STORM CLOUDS

I lost both my parents to addiction. Dad, to his alcoholism and Mom to her codependency. I lost them both years ago – many years before either one of them actually passed away.  Growing up under the storm clouds of addiction isn’t something I’ve shared or spoken about to many people. We weren’t supposed to talk about it – to anyone - ever; not even family – especially not family. We lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Life would be even more of a nightmare if anyone really knew ours.

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They were loud that day. I mean, they were SO loud. Why did they have to be SO loud? They were laughing – not a joy-filled, life affirming, celebratory kind of laughing, either. No, this was an evil, scheming, up to no good kind of laughing. The neighbors were going to hear. Hell, the whole darn county was going to hear – yes, they were THAT loud.

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The doorbell rang. In sheer panic, I jumped up from couch in the TV room and bolted, full speed, towards the door. My progress was severely stunted by the fact that my shoes were sticking to the kitchen floor, the same way your shoes stick to the floor of a cheap movie theater. I felt like I had stepped in molasses, or partially dried, soda.

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There were bottles of brown and amber booze everywhere, one of which some guy named “Big Mike” had just spilled all over the counter and the floor. In addition to the uproarious, garish laughter it caused, that mess is also what was causing my shoes to stick to the floor.

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Unfortunately, I didn’t make it to the door in time. Dad got there first. He was swaying, slurring his words and he reeked of alcohol and cigarettes.

It was my friend Samantha at the door. She wanted to know if I wanted to come out and play. Dad yelled, “Jeeeeeeennnn, Ssssssaamaantha’ssss heeeeere for youuu!!!”.  Just as I was finally able to unstick my feet from the floor, I could hear him start to invite her in. I ran the rest of the way, as fast as my 11-year-old legs could carry me. I pushed past him, saying “Thanks Dad, we’ll be outside!” I let the door slam behind me, leaving him there, swaying, slurring, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes.

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Outside, I was shaking, fighting back tears; Samantha didn’t know what to say. For months she had been asking why we never played or had sleepovers at my house. Her parents were starting to get upset that I never invited her over. She lived in the house directly next door and her parents, her mom especially, didn’t understand why we never played at my house. Samantha was scared now, I could see it on her face. All I could think to say was, “Do you want to go ride our bikes now?” After all, we weren’t supposed to talk about it. We weren’t allowed to talk about it – to anyone – ever.

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It was late, too late. I was supposed to be in bed, sleeping. Mom was going to be so mad when she found out. Not only was I not in bed asleep like I was supposed to be at whatever hour this was, but I wasn’t even home. I was in the car with Dad, and we were on the road to the middle of nowhere. He was driving fast, anxious to get wherever we were going. It was raining and I was scared. My sister, Anna, was in the backseat with me. Four years my senior, she was the “adult” of the family. I relied on her to make me feel safe, to tell me everything was going to be okay. However, on this night, the expression on her face let me know everything was, most definitely not okay.

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After what seemed like a lifetime we finally arrived at Dad’s pre-determined destination. It was a one-story camp, somewhere off an unpaved road. Like a Motel 6, someone had left the light on for us. Dad hurried us out of the car and into the camp. Two unfamiliar women were waiting inside. Dad clearly knew who they were, but I had never seen them before. They gushed over Dad and practically ignored Anna and I altogether. They had already been drinking and started pouring Dad a shot of something very pungent smelling as soon as we arrived.

The camp was cold, drafty and damp. It smelled musty and the floor was dirty. After finishing a shot with Dad, the two women promptly sent me and Anna to bed. Two twin beds with moth-eaten comforters and dust-covered pillows awaited us. Anna, attempting to make me feel like everything was okay, encouraged me to just climb in bed and try to go to sleep. I had to go to the bathroom but was scared to say anything to Dad or the women – I didn’t want to get in trouble for being out of bed. Anna, brave as always, asked where the bathroom was. It was downstairs, in the basement, so she took me by the hand and stood guard outside the door until I was finished. We walked back up the dimly-lit cement steps just in time to hear Dad tell the women that he was leaving and would be back later.

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He was leaving? Yes, Dad was leaving us at a camp in the middle of nowhere, with two women we didn’t know. All I could do was pray that he really would be back.

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Anna and I quietly hurried back to our (hopefully) temporary new room and climbed in bed. As soon as I got under the covers, I could feel something wasn’t right. There were pieces of something strange in the bed, but I couldn’t figure out what they were. All I knew is that they were sharp, itchy and scratching my legs. I had a hard time stretching out and I was afraid again. I could hear the women laughing loudly in the next room, talking about Dad. I whispered to Anna, asking her what was in the bed. “I think they are wood chips. They are all over the floor, too,” she said. “Now try to get some sleep. Everything is going to be okay. I’m right here.”

