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Can an Alcoholic Be a Good Mom?
Hello, I’m Ava, and I’m an alcoholic. I’m also a mother.
For the past five years, I’ve shared the phrase “I’m an alcoholic” countless times. The first instance happened in a packed room at an AA meeting, where I stood before strangers, tears streaming down my face. Just moments before, I had left a liquor store with a bottle of whiskey and a 12-pack in my truck. I noticed the building where AA meetings were held, and on a whim, I stepped inside, still unsure what had compelled me to go there. Was it fate? Maybe my higher power guiding me? That moment transformed my life. I wept like a child. Several women rushed to my side, leading me to a couch in the lobby. At last, someone cared.
After the meeting, I walked back to my truck, fully aware of the liquor waiting for me. I felt guilty about leaving with a list of names and numbers, suggestions to call when cravings hit. I definitely had those cravings. I didn’t return to AA because, deep down, I wasn’t ready to quit drinking. I lacked the courage to tell my teenage son about my feeble attempt to seek help.
If you’ve never experienced the grip of addiction, it’s natural to wonder why I feel this way. Isn’t the love for your child supposed to outweigh such struggles? Not always. Perfection is an illusion. My mother, an alcoholic, passed away before I could know her. My father drank occasionally but was never a heavy drinker. I witnessed him drunk just once in our 26 years together, a moment I now believe was rooted in depression—much like why I drink.
Depression and anxiety are relentless foes. When combined with alcohol, they wreak havoc on both mind and body. I drink to quiet my thoughts. Living with bipolar II disorder, I often find myself in hypomanic states, and alcohol seems to offer a temporary escape, a way to bring myself down when mania threatens to spiral out of control. While many people enjoy a glass of wine after a long day, I turn to whiskey in much larger quantities, seeking solace in the bottle.
Most nights, I rely on a fifth of bourbon to keep steady, but I know I’m not truly balanced. I wear a mask of happiness, but inside, I’m fighting a war. I remember the times I embarrassed my son, like when I attended one of his basketball games under the influence.
I reflect on my drinking habits, realizing that the depression still wins. While it may seem that I take pride in labeling myself an alcoholic, I feel anything but proud. Thoughts of my son are ever-present, and as he nears adulthood, my struggle with addiction continues. I’m doing my best to navigate the chaos created by my mental health challenges, even as I risk teaching my son unhealthy coping mechanisms.
In my twenties, I watched films like Bridget Jones’s Diary and Leaving Las Vegas, which romanticized drinking as a way to escape pain. Back then, it felt thrilling to experiment with addiction.
I don’t drink every day; there are stretches when I stay sober. I’ve said, “I’m not an alcoholic; I’m just a binge drinker,” but that’s not the truth. Admitting my addiction is challenging, especially while trying to be a good mother. Awareness is the first step.
So why share this now? Because I believe I’m not alone. There must be other mothers who create their own turmoil, drink by drink, wondering if they will ever feel whole. The decision lies with me, and I know I must choose my path carefully, despite the allure of the easier route.
I’m an intelligent woman who understands right from wrong. I’m simply trying to cope the best way I know how. If my choices seem flawed, remember, you’re not alone in this journey.
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Summary
Ava shares her journey as a mother grappling with alcoholism and mental health issues. She reflects on her experiences with addiction, the impact on her family, and the internal battles she faces daily. Ava emphasizes that awareness of one’s struggles is critical and reassures others that they are not alone in their challenges.