Hello, I’m Sarah, and I am an alcoholic. I’m also a mother.
“I am an alcoholic.” Those words have left my lips countless times over the past five years. However, the first time I spoke them was at an AA meeting, with tears streaming down my face. Just before that moment, I had purchased a bottle of whiskey and a 12-pack of beer, stashing them in the back of my truck. I drove past a building where I knew AA meetings took place but had never stopped in. On impulse, I chose to step inside—an act I still ponder today. Was it fate? A higher power nudging me?
I’ll never forget the profound effect that moment had on me. As I walked through those doors, I was enveloped by warmth and kindness as several women rushed to my side, bringing me to a couch in the lobby. For the first time in a long time, someone cared. Someone wasn’t judging me.
After the meeting concluded, I returned to my truck, fully aware of the alcohol waiting for me in the back. I still intended to drink it, feeling guilty for that. Everyone had shown such compassion and understanding, yet I left with a list of names and phone numbers, promising to call if I needed help managing a craving. Oh, the cravings I had. I never returned, and while I could claim ignorance about why, that would be a lie. The truth is, I wasn’t ready to stop drinking. I lacked the courage to even tell my teenage son about my half-hearted attempt to get sober.
If you’ve never battled an addiction, you might question my choices. Can the love of an addiction truly rival the love for your child? Unfortunately, it can. We are not immune to imperfection.
My mother was an alcoholic, but I never knew her as she passed away before I was old enough. My dad drank occasionally—mostly during church league bowling or fishing outings. I witnessed him inebriated only once throughout our 26 years together, and that moment revealed the darkness of his depression—something I now recognize as a reason for my drinking.
Depression and anxiety are fierce adversaries. When alcohol is used as a coping mechanism for these emotions, it becomes detrimental to both mind and body. I consume alcohol to quiet my racing thoughts. Living with bipolar II disorder, I often experience hypomania, but full-blown mania occasionally takes over. My mind convinces me that alcohol is the remedy to calm down before things spiral out of control.
Alcohol acts as a natural antidepressant and is often viewed as a means to unwind after a long day. While some may enjoy a glass of wine, I often find myself reaching for more—a pint or even a fifth of whiskey to achieve a semblance of stability. But that stability is fleeting. From the outside, I may appear content, but inside, my mind is in turmoil. I grapple with the shame of my drinking habits, including memories of attending my son’s basketball game while intoxicated, knowing I embarrassed him.
I reflect on the reasons behind my drinking. Despite the temporary relief, the depression lingers. While I can label myself an alcoholic, it brings me no pride. My son is always in my thoughts, and even as he approaches adulthood, my struggles persist.
I am endeavoring to navigate my way through the storm of mental illness and anxiety, even as I create further chaos with my drinking. I worry about inadvertently teaching my son that excessive drinking is acceptable.
Movies in my youth, like Bridget Jones’s Diary and Leaving Las Vegas, romanticized using alcohol to cope with pain. During that time, it felt trendy to explore addiction, and I got swept up in those narratives.
I don’t drink every day; in fact, I can go weeks without touching alcohol. Mornings after drinking are rough, and I don’t crave it during the day. I once claimed, “I’m not an alcoholic; I’m a binge drinker.” Yet here I am, confronting the truth: I am an alcoholic. Admitting this is profoundly difficult, especially while striving to be a good mother.
So, why share this now? I am revealing my truth because I know I’m not alone. There must be other mothers who find themselves in a similar battle, questioning their self-worth and their choices. We must recognize that the road ahead is ours to determine, and the easier path is often the most tempting.
I consider myself an intelligent woman who knows right from wrong; I am just trying to navigate life the best way I can. My choices may not always be ideal, but remember—you are not alone in this struggle.
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Summary:
This article explores the complexities of being both a mother and an alcoholic, sharing the author’s personal journey with addiction and mental health. It reflects on the struggles, emotions, and societal pressures faced by those grappling with similar challenges, ultimately promoting the message that individuals are not alone in their battles.