I didn’t sleep much – I couldn’t.

Everything was so wrong. It was late, I  wasn’t home, I wasn’t in my bed, I didn’t know where Dad was, I didn’t know when or if he would be back, I didn’t know who these women were, and I was terrified – for myself and Anna; and Mom – I missed Mom. More than anything in the world, I just wanted to run away.

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Eventually I dozed off for a bit and, the next thing I knew, the sun was coming up. I could hear a hint of whispered voices, somewhere in the distance. I immediately looked over at Anna’s bed, only to see it empty. Heart pounding in my chest, forgetting how afraid I was to do or say anything out of fear of getting in trouble, I jumped out of bed in a panic; frantically searching for her. I found her outside, on the back porch, deep in conversation with Dad. He was back. They stopped talking as soon as they saw me.

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He acted happy to see me, but he still smelled of alcohol, and cigarettes of course. His eyes were tired, bloodshot. He looked as if he hadn’t slept either. I was relieved he came back for us, but at the same time I didn’t want to be anywhere near him. I didn’t want to be anywhere near this place. I just wanted to go home.

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Tentatively, afraid of making him angry, I asked “Dad, can we go home now please?”

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“After breakfast, Jen. The ladies are going to make us something to eat and we don’t want to be rude; they were nice enough to let us stay here last night,” he said.

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“But Daddy, I miss Mom. I want to go home and see Mom,” I countered back.

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“After breakfast, like I said. And remember – you’re not going to tell your mother about this, right? You promised. This was our secret little road trip. She doesn’t need to know. She wouldn’t like it – and you don’t want to upset her, do you? You don’t want her to be mad, right?”

“Yes, Dad” I answered, knowing I would only get in trouble if I pushed.

Eventually he did take us home. As promised, we left after breakfast.

I wish I could say that this was the last time anything like that happened, but that night was just the beginning. I was somewhere around five years old at that time. I had many more sleepless, uncertain and downright terrifying nights in my future.  

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For as long as I could remember, my family was always in turmoil. Life was complete chaos – a series of extremely fragile, walk on eggshells, wait for the other shoe to drop, don’t talk to anyone about what’s really going on kind of moments; all strung together into one solid timeline that seemed to drag on forever in both directions. A past I couldn’t escape from because it was still, very much my present, and a future that was as unpredictable as a hurricane, or a raging wild fire, destroying everything in its path.

Every single moment revolved around Dad.  For as much as we didn’t talk to anyone about Dad’s drinking, somehow, it felt like that was all we talked about. I couldn’t escape from it, no matter how hard I tried. I wasn’t allowed to have friends over to the house, for fear of how Dad might be drunk at home – or might come home drunk from the bar, possibly with his drunk “friends”.  I hesitated in inviting him to any special events I had coming up (talent competitions, sporting events, piano recital performances, etc.), scared that he might show up drunk, or worse, that he might not show up at all.

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Mom was amazing – much stronger than she ever realized while she was alive. She really did the best she could. However, her co-dependency was an addiction all its own. Not only did she not talk to anyone else about Dad’s drinking, she rarely spoke to Dad abut it either. Instead, she chose to write long letters to him that she would tape over the keyhole to the back door, so he would have to, at least, move them in order to unlock the door to get into the house. Who knows if he ever actually read them? The jury is still out on that one.

It was really the only way Mom either knew, or felt comfortable with, communicating with Dad. They didn’t fight – ever. I can only recall them raising their voices to one another once – just once.

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Thankfully, Dad wasn’t violent. He was volatile, though, and depressed. There was a sadness in his eyes; a sadness that soaked deep into the marrow of his soul. I hated to see it, so much so that I did everything I could to be the clown in the family. I would stop at nothing to try to make Dad, Mom and Anna happy. For as much as I used to be able to make Dad laugh sometimes, I could never seem to do much about the never-ending sadness always present in his eyes.

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Addiction, specifically alcoholism, was not something I understood when I was growing up. I kept thinking, if Dad really wanted to quit drinking, he would just – stop. I mean, it’s not like he “had” to drink all the time, as far as I could tell. He didn’t get completely intoxicated every time he had a cocktail or a glass of wine, either. It would be years before I would begin to understand exactly how deceptive, complicated and confusing addiction truly is. It’s sticky, messy, complex, dark and can be downright devastating. Nothing about it is easy to understand or deal with. Not only does it affect the person who is addicted, it also has a huge, sometimes all-consuming effect on everyone around him or her.

