This post was originally posted last year, just after the death of singer Whitney Houston.
To me, the greatest love of all is between a parent and a child. No matter how much we as parents think we love our children, the love they feel for us is even greater, and we have a huge impact on their lives and futures. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Bobbi Kristina, the 18-year-old daughter that Whitney Houston left behind. Through the years I’ve kept an eye on her in photographs – probably because she reminds me of myself, growing up with two alcoholic parents, being their ‘caretaker’.
Caretaker: A word that makes me cringe.
When you become a parent your greatest love is your children. But when you’re an alcoholic-addict parent, your greatest love is your drug of choice. No matter how remorseful you are, no matter what your best intentions are, or how much you say you love your children. Everything else, and this includes your children – takes a backseat to your addiction.
No child should ever have to worry about their parents. It’s supposed to be the other way around. But in an alcoholic family, everything gets turned upside down.
When I heard that Bobbi K. was taken to the hospital to be treated for stress and anxiety after her mother died – I just, well, I understood.
She has a long road ahead of her.
There were photos of her allegedly taking drugs – snorting cocaine, smoking pot. My heart sank. I hope she doesn’t go the route her parents went – but statistically the likelihood of a child of alcoholic-addicts becoming an alcoholic-addict themselves is huge. The likelihood of them marrying alcoholic-addicts is also huge.
For me to recover from the deaths of my alcoholic parents, I had to do a lot of soul-searching, a ton of therapy, and go to a shit-load of Alanon meetings – for years. I went to my first Alanon meeting at 18, the same age Bobbi is now. I also had to get that I could never touch alcohol or drugs myself or the same doomed future awaited me.
So that’s what I did. I knew from a young age that I didn’t want to live – or die – like my parents.
It wasn’t easy, but it was simple.
Here I am now – a grown woman, leading a normal life, raising my children. My children will never have to worry about me like I worried about my parents. They will never have to sponge up the toxic debris left in the wake of a parent’s ism.
I’m still watching members of my family struggle with the family demons – drugs, alcoholism, mental illness. There are ongoing dramatic efforts to get people into rehab, phone calls with interventionists, suicide attempts, concern over the possibility of future suicides (plural), hospitalizations, the tsunami of lost opportunities, lost futures…all the unfair shit that accompanies addiction and mental illness.
It’s beyond awful, especially because after my parents died I really thought that was the end of it. But it wasn’t. Alcoholism is an inherited psycho-social-bio disease, one that’s passed down through families in many different ways, not the least of which is biochemically and genetically.
Many of you know that I wrote a semi-autobiographical novel – the story of a young woman on the verge of adulthood who’s coming to terms with the impending death of her alcoholic mother.
Writing it was cathartic for me. It took me six years. It was one of the things that helped me to recover me, because a primary unspoken rule in alcoholic families is don’t tell the truth. So I grew up accidentally perpetuating a lie – not being able to put into words the devastation that I was seeing all around me, yet at the same time becoming an unusually honest person, and, ironically, a writer – honest to the point of rudeness. In groups, although I’m hearing what’s coming out of people’s mouths, what I’m really hearing is the sub-text: the psychological stuff they’re not saying but are communicating (and this is exhausting; it’s one reason why I can only take so much group activity). I’m always the one to point out the proverbial elephant in living rooms – and this is exhausting too.
It’s the kind of honesty that is hard-won, the kind that grows in response to ongoing denial – a lifetime of denial, really.
I’m including a scene from my novel below that depicts the high-level of denial in an alcoholic family. The worse the alcoholism – the bigger the sense of denial that engulfs its family members. I wonder about all the hoops of denial that Bobbi Kristina has had to jump through. How many bathtubs did she pull her mother out of before this final tragedy? How many times did she try to wake her up, put her to bed, try to help her stop, threaten her, call the doctor, deal with her hangover, pick up her prescriptions, throw them down the toilet, get her into rehab? How many times did she go to her father for help and encounter denial?
Denial is huge. It’s one of the things a family rearranges itself around so its members can cope with alcoholism. I know this now, but it was really tough to deal with growing up.
In the scene from my novel, which really happened – we had taken my mom to a mother’s day brunch at a fancy restaurant even though she was clearly dying. I had wanted to drive her to the hospital instead of to brunch, but no one would listen to me. It turned out that my mom was so sick that a stranger had to call an ambulance, and the EMTs came and took her out of the restaurant on a gurney. The thing is – the rest of us were also very sick too – but in a different way, maybe the same way that Bobbi Kristina is sick now: sick with another person’s sickness, brain-damaged by denial.
We all sure could have used an emotional gurney.
