As a mother, I often crave the warmth and comfort that only my own mother could provide. Life can feel isolating, tiring, and overwhelming. There are moments when all I desire is her love and the reassurance that I’m doing well, that everything will turn out alright.
I owe so much of my parenting to her example of nurturing love and understanding. Her main role in my life was to offer acceptance and compassion, even during my toughest moments. She gracefully navigated the turbulent waters of adolescence and sibling rivalry, always providing a safe space. I remember her comforting me after nightmares and letting me skip school occasionally to spend time with her. She taught me that honesty was valued in our relationship, as she never made me feel ashamed or judged. My children could have truly won the grandma lottery, but her alcoholism has created an insurmountable barrier.
Her drinking began around the time I turned 9. I vividly recall the first time I witnessed her darker side. My brother and I were enjoying an afternoon with our friends, and when we approached her with a request for a sleepover, her response was shockingly violent—she flipped the chair we were sitting in. We were stunned; our sweet mom was acting completely out of character. That same year, a similar display of meanness ruined our Easter celebration, and I found it hard to comprehend.
Gradually, I came to realize that this was her behavior when she drank, often in secret. The only indicators were the coldness in her gaze and her unpleasant demeanor. As the years passed, I learned to seek her company only in the mornings. At first, she would offer apologies for her previous day’s actions, but eventually, those apologies faded. We all came to terms with the reality of her drinking problem, often downplaying its severity with humor and denial. Conversations about her alcoholism were never forthcoming; they were always swept under the rug.
Recently, my mother visited for the first time in over a year, and it was also the first time she met my son, who had already had a birthday. I was excited yet apprehensive; when she drinks, she becomes defensive, confrontational, and, frankly, odd. She mutters to herself and shoots disapproving looks, often unaware of her behavior.
During her visit, I cherished the moments when she was sober. I enjoyed asking her advice on everything from whether my baby needed medicine to which curtains would be best for my bedroom. One day, she even encouraged me to nap, and in a moment of clumsiness, I accidentally broke a picture frame. It felt wonderful to be able to complain to her, “Mom! I broke my picture frame!” and hear her reassuring response, “It’s OK. We’ll get a new one.” I’m usually the one who fixes things for my kids, so it felt refreshing to be cared for myself.
She suggested moving in with us in Florida, offering to help with the children while I returned to work. That would be a dream come true, but doesn’t she realize her drinking is a serious problem? One morning, I left my children with her while I ran errands. When I came back, I found her outside, holding the baby in one arm while smoking a cigarette with the other, blowing smoke in his direction. I was frustrated, but at least he wasn’t exposed to that all the time. I couldn’t trust her to take care of him daily, could she not see that? In the kitchen, I discovered an open bottle of wine, indicating she had finished a jug she started the day before. Why would I ever consider her a suitable caregiver?
My disappointment in her has led me to distance myself. Like many adult children of alcoholics, I avoid going home for holidays or visits. I wish she understood that my absence doesn’t stem from a lack of love; rather, I feel isolated and long for her presence. But I only want the sober version of my mother.
I want her to see how much richer my life would be with her actively involved—helping with my children and reminding me to take a break. I love her and worry she might think the emotional distance is my fault. I wish she could understand that it’s her drinking that creates this chasm. I fear she’ll never grasp this, leaving me feeling perpetually misunderstood.
While it’s easy to blame her, I reflect on my own role in this dynamic. Should I repay her unconditional love with understanding and acceptance? Perhaps I should view her alcoholism as a lesson in loving without reservation. It’s difficult to overlook her vices, but I know she possesses one of the kindest hearts. Yet, I often take her choices personally, feeling that if she truly wanted to be part of our lives, she would choose to quit.
I miss the sense of safety and comfort I felt as a little girl when my mom was around. Now, as a mother myself, I crave that feeling even more—not just for me, but for my children. They deserve to experience her ability to spoil them, her delightful catchphrase “Sure, put it in the cart,” and her gentle reminders that “they’re just children” during tough times. No one comforts them when I’m overwhelmed and lash out. I need my mom, and my children need their grandma, but there’s a significant barrier blocking that connection.
Conclusion
In conclusion, navigating my relationship with my alcoholic mother is a complex journey filled with love, disappointment, and longing. I desire a closer bond, yet her struggles create a distance I can’t ignore. My hope is that one day she can recognize the impact of her choices on our lives and seek the help she needs.
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Keyphrase: Distance between mother and daughter
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