We maintained the house and did the shopping, cooking, and cleaning. My mother tried to reengage as a parent from time to time, but those phases did not last long. When my father returned to the United States, it meant he was unemployed and was depressed and despondent, full of regrets and remorse, which came out as outbursts of anger.
My youthful “controlled drinking and using” meant that I had to be down from my high and semicoherent by late afternoon to cook dinner for the family and do my homework. At that point in my using career, I was still trying to be a good girl. It was a pattern that would follow me through my addiction years. I walked a tightrope between being a good and eager student, friend, and daughter and being a wild, politically active protestor, drinker, and drug user. While I believed strongly in the political protest against the Vietnam War and social change for both racial and gender equality, I was enchanted with drugs, including alcohol. I ended most weekend rallies by going home with some older guy to get high, rather than with a fellow demonstrator or activist to plan for another day’s activities.
My bad behavior carried over to my home, where I was an impossible child. On one hand, while managing our household and doing most of the chores, I also tried to parent my younger siblings and mediate the fights between my parents. On the other hand, I was frequently high or drunk, reckless with my health and safety, and truant from school whenever possible. As I said, with my father working out of the country much of the time and my mom suffering with her own demons, I was drawn to the freedom of the streets and the irresponsibility of the urchin life. I ran away from home a couple of times to avoid terrors, real or imagined. I threatened to drop out of high school, but instead I did an accelerated program and graduated early. I was that unsure of my ability to continue the duplicitous life of the good girl/bad girl. I couldn’t keep the two lives apart. The compliant student was no longer stronger than the full-blown addict. Soon after graduating from high school at seventeen, I left home.
In and out of junior college, in and out of relationships, taking minimum-wage jobs, and hanging out with the kids who had dropped out of high school, I continued my drug and alcohol use. I did so until I moved to Colorado, but not before getting pregnant. I was sure having a baby would give me structure and purpose. I moved away with the love of my life, hoping that the opportunities near Boulder would keep me straight and allow for us to create a “normal” life. However, “wherever you go—there you are.” I was still a depressed, insecure, frightened, dependent girl. I was leaning on him to give me security and focus. I had no real employment skills; I was still a mess. I went back to doing what I knew how to do: the good girl in me did volunteer work at the elementary school, and the addict side worked in the local bar at night.
Pregnancy made me nauseated, and for those months I was unable to drink. I was not a sane person. Being young, with raging hormones, large with child, jealous of all women, and alone in an unknown state, I was unkind and possessive, frightened, and demanding of all. As soon as my daughter was born, I was drinking again. Working in the bar made drinking affordable, and I drank for entertainment, for distraction, and as an excuse for all the hell we put each other through. The relationship with “him” broke up, drama ensued, and another baby was conceived. And “he” was gone.
I returned to school, and this time the pregnancy could tolerate drinking, so I was drunk most of the time. I worked in a bar, tended to my child, went to school, and studied. For five long months, I exhausted my body and mind with this cycle of school, motherhood, and my barmaid job on the weekends. I again came to the edge of insanity, and this time tipped right over. I created a drama to reunite myself and my children with their father (unsuccessfully); I successfully finished my semester at university and moved back to California. I had enlisted the help of friends to bring me back. One woman flew out and drove us back to the Bay Area, while another housed and comforted me until I could find my own place. With public assistance I was able to rent a place with roommates and enroll in college again.
So the good girl wanted to become a good mother and a good student, and to be employable. The bad one found intravenous (IV) drugs. I remained enrolled in school, gave birth to my second child, and had addicts and dealers in the house. I was part of the parent-participation nursery school my daughter attended, was a board member of a local nonprofit, attended single mothers’ group meetings, and went to college. I also drank like a fish and used drugs. The three of us—my two children and I—were incredibly fortunate not to have been harmed by others as the result of my lifestyle. Drugs, including alcohol, were now a requirement for daily living. Friends were betrayed and lost forever; my family was disappointed time and time again by broken promises and unreliable agreements. Even doing jobs like house painting for cash seemed beyond my ability. Once again I rushed through school to be certain I could finish—without a job skill but with a diploma. Relationships with family, friends, and roommates were trashed, and eventually falling in love and moving in with a dealer seemed like a reasonable solution to my using needs.
I was able to keep a receptionist job after college graduation. It was not quite the career I imagined after having earned a BA degree, but I was ill-suited for anything else. I did quit IV drugs, but was now a round-the-clock drinker. My daily cutoff was five a.m.; I had to be at work at eight, and it took three hours for my breath to clear. I worked eight hours a day, picked the children up from preschool, stopped at a small corner market for a quart of rum, and went home to hole up, pretend to be a mom, put the kids to bed, and drink through the night. I did this for several years, breaking down my body, puffing up with the high sugar content of the alcohol, and living on poor food and little sleep. I ended up breaking all promises to my kids about trips to the zoo, the beach, or the park, or even just going outdoors. I even lost track of whether I had fed them at night. I would frequently dress them in dirty clothes, as I often couldn’t stop drinking to retrieve the laundry from the laundromat until after it had closed. I became so worn down and paranoid that I could no longer make decisions at a store, make change, or answer the door or phone at home. Work became increasingly challenging, and I was an emotional wreck.
One night I sat on the edge of the bed—no special night or unusual event—when I thought, “I cannot go on, I cannot do this anymore.” I was unclear in my mind as to whether “this” referred to taking care of the kids and going to work or to drinking and using. I felt strongly that I could not do both, and if I chose to continue to drink and use, my kids would go, the job would go, and my actual SELF would go—my authentic, genuine, inside soul/self would drift away. I would walk out the door and not return—go into the arms of whoever could or would keep me high. I felt as if I could actually see my core being as a mist floating in front of my eyes; the choice between dissipating or integrating was as fragile as my next breath.
Finally I moved to the phone to call a friend who, as rumor had it, was in recovery. She answered her phone and eagerly agreed to meet me and take me to a meeting the next day. I had my last drink that night, but drugs did not leave me that easily. While I abstained from alcohol for nearly three months, I knew I had to move away from my dealer boyfriend. So I moved to San Jose, hoping that a new town would separate me from my obsessions. My need for him was all balled up with my need for drugs, and I was unable to keep them separate for quite some time. I finally broke up with him, cutting myself off from the supply, and really entered recovery. I had not been honest in my twelve-step meetings about the drug use, so I had not sought support. I slipped one final time, drinking a pint of cough syrup. That was twenty-five years ago. So, though I stepped into the rooms on July 5, 1983, my recovery anniversary is actually April 29, 1985.
During the past two-plus decades I have raised my family, found a career, and seen my parents through their final illnesses and my brother through a life-changing accident. I have made friends with my family and family out of my friends. The road to emotional and spiritual health was not smooth. It was necessary for me to get professional counseling, something I would utilize on occasion for most of my life. I was so shaky in my first recovery meetings that I cannot tell you much about them. Some people can remember with enviable clarity their first meeting, their first work with a sponsor. That was not to be the case for me. I was a mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual wreck.
I