Excerpt from my novel
Since we had taken the manager by surprise, like guerrilla soldiers, we were already on our way to our table in the center of the room before he could think of a way to stop us. My mother tried to sit at the first table we came to, a family of five – two boys, red heads, a girl with Care Bears clips in her hair, the yuppie parents – but somehow I lifted her off the chair and navigated my skeletal, near-death mother through the now silent dining room to our table. By the time Raj helped me to get her into a chair, my tears were coming. They came hard and fast and I couldn’t stop them. I was aware that the people in the dining room didn’t want to see a dying woman and a sobbing one, but I couldn’t stop crying.
“Well,” said my father, passing out menus, dropping one in front of Dee, Mr. Jowl, Raj, Sigrid, Garcia, and me. I couldn’t bear to look at the canned cheeriness on his face or the perspiration on his brow. He was on autopilot, in uber-denial, smack-dab in the middle of his own colossal nervous breakdown.
I could do nothing but watch everything as if it were a movie and try to pretend that I was alone with my mother in a hospital room. I knelt beside her. I took her small cold hand in mine and tried to warm it between my palms. The room was hot and close but she was so cold. Did somebody turn off the air conditioner? Could I maybe find a blanket? Suddenly it smelled muggy and bad; the gardenias had begun to stink like they were decomposing and we were all going to choke to death. Time had passed—was it a minute, or an hour? Was it eternity? The slender woman was crouching beside me. Dee, Garcia, Mr. Jowl and Raj sat frozen. Did they know what was happening? Had time stopped? After scanning the menu, my father told the family at the table beside us how good the butterfly prawns were, but somehow he said this in slow motion.
“I’m an off-duty nurse,” said the woman. She patted my back gently, and I sobbed harder, hiccupping with despair. “It looks like you might need an ambulance. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
“Yes, please,” I said in the voice of an expectant child who was about to get an unimaginable treat, an ice cream sundae with whipped cream and a cherry on top. Like an angel, this woman had appeared from out of the hopelessness of that dining room. Where had she come from? Why didn’t she go to my father, or Dee, or Raj? Why had she come to me?
By the time the paramedics arrived, my father was involved in an argument with the manager, who had suggested that our party should leave the dining room and wait in the foyer.
“Wait for what?” he said, removing a pipe from his front pocket and tapping it into his palm. “We haven’t had our prawns yet.”
“For the paramedics to finish up,” said the manager. “And I’m sorry, Sir, but we have a no smoking policy.”
I should have known that by then my father had lost his mind, too, but I didn’t think to know until much later. He had every right to lose his mind, just as all of us did. On that day, instead of knowing this, I behaved as if I expected him to give me something that he was incapable of giving. I expected him to be rational, or subdued, or logical, and he was none of those things.
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Total identification Ado. Back in AlAnon again after all these years. Thanks for sharing. X
Hey, I’ll see you there! (-:
I enjoyed and could relate to every word you’ve written. Thank you for writing this.
Thank you Jessica. (-:
I think you are the first person I’ve read yet to even mention how hard Bobbi Krista’s life with addict parents must have been and what she must be going through now. I have thought about this several times as people have been talking about Whitney’s death this week. I love that you were able to write about her daughter as well as sharing a part of your own painful experiences in that same situation. I loved reading this excerpt from your novel, where can I find the rest? Awesome post, thank you for sharing this with your readers.
There was a new article posted today on Yahoo about how Bobbi Kristina is faring … finally.
Ado @AdoTheMomalog has the daughter of addict-parents in her thoughts http://t.co/gOwaOuO5 #yeahwrite44
It takes a village to support an addict. I thought about Bobbi Kristina too, and everything she has seen in her life- and how it all must truly feel “normal.” I think that is really at the heart of denial too- forcing the abnormal into the normal, making it seem ok when it really is anything but.
So well put Mary – making the normal seem normal when it’s anything but.
I ALWAYS think about the child first when a parent is lost far too soon…especially for reasons to do with substance abuse.
I appreciate, so much, you being so candid about your past. I know it can’t be easy to write about, but unfortunately many people can relate to instances of growing up around substance abusers. In openly about it you’re helping so many people.
For anyone reading this comment, I’ve read her novel and it IS fantastic.
Thank you Ado, once again. You know you got my vote!
Thank you my friend. (-:
Ado, I’ve held my tongue regarding Whitney’s death, because I hate how the death of celebrities become top news, while non-celebrities deal with death and loss all the time. When my Dad died, I wanted the world to stop and pay attention. After all, the world stops when a celebrity dies.
I digress …
You’ve turned this around for me. These stories – your story – needs to be told again and again and again. My heart goes out to you, and I admire the strength and courage it takes to share your story.
I hope Bobbi finds a true support group. I hope all children of addicted parents find support groups.
Congratulations for making it through, though being a child of an alcoholic parent, I know it is a lifelong journey.
Lenore, —> (-:
Thank you.
