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Updated: April 20, 2021
Originally Published: April 20, 2021
“Wake me up if a car comes,” my mother mumbled, her words slurred as she parked the truck. The traffic light above us flickered to a glaring green, and then she drifted off.
It was late, and we were in our small pickup truck on a desolate road in Texas. My mother was at the wheel, while I, at eleven years old, sat frozen with fear, keeping vigilant watch for any headlights. Staring into the darkness beyond the window, I felt utterly isolated, even with her by my side.
My mother wasn’t tired from a long day’s work or a lengthy drive; she had taken a mix of prescription medications that left her nearly unconscious. That night, the thought of seeing headlights terrified me. They would shine like beacons, exposing us for everyone to see. If a police officer noticed us idling at a green light, he would surely stop to investigate. What would happen then? The fear of being discovered consumed me, but so too did the fear of continuing our journey — what if my mother fell asleep at the wheel?
As I looked over to her, head resting against the window, eyes closed, and mouth agape, embarrassment washed over me. My friends’ mothers didn’t behave like this. I couldn’t understand why mine did.
I often ponder why that moment at the traffic light resurfaces in my mind. It seems trivial, a minor incident compared to the more severe experiences stemming from my mother’s addiction. I can’t recall if any headlights appeared that night. Eventually, I would rouse her during one of our breaks, and we would continue on, somehow reaching our destination. In retrospect, it was likely one of the first times I felt a sense of responsibility for my mother, and I suspect it’s when my anxiety began.
Over time, my embarrassment morphed into deep resentment. Why was I burdened with worry while she escaped reality with those pills? Why couldn’t she be a regular mom? Those questions gnawed at me until, as an adult, I found myself dodging her calls and avoiding her presence altogether. I often pretended she didn’t exist.
Her addiction impacted not just her but everyone around her, leading to a bitter divorce, a custody struggle, her homelessness, multiple arrests, and ultimately her death from an overdose in 2013. I regret that I let myself dwell on the painful memories for years. While I felt profound sorrow at her passing, I had convinced myself that I deserved to suppress any good memories of her.
Now, at thirty, after nearly two decades of resentment, I’m beginning to cultivate empathy. I’m learning to release my own pain and seek to understand hers.
Although the negative moments are etched in my mind, the positive ones linger too, often as fleeting sensations rather than distinct memories. A familiar scent, a passing image, or a song can evoke feelings of joy I experienced with her. During her sober moments, she was vibrant, witty, and affectionate. I recognize that there were many good times, even if I struggle to recall them clearly.
Like my mother, I grapple with severe anxiety and depression, often experiencing panic attacks. Throughout my life, I’ve put in great effort to ensure that I don’t follow in her footsteps (my children will never face what I endured). But I understand how easy it is to feel trapped and want to escape.
Fortunately, mental health discussions have come a long way in the past two decades. I’ve learned to recognize my symptoms and share them with others. I don’t think my mother had this knowledge. To many, she was simply the erratic drug user, and few trusted her.
I often reflect on what her life might have been if her mental health had been appropriately addressed. Perhaps things would be different today had the right person provided guidance at the right time. I’m not suggesting no one tried to help her; many did. (My father invested nearly all his resources, and now he cringes at the thought of marriage.) Yet, despite their efforts, it often seemed she resisted help. I understand addiction can be an exhausting battle, and those struggling may feel too defeated to fight. I can’t help but feel that if she had sought help early on, things might have turned out differently.
I love my mother. I always have, even through my anger and embarrassment — even during those moments of keeping watch at traffic lights. Nearly eight years after her death, I still miss her daily. Her struggles with mental health and addiction obscured the true person I longed to connect with. I wish I had more time with the real her. Despite her significant mistakes, I cling to every reason I can find to love her.
This article was originally published on April 20, 2021.