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I remember being just six years old, caught in the turmoil of my parents’ arguments. They were fighting over a missed field trip because they had overslept again. I peeked into the kitchen to find my dad yelling and shoving my mom against the glass door. That was the first vivid memory I have of them.
At twelve, I lay in bed with my sister, struggling to sleep amidst their nightly drinking. I started to feel responsible for their conflicts. “If I did more, maybe they wouldn’t fight,” I thought. In a desperate attempt to protect my sister, we snuck into the kitchen to pour out their alcohol. I promised myself, “If they stop drinking right now, I will never touch alcohol.”
On my fourteenth birthday, I decided to bake my own cake, a rare treat that my mom allowed. But that night, my parents celebrated with a fifth of Crown Royal instead. I ended up singing “Happy Birthday” to myself in the kitchen while they partied without me.
At sixteen, I was offered my first drink. Memories of sleepless nights spent worrying about my parents flooded back. I could almost see my sister’s disappointed eyes if I gave in. I turned down the drink without hesitation, vowing not to start drinking until I was nineteen.
Fast forward to twenty, my parents were going through a chaotic divorce. My dad was spiraling, drinking heavily and threatening my mom. I was pregnant with my first child, navigating a high-risk pregnancy while focusing on trying to shield my mother from my dad’s fury.
By twenty-one, I had become a new mom. After my son spent ten weeks in the NICU, I fell into the “mommy wine” stereotype, indulging in wine a few times a week. I thought I was fine; I was vigilant about not repeating my parents’ mistakes.
However, at twenty-six, I found myself pulled over with flashing police lights behind me. I spent a night in jail and thought nothing of it since many of my friends had experienced the same. But a week later, I had a blackout and told paramedics I wanted to die. That was the wake-up call I needed.
At twenty-eight, court-ordered to attend AA meetings, I was indifferent. I thought the long-time sober attendees were exaggerating their successes. I was consuming a half a fifth of rum daily, deep in depression and anxiety. I refused to see that I had a problem, convincing myself that I could quit anytime.
After nine months of attending meetings, everything changed. I craved the happiness and stability that others had. I realized I had become exactly like my parents, even fighting with my husband. My life was chaos, and I was the biggest denier of all.
Mornings were filled with panic attacks, hangovers, and shame. I knew I had to change. On November 14th, 2020, I finally decided that enough was enough. I immersed myself in sobriety, creating a separate Instagram account dedicated to my journey and following others who were on the same path. I started attending AA meetings four times a week, discovering new hobbies, and caring for myself.
Now, at twenty-eight, I wake up before dawn, almost six months sober. I cherish my morning coffee, kiss my husband goodbye, and relish the calmness that has finally settled in my life. Everything feels right at last.
For more insights on the journey of parenthood and home insemination, check out this blog post, or explore resources at Make a Mom and ASRM.
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Summary: This personal account details the journey of a woman raised by two alcoholics who, despite vowing never to drink, falls into the same patterns. After hitting rock bottom, she embraces sobriety and transforms her life, ultimately finding peace and stability.