Children Will Listen

I’ve spent a few weeks revisiting a writing that includes parts of my story.  And in its writing, it is terribly difficult to present it responsibly.  To NOT bring emotion and viewpoint into its presentation, because I don’t want you to think that I don’t take responsibility for my own actions or that I blame anyone other than myself for my drinking.  But I also must be able to tell the story so that others can see themselves in it.  And also, so readers may have a more realistic picture of what the different stages of alcoholism look like.

It’s progressive.  That can’t be understated.  The unfortunate part of that being true, is that it’s often very difficult to see until enough time passes and enough bad things have happened, right?  Perhaps even a “rock bottom.”

And while it is progressive, it also mutates…changing just enough that I discounted the fact that it was still ongoing or as damaging.  I am much more educated now, and I truly wish that I would have read stories like mine over the last 10 years.  Because perhaps I would have recognized alcoholism appropriately and made changes in my life that truly supported recovery.  I must accept that I did the best with what I knew at the time and just move on.  Do better.  That’s why I write.  I am striving to fill my massive cup of regret by making a difference for someone else.  That’s what fuels this openness.

I am sure that I was an infuriating functioning alcoholic when I was in active addiction.  I am relatively smart, and I lied and covered up my drinking like a pro.  Back in London, I would hide my sometimes nightly drinking, occasionally starting earlier than expected, and finally fall apart in drunkenness every few months.  When I say “fall apart,” I don’t mean that I ran around the house raging at the children or fighting with my husband, I mean that I got unsteadily drunk which usually meant passing out at some point late in the evening.  That’s always been the case.  And that meant that my 11-year-old daughter put the 3-year-old to bed a few nights and had to call her father in downtown London and tell him that I was drunk again.  Yes, THAT’S what that looked like.  Terribly irresponsible and scary for my older two children.  And it’s also why my now 9-year-old doesn’t remember ever seeing me drunk or openly drink alcohol.  Because he was just too young to remember these moments, and that later, either I was sober or divorced and only drank badly when they were at their father’s.  Make sense?

But my daughter remembers. 

So, you can imagine that the two of them have very different feelings surrounding the past and also about my recovery now…because of their age and because of their experience.  I have had to be entirely accountable for these moments.  Openly discuss them with her, validate her feelings and also the very legitimacy of their occurrence.  No, it isn’t easy.  But it’s necessary. 

I even promoted the idea for her to write about it in her college essay about six months ago.  Yep.  There are no secrets in this household.  Not around my drinking.  Not anymore.  And it is important that she find her voice in all of it.  So, I didn’t pressure her at all, just gave her the idea and permission to do so.  She had been brainstorming ideas about an attribute to write about, and she couldn’t come up with anything specific.  Ugh, don’t you remember those terribly vague essay prompts?  Couldn’t they just ask about our favorite cereal and why we like it?  Anyway, she was totally lost in identifying a talent or attribute.  So, I told her how amazingly perceptive she IS and has always BEEN.  That she was the ONLY person in my life, who could always tell if I was drinking.  Even if it had only been one single glass.  Yep.  Entirely true and very annoying when it was occurring. 

There were evenings when the kids were with me, that I stole time past 10 pm and had a glass or two of Chardonnay in my room.  I always tried to go to bed after this point, but there were a few nights over the last four years…when I passed her in the upstairs hallway, making eye contact with her, and hoping that she didn’t know.  Um….she always did.  Or at least suspected it.  I could tell by the look in her eyes.  Yes, I’m perceptive too.

And THAT was damaging.  It didn’t matter that I was not drunk, really.  It mattered that I was lying in some way and that I made her question herself.  Because I did.  She even openly accused me of drinking a couple of times, and I discounted and denied her that truth.  How incredibly wrong of me.  So, I’ve tried to make up for that wrong by telling her that anytime she even suspected it, she was probably right.  I hope this affirmation was empowering.

Yes, she wrote that essay.  Independently.  And I am deeply proud of her for doing so.

So, part of acceptance is also realizing that I affected everyone around me.  Even if I wasn’t drunk.  Even if I only drank badly over the last five years when I wasn’t around the children.

