Session 1
I’m standing, facing a wall with my back toward Jen. Jen’s my therapist. It’s my first time here. I’m nervous because she’s watching me and
waiting. I’m staring at four long
shelves that stretch the length of the room. Two shelves are filled with little
toy people: action figures, Playskool people, Disney characters, etc. The other
shelves have props like trees, rocks, fences, and animals. There are hundreds of items on the wall and
more in the containers on the floor. I’m
supposed to pick out some things that represent how I feel. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t want to know how I feel. The room feels like it is a hundred degrees. I want to run out the door or hide under the
table.
I slip one of my shaky hands into my pocket. I look at the shelves. There are so many toys. I have to do something, but I can’t
move. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I turn to look at Jen. I cringe a little waiting for her impatience
to flair, but she is calm. Her hand is
resting under her chin. Her eyes are big
and brown. She looks at me and
smiles. I swallow and exhale. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath. It seems she could wait all day for me to
make a decision. Maybe I can do
this.
I step toward the wall hoping it forces something to jump out at
me. My eyes move along the shelf past
each of the characters until I spot a little Pocahontas figure. I pick her up. I feel a little better having made a
decision. I look over the other
figures. I pick out two boy figures and
a girl for my kids. I skim the shelves
and grab a miniature champagne bottle, some trees, a fence, and a miniature
gun. I walk back to the table and place
the items into the sandbox which sits on the table between us. After placing everything in the sandbox I
slide onto a hard plastic chair. Jen
looks in the sandbox and starts asking me questions.
“Who is Pocahontas?”
“That’s me.”
“Why did you choose Pocahontas?”
“Because she belongs outside, in the woods… not locked up.”
“Do you feel locked up?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m married, and I have kids.”
I stare at my shoes which are tapping on the floor beneath
me.
“So, you have responsibilities.”
“I don’t want any
more responsibilities.”
I stare at the tray because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to be here, but I don’t have
anywhere else to go. I want a different
life, but I’m scared to death of what it will take to get one.
“Why don’t you tell me more about Pocahontas?”
I run my hands down my jeans.
I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.
I feel like a wild animal trapped in a corner. I’m trying to resist the urge to fight my way
out. Jen is not the enemy. I look above her at the wall and force myself
to say something.
“When I was growing up we lived by the woods. I went there a lot to get away.”
“What were you getting away from?”
There is a long pause.
“My house.”
Dozens of pictures and emotions flash through my head. They are scattered and disjointed, and I
can’t seem to filter through any of it.
I desperately want Jen to see what’s in my head, but I don’t know how to
let her inside. I have to think of
something else. There is a long
pause. I keep thinking Jen is going to
fill the space, but she doesn’t seem troubled by the silence. I’m dying to tell her that I want to be held.
I’d give up eating for a week if I could
curl up in a ball and rest my head on her lap.
I want to be five again so it’s okay to cry.
“I was the oldest of seven kids.
Our house was pretty chaotic.”
I’m staring at the sand in the tray. She remains silent. I take a deep breath.
“My dad worked a lot. If he
came home late it meant he had gone to the bar.”
I want to tell her how scary it was when he came home drunk, but
my mind goes blank. I try to shake some
mental cobwebs loose.
“My mom was gone a lot, too.
She didn’t have a job, but she volunteered at church.”
I take my eyes off the sand tray and look at Jen. She has been looking at me the whole
time. I’m not used to someone focusing
on me for that long. She moves on to the
next thing in the tray.
“What is the bottle?”
“It’s a wine bottle.”
“Is that what you drank?”
“That was my first choice, but anything would do.”
“When did you start drinking?”
“My dad gave me my first beer when I was ten.”
"Ten?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t start drinking regularly until I was
fourteen.”
Jen looks at the tray again
and points to the little people.
“Are these your children?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about them.”
My chest tightens. I close
my eyes. My feet start tapping. I push away the pain and focus on the facts.
“Andy is nine. He’s in third
grade. Jenna is seven. She’s in second grade, and Johnny is
five. He’s in kindergarten. I was homeschooling them until I went to
treatment, so school is still pretty new to them.”
“Why did you place them in the corner of the sand tray?”
“Because I feel far away from them.”
“Why do you feel so far away?”
“It’s like there’s always this barrier between us. I can physically touch them and hold them,
but I never feel close to them.”
Jen pauses. She seems so
content in the silence. My heart is
beating out of my chest. I need her to
say something. She looks at the tray
again.
“What’s your husband’s name?”
“JB.”
“Is there a reason you didn’t put JB in the tray?”
My eyes immediately look over all the pieces in the tray. I didn’t even notice I left him out. I wonder what that means. I wonder what she thinks it means. I go with the easy answer.
“He’s not home very much.
He works a lot.”
“Why don’t you go choose a figure off the wall for him?”
I stand up and turn around to face the wall again. I look over all the figures, but nothing
stands out. I hate the feeling that
she’s watching me and waiting. I take a
step closer. My eyes scan each
shelf. I want to pick one, but nothing
fits.
“There’s nothing here that works for him.”
“Just choose the closest thing.”
I look over the figures again.
The super heroes are out. The
little Playskool people are definitely out.
None of the other male figures are even close. Then I see a row of villains. There’s an action figure that is three times
the size of all the others. He is dark
blue and black and has a web of ice all around him. I grab him off the shelf and put him in the
tray. The villain towers over
Pocahontas.
“This is JB?”
“Sort of.”
“Is he a lot bigger than you?”
“His personality is.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s intimidating. I can’t
really say what I’m thinking to him.”
“Why not?”
“When I try, I always end up being shut down, like my brain won’t
work anymore. I don’t know how to
explain it.”
“So, nothing gets resolved?”
“Right.”
“Do you feel safe at home?”
It takes me a second to understand what she’s asking.
“Yes. It’s not like
that. He’s a good guy. I’m not physically intimidated by him. I just freeze up when we argue.”
Jen nods her head, looks down at the tray and back up at me again.
“What is the fence?”
“It’s supposed to be a brick wall, but I couldn’t find a wall.”
“Okay, what is the brick wall?”
“It’s the wall between me and other people.”
“Any people in particular?”
“No. Everyone is on the
other side of the wall.”
“So, you feel lonely.”
My chest tightens again. It
feels like someone is squeezing my heart like a balloon popping contest. I take a deep breath. My foot starts tapping in place.
“Yeah, I do.”
I notice my whole leg is now tapping and I force myself to stop.
“How about the gun?”
My foot starts tapping again.
“That’s a way to escape if I need it.”
“Have you ever tried to escape that way?”
My foot taps faster.
“No, but there were times I wanted to.”
“Kill yourself?”
There’s silence. It feels
like the air has been sucked out of the room.
Sometimes the thought of killing myself is the only thing that relieves
the torture in my mind. I picture myself
driving into oncoming traffic or through the cross bars onto the railroad
tracks. I can see myself hanging in the
garage, but I don’t want a slow, painful death.
I already have that. I want a quick,
painless ending. I settle on a large
pile of lethal pills. It seems like the
easiest way. I swallow the pile, then
lie down on a bed of leaves and look up at the sky and wait. The image temporarily relieves the torture in
my mind.
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to kill yourself now?”
This question is different than all the others. I don’t feel she wants to know more about me
at this point. I feel she needs to know
whether or not I am suicidal. If I
answer this wrong I could wind up in the psych ward. I would lie about it if I was because I’m not
willing to get locked up again like in the treatment center, but I don’t need
to.
“No. The antidepressants
are working now that I stopped drinking.”
The air seeps back into the room.
We’re at the end of my first session.
I walk out the door, down the long hallway and get into my van. I like Jen.
She listens to me. But, I am
paying her to listen. I’m not sure what
to think. I’m tired of thinking.
