“I know you’re drunk”, I say and I stare.
I stare so hard at this woman who is going to tell me anything but the truth as she slowly step by step makes her way to the kitchen chair. She places her hands firmly on the table and with her eyes half open looks at the chair behind her to make sure it is there.
She slowly lowers herself and my mind races back to her making the same motions to lower herself into the psych ward hospital bed.
From the chair she tilts her head up to look at me because her eyes still won’t open completely.
“Maija, I am not drunk”. She says with the voice. The voice that tries to remind me that she is the mother and I am merely a child.
But instead of a child telling white lies to her mother, my mother is telling me in slurred speech and stumbling movements a lie I’ve heard so many times I am deafened with anger by it.
I am tempted to run upstairs and retrieve the evidence from her closet. The empty cheap white wine bottles I know are hidden among the expensive clothes and mink hats.
But I look at her… really look at her and know that I am not going through this again. That I am not just a mere child but a mother of children who I swear right there in this moment that they will never see this or go through this with her or with me.
She puts her head in her hands and gives into the weight of her eyes and the thin strap of her lingerie slips from her shoulder revealing the nothing she has on underneath. No child should see their mother like this, no matter how old they are and I know even more than the moment before that I am not going through this again.
“Mom” I say quietly but with every might of strength I can give, “please let me help you.”
“Maija” she says in that voice again, “you are overreacting. I am fine.”
I want to scream and yell and hate because of the lies. But instead I lower myself into the chair beside her, put my hand on her bare knee and lean in to look at her. I don’t let my mind wander to what I actually see and instead whisper to her.
“Mom, right now I am your friend. I’m not sure I can be your friend tomorrow.”
She opens her eyes as much as she can and looks at me. She was ready for anger and lectures and waits for them to come. But they don’t.
“I will take you to the hospital right now. Please come with me.” I mutter, every word accompanied by a secret prayer that she will just come with me. For once, trusting. For once, thinking clearly. For once, just this once, not being sick.
When she opens her mouth to speak I silently beg for the words I want to come out and instead she stumbles to a stand and says “I am not drunk.”
Without looking back, she heads to the stairs, takes a firm grasp of the railing and makes her way to her room. When I hear the door lock behind her I know that this time is going to be different.
This time I am going to save myself first.
This time I will heal myself first.
This time I know her words are lies.
This time I know she is so much more than drunk.
This week’s Write on Edge memoir prompt is to write about pivotal conversations. The goal is to focus on body language, word choices, and the pauses between the words to create meaningful, powerful dialogue.
I can only imagine how difficult this is to live thru and to write about too.
Really great post. It captures those moments of pain and love that only family can inflict. Especially in situations like this, which I know my mom and her sisters went through with my aunt. It takes a great deal of strength to walk away when that’s the best thing to do.
Oh, this is hearbreaking. I’m so sorry you had to go through this. But, you’ve written about a truly awful topic beautifully. It totally wrapped me in and I felt like I was sitting right there with you.
This is so sad. Beautifully written…but so sad.
This is beautifully written and paced; I like the balance between the external and internal dialogue. At the same time, I’m so sorry it’s memoir, because it’s something that no child should have to see from her mother. Thank you for sharing this.
I’m speechless. This is stunning- in the writing and the meaning and the the strength and the emotion- all of it, stunning.
(I am so sorry.)
Thank you thank you….my eyes filled as I read, you had me deep in the moment. The moment which I’m so glad I won’t have to face with my daughters…as long as I live one day at a time. Thank God I was able to ask for help.
Blessings xoxoxo
I am so very sorry.
I know what it’s like to have an addict in the family.
Your words are painful and beautiful all at the same time…
This is exquisitely written, an amazing piece Maija. I don’t know what to say other than I wish with everything I have that this was a work of fiction.
I have been there, only our conversation was not so civil and it did in fact end with my father getting help. He has now been sober for over 10 years but he was an awful drunk for all of my childhood. I am sorry that you had to go through this but am glad that you had the strength to stand up to her. I know how hard it is , even as a grown child… You are still the child in the dynamic. This is so poignant, I just wrote my post a week or so ago. There are many of us…, survivors xo
So beautifully written. And so reminiscent of conversations with my Dad. There was a time, when I was eleven when I asked him to attend an AA meeting, he promised he would show to pick me up (I was living with his soon-to-be ex-wife until the school year ended) and he never did. I imagined he spent his evening at the bar instead as he still will do to this day in an effort to escape. It’s a terrible disease. Heartbreaking.
My heart hurts for you – this was an incredibly strong piece of writing. I’m not even sure I took a breath until I was finished reading. This – was the most powerful – “Mom, right now I am your friend. I’m not sure I can be your friend tomorrow.” Great job and big hugs to you and your family.
Amazing job with that prompt – “deafened by anger” is such an effective phrase.
Good for you for having that conversation, and especially for putting yourself first.
You are very insightful and full of experience and wisdom. I appreciate all that you share.
Rachael
http://www.theorganizedrealtor.wordpress.com
http://www.tworealtors.wordpress.com
http://www.facebook.com/tworealtors
Save yourself.
You wrote this beautifully.
Oh god M, this is your writing at its very best – despite the difficult content. Beautiful, heart-wrenching, totally gripping. My admiration for you continues.
M2M
ps this reminds me of someone i love dearly and i am not in a place to talk about it yet.
Your writing is so beautiful, even though the subject is so heartnreaking. But good job on standing your ground and putting yourself first-it’s so hard, but so necessary sometimes.
Wow. Sobering. Thank you for sharing it.
This is amazingly brave and amazingly important. I can see myself in your shoes- as sad as it is- and wish I had been as smart as you to save myself.
Powerful and familiar. Thank you for sharing your story. It’s part of the journey and the healing.
I am so sorry.
This was beautifully written!
So incredibly powerful. And moving. My mother had this conversation with her father, and I’m still stunned by her strength.
And yours.
The detail of the mother trying to sink into that chair, trying to hide her condition. Heartbreaking, and so incredibly vivid and true.
I’m floored by this piece.
What an honest conversation to share with us. And you of course made the only choice you can. You really captured everything about the conversation. Vivid is a great word to describe it.
Hugs to you.
Oh my…wow. You expressed this so honestly and powerfully. Thank you for sharing this…I can’t even begin to imagine the struggle.
your writing always floors me Maija.
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