Thanks for your comment. Without sounding culty, I too hope that Bobbi finds the gift of Alanon, the sooner the better for her.
I admire your strength in pulling yourself out of a possibly terrible cycle of (non) life. And am so glad writing it all down has helped.
I really need to get your novel!
(-: Thanks Alison.
What is the name of your novel, I would like to purchase it?
I emailed you Tina. (-:
When I heard the word “The greatest love of all” I remember Whitney Houston who died lately and RIP to her. Anyway, you made an inspirational article as always. I agree that the greatest love of all is the love between the parent and the child.
I actually didn’t know you’d written a novel. I’m sorry you had to endure all that, but I’m impressed that you were able to turn it around and also channel the memories into a complete book.
Thanks (-:
Sobbing. Another Al-Anon member here. I spent the majority of Monday writing about Whitney and the impact her music had on my life. But I couldn’t get it right, so I stuck it on the e-shelf. Now I know why – because it is too close to home and denial is so much easier.
Iris, sending you a hug. We’ve had a lot of celebs die of drugs – Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse, Whitney – I think every time we see this story in the news, there’s a ripple effect into the lives and memories of ACOAs.
As always, such good perspective. I pray she has someone like you in her life that can help her navigate this difficult time.
I read your blog, only because you told me not to. I was no where near as irritating as I anticipated
It is a sweet blog. And I can understand how you relate to BK. You should read the comment I posted in response to yours.
Will do! (-:
This was just… wow. I also immediately thought of Bobbi Christina after learning of Whitney Houston’s passing. I guess it’s part of being a mother – you just automatically view all things in life through that lens. In any case, my heart just ached for her. Mainly because I can no more imagine existing in a world in which my mother doesn’t than I can my own daughter existing in a world in which I don’t. The thought of both elicits what can only be described as a choked sob every time I let it enter my mind (which I do far more often than I probably should).
Fortunately, neither my parents nor I struggle with addiction, so I can’t empathize with Bobbi Christina from that perspective, like you can. But again, looking at her situation through that lens of motherhood and then at my own daughter, so sweet and innocent at 2 years old, I can’t even begin to imagine ever forcing her to shoulder the burden of ever having to care for me because I’m too sick and selfish to care for myself. “Utterly unfair” doesn’t even begin to describe it.
And there’s that choked sob again.
Sending you a virtual hanky Kristin. (-: PS: Thanks for the RT.
Very raw, very powerful post by @AdoTheMomalog: The Greatest Love of All – http://t.co/NyhWvYzL
Thanks for the RT Kristin.
Instantly, I thought of Bobbi Kristina, too. Definitely something we children of addicts do…think of our counterparts in other families. Denial is so very powerful. And it often takes a stranger with clear eyes and a warm heart to step in and gently make the right call. (((HUGS)))
Happy Valentines Every one, I hope you enjoy season of love. Lets bring the greatest love of all.
My mother was an alcoholic, as was her father, her aunt, her grandfather—you get it. It is a choice you make that you will NOT grow up and be that way, that your kids will not grow up the same way you did. “It wasn’t easy, but it was simple.” How aptly put that is.
I, too, have always been afraid of drinking. It’s silly, but somehow I always imagined I would take one drink and fall into alcoholism, especially now that I’m older. I think I’m past all that now, but still…..
Thanks for this honest, eye-opening post.
I think every child of an alc/addict has a fear in them of becoming alc/addict. I know I was terrified of it as young as 15. Also there are so many, many ACOAs all around – everybody I know has someone in the family or extended family or knows someone at the office who is either alc/addict or a spouse/mother/daughter etc. of one. It is just so pervasive and everywhere…it stuns me how unable people still are to really just talk about it, you know?
Reading your post speaks as a confessional to me, and the comparison to my own mother’s childhood is eerily similar. Like you, her role as parent was far different from her own parents, and for that I’m grateful. It seems you and mom alike are the survivors, the strong, after being the caretakers, and the secret keepers.
Thank you Ado for your continued honesty.
Thanks Jackie. (-: Very much appreciated.
Oh, Ado…this is truly heartbreaking. I am so glad you’ve gone down the therapy road and broken the chain. That is a hard thing to do, but what a wonderful gift you’re giving to your children, a healthy, happy childhood.
Hugs to you, my friend. And really, I need to read this novel of yours.
Jen – if you email me your email address I’ll send you the link for it. (-:
Howdy! This post couldn’t be written any better! Reading this post reminds me of my old room mate! He always kept talking about this. I will forward this page to him. Pretty sure he will have a good read. Many thanks for sharing!