I start the engine of my car and the radio is playing Little Red Corvette. There’s a Harley Davidson dealership across
the street, and the billboard is screaming at me to come trade in my minivan
for a motorcycle and ride away from everyone and everything. I take a deep breath as I contemplate the
idea of running away. I drop my head on
the steering wheel. My shoulders feel
like bags of sand. I look at the clock.
I have to get home. My kids will
be home from school soon. I need to be
there for them.
Session 2
I pull into the parking lot.
I’m ten minutes early. I’ve been
anxious about seeing Jen for a couple of days now. I think she’s my bridge out of isolation, but
I hate talking about myself. My heart
races faster as I walk down the hall toward the office. I meet people in the hallway and wonder if
they know I’m heading to see my therapist.
I feel like I’m wearing a sign with huge words printed on it: DEPRESSED
ALCOHOLIC. I smile faintly at people,
look at the floor, and walk to the end of the hall.
I wonder if I should really be here. I look around and blink my eyes wondering if
it’s just a bad dream, but nothing happens and my reality is sharp, raw, and
abrasive. As I wonder if I’m in the
right place, I think of my week in the treatment center.
The Chemical
Dependency wing is on the second floor of an old Catholic hospital. A smoky film covers the walls and the grey
carpet looks like it may have been a shade of blue at one time. Down the hall is the lounge where we eat,
watch TV, and do most of our group therapy. There is a huge variety of people
in treatment with me. Jane is in a
wheelchair hooked to an oxygen tank with tubes up her nose. She is here to quit
drinking so she can see her granddaughter again. Jeff is a lawyer. He’s short with graying hair and
glasses. He is here to save his law
practice and his family. Ronald looks
like he’s homeless, but when he plays the piano in the lounge on our breaks I
wonder what his life used to look like.
Troy is a drug dealer who’s trying to decide if he is willing to give up
his nice lifestyle for a minimum wage job.
I am a suburban housewife who goes to church and homeschools my
kids. Well, I was homeschooling
them. I’m not anymore, but I don’t fit
in with these people. I know I don’t
belong here. We’re sitting in a circle,
and it’s Matt’s turn to tell his story.
Matt is an
annoying, obnoxious teenager. He
interrupts every conversation, every instructor and talks through every
video. None of us like him. Jeff and Ronald got in a yelling match with
Matt yesterday because he wouldn’t stop talking while we were watching a
video. Today is our first group sharing
time together. We go around the circle
talking about how we got here. Matt
starts talking. He was young when he
started doing drugs. His parents were
divorced. When he couldn’t quit using,
his mom kicked him out of the house. He
went to live with his aunt, but soon she was threatening to kick him out,
too. One day his aunt found him on the
shower floor passed out and bleeding. He
had been using a hallucinogen and thought worms were crawling out of his
arms. He panicked and used a razor blade
to cut the worms off. She brought him to
the hospital and that’s how he ended up here.
As he finishes
his story the mood in the room changes.
He has answered all the questions we haven’t asked. I want to give him a hug and tell him it will
be okay. Later we’re watching a video
that explains only 20 percent of people who go through treatment stay sober for
any length of time. I think of this kid
and wonder if there is any hope for him.
How could life turn out like this for someone? Would I have turned out
any different had I grown up in his place?
I don’t think so, and my heart aches for him because I know what it
feels like to be alone and misunderstood.
We all go around and share our stories.
As we finish, I don’t wonder if I belong here anymore. It’s the first time in my life that I feel
like I completely belong. These people
understand me like no one ever has.
I’m back in the hallway of the office building looking at the
counseling sign on the door. I take a
deep breath as I realize that yes, I am in the right place.
The outer door of Jen’s office opens into a waiting area. A bell rings as I open the door. There are three offices including Jen’s and
the play therapy room where we were last week.
Jen’s door is open and I hear her voice.
“Come on in.”
I walk by the play room and into her office. Jen is sitting in an arm chair. She has a small build, and as she crosses her
legs, she hardly takes up any space on her little chair. Her hair is brown and curly, and she has a
warm smile.
The only other place to sit is the swivel chair at her desk or the
couch. I assume I’m supposed to sit on
the couch. I sit down and sink into the
cushions. I feel like I’m stuck. I move around trying to sit up further, but I
can’t. I give up and try to sit
still. I feel like I’m drowning.
I look around the office.
There are plaques on the wall stating Jen’s qualifications as a
therapist. Two windows open to the
parking lot. The shades are mostly
closed. A whiteboard is on the wall to
my left. A small bookshelf holds various
titles from co-dependence to grief to marriage and family. Two end tables flank the couch. They both
hold a lamp and on one there’s a box of Kleenex.
“How are you feeling today?”
How am I feeling? I stare at the wall behind her. My
thoughts are like distorted images in a thick fog. She opens a folder and hands
me a piece of paper with rows of funny cartoon faces. There’s a descriptive
feeling word beneath each face. The page is titled “Feelings Chart.” I look at each of the faces on the chart
until I see one I might feel.
“Anxious.”
“What are you anxious about?”
Everything makes me anxious, but I try
to think of something I can say.
“Being here in your office.”
“Anything else besides being in my
office?”
I think for a minute. My heart is racing.
“I am going on my son’s
field trip this week.”
“What about the trip
makes you anxious?”
“I haven’t been out much since I went
to treatment.”
“Maybe this will be good for you.”
I don’t say anything, but I don’t care if it will be good for me
or not. I’m scared to have a normal
conversation with anyone. I don’t even remember the last time I had a normal
conversation. Depression and addiction have swallowed my life, and I feel
like I’m in a foreign country trying to speak a foreign language. I don’t
know how to talk to my closest friends, let alone another mom from Andy’s
school.
I wonder what other moms would think if they knew I was an
alcoholic. Can they tell from my eyes that I’m depressed and anxious and
have a hard time getting out of bed in the morning? What if they ask me
why my son is coming into third grade halfway through the year? I can’t just say I was homeschooling him and
then had to enroll him at the last minute before I was put in treatment. I don’t know how to articulate this to Jen,
so I stare at the floor between us.
“Let’s have you do a
personality test.”
She goes to her file cabinet and pulls out a sheet of questions.
“This is the short
version of the Myers-Briggs Personality test. Just answer the questions
to the best of your ability.”
She hands me the paper and a pen. I’ve filled out so
much paperwork and answered so many questions in treatment that I don’t think
twice. I take the pen and read the first question.
A) I communicate with
enthusiasm, B) I keep my enthusiasm to myself, or C) I’m really in
between.
I wonder if I’m supposed to answer the questions as I feel now or
how I felt before my life imploded, when I was still positive and happy.
I used to communicate with enthusiasm. I used to be the life of the
party. I can’t remember what enthusiasm
feels like. Maybe I should write that I’m
in between. But what does “in between” mean? I wonder if they put
that there to see whether or not I can make a decision. I don’t want to
appear indecisive. I look ahead to the next question;
A) I set and respect
fixed goals and work toward achieving them on time, B) My goals are open-ended
and subject to change as new information becomes available, or C) I’m really
in-between.
What if I don’t have any goals? This is going to be harder
than I thought. I mentally throw my hands in the air and start choosing
whichever answer strikes me first.
Jen is writing something down and I wonder how long this will take
me. I wonder whether she’s wondering how long this will take me and if it
makes a difference how long it takes. Maybe the length of time it takes
factors into my personality. Now I’ve wasted
time thinking about it, and it will take more time! I need to focus on
the questions and stop wondering what she’s thinking. That’s her
job. She’s probably not thinking about me at all. She’s probably
making out a grocery list.
I check the last box and give her the paper. She does a
quick tally.
“You’re an ENFP, which
stands for extrovert, intuitive, feeling and perceiving. An extrovert is someone who gets energy by
being with other people. Intuitive means
you are more inclined to make decisions with your gut than with sound
evidence. Feeling means you make
decisions mostly by what you feel rather than what you think, and perceivers go
with the flow versus someone who likes to have a plan of attack.”
I wonder how I can be classified as feeling if I have to look at a
chart to figure it out. She continues to read a little information about
the ENFP personality type.
“ENFP’s are both idea-people and people-people, who see everyone and
everything as part of an often bizarre cosmic whole. They
have a great deal of zany charm, which can ingratiate them to the more stodgy
types in spite of their unconventionality. They are outgoing, fun, and
genuinely like people. As mates, they are warm, affectionate and
disconcertingly spontaneous.”
I’m definitely spontaneous,
but I’m not very warm and affectionate.
“Attention span in
relationships can be short; ENFP’s are easily intrigued and distracted by new
friends and acquaintances, forgetting about the older ones for long stretches
at a time.”
I recognize myself in the description. I wonder if Jen is reading this for herself
or just for me. I hope she is hearing what she is saying. I want her to know who I am.
“This tells us a lot
about how you’re wired. You probably don’t do well when you’re alone, so
getting out and making plans with other people is important. Do you have some
friends who are supporting you in your recovery?”
Her question reminds me of a worksheet I filled out while I was in
treatment.
I’m sitting at a
desk in the room I share with a drug addict.
I’m filling out mounds of paperwork. I’m thankful to be doing
something to kill the time, and filling out forms helps me forget for a moment
that I’m in a treatment facility. One of the questions on the form asks
me if I have any friends I can count on for support. There are four blank
spaces. Next to the questionnaire my elbow is resting on a folded sheet
of paper my friend, Nancy, gave me on visitor’s day. It’s a list of all the people I know who would
like to be of some kind of help while I’m in treatment. The list of
people fills up one whole side of the paper and spills onto the
other. Tears run down my cheeks as I read all the names.
"I have a lot of friends helping me.”
“How is JB doing with all of this?”
I look out the window. I
haven’t even thought about his perspective.
“I don’t know. I think he
was pretty shocked at first. I hid my
drinking pretty well.”
“So, you were a closet drinker?”
“More of a laundry room drinker.
JB has always worked a lot of weird hours, so I drank mostly while he
was away. I tried not to drink too much
in case one of the kids got sick or there was an emergency and I had to drive.”
I think about how careful I tried to be when I was drinking. I always hid my alcohol well. If I poured a glass of wine, I hid the bottle
and then washed out the glass right away.
I worried I might drink too much and forget to hide the bottle. One instance in particular stands out, but
I’m too embarrassed to tell her the story, especially since I can’t remember
all of it.
I pour my second
glass of Bailey’s and vodka over ice. There’s a lot more vodka than
Bailey’s. I’m at the computer writing
when the buzz hits me. I feel warm all
over. I close my eyes and tip my head
back. It feels so good. My head is swimming. Everything slows down. My muscles let go of the tension they’ve
built up since my last drink. I could stay right here forever. I open my eyes and stare at the computer
screen. I need to think about what I’m
writing. I take another drink. I can’t focus anymore so I let it go. I stand up and grab my drink. I walk into the kitchen. I put the glass down and my attention sways
from one thing to another like leaves blowing in the wind. I force myself to focus for a moment because
I realize I have to wash the glass before I’m too far gone to remember. I look at the glass on the counter. I am fading fast. I need to do something. I just can’t think of what it is. Oh, I need to wash out the glass. I take one last drink and the ice cubes hit
my nose. I turn and look at the
sink. I’m tempted to eat the ice cubes
because I’m sure they absorbed some of the alcohol, but I have to get this
stuff put away before I can’t think anymore.
I pour out the ice cubes and stare into the sink. I’m still staring. I look at the glass. I need to wash the glass. I turn on the water. I put soap in the glass and swish it
around. I rinse the glass. I dry it out and put it in the cupboard. I look around the kitchen to make sure I
didn’t leave anything out. I have to
hurry because my head is getting heavier and I can’t see very clearly. I can barely think now. I need to go to bed. I walk slowly toward the stairs. I drank too much. I get up the stairs and look around. What if the kids wake up? I want to peek in
their bedrooms, but I’m not sure I’ll make it to bed. I walk into my bedroom and flop onto the
bed. My eyes close. The room is spinning. I feel like I’m somewhere else. I love it there.
I open my eyes. My stomach hurts. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep. I move, and my head feels like a throbbing
lead weight. I’m still in my clothes
lying on top of my covers. Suddenly, I
realize I have to run to the bathroom. I
get to the toilet just in time to throw up.
Shooting pains rip through my head, and the room is still spinning. What am I doing?! I slide back off my knees and lean against
the wall. I try not to move. People don’t throw up in the morning from a
hangover! Especially not moms! Crap!
My kids! I wonder if they’re up
yet. I wonder what time it is. I have to
teach them school today. My stomach
starts to roll again as I attempt to get up off the floor. As I walk toward the steps I can hear the TV
on. Andy and Johnny are sitting together
on the couch watching Sponge Bob. I
squint as I go down the stairs and into the kitchen. I put Pop Tarts into the toaster and take
some ibuprofen. I tell them I don’t feel
well so we won’t be having school today.
I put the Pop Tarts on the table and walk slowly back up the
stairs. I lay down on my bed moaning and
wishing; wishing I could quit making the same mistake over and over.
“So, what happened that made you quit?”
My last drink is firmly planted in my memory.
“I knew I had a problem, and I kept trying to quit. At one point I had made it almost a year
without drinking. Then, the week after
Christmas I started again. I don’t know
why. Before this long stretch, I had
only drank at night after the kids went to bed, but this time I started putting
Bailey’s and vodka in my coffee in the morning and drinking it until noon. Then I switched to wine and drank that the
rest of the day. I only did that for a
week before I got caught.”
“How did you get caught?”
“It was Monday after Christmas break, and I had run out of
wine. I was supposed to be teaching my
kids, but all I could think about was another drink. So I called another homeschooling friend,
told her I was sick, and dropped my kids off at her house.”
I stop talking. The memory
brings with it a jolt of guilt and shame, and my heart feels like someone
stabbed it with a knife. I fight to push
the emotions away as I remember what I did next.
I’m standing in
the driveway of my friend’s house. The
kids get out of the van, and I look at each of them slowly. I’m desperate to get to the liquor store, but
I need to hold them. They know this
house as well as they know our own house but leaving them is different this
time. I don’t know where I’m going, and
I don’t know when I’ll be back. I look
into their eyes. Even at the young age
of nine, I can tell that Andy has many of his dad’s qualities. He’s kind, warm, sensitive and tells me the
truth even if he’s going to get into trouble.
He looks just like his dad too.
Jenna is more like me. Her first
sentence was, “Do it myself!” We had to
get her a toddler bed when she was 18 months old because she could pull herself
up over the bars of her crib. Johnny is
a combination of both of us. He’s gentle
and cuddly but on occasion goes into wild fits of anger. Instinctively, I hold him tightly when he’s
angry until the fight leaves him and he collapses into my arms.
They’re anxious
to get into the house and see their friends.
I hug them longer than usual as I say goodbye. I don’t want to leave them here, but
everything in me is screaming for a drink.
I need alcohol more than I need air.
I take a deep breath as I try to control the emotions that are
attempting to escape.
