A male officer’s voice woke me up to inform me that my mother had just been apprehended for drunk driving. I was 12. I never should have answered that call.
My mother was first detained when I was in the sixth grade. My companion and I were waiting for my mother to return home with dinner while hosting a sleepover. We waited for her for hours, but she never showed up. I immediately regretted allowing her to drive after observing her drive on the left side of the road instead of the right.
When I answered the phone and learned that it was the local jail informing me that she had been arrested, I knew it was my responsibility. If I hadn’t let her drive; if I hadn’t wanted takeout food; if I had been nicer to her, I would have prevented her arrest. She implored us for assistance, but my father was out of town at the time. She apologized and asked why we allowed her to drive while intoxicated. All of her actions were our fault.
I could not sleep that night, knowing I was responsible for her arrest. A goblet of wine while cooking dinner was the extent of her occasional alcohol consumption. After spending the night in prison, she was extremely depressed upon her return home. Refusing to identify as an alcoholic, she concealed the alcohol from us and drank just enough to feel buzzed. She did not desire to get drunk for amusement. She used alcohol to block out her negative emotions. My father was bewildered, unsure of how to communicate with her. Therefore, she drank. I developed severe social anxiety and was terrified to visit crowded locations or speak with other people. Therefore, she drank. We fabricated a false reality. We attempted to conceal it by hiding behind our home’s walls so that our neighbors and family would believe we were an ideal family.
Things did not improve. Mom proceeded to conceal alcohol throughout the home. My father converted the home office into a bedroom and moved into it. We did not discuss our problems because we were ashamed to acknowledge we needed assistance. We were a dysfunctional family, and we all knew that her drinking was to blame, but we couldn’t fault her.
My father researched the effects of alcoholism and informed my brother and me about them. We discovered support groups called AlAnon and Alateen for alcoholics’ families. I was 14 years old. I asked my father why we had to leave; my mother was an alcoholic. He bribed me to go, and I decided to give it a shot.
When I first entered Alateen, I observed the distant, fearful features of individuals who resembled myself. I could tell from their pupils that they had been through a great deal. By listening to their accounts, I heard about drug-addicted parents, abusive parents, children who witnessed rapes, and numerous divorces. Despite the difficulty of coping with my mother’s alcoholism, I was fortunate that my parents remained married. I was aware that if we did not support my mother, she would likely be living on her own in much worse conditions.
I was surprised by the amount of information I divulged at my first Alateen meeting. I had pent up a great deal and did not expect to release it all. Everyone was attentive. They responded, “I’m here for you,” and many members gave me their contact information, instructing me to call them if I ever needed anything. I liked that it didn’t matter that the girl sharing was popular and the captain of my school’s cheerleading squad. In Alateen, everything is kept anonymous, so no information disclosed in the room is repeated elsewhere. I felt secure and liberated to finally express my feelings about my mother.
After her second DUI, my mother consented to go to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Six months without a license was challenging for her, and she feared that a third DUI would result in a longer suspension. She returned home in tears following her first meeting. I was extremely perplexed. I was unable to comprehend why this malady made people so empathetic. I reasoned, “Alcoholism is not comparable to disease. She will not perish. She is not affected by a tumor.” She told me that her cerebral wiring made her addicted to alcoholic beverages. It ran through our family, as well as through my brother and I.
When she went to the local hospital for rehabilitation, my father, brother, and I attended the family meetings held there. Understanding the disease in depth helped us comprehend what she was going through. We felt more empathetic when we realized we had no control over the situation, contrary to what we initially believed.
I am proud to state that Alcoholics Anonymous, Alateen, and AlAnon have worked for my family six years after I answered the phone call that not only changed my life but also my mother’s. Without these associations, I would not be as accepting, loving, and caring towards my mother today. I would still be self-blaming and searching for methods to conceal my family’s secret.
I’ve learned how widespread alcoholism is. One in five adult Americans grew up with an alcoholic parent, according to statistics. My mother may never be cured of this disease, but she is on the road to recovery, and I am supportive of her. “One Day at a Time” is an Alateen aphorism that helps me get through rehab, group meetings, family outings, anxiety attacks, and anything else. I will continue to take life “One Day at a Time” and live in the present because you never know what the future holds.