“Wake me if you see headlights,” my mom mumbled, as she parked the truck. The signal turned a glaring green, and she drifted off to sleep.
It was late, and we were in our two-door pickup on a desolate road in Texas. My mother was at the wheel, while I, just eleven years old, sat frozen with fear, watching for any lights that might approach. I stared into the darkness beyond the window, feeling utterly isolated, even with her next to me.
She wasn’t exhausted from a long day or the drive; she had taken a mix of prescription pills that left her nearly unconscious. I feared the headlights that might illuminate us—like searchlights exposing her for what she was. What if a police officer noticed us lingering at a green light? Surely, that would seem suspicious. He’d stop and see something was wrong. Then what would happen to us? I wished desperately that we could just drive away, yet fear took over. If we moved, she might doze off and lose control of the truck. Either way, I was trapped in anxiety—whether we stayed or went.
In that moment, as in many others with my mother, embarrassment overwhelmed me. It stung as I looked over and saw her head resting against the window, her eyes closed, mouth agape. Other kids’ moms didn’t do this. Why did mine?
I still ponder why that scene sticks with me. It seems unremarkable, just a mild instance among the more severe ramifications of my mother’s addiction. I can’t recall if we ever did see headlights that night. Eventually, I woke her up at one of our stops, and we continued on, somehow reaching our destination. But as I reflect on it now, I recognize that it was one of the first times I felt responsible for her. It’s also likely when my anxiety began.
Over time, my embarrassment morphed into a deep-seated resentment. Why was I burdened with worry while she escaped reality with those pills? Why couldn’t she be like other mothers? These questions gnawed at me until, as an adult, I began to ignore her calls and distance myself from her. I pretended she didn’t exist.
Her addiction wreaked havoc on our family, leading to a bitter divorce, a custody battle, her homelessness, numerous arrests, and ultimately her death from an overdose in 2013. I regret to admit that I spent years fixated on the painful memories. While I grieved her loss, I forced myself to bury any recollection of her, allowing only the hurt to surface.
Now, at thirty, after nearly two decades of resentment, I’m starting to embrace empathy. I’m letting go of my own pain and trying to understand hers. The truth is, despite the painful memories, there were also good moments. They often manifest as feelings rather than clear recollections—a familiar scent, a fleeting image, a song. Occasionally, something evokes a memory of happiness shared with her. When she was sober, my mom was fun, witty, and affectionate. I know there were wonderful times, even if I can’t fully recall them.
Like my mother, I grapple with severe anxiety, depression, and panic attacks. Throughout my life, I’ve worked tirelessly to ensure I don’t follow in her footsteps (my children won’t endure what I did). Yet, I recognize the ease with which one can succumb to fear, feeling trapped, and desiring escape.
Thankfully, mental health discussions are more prevalent now than two decades ago. I’ve educated myself enough to recognize and articulate my symptoms to others. I doubt my mom had that privilege. Many saw her as merely a troubled addict, and trust was scarce.
I often think about how her life might have differed with proper mental health care. Perhaps things would have changed if the right person had offered her guidance at the right moment. I’m not suggesting no one tried to help her; many did. (My dad nearly exhausted all his resources and still winces at the memory of their marriage.) Even when assistance was offered, it often seemed as though she wasn’t ready to accept it. I know addiction is a fierce battle, and those trapped often feel too weary to fight. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that if she had sought help in the early days, perhaps today would be different.
I’ve always loved my mother, even through moments of intense anger and embarrassment—even during those traffic light naps where I had to keep watch for others. Nearly eight years since her passing, I miss her daily. Her addiction and mental health struggles obscured her true self from me, and I wish I had more time with the real her. While she made significant mistakes, I hold onto any reason I can to continue loving her.
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Summary
In this reflective piece, the author shares her journey from resentment to empathy toward her mother, whose drug dependency affected their relationship profoundly. Through memories of both painful and joyful moments, she explores the complexities of addiction and mental health, recognizing her own struggles in the process. Ultimately, the narrative underscores the importance of understanding and compassion, even in the face of familial challenges.