“I picked up a bottle of wine and started drinking as soon as I got
home. My friend, Shelly, called because
she was coming over for lunch. I totally
forgot she was coming, so I told her I didn’t feel well, and we’d have to
reschedule. Somehow she knew something
was wrong. My depression had started a
few months before that, so she was worried about me. She knew I had been trying to quit drinking,
so she decided she was going to come over and check up on me. I didn’t want to lose my new bottle of wine,
so I drank the whole thing before she got there, which only took about ten
minutes. When she arrived and found me
with an empty bottle, she didn’t know what to do so she called our friend,
Nancy, who is my church’s Women’s Ministry leader. Nancy is a mentor as well as a friend to both
of us. Nancy realized this was more than
a little slip up for me, so she called our pastor and our pastor picked up JB
from work. It sort of turned out to be a
mini, impromptu intervention.”
“And then what happened?”
“I was pretty drunk, so I don’t remember everything, but at one point
everyone was quiet and I couldn’t stand the tension anymore, so I joked that
I’d never been drunk in front of a pastor before. That didn’t go over as well as I hoped it
would. I remember JB wanted our kids to
spend the night at their friend’s house while we sorted things out, but I felt
so guilty about leaving them. I needed
them to come back home. I wanted them to
sleep in their own beds, but I couldn’t let them see me like I was, so Nancy
said I could spend the night at her house.”
There are so many things I can’t remember, but my night at Nancy’s
house plays in slow motion through my mind.
I’m lying on a
bed in the guest bedroom. The house is
quiet. Light streams in through the
window on my right. I watch the specks
of dust floating in the sunlight. My
face is like stone. My eyelids are
heavy. My body is heavy. It takes too
much effort to move, so I stay still.
Even my thoughts are heavy. I try
not to think. I stare at the dust
particles for hours. The sunlight
fades. The dust particles
disappear. There’s a knock at the
door. I move my eyes toward the
door. Nancy walks in quietly and asks
how I’m doing. I don’t know what to
say. I don’t know how I’m doing. I feel like a piece of cement. She asks if I want to come down for dinner. I say I’m not hungry. I haven’t eaten much in weeks, and my clothes
are falling off. She says I should
really eat. I say I’m too tired. She says that tomorrow we’ll meet JB at a
counseling center. I’m afraid to see
JB. Maybe it will be easier with a
counselor.
I wonder if Nancy
will stay there with me. I’ve gone to
her with everything the last few years.
She knows me better than I know myself.
I’ve always been able to protect myself by not letting people get too
close. I’m not sure how or why I’ve let
her in as far as I have, maybe because her love for me seems so genuine and
unconditional. She’s always there for
me. She tells me the truth when it’s
hard, she encourages me when life seems overwhelming, and she celebrates all my
little victories. I’ve never had a friend like her. Lately, she’s been pushing me to share my
thoughts with JB, but I’m afraid to talk to him. I feel like we’ve grown apart over the
years. I don’t want to think
anymore. I just want to fall asleep on
this bed and not wake up, ever.
“The next day we met JB at a counselor’s office. The counselor realized immediately that I
needed a chemical dependency assessment, so she called a treatment center and I
was admitted a couple of days later.”
"So, how would you describe your marriage right now?”
I look outside the window as I think. It’s so hard to think. It’s hard to take apart the jumbled thoughts
in my head and unscramble them to make a sentence. I see words like trapped, and miserable, and
family, and responsibility. I want to
leave, but I don’t want to hurt my kids.
“I wish it was better.”
“How so?”
“I wish we were happy. I
wish we had more in common. I wish he
helped more with the kids. I wish I
could talk to him.”
“Why do you think you can’t talk to him?”
“I have a hard time putting my thoughts into words. When I do finally find some words to say, he
is already way ahead of me and I can’t catch up. It makes me feel really stupid and then I
just quit talking.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Fourteen years.”
“Have you always had a hard time talking to JB?”
“No. We used to talk.”
I think back to the hours we spent talking in his car when we were
young. He used to drop me off at home
after youth group. I was eighteen, and
he was twenty-six. He was the first
person in my life I felt comfortable talking to. We talked for hours about everything.
“We talked a lot when we were younger.”
“When do you think that changed?”
I start fast forwarding through my memories from high school to
college. I had left home for St. Mary’s
College in Winona, Minn., two-and-a-half hours away. I said goodbye to JB thinking I might not see
him again. I was planning to meet a
school full of guys my age, but I couldn’t get JB out of my head. None of the guys at school measured up to my
expectations. I left school after my
sophomore year and married JB when I was twenty-one. He was twenty-nine. We had Andy three years later, Jenna
twenty-two months later and Johnny another twenty-two months later. Life was chaos with three little kids.
“JB worked 24-hour shifts, so our schedules clashed, but that was
fine before we had kids. There was
always time for each other. But after
our kids were born, everything was different.”
“Kids can do that.”
“I don’t know what happened between then and now. I just know I can’t talk to him like I used
to.”
She jots something down in her notebook.
“How are your kids? You
mentioned you were homeschooling them, and now they are in public school for
the first time, right?”
Every time my kids come up my stomach feels like someone is
wringing it like a towel, squeezing every last drop of dignity out of my
system. Their first day of school comes
to mind.
I’m at the
treatment center. I’ve been here since
Friday night, but there’s no real programming over the weekend, so I’ve been
sitting around filling out paperwork, doing chores, and getting to know the
other patients. It’s Monday and they
wake us up for chores and breakfast. I
think of my kids. JB is getting them
dressed for their first day of school.
It’s January and all the kids returned from Christmas break last
week. Tears run down my face. I want to run out of the hospital and go
home. I want to hug them goodbye before
they get on the bus. I want to tell them
it will be okay. I want to know what
their faces look like. They’ve never
been to a school before. Do they wonder
what happened to me? Do they think I
abandoned them? Did JB fix them
breakfast? I wonder what he put in their
lunches. My heart hurts so bad I think
it’s going to explode.
I get up from my
bed and go into the bathroom. None of
the doors lock in this place, so I shut it tightly. I look into the mirror. My reflection is hard to see because the
mirror is made of plastic so I can’t hurt myself. I can’t stop thinking about my kids. I have to think in order to breathe. I can’t push back the pain any longer. I fall on my knees and start crying. My shoulders are shaking. Then my whole body is shaking. My sobbing sounds like moaning, and I wonder
if someone is going to come find me, but no one does. It’s such an unfamiliar sound that I feel
like I’m listening to someone else cry.
It hurts in the deepest part of me, and the crying doesn’t make it feel
any better.
I don’t know how long it’s been. My body is tired and I can’t open my eyes. I finally get up off the floor and look in the mirror again. I can’t tell the difference. I wash my face with cold water and walk out of the bathroom. Everyone is in the lounge eating breakfast. No one else knows I’m missing my kids’ first day of school.
“They seem fine, but it’s hard to tell what they know and what
they feel. They seem to be getting used
to going to school. Their teachers are
really nice and a couple of people from our church work at their school and are
keeping an eye on them.”
"And what else are you doing in your recovery? Is your treatment done?”
"My inpatient treatment was only for a week. I still have four months of outpatient
treatment.”
“Is that every day?”
“It’s three times a week for a while, then two times a week, and
at the end it’s one time a week.”
“That’s great. Where are
you going for outpatient treatment?”
“It’s at the hospital downtown.
My friends are taking turns driving me there.”
“Did you lose your license?”
“No. But I wasn’t very
functional when I got home from treatment.
I think they were worried I wouldn’t make it to the treatment center
without stopping at the liquor store if I drove alone.”
“Your cravings are that strong?”
Her question takes me to a turning point at the treatment center.
I’m lying in bed,
and I can’t get to sleep. So many
thoughts are rushing around in my head: my family, my friends, lectures, group
therapy, the bipolar girl, videos on meth and cocaine, and the physiology of
the addict’s brain. I’m an
alcoholic. I’ve finally admitted it, and
it still seems surreal. I’m tired and
humiliated, and I can’t imagine ever
taking another drink again. How could I
do this to my kids? I will never put
them through this again! And then it happens. A craving washes over me. It feels like warm honey running through my
blood. My mouth waters. I want a drink so bad I can taste it. Fear overwhelms me. I attempt to push the craving away, but it’s
too strong. I know if there was a way I
could have a drink right now, I’d do anything to get it. I’m terrified. What do I do now? How will I ever quit?