Another part of allowing my children to own their personal stories, is my being this vocal and unapologetic about the fact that I was an alcoholic.  That’s why I wrote Gray Matters.  How can I ever expect them to be able to overcome failure if I don’t own mine as well? 

Yes, I was fearful that they could experience negative consequences for my honesty.  They did to some degree.  And I’m sure they will in the future.  That sucks, but that’s just life.  At least I trust myself enough to help them wade through those waters and know that I will always be there to help guide them if they so choose.  Because secrets become haunting shadows that we all too often deny are following us, sometimes even ahead of our steps.

I vow that I will never lie to my children again, not if the intention is MY personal comfort level.  Never again.

If there’s anything that you hope your children aren’t talking about with others, the onus is probably on YOU.  It sure as hell was in my case.

And what are the ramifications that my children still experience because of my past drinking?  It’s pretty easy for me to see what I’VE done.  I try to make amends for this each and every day.  But I have no control over the consequences that they experience from others.  And I’m sure that we are only AWARE of some of it. 

Will plays with friends and there is only a portion of these families that know about my past.  It’s strange to think about, and difficult for me NOT to just greet other mothers at the door and just say, “Hi, I’m Will’s mom, I’m an alcoholic…but I’m really nice and responsible.”  Can you imagine???

There are real reasons behind why I don’t openly call myself that.  An alcoholic.  Not because of shame, but because it seems to define my past, not my present or what I want for my future.  And there is no way to control how other people take that word, specifically.  If you’ve already read these blogs, I’ve already told you some stories about this.  Yes, everyone has an ugly picture of what this is.  Adults and children alike.  I did as well.  And that picture in my head, that CHARACTER in a movie who drank in the mornings, broke laws, and fell down stairs is what I thought an alcoholic looked like.  That’s also why I continued to drink.  So, no….I don’t encourage them to say I AM an alcoholic, but I WAS.  

I am a person IN RECOVERY.  Most people can figure out what that means.  And if it’s a child and they ask questions, I bet my children are building a better vocabulary and also the courage to be able to speak about it.  Hell YEAH!  And then I just have to let it go.  A child or parent MAY think that I was that character in the movie every hour of the day, or they may be more educated and know that THAT isn’t always the case. 

It is still painful to know that my children are paying for my mistakes.  My youngest is nine, is still trying to understand that I was an alcoholic….and also happens to be my only child who possibly faces being shunned because of it.  At least that we know of.  And that’s on me.  I drank badly one too many times around my friend and her family after separation, and while it was only a few times, it was enough for her to end our friendship.  I have only talked about this a few times.  Ever.  Because honestly, there may have been more residual pain than the end of my first marriage.  Yep.  Entirely true.  But after that decision, she didn’t allow her son in my home.  Or ever invite mine over to hers.  Sure, it’s possible that the boys just weren’t close anymore.  It’s also possible that she may never forgive me and that my son will pay the price for that indefinitely.

And yes, I had to be honest about that as well.  I owned that my actions were the CAUSE for that decision.  And I explained to a nine-year-old that all he can do is be the best human he can be.  That includes honesty and also the STRENGTH to accept the actions of others.  That doesn’t make it right, it just makes it real.

So…if you ever thought that my writing seems strong and powerful, please know that it also contains humility.  There is strength in being this humble.  There is strength in owning the failures of my past.  I only hope that I pass on that strength to my children in the best of possible ways. 

Because they deserve it.

This is how I determine just how susceptible they are to this disorder.  This is how I help them beat the statistics.

Through education, empowerment and honesty.  

"Children Will Listen"

by Stephen Sondheim

How do you say to your child in the night
Nothing is all black but then nothing is all white?
How do you say it will all be alright
When you know that it mightn't be true?
What do you do?
Careful the things you say.  Children will listen
Careful the things you do.  Children will see.  And learn
Children may not obey, But children will listen
Children will look to you, For which way to turn, To learn what to be
Careful before you say "Listen to me"
Children will listen