Rotted Grape Juice Is More Important Than MeMy mother is an alcoholic. I am supposed to have three other siblings, but they all died of alcohol poisoning while my mother was pregnant. When I was eight, my mom started to go downhill ever so slightly. She would bring my younger sister and brother and I to the liquor store to buy her favorite and cheapest wine, Yellow Tail Chardonnay. Every Thursday was the wine tasting. She would bring us and stay for hours until her and her drinking buddy were tipsy. She would buy two Yellow Tails, and fulfill her need for alcohol throughout the night. When my dad was away on business, I would change my brother's diapers and hold him until he fell asleep. My sister would be scared that my mother would come in her room in the middle of the night and try to hit her like she did once. In the morning, I would walk in my parent's bedroom and clean up the wine spills so my father wouldn't notice when he came home. I made cereal for my sister and I, and fed my brother in his high chair. My mother would get up, and come downstairs with her gray looking skin and messy hair after breakfast and disregard my sister and I. As soon as she saw my brother, her hungover face lit up. The smell of alcohol sent a wave of nausea over me, and that's when I would leave the room. I felt protective over my baby brother; helpless to my mother's actions. She had forced my head in the toilet, ripped out chunks of my hair, punched me, threw wine bottles at me when she wanted to hit me but was too lazy to get up... I was terrified this would happen to my brother. This was what happened until I was twelve, every single day.
When I was ten, I was sexually molested, and my mother's drinking partner saw, but did not do anything about it. I started to cut at ten. My mother told me when she was drunk that I should go kill myself. At the time I was sick with epilepsy, and was thinking about it. I was ten years old. When I was eleven, she went to rehab for the first time. My aunt said for that whole one week she was sober that she was a changed woman. I knew it was all an act, and was right. Seven days after coming home from rehab, she relapsed. This was a pattern for a year, and throughout it my mom's side of the family actually thought she would get better. I begged to differ. On her 36th birthday, she relapsed again. My father left work and took us up to my grandparents second home to hide. My grandparents came with us, and I spent the whole time rubbing it into everyone's face that she would never get better, no matter how much they thought she would. A week later, it was my thirteenth birthday. She left on my birthday, and gave me 400 dollars for it. This was her sixth visit to rehab. My dad had the money, but was sick of paying for it. My grandfather split it with him, but it was still a lot after six detox, and six rehabs each a month long.
My mom called and only talked to my brother every night. I heard stories how she saw eminem and someone in slipknot and how the place she went to , Hazelden would cure her. Her side of the family supported her through everything, and didn't seem to care about my brother, sister or me. I decided then that I hated her. I was mad at her family for being mad at me for being mad at my mom. She came home in september, and lived with my aunt until march. My mother was not allowed to be with her own children alone, or drive with any minors because my dad called the cops on her for domestic violence. He had no idea of the violence my mother had done to me, and probably never will. I was glad he stood up for himself when I never had the courage to. I am sixteen now, and I know she will relapse again. I have never said it out loud, but I know for a fact she will. People who pity her say that alcoholism is purely a disease where choice is not involved. People who pity her children and ex husband recognize that somewhere in turning the key to driving to the liquor store, to opening that bottle, there are choices made, no matter how small. No one knows, but she made a choice to beat me, even though she was drunk. I have been around drunk people who have no intentions of beating me. The story is not over, and I have no idea when all the hatred and drinking will end. To everyone with an addict parent, you are not alone in any of your guilt, anger, hatred, depression, anxiety, ptsd, shamefulness, worry, etc. It is 100% the addict parent's fault, no matter how hard people who pity your parent try to brainwash you saying your stressors added to the addiction. NOTHING in a situation like this is the child's fault, EVER.