“My cravings come and go.
Some days they are stronger than I am.”
Session 3
I’m in the van driving to my therapy session. I think through my week because I know Jen
will ask me about it. Andy came home
from school with a poster he made in class.
They talked about drugs and alcohol.
What a coincidence. Andy’s poster
has a big wine bottle cut out and glued in the middle. An arrow points from the wine bottle to a stick
person with their tongue hanging out.
The stick person is standing next to a tombstone. It reads, “When you drink, you can’t think.” I wonder if Andy is able to connect his
school lesson with my hospital stay. It
is hard to know what the kids understand.
JB told me that while I was gone, he and the kids watched the movie, Finding Nemo. In the movie the sharks are trying to quit
eating fish so they have a support group meeting and share how long each of
them has gone without eating any fish.
JB told the kids that I was like the sharks. I’m not sure that was a good idea.
I’m anxious as usual. I’m
coming up to a stoplight. I feel a
sudden pull to turn right toward the liquor store. To the left is Jen’s office. It is all I can do not to swerve into the
right turn lane and pull into the liquor store parking lot. I pick up a CD case from the floor and read
the Bible verse I taped to it.
I printed out a bunch of Bible verses and taped them to things
that I can see while I’m driving. I had
a really weird experience with a Bible verse once while I was trying to quit
drinking.
I’m holding a
bottle of wine. I know I’m drinking too
much and I know I need to quit. I keep
going through cycles. I drink too much,
I’m determined to quit, I go a few days or weeks, the cravings come back and I
crumble and buy another bottle. I drink
again until my resolve comes back or I do something really stupid. I’m attempting to dump a bottle of wine down
the drain again. The fight inside my
mind is exhausting. My mouth is
watering. I need a drink. I tell myself this is stupid. I need to pour it out. I feel strong until I smell the alcohol, and
my resolve melts away in an instant. I
set the bottle on the counter and think about getting a glass. The other side of me won’t quit. I have to dump out the bottle. I twist my arm to pour it out, but I can’t
get myself to tip it all the way. I hold
it sideways over the sink like a suicidal person climbing onto the ledge, but
at the thought of actually pouring it out I panic at the possibility of being
in the house without alcohol. My arm is
getting tired of holding the bottle sideways.
The mental fight has worn me out, and I climb back off the ledge
defeated and put the bottle back down on the counter.
I sit on the floor with my head in my
arms. I’m such a failure. I tell God I can’t do it. I don’t want to let him down, but I can’t do
it. A thought flickers through my head
like a voice that’s not my own. It says,
“I don’t expect you to do this. I will
do it, but you have to let me.” Then a
short Bible verse comes to mind and I say it out loud. “I can do all things through Christ who
strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13)
I say it again as I stand up by the sink. “I can do all things through Christ who
strengthens me.”
I pick up the
bottle as I continue to repeat the verse.
I’m aware that I’m about to dump the very thing I’m desperate for, but I
keep repeating the verse. It’s like
magic. Effortlessly, I pour the wine
down the drain. Part of me watches in
disbelief. My hand that’s dumping the
bottle doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.
The last drops spill out, and I set the bottle on the counter and stare
at it. It’s like someone else was
dumping the bottle. I’m kind of freaked
out.
Now there are Bible verses all over my car; on my CD covers, the
sun visor, the steering wheel and half the speedometer. Any time the craving for alcohol washes over
me, I read one of the verses out loud to get rid of the thought.
I’m in the left hand turn lane, and I read this verse over and
over until the liquor store is out of sight.
It’s never quite out of mind.
I pull into the parking lot of Jen’s office, turn off the engine
and sit. I’m a few minutes early. I draw a deep breath and get out of the
car. I open the front door of the office
building and walk straight to the bathroom.
It’s becoming a ritual.
Everything is in slow motion.
There’s an overpowering floral smell from the soap. My hands are dry, and I don’t have any
lotion. I look in the mirror. I don’t know the person staring back at
me. I look at my watch. I need to get to the office. I open the heavy bathroom door and start down
the long, narrow hallway. I hope I don’t
see anyone. There’s always a door or two
open along the way. People are sitting
around a table talking. Another door
opens to some people carrying food. I
try not to make eye contact with anyone.
I get to the office door and take another deep breath before I turn the
knob. The doorbell noise alerts Jen that
I’m there, and I hear her voice calling from her office.
“Come in.”
I walk past the play room and the other two office doors. They’re both empty. There are magazines on the coffee table in
the waiting room where there is a couch and two chairs. I walk in.
I sit on the couch and sink down.
I hate this couch. I feel like it
swallows me every time I sit on it. Jen
sits in her chair across from me. I
wonder about her. She’s not what I
expected a Christian counselor to be like.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but she seems to share some of my
rebellious nature. She doesn’t fit my
stereotypical image of Christianity; firm, serious, slightly condescending. Jen is gentle, kind, and nonjudgmental.
“How was your week?”
I think for a moment.
“I went to a Women’s Expo at our church. They offered different classes. I didn’t really want to go, but I thought it
would be good to get out with people.”
“Great! How did it go?”
“It was good and bad. I
signed up for two classes. My first one
was a drawing class. It was really
relaxing.”
My shoulders droop and my back sinks into the cushions as I think
back to that morning.
I’m sitting at a
table, and the sun is coming in the window.
I’m surrounded by familiar faces.
It’s comforting and upsetting at the same time. I’ve made so many close friends and memories
at this church that just being here feels good, but I’m assuming everyone now
knows I’m an alcoholic who went to treatment.
I’ve felt mixed reactions from people.
Some have come right out and asked me how I am with concerned looks on
their faces. Others have completely
ignored me. I’m learning quickly who my
friends are.
In this drawing
class, we’re supposed to be copying this picture but upside down. Right side up, the picture is of a man
sitting in a chair. Upside down it’s
only shapes. My eyes trace the
shapes. I find a spot on the paper where
I think a shape starts. My hand begins
to draw a curved line then a straight line at a little bit of an angle to the
curve. I keep drawing what I see until I
connect the last line. My anxiety is
gone, and my hands aren’t shaking. My
body is relaxed, and my mind seems clear.
I want to draw more, but my picture is done. I turn it right side up, and it looks nearly
the same as the original. I smile.
“Then I went to my second class.
That didn’t go as well.”
I’m sitting in the middle of a row of
people. I haven’t been very talkative,
and I hope it starts soon so I don’t have to talk to anyone. This class is about organization and is run
by two women in our church. One works
for a large corporation and the other runs a volunteer organization. They pass around a packet of handouts on
organizing ideas. They begin to talk
about how they organize their house, their lists, groceries, money, etc. My head starts to hurt. I try to concentrate,
but there’s so much information. My
house is always a mess. I’ve never been
able to get everything in its right place.
I thought an organizing class would help me get a good start during my
recovery.
While in
treatment, I was thankful, but humiliated to find that my friends had come into
my house and cleaned. One couple did our
heaping pile of laundry. Another cleaned
the bathrooms. Many had come over with
food and did the dishes. One of JB’s
best friends went through the house with him looking for hidden wine bottles.
The class
continues and I can’t sit still. I start
tapping my feet on the floor and doodling on my handouts. My heart is beating faster, and I’m getting
hot. They begin to talk about putting
Post-it notes on the last bottle of shampoo in the closet so when you get to
it, you can take the Post-it note off and place it on your shopping list to save
time. How does anyone think of that? How do they have time to put Post-it notes on
everything? Do people really have two or
three of everything stocked in their closets ready to be used when the previous
one runs out? I wonder if they’re just
kidding and the real teaching will come after the sarcasm is over. As they talk, I realize they aren’t
joking. I imagine myself putting a
Post-it note on my deodorant in the closet.
