectations and pressure to be what maybe she considered “the perfect wife and family matriarch of four” was too much of a title for her to carry. I try to sit back in retrospect, analyzing the pieces of my childhood down to the fine tuned excuses my dad made, the discovery of cocktail vodka bottles hidden away in the sock drawer, and the pounding on my door during one of her drunken stupors. Yet no matter how many times I go back and rewind the incidents over and over in my head, like I’m going to find a justifiable answer to any of her behaviors, there is no logical or concrete answer, and it never dulls the sting of hurt or hopelessness I feel in spite of everything she’s done to me, and the destruction and chaos she has so graciously bestowed upon the people I love most.
Moving out of my parents house at 18; my naivety and stern belief that I would find relief from the madness elsewhere, only ended up bringing me more grief, just in a different form. What was once a wake up call from the flashing lights of the EMT’s through my window, there to wheel my mother out on another bout of alcohol induced seizures, had now taken the form of various phone calls from my dad and hysterical sister, letting me know that my mother has fallen and gashed her head open, or that she passed out on our tile floor foaming at the mouth and turning blue. These are some more of my troubled thoughts, memories I have a hard time looking back on without feeling the pit in my stomach churn another knot. The desperation in their voices every time this happens only fuels my rage, and my maternal instincts and tendency to bear all of their burden takes over. I want so badly to take their strife and anguish away, somewhere where it can’t hurt them anymore. I think sometimes I feel that if I try and listen to them hard enough, that maybe pulling those words away from their fragile state and onto my shoulders, it will somehow make up for the fact that I am empty-handed in making that environment any less toxic for them.
It’s so difficult for me to listen to my sister and dad calling me day in and day out, sounding off about how miserable they are. I know that feeling all too well. Not even 2 years ago I had hit my rock bottom and thought for sure that there was no light at the end of my own tunnel. I can only imagine their feelings of frustration when I would call on them, asking for advice they all knew I wouldn’t take anyway. It was the same broken record, venting, crying, promising to better myself, all in vain. It took me 6 years to find my way out of that black abyss (dramatic, but so true) and I guess I just get impatient with them waiting to crawl out themselves, which leaves me no room for criticism. The saying is true, that you always hand out better advice than you take.
I will always have what my dad refers to as chronic caregivers syndrome, because despite my brutally honest and forth right nature, I am wounded, just like the other members of my broken family; only I have the great privilege of not sharing any of the same downfalls as they do. Where as my dad and sister can ban together and hide any and all confrontations with a swift shuffle under the rug, I am graced with the lovely trait of bringing those back out into the open and tackling them head on. We do not agree on this tactic, and it gets me into more trouble than I feel it’s worth at times. I do not mind being loud. I do not mind having to take on the role as the red-headed step child. I also don’t mind yelling; wherein my defenses get stirred, and I become passionate and heated and want nothing more than to repair their jelly fished backbones and shout at them to take a stand, to fight for what they want, love, have compassion about, and don’t want to lose. Alas, these efforts are quickly halted with a laundry list of excuses and reasons why they just can’t manage. In turn, I hold on to their injured spirits, in the deepest part of my heart, in hopes that one day they will have been nurtured enough back to health that they will be able to conquer their demons in the front lines of their emotional warfare.
I am defensive when I don’t need to be. I take on too much burden. I want to control situations when it concerns those I care for most. I don’t always back down when I should, and I certainly do not always step up. I come on too strongly and do not always use the right words. I am and own all of these crosses to bear. And after 25 years, I do so proudly. I am unique, I am not like the others; and although they find me hard to love at times, I will persist, I will not give in and will never stop attempting to be an advocate when the stakes are high and their will power low.
I am not like my mother, nor any other member of my family. I will always be a part of them, their blood runs thick in my veins. Sooner or later I will have to come to terms with this and forgive. Today, and every day after, I will have to work hard to break the cycle of never-ending mistakes, choices, and missteps my mother, her mother, and my father have all made; and I will use them constructively to build my own bigger, better, and stronger foundation. I have to remember to take a step back when I am overwhelmed by heartache, and remember that the changing formation of my life will be an ongoing battle, but a worth while one.
I encourage those who may be struggling with addiction, love someone who is, or need a safe outlet to share their own grievances; seek help. Don’t shy away from being human. I have listed a few resources below that could help.
RESOURCES:
Addiction and Recovery resources
Charlie takes Phoenix 