My husband and I got into a huge fight.
Well… I guess that’s not entirely true. *I* got into a huge fight with my husband, and for the life of him, he just couldn’t understand why on earth I was so upset. I own up to it when I’m wrong, every time – always – without exception. I’ve had 38 years of mastering the art; by now that makes me the Omnipotent Guru Of Being Wrong And Admitting It.
Except for this time.
I am not wrong. How not-wrong am I, you ask. Just walk with me for a moment. Pretend you know an alcoholic, or maybe you already do, so you don’t have to pretend. Let’s say this on-the-wagon-off-the-wagon, decades-long alcoholic had a rough few months of serious binge drinking earlier this year, making herself sick and making everyone around her feel miserable.
And say that same alcoholic finally stopped drinking (again) about two months ago.
In my case, the alcoholic is my mother-in-law, who has been my family’s houseguest for fucking months now and will continue to be for… well, what looks to be permanently. Failing health, and her own refusal to make any sort of effort to take care of herself, is what has led us to this place – to her setting up permanent camp in the room directly across the hall from the bedroom my two kids now have to share.
Last night, I found out that she has started drinking again. In “moderation,” as it’s being called. And my husband, bless his heart, doesn’t see a problem with it because he lives in a world where the act of saying a word out loud not only rewrites history, but it ensures that the same mistakes will never happen again in the future. Like magic. Maybe I married a warlock.
You wanna know about the last time she drank in moderation? Let’s see, it was… hmm. Oh right. I remember now. It was the never before last Never, in the year 19-neventy-never.
I only want what’s best for her, but more importantly, what’s best for my family. I grew up with an alcoholic father, and I remember the emotional toll all too well. The walking on eggshells. The verbal cruelty that manifests itself in the form of slurred insults from a “loved one” – aspersions which are forgotten by the caster as soon as the buzz wears off but are never forgotten by their intended targets.
It’s been 20 years since I lived at home with my parents. I can still recite the horrible things my father said to me when he was drunk. You might one day forgive, mostly – but you never forget.
During her last binge, she started sliding down that nasty slope and my kids were subjected to her drunken behavior in all its wretched glory. The more she drank, the meaner she became. She’ll never remember the things she’s said to my husband – and there were some pretty damned low blows that deeply affected him afterward – because she was rarely sober during that time. On the brief occasions when she was, she was sick as a dog.
I don’t know if I could ever truly express how difficult those months were, for all of us.
Because I am done with her shit, I no longer want alcohol in this house. And that’s a tragedy, because I cook a lot of foods with wine and I have my favorites for drinking on occasion. I’m really hoping my cranberry sauce tastes all right this year without the amaretto I usually simmer into it. We’ll see. It’s a small sacrifice, but to try and help fix the problem – to keep any and all temptation far away from her – I decided that alcohol has no place in my home anymore. It just doesn’t.
That’s the one and only request I have made since the day she moved in, and it has subsequently been disregarded because fuck me and fuck what it will do to my family, let alone what it will do to her own vulnerable health. This is what we have to live with now, like it or not, for the indeterminate future. And that’s just A-fucking-OK with everyone else.
I’m the one with the problem.
Me.
When someone you love refuses to accept reality, “exasperation” doesn’t seem a strong enough word to describe the feeling you’re left with. The frustration is indescribable. No matter what you say, no matter what sound argument you bring forth, the only response you get from them is: “This time is going to be different.”
Yes. This time, it was different.
For the first time in our 13 years of marriage, I left. I got out before I completely flipped out on my husband within earshot of the kids and I grabbed my coat and my car keys, and stormed out of the house. I peeled out of the driveway like they do in the movies, all screeching tires and flying gravel and a cloud of dust. I have to admit, that part was kind of exciting and for the briefest moment it made me forget why I was in my car in the first place.
So I drove. Like a speeding maniac down our country road, screaming at the top of my lungs and expressing everything I really wanted to say but never, ever could without destroying the world we live in. It’s a heavy burden to bear, carrying all that ammunition around. I needed to unload some of it, somewhere. When I reached the main road, I drove more responsibly, still cursing aloud this situation that has been the core of most of our arguments since we’ve been married. I mean, we’ve had our share of mild-mannered disagreements over the years, but fights? Yell-y, nasty angry-faced, fight-fights? Those are extremely rare. Or at least, they used to be. My normally Resting Bitch Face has become more of a permanent, All-The-Time Bitch Face.
It ain’t pretty.
By the time I’d driven fifteen miles or so, I started to calm down a little. Mostly, I was just sad. Sad that I felt the only way to really get my point across was to walk out. To make some big dramatic exit like the diva I’m not. But godsdammit. I didn’t (don’t!) understand what’s so difficult to grasp about my logic. I just couldn’t see how I was in the wrong for feeling the way that I do. A recovering alcoholic is – and always will be – a recovering alcoholic. Nothing good will come from this attempt at “moderation.” I know it. I had tried to use the analogy that you don’t give a recovering heroin addict “just one little syringe,” no matter how long they’ve been on the wagon. To which my husband responded, just before I left: “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way.”
I wasn’t sorry.
I drove on through pitch darkness, in silence. Eventually, I had to pee and I was starting to get really cold because the heat in my car isn’t working. I know… winter is upon us and I really do need to get it fixed.
*Tosses that up on her long list of shit to do.*
Fleece blanket tucked around my legs and gloves on my hands, I ended up traveling a total of about 40 miles or so last night. One big stupid circle that led right back to my driveway. Kind of reminded me of what an impudent child might do, one who throws a tantrum, runs away from home and ends up only circling the city block she lives on because she isn’t allowed to cross the street.
They say family ties are the ones that bind, but it’s no coincidence that they often become the ones we accidentally strangle ourselves with. I’m not wrong, and I stand by that.
The author has elected to share her story anonymously.