I know that even if I remember to take the Post-it note off the
deodorant, it will never make it all the way downstairs to my grocery list, if
I had a grocery list. When I actually
make a list, I don’t remember to bring it to the store. I see Post-it notes on my handout. I scratch it off the list.
My head is
pounding now, and I’m praying they are done talking. I want to get up and walk out, but I’m in the
middle of the row, and I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I look around and people are taking
notes. I have to get out of here. I heard about panic attacks from one of the
guys in treatment, and I feel like I might have one right now. I close my eyes and start thinking about
something else. I start thinking about
the last time I was here at this event.
I was teaching guitar as one of the classes. I didn’t know how to play more than four
chords, but my friend, Karen was great at playing, so I got her to teach it
with me. We ran late because I wasn’t
keeping track of time and our class was having a lot of fun. That was my favorite thing to do; have
fun. I don’t remember the last time I
had fun.
Finally, the
organizing session is over. Everything
they didn’t cover is on the handouts, so we can read through them later. I just want to get out of this room. I wish I hadn’t signed up for this. My head hurts. Every nerve ending that had relaxed during the
drawing class is now standing on end like goose bumps.
“The second class was about organizing, and I became extremely
anxious.”
“Why did you take an organizing class?”
“Because I’m so unorganized.
I thought it might be helpful.”
“You need to start focusing on your strengths, and quit trying to
become good at the things you’re not gifted at.
Do you remember the personality test you took?”
“Yeah.”
“You are a ‘P’, perceiving.
It is not natural for you to be able to organize. You are not gifted administratively, and you
need to realize that you will never force yourself to become this kind of
person. It is not who God made you to
be. You need to begin to see the gifts
God gave you and focus on those. It is
the only way you will be happy.”
That makes sense, but I’m afraid if I don’t keep trying to make it
perfect, it will end up looking like my mom’s house with piles of papers
everywhere and dishes left undone and mail unopened and things lost. Jen sits back in her chair, looks through
the titles on her bookshelf and pulls one out.
“Have you read this yet?”
“No.”
She hands me a book. It’s
called, Adult Children of Alcoholics,
by Janet Woititz.
“Adult children of alcoholics often believe they should be able to
do everything and that everyone but them has it all together.”
I want to read more. This
author knows me. No one has ever understood
what it’s like. As a child, it seemed
everyone else got to do life together on the playground, and I had to watch
from outside the fence. I tried to fit
in. I played jump rope even though I
didn’t like it because all the girls did it.
I went to birthday parties and friends’ houses, but I never felt like I
belonged. I always felt alone. Maybe it was because I didn’t feel like I
could invite friends over to my house. I
did eventually let a friend come over once.
That was a mistake.
We get off the
bus at my stop. I’m nervous. I wish I hadn’t said she could come
over. We’ve been to her house so many
times, she was getting bored and wanted to come to my house, but I wouldn’t let
her. She finally talked me into it. I already told her about my wild brothers and
that my mom didn’t cook or clean, but I don’t think anything I said could
really prepare her for what is coming.
We walk up the
steep driveway. Bikes are leaning
against the garage. A large wooden spool
used for the electrical wires by the telephone company sits on its side and is
used as a table for piles of old tools, buckets, string, toys, etc. A basketball hoop stands at the edge of the
dirt driveway. Behind the hoop is a huge
pile of split wood covered by a metal framed truck topper. A large blue tarp covers the topper to keep
the wood dry. Beyond the wood pile is a
fire pit with big logs as seats. One of the
seats around the fire pit is an old van bench which is faded and ripped from
being outside. Some old, rusted, metal
chairs are scattered here and there.
A clothesline
hangs from the garage to the front porch where my mom hangs clean clothes. There’s rarely anything on it. The front porch has green outdoor carpet over
the concrete steps and landing. My dad
is a carpet layer, and all around the outside of the house are large pieces of
old carpet he couldn’t throw away. Even
the path from the house down to the lake is carpeted. I never thought much about it, but seeing it
through Carrie’s eyes makes it look so weird.
I’m trying to
escape somewhere in my mind so I don’t have to actually be here as she looks
around. I wonder what she’s
thinking. We go into the house. The entryway is covered with coats and hats
and scarves and mittens all hanging on six inch nails that my dad pounded into
the wall. A large freezer takes up much
of the space and more boxes and coats and stuff that never found a place are
piled on the freezer. Carrie starts
taking off her shoes. I quickly tell her
to leave them on. I’m hoping the floor
isn’t wet today. When it’s wet, your
shoes stick as you walk and I don’t think I could handle that right now.
We walk through
the kitchen where the dirty dishes fill up both sinks, most of the counter and
a box on the floor. I suddenly panic that
she might want something to drink. I
hope there’s at least one clean glass in the cupboard. Maybe she won’t ask. The kitchen table is hard to see under the
piles of cereal boxes, months of unopened mail, a sewing machine, old food, and
anything else that may have been set down and lost or forgotten. A bucket sits in the middle of the floor to
catch the drips from the crack in the ceiling.
We get through
the kitchen to the dining room. In the
middle of the room is a table, but we never eat there because it’s always piled
high with stuff. Sometimes we move a
pile onto the floor so we can do homework.
All those piles are still surrounding the table. I don’t do much homework. If I do any, I do it in my room. More piles cover the small antique desk and
the buffet cabinet. In between the piles
are knickknacks covered in dust.
Pictures of generations of family cover the walls which have yellowed
with my dad’s cigarette smoke.
My parent’s
bedroom is off the dining room. The door doesn’t quite open or shut all the way
because of the clothes on the floor and hanging over the door. My dad doesn’t sleep in there anymore. He usually watches TV until he passes out on
the couch. The living room is a long,
narrow room which we divided in half with old bed sheets. With seven kids and only three bedrooms, we
needed a place for the boys to sleep. A
large porch is connected to the living room.
The back porch is really the front porch because the people who moved
the house from its original site put it on backward. The house movers also took a short cut across
a frozen pond to avoid the road’s sharp turn, and the house went through the
ice. My mom has a picture of the house
from the newspaper. The first floor was
almost all under water. Our front porch, which is now our back porch, is full
from floor to ceiling with clothes, games, toys, furniture and stuff. Once we cleaned half of it out so my brothers
could move from the living room to the porch but it was only a three season
porch and it got too cold in the winter to be out there.
There’s a
bathroom off the kitchen. It smells all
the time. Sometimes the sewer system
backs up, and we can’t flush anything down the toilet so it goes in the garbage
can which no one ever takes out. The
cabinet is full of prescription bottles that are half used. My mom keeps them in case we need them again.
I take Carrie
upstairs to my bedroom. I feel numb. Carrie tells me she has to use the
bathroom. Oh no. I didn’t anticipate that. The upstairs bathroom is floor to ceiling
pink, from the pink shag carpet to the pink walls and bathtub. The bathtub had become rust colored from our
well water so my dad used pink exterior paint to cover the rust. The paint is now coming off in layers, mostly
while someone is taking a bath. The
water pressure is so low that we barely get our hair washed. I point the way for her and hold my
breath. She will probably have to hold
hers too. It seems like it’s been
forever, but Carrie comes out of the bathroom.
She doesn’t say anything and I don’t either.