My brother died last year after a brief illness masked by heroin addiction; I also have addict relatives in every generation. I always think I was the lucky one, escaping an addiction, but no matter what, we all have our own unique levels of hell to get through — for me dealing with the ongoing denial and blame in my family of origin. Like you, I am just so damn happy I’ve worked hard through therapy and with the love of a good man to make sure I’m a normal mother for my children, one who can offer a real childhood full of love, affection, and support — one that I never had. Thank you for writing this, Ado, and hugs. xo Julia
Julia – xoxoxoxoxox Thank you for your poignant comment my dear.
A must read #parenting post by @adothemomalog: The Greatest Love of All http://t.co/7xZeRXhY #alanon
This is one of my favorite things about blogging. You get to read about someone’s extraordinary experience. You get to see their strength and eloquence, and you get to carry their words with you forever. The denial you’ve shared here in the excerpt from your novel is heartbreaking. I’ve witnessed a similar denial myself in my extended family in the past, and you brought those feelings and experiences to vibrant life with your words.
Great post and even greater writing.
Thank you Katie! (-:
You write so beautifully and honestly. Your words move me every time I come here.
(Now that my 2nd draft is complete and in the hands of beta {bleh. i hate that word) readers I can finally dive into your novel. I am so looking forward to it.)
Thank you! I hope you like the novel – it is dark but I’ve been told that the humor enables you to navigate through the darkness, ahem. (-: PS: Good luck w. your beta-fish readers!! (-:
Really beautiful and insightful.
This is the part that got me: “The thing is – the rest of us were also very sick too – but in a different way, maybe the same way that Bobbi Kristina is sick now: sick with another person’s sickness, so damaged by denial.” I cannot wait to read your book.
Thank you !
Bobbi Christina has been in my thoughts, too. Hopefully Whitney’s extended family will reach out to Bobbi and surround her with love and support. It is unfair that you knew this incredibly huge pain at such a young age. I didn’t read this as a “downer” post–it as a brave & true statement by someone who has been there. Your decision to live your life in a different way is a gift to everyone who gets to enjoy your incredible writing.
Jennifer – thank you very much for your comment. (-:
Aahck, this made me cry. What an awful situation. I have alcoholism in my family, it sucks.
I am grateful to have found you in the blogosphere. I think it may have been through Lovelinks/Yeahwrite…not sure….but… Your writing is meaningful, articulate, and moving without being sensationalized…or overly daramatic. It is truth and speaks of the profound seriousness of the disease of addiction and yet is hopeful. Your words give validation and voice to so many. Thank you.
Thanks Sperk, I feel the same way about your writing and I realy appreciate your comment. (-:
This sentence grabbed me.
“Denial is one of the things a family rearranges itself around so they can cope with alcoholism. I know that now, but it was really tough to deal with growing up.”
I have been this person and watched others. Your story is so sad, profound and yet full of hope for your own little girls who won’t have to carry the toxicity of what you have known. Another beautiful post and another glimpse into what must have been so very hard for you before, during and after the passing of your parents.
Howdy! This post couldn’t be written any better! Reading this post reminds me of my previous room mate! He always kept talking about this. I will forward this page to him. Pretty sure he will have a good read. Thanks for sharing!
[...] am so sick of EMTs taking family members of mine by ambulance to the hospital because of alcoholism. I need it to stop. I really want to get off of this particular merry-go-round, [...]
My dear lady, thank you for this post!
You are welcome, Zipporah Bird! (-:
Thanks for reposting this. Nephew went on a drunken meltdown at a gathering over the holidays. Just about killed me the veneer of normal everyone wanted to put on this. I wouldn’t go along with that. That’s all I’ll say publicly on this. I don’t know how you came through such a childhood so strong. From what I’ve seen of this disease everything gets sacrificed on the altar of it. All pity all energy all resources go to the addict who just consumes it all like a locust leaving shells of family members in their wake. Rage. I feel rage. And I get only small doses of it on occasion.
Wow – that locust comparison is so powerful. I felt rage, quite a lot of it. If you love someone who is an addict and you can’t help them – rage is the natural emotion that comes up. If you live with an addict and can see through the family’s denial but they can’t or won’t, rage comes up. I’ve been close friends with rage. I don’t feel rage anymore but at one point I think it must’ve consumed me. I remember one time just after I was married, my parents had an anniversary party and all the extended family/friends came to find my mother really obviously very sick. They all gathered around me and said, “OMG, she’s sick! Do something!” – and I LOST it with them all – lost it. I said: “Where the h. were you all TWENTY YEARS AGO when I came asking each one of you for help? 15 years ago? 5 years? 2 years? Last year??? She’s dying now and it’s too late to do anything about it so good riddance, I hope you’re all happy with how you didn’t help her.” Oh man I was enRAGED. And it felt good to say that, finally. There were SO many people even outside of the family who supported her denial and who I felt were somehow culpable, too.
Anyway, thankfully I’m totally over it now. (-: