I feel kind of stupid getting upset about it, since plenty of people must deal with drunk roommates and friends. My mom relapsed again, after being sober for a good six months; a long stretch of time for her. She often relapses once every four months, give or take, and usually involves her 'discretely' holing up in her room all night. I can hear her go to the bathroom to drink water pretty often, but when I go check on her she's out cold or spouting nonsense. Is it even my right to decide whether she drinks or not; does my approval REALLY matter? I'm 19, for God's sake, shouldn't I be over it? Just let her drink if she wants to??? But she's an alcoholic, and can't drink responsibly – but I don't know that, maybe she's changed, except no, since she'll still try to drive drunk. Just take the child endangerment charge. That's solid proof that she CANNOT drink again. I got tangled up in a court case and paid $2000 in fees to get her a good lawyer; this is personal, and I have a fucking right to put my foot down. It's not healthy, it's not safe, and it's not a good coping mechanism. But I feel like utter garbage denying her a drink. It calms her down, and it numbs her pain (physical and mental), and I don't want her to be in pain. It's like I'm causing her to suffer, and I hate it; like I'm torturing the person I love most in the world. And I feel guiltier, because I refused to scrounge through her room looking for vodka, but even when I do that I feel guilty, because it's not right to nose through people's things.
Earlier tonight she came downstairs, stumbling into the kitchen, and as soon as she opened her mouth I knew she'd been drinking. God, I'd never smelt the vodka on her breath before tonight; it's awful. Her face was sweaty and red, her eyes teary, and she kept saying "I'm gonna-gonna-store-get-get-gonna get, uh – get um, I'm gonna get – gonna get, was gonna…gonna get -" like a broken record, and I hated it. I hated it. I hated it a lot. And it's stupid, because she's never hit me, but I'm always scared she'll hurt me when she's drunk. All she's done is accidentally claw at my arm and hug me, or at least try to, but never attacked me. I feel so bad about even thinking about it! Why would my mind even conjure up the thought??? It took me way too long to say she wasn't going to drive. I kept my eyes on her as I went around her to dig through her purse, as if she was suddenly going to drunkenly hit her child, and was legitimately scared. Nothing happened. In fact, I was digging around and she dug out her keys for me. She kept saying "I really want to drink. I really, really need to drink," over and over and over, and I felt so bad, but I took the keys, and I hid them, and I don't fucking know what she's going to do for work tomorrow. She came home at noon earlier today saying she was sick, but I don't even know if that was true. I knew she was anxious and depressed and hurting, but I always trust her not to drink, no matter how many times she relapses. It's so STUPID. It's like I never learn, or something? Why can't I get really mad at her? Hate her? It doesn't make sense. Even when she was actively drinking, constantly drunk, I never got mad at her. Why? It doesn't make sense. Is there something wrong with me, or is that normal? She even dug out her empty little vodka containers; two 50% vodka bottles, half pints. About 8 shots worth of vodka. She probably has more upstairs, but I was too much of a coward to go up and search for them. I'm not even sure I will tomorrow, when she's – hopefully – sober. I'm a thrice-damned coward. Am I helping, or am I hurting? I can't tell.
There were so many times where I should have called 911 when I was 11, and 12, and 13. She fell down the stairs a lot. Sometimes she wouldn't get up. I didn't do anything, I just sat by her and cried, and did nothing. I didn't even realize she was drinking until I was 14, and that was only because someone spelled it out for me – right as they were also explaining she was going to leave for three months and that my dad was divorcing my mom and leaving the house. God, it was so obvious. I started taking care of her when she got surgery on her leg, and then it just…continued for three years. Fifth through seventh grade. Somehow, during those months where she had to use crutches and needed help moving around, it became normal. I liked taking care of her, it made me feel good, but then it didn't stop. I missed so much school, and my family thought I was suicidal – and did nothing about it -, and I was anxious and depressed and crying all the time. I still hate my room. At night, I'd hear my mom in the bathroom – the toilet was right through the wall where my bed was -, crying and sobbing and bashing her head and back against the toilet, talking about how she hated everyone, including me, and wished she didn't exist. I know it's stupid, but sometimes she'd come into my room and try to cuddle with me, and it really, really freaked me out. An inordinate amount. Nothing even happened; she'd just pass out on my bed, and I'd sleep on the couch. It's so dumb, but that's one of the more upsetting parts to me; not all those times I couldn't wake her up, or when she knocked herself out falling down the stairs, but her trying to cuddle with me. It's so fucking stupid! I don't even talk about it with anyone, and I've seen a therapist since I was 11! It's just so dumb! People would start to ask questions, and I don't ever want to think about them, because those sort of questions are horrible. Embarrassing. Humiliating. I can't stand drunk people now, and it's stupid, because people get drunk all the time, but they make me panic and I hate it. And you know what's almost worse? I didn't get angry at her when I found out she was drinking. I got angry at everyone else; at my siblings,and at my dad (who, to be fair, both deserved the anger; you don't let your 'suicidal' sister go about her life like nothing is wrong; what is wrong with you – !). I ended up spending most of the summer (which it thankfully was) with my mom as she was doing outpatient rehab, and, frankly, it's the happiest summer I've ever had. She was…a completely different person. Like a whole new person. That hasn't lasted, though; she's depressed and anxious and stressed all the time now. In pain and I can't do anything about it, and all I do is take away her alcohol, and take away her choice of numbing agent. God. That's a sad transition. She was so happy during those months. Now that I really think about it, that's why it was such an amazing summer. She wasn't in pain, she was getting better, she was lucid, god she was lucid, and we had fun and we talked and I didn't take care of her! I miss that. A lot. It's wonderful to think about, but at the same time bittersweet, because she's never that happy now, and I don't trust her like that anymore. She relapsed too many times, years after she got sober, and now I don't trust her. Isn't that terrible? I love her, more than anything, but I don't trust her? I don't have friends, and I'm not close to any other family members. But, at the same time, I do still trust her, blindly, like an idiot. I believe in her, that she isn't drinking, every time. It's like my brain can't hold onto the negative feelings she's generated, somehow, like water off a duck's back, and that irritates me, because I wish I could be mad, and distrustful, and upset. Maybe then I'd move out, or seek friends, or something, like my sister did. But instead I accept it, like it's normal, and I just sit here. I just sit here, and do nothing.
I'm so sweaty and gross and uncomfortable and anxious. I want to scream and cry and throw shit and I don't want to deal with tomorrow, because I have to talk to her about tonight, and it's awkward and I hate it so, so much. I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I haaaate it I hate it a lot, I took a picture of a beautiful flower for her, and it's stupid, but I thought she'd like it, and I brought her her soda and ice and she was drunk and I didn't see it, because I never see it, and she always lies, always always always lies, she never stops lying, because she's so good at it. She's amazing at it, she doesn't twitch, she keeps going, she sticks to it like it's gospel, like it's true but it's not true it's never true, but I can never get that through my thick, stupid skull, and I can't trust her, and I hate it. I hate taking care of people now, it makes me feel sick to my stomach, and it makes me so sad, because I loved taking care of people as a kid, I really did. I loved going to the old folk's home and letting them fawn over me, and helping them around, but now it makes me nauseous, and it's so sad. Even bringing her that ice, that soda, made me feel sick; caged, trapped, awful. I never want to take care of anybody ever again. Ever. I don't want to be stuck, and in denial, and stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.