Carrie and I play
in my room for a while. I want to keep
her as far away as I can from the rest of the family. I’m also beginning to worry that my dad might
come home early. Letting Carrie see my
house is scary, but it’s not as bad as the fear I feel thinking my dad might
come home drunk while she’s here. My
room has a huge hole in the wall from the time I threw my bowling ball through
it. The screens of the windows have
large circular holes in them. My
brothers cut the holes so they could lower their action figures down the two
stories with ropes. I can’t open the
window in the summer now without letting in a ton of bugs and we don’t have air
conditioning.
We play for a
while until her mom comes to pick her up.
I bring Carrie downstairs to wait because I don’t want her mom to come
to the door. I really like Carrie’s mom. She makes dinner when I’m at her house. We all sit at the table and she makes an
excuse about her cooking not being very good, but I love it. Then her dad tells us to clean our plates and
put them in the dishwasher. Carrie
complains about it, but I always try to do extra. I clear off the rest of the table and wash
dishes. Carrie gets mad at me for being
so nice to her parents, but I can’t help it.
They like me and appreciate it when I help. It makes me feel wanted.
As Carrie’s mom
pulls into the driveway I grab Carrie’s bag and run her out to the car. I open the door for Carrie and thank her mom
for picking her up. Then I shut the door
and walk away fast because I think the faster she leaves the less trash and junk
she’ll see. Her car pulls out of the
driveway, and I watch the dust rise up and settle on their car. I take a deep breath. It’s over.
The next day at
school I’m nervous to see Carrie, because I don’t know how she’ll react to me
after seeing where I live. I walk down
the hall to my locker, and I see her getting her books out of her locker. I bend down and slowly put my things
away. She shuts her locker and comes
over and starts talking about the softball game tonight and if I finished my
homework. I’m relieved she’s talking to
me. Neither of us ever mentions my
house…ever.
Jen finds the sheet she’s looking for in her cabinet and I shut
the book. She grabs an erasable marker
and draws a few lines on the whiteboard.
“Let’s draw out your family tree.”
This looks familiar. My mom
has made hundreds of family tree charts.
Ninety percent of our conversations involve our dead relatives. It’s one of her jobs as a Mormon. She needs to find all of our dead relatives
so she can put their names in temple rituals so they have the option to become
a Mormon in the afterlife. She also
keeps two years of food stored in the basement for when Jesus comes back to the
earth and everything is chaos. Our food
storage was probably not maintained as well as the average Mormon’s
storage. I remember one time when I was
younger it got a little out of control.
My brother and I
are walking slowly down the basement steps.
It’s dark down there, and we’ve watched every horror movie made even
though we are only eight and ten years old.
The only light switch that works is the string that hangs from the light
bulb in the middle of the basement.
There’s just enough light to see the outline of the stairs. I make Brian go down first. It takes us forever to go down three stairs because
we’re both fighting over who goes first.
We finally calm ourselves down enough to focus on getting the basement
light on. We know once we get the light
on the fear will evaporate.
We take a couple more steps and then
freeze. We both see the same thing, and
we can’t move or talk. We are frozen for
five long seconds as we try to process what we see. In the shadows there is something about a
foot off the ground waving back and forth.
We come to our senses and start screaming as we fall over each other
trying to get up the stairs. We are
still screaming as we rush to tell my dad about the thing in the basement. We usually don’t tell him anything for fear
he will give us chores to do for the rest of the day, but this is an
emergency. My dad sighs and gets up off
the couch in the middle of his football game.
He starts down the stairs to turn on the light. Brian and I stand behind the door as my dad
walks down as if nothing is wrong. We
soon hear a string of expletives, but he doesn’t sound like he’s getting
hurt. He just sounds mad. We hear the light click on and we can’t help
ourselves from peeking, even if we might witness the scene from a horror movie. My dad is standing in the middle of the
basement surrounded by knee high brown looking grass. It turns out one of my
mom’s barrels of wheat had broken open and spread into the carpet. Our basement floods sometimes, and it must
have been damp enough for the wheat to grow.
My brother and I sit on the steps fascinated by the National Geographic
scene right in our very own basement.
Jen writes my name on the middle of the board.
“What’s your dad’s name?”
“Jack.”
She writes down Jack.
“What’s your mom’s name?”
“Sarah.”
“How many siblings do you have?”
“Six.”
“How many people are in your dad’s family?”
I start thinking about my dad’s family. They were definitely not Mormon. Their God was beer, and they religiously
played poker. In my mind my dad’s family
is synonymous with Cumberland, Wis., where my aunt and uncle live. We spent every holiday there for as long as I
can remember. Our gatherings might not
have been like the traditional family, but it was what I knew and the thought
of it makes me smile.
Grandma is
sitting on the couch with her brother, Butch.
They’ve both been drinking beer all day setting the bar high for the
rest of the family. They’re laughing as
they tell stories. They both have long
noses and sharp cheek bones. They’re
Bohemian. My dad calls us Bo-hunks. He says that’s where we get our spit and
vinegar. We try not to get too close or
we’ll end up having to get grandma another beer or listen to a long, boring
story or both.
My cousins and I
play outside all day. They have a jeep
and dirt bikes that we take back into the woods. They let us ride the dirt bikes, but not as
much as I’d like, and I want one so bad I can’t stand it. There’s a pond where we skate in the winter
and canoe in the summer. Mostly we play
games in the woods. My aunts make the best
food and dinnertime is a feast. Before
I’d had one of my aunt’s burgers, I didn’t know they were supposed to be so big
and juicy. My dad doesn’t want us to get
sick from raw meat, so our burgers look like Kingsford charcoal
briquettes. These family gatherings are
one of the few times my family eats together.
“My dad has two older sisters, two younger brothers and his mom
and dad are both dead.”
“How about your mom?”
I have to think harder about my mom’s side because we never see
them. They live on the east coast and
the west coast. The last time I saw them
was a family reunion in Myrtle Beach when I was twelve years old. My mom drove us out there by herself. We didn’t have the money to stay in a hotel
so she slept at the rest stops while I watched my brothers. It was fun to see the ocean, but we didn’t
feel very welcomed, which made more sense later when I found out my mom ran off
with my dad, and my mom’s relationship with her stepmom was already pretty
strained before leaving.
Jen writes these on the board.
“Two of her brothers are half-brothers, and her sister is
adopted.”
“So, she comes from a blended family.”
“Yeah.”
Jen makes x’s and o’s for my mom’s family, then turns to me.
“Ok, how many of these relatives have a problem with alcohol?”
That’s the first easy question she’s asked me.
“All of my dad’s family.”
Jen puts a big circle around my dad and each of his siblings.
“How about your grandparents?”
“My grandpa died when I was two, so I don’t know about him, but my
grandma drank a lot.”
Between my mom’s and dad’s stories, I have a picture of what my
grandparents’ lives were like. His mom
might have had some mental health problems.
Schizophrenia came up once, but I don’t really know for sure. It’s hard to tell what someone is like when
they are drunk all the time.
“I never saw my grandma without a beer and cigarette in her
hand. And I’ve only seen my mom’s
parents once when I was twelve.”
“You mean your other grandparents?”
“Well, my grandmother is really a step grandmother, and from what
I’ve heard my mom didn’t get along with her very well. My mom’s parents don’t really feel like
grandparents. At least they don’t fit my
image of a grandparent.”
I wonder what it would have been like to have a grandparent’s
house to escape to where there were warm cookies and cold milk and someone who
had time to sit still and patiently listen even if I didn’t know what to
say.
Jen is quiet. She’s looking
at the whiteboard. I feel compelled to
tell her more.
“I was named after my real grandmother who died when my mom was
ten. My mom didn’t want to upset her
stepmother, so instead of naming me Virginia and calling me Ginny, like her mom,
she named me Jennifer so she could call me Jenny, which was as close as she
could get.”
I pause for a moment. It’s
the first time I’ve said that out loud and it sounds so bizarre.
“My mom told me once when I was twelve that she wished I was her
mom and she could be my daughter because I was so mature and responsible and
talented like her mom. She always
compared me to her mom. It always felt
like she wanted me to become her mom.”
“So, you really didn’t have a mom.”
I look down at the floor. There’s
a long silence. The reality of her
statement cuts me so deeply I can’t breathe.
If I could bleed emotional pain, the floor would be covered in it. I can’t talk, so Jen does.
“Children with alcoholic parents often parent their own parents as
well as their siblings.”
“I tried to take care of my brothers and sisters, but I wasn’t
very good at it. I was a terrible cook,
and I never knew where to start when it came to cleaning the house.”
My mind flashes back to when I was twelve and trying to make
spaghetti.
I’m standing at the stove. I washed a pan and put water in it and put it
on the stove. I dump the noodles into
the cold water. While they’re cooking I
wash some plates and forks and clear a spot at the table. When I think the noodles have probably cooked
long enough, I strain them and put the spaghetti on the table. I yell for the boys to come eat. The phone rings and I answer it. It’s one of my friends. My brothers are making a lot of noise while
I’m trying to talk on the phone. Just as I turn to yell at them to shut up, a
huge wad of spaghetti hits me in the face.
They couldn’t have planned the timing any better. My jaw clenches, and my heart is racing. I want to explode as I put the phone down,
but I see the look of terror on their faces.
As soon as they see me pause, their frightened faces turn to smiles, and
they burst out laughing. I’m trying not
to laugh because I’m fuming, but I can’t help it. Normally this would set me
off into a rage, but luckily for them, I get caught up in the laughter this
time.
“I also had a really bad temper.”
I never thought of it before, but now that I’m in a therapist’s
office I wonder if what I did would be called abuse. I don’t think I can get into legal trouble
though if I was only twelve years old.
Every episode was the same.
Ben and Sam are
fighting in the living room. I yell at
them to stop. Of course, they don’t
stop. It’s over some dumb toy. They are rolling on top of each other, and I
yell at them again. They act like they
didn’t hear a word I said which makes my body temperature rise from the inside
out. Sam starts crying because Ben went too far, again. I explode in a rage and run toward him. He’s scared, and before I can stop myself I
punch him in the leg, and he starts crying.
Crap! Why did I do that? Now I’m furious with myself. I turn and run up the stairs into the hallway
where a full length mirror hangs on the wall.
I look at myself, and I’m so disgusted I start pounding on the wall with
my fists. Why can’t I control myself?! I
hate myself!
I hate my
life! My hand goes through the thin
sheet of drywall, but I don’t feel any pain.
I stomp into my bedroom and slam the door. I fall onto my bed crying, wishing I could be
a better sister to them. As my anger
dissolves, my hand is starts to hurt where I pounded it through the wall.
“I watched my siblings enough that they called me mom, but I
didn’t do a very good job.”
“Your siblings called you mom?”
Jen seems surprised by this which makes me uncomfortable because
she rarely looks surprised, and I assume she’s heard worse stories than
mine. I try to read her face when I
answer.
“Yeah, but they always corrected themselves, like they would yell,
‘Mom! ... I mean, Jenny!’ You know, so
it’s not like they really thought I was their mom. It was just kind of a habit for them I
guess.”
Jen’s eyes soften. It’s
hard to believe they can get softer than they already are. My heart melts a little bit each time she
does it.
“Do you know that as a child, you shouldn’t have had to be a
parent to your siblings?”
“Yeah, but I still feel bad that I didn’t do it very well.”
“But it wasn’t your job.”
“I know, but I couldn’t just ignore them.”
“Just because your parents didn’t do their job, doesn’t mean that
you should have had to do their job.”
“But I was there. If I
didn’t do it, then it wouldn’t get done.
It didn’t get done anyway, but I really tried the best I could.”
Guilt wells up inside my chest, and I feel tears coming. I clench my jaw and push them back. I should have been a better sister. I should have been able to make them do their
chores and eat meals and get them to bed on time. I should have been able to keep them from
fighting all the time. I should have
been able to keep them from hurting themselves like they did. I should have stayed home instead of leaving
for college. I hang my head and I can’t
look up. If I couldn’t do it then, why
did I think I could do it now with my own kids?
Why did I even have kids? Now
they are stuck with me! If I could, I
would wish them into a different home with a mom who could clean and cook and
get them to bed on time and read stories every night and keep her voice
calm. They would have structure and love
and not chaos and pain.
“Jenny, this was your parents’ ball to drop and not your ball to
pick up. As a child, you couldn’t have
been their parent no matter how hard you tried.
Children are not capable of parenting other children.”
I think about how I failed my siblings and my nightmares come to
mind. Maybe she’ll understand how I felt
if I tell her about them. I need to
explain how responsible I felt. I hold
my breath as I let the pictures sink into my consciousness.
“I had nightmares for years while we were growing up. I always had to save my brothers and sisters
from some life-threatening situation.
One time they were in a barn that was on fire. Sometimes they were in a van that was sinking
into a lake, but most of the time we were being chased by a man. No matter how many times I killed the man, he
kept coming back to life.”
There’s one dream in particular that was worse than all the
others. I can’t get it out of my head,
but it’s so gruesome I don’t know if I want to tell Jen about it.
I’m in a glass
house with my brothers and sisters. The
house is surrounded by trees. The lights
are on, so the man who is chasing us can see inside but we can’t see out. I hurry the kids down the stairs into the
basement. I take a knife off the counter
and stand by the basement stairs guarding them.
Then the man is in the house. I
can feel it. I’m trembling. Then he’s there, right in front of me. I stab him, but he doesn’t die. He never dies. I keep stabbing him. He falls to the floor. He looks dead, but he always comes back to
life. I know he’s going to come back to
life, and I’m panicking because I’m so tired of being afraid of him. I can’t let him come back to life this
time. I have to do something. I start cutting him into pieces because I
think that maybe if he is in pieces he can’t come back to life. I can feel the knife cutting through his
flesh. It’s so gross, but I’m crazy
now. I have to do it. There’s no other choice. I put all the pieces into bags. I tie up the bags and bury them in holes far
apart from each other. Even after
they’re buried, I’m still afraid that the pieces will come back together
somehow. I feel like I will never
completely be rid of him.
“What do you think the man represented in your dream? Was there something that threatened your
safety?”
The dreams felt so real. I
was always so relieved when I woke up and realized it was just another
dream. I think for a moment about her
question. I was never physically
abused. I was just scared a lot.
“Well, a lot of times when my dad was drunk, he would yell and
scream at my mom. I never saw him hit
her, but he threw things and broke things and a lot of times he threatened her
by saying that if she didn’t start cleaning our house he was going to call
social services, and they would come and take us all away.”
My heart pounds harder thinking about it. My greatest fear growing up was the thought
that at any moment someone could show up at our house and take us all away.
I’m twelve and in
my bedroom wondering if our tree fort is big enough for our temporary hiding
place in case strangers show up at our house to take us away. Nobody will adopt all of us. They’ll split us up for sure. The fort is not very big, and the tree is
hard to climb. I don’t know if I can get
my baby sister up there. Even if I
could, it’s probably not safe. There’s
also the old shack down by the lake.
It’s pretty gross, but I don’t think anyone would look for us there. I would have to cover the hole in the floor,
but there’s extra wood. Once I found a
job, we could move into an apartment. I
wonder how old I have to be to get a job.
I don’t know if my brother can handle babysitting while I’m gone. I don’t even know how I’m going to get
everyone out of the house. I have to
figure out a plan because I will never let anyone split us apart. My head spins trying to come up with a
plan. I finally drift off to another
restless night’s sleep.
“That would explain why there was always a bad guy after you in
your dreams.”
“Yeah, I guess it would.”
1 comment:
amazing post
wichem
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