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It was November in Pennsylvania and it was beginning to get cold already. The weather was beautiful that day, though. Although the air temperature was close to freezing, the sun was shining so much it almost felt cruel. How could the sun be shining so brightly on a day like today?

There were 5 of us sitting around the kitchen table. I had been having serious second thoughts about this since the night before, when Dad cooked us all his “world-famous” spaghetti and meatballs dinner, complete with garlic toast and a salad.

I kept questioning whether, or not, we were making the right decision. I mean, this was DAD, after all. This was the guy who would laugh so hard sometimes he would get the hiccups. The man who would hitch up his pants and, in his best Steve Urkel impersonation would say, “Did I do thaaaaaat?” The same man who, for hours, could sit at the piano and play anything that came to mind. The same man who first taught me how to sing. The same man who used to take me to my favorite movies and then pick my brain afterwards, asking me what I thought about everything from casting to plot development to character motivation to the music score. This was my father, the same man who used to take forever to set up his tripod and camera in the living room to get the perfect ‘gift opening’ shots of Anna and I opening our presents on Christmas Day.

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Yes, this was Dad. The same man who used to stay out drinking so late we would wonder if he was ever going to come home. The same man who left his two daughters at a camp in the middle of nowhere so he could go out drinking with people we didn’t know. The same man would get so drunk that he would curl up on the bathroom counter and pass out completely. The same man who would bring random people home to the house after just meeting them at the bar for the first time.  The same man who became “friends” with someone who embezzled so much money from him that we had to have police stay at our house because the embezzler stalked our family and threatened to kill Anna and me.

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Despite the practically perfect evening the night before, I slowly and painfully realized that this was, if not the “right” thing to do, it was the only thing left to do. It was the only thing we hadn’t tried yet – an intervention. Mom, Anna, and I, along with Mom and Dad’s attorney and longtime friend, James, all took turns talking to Dad about his drinking and how we were affected by it. It was impossible to look Dad in the eye and tell him how much pain he and his drinking had caused, yet somehow, I found the courage and strength to do just that.  

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Dad took it all in stride, I suppose. To be honest, he really didn’t say much. Mom made it clear that he had two options: 1) Go to rehab – immediately or 2) move out of the house. He chose rehab. Mom had already packed a bag for him so, within minutes of him agreeing to go, Mom and James had Dad in the car. Before I could even say goodbye, they were pulling out of the driveway. I had never felt as guilty, as empty, as angry, or as unsure of myself and my life as I did that day; watching the car taillights fade, years of un-cried tears began spilling from my eyes, with no discernible place to go.

Dad’s stay in rehab was 30 days, somewhere in upstate Connecticut. It might as well have been on the other side of the planet; it felt so far away. We weren’t allowed to talk to Dad during the week – only on weekends, and only for a few minutes at a time. We were invited to, what the facility referred to as “family days” – two of them. They were an opportunity to visit with Dad, as well as to do some family therapy work together. The first one was so raw, so emotional, so intense, and so painful, I couldn’t bring myself to go to the second one.

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In some ways, those 30 days felt like an eternity. In others, they felt like 30 minutes. At home, life still revolved around Dad – was he sober? How was he handling it? What was he telling the people he was there with? Was he talking about us? Was he following the rules? Would they let him stay the entire time? What would he be like when he came home? IF he came home? There were so many questions, but no answers; just more uncertainty.

Mom started going to Al-Anon, a support group for families and friends of alcoholics. We had been told by the facility that Dad was in Alcoholics Anonymous, a 12-step recovery program that would, hopefully, help him get sober and stay sober.

Mom was afraid that Dad was going to be “ahead” of her whenever he got out of rehab. I never really understood what that meant, but I watched her throw herself completely into Al-Anon. She became obsessed with learning everything she possibly could about addiction and recovery. She was consumed with, not so much her own recovery, but more so with whether, or not, Dad was “working a good program.”

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For as much as we had hoped rehab would provide us all with stability, safety and security, in the early days all it did was create more chaos. Different chaos than we had before, but chaos, nonetheless.

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It would be at least 2 or 3 years until I realized and fully accepted that I needed help, too. For most of my life, I looked at Dad as the “bad guy.” It was easier to blame him for all the turmoil in our family, than it was to face the reality that I, too, had played a role in Dad’s addiction with my own codependency and enabling. Eventually, I started attending Al-Anon meetings and started going to see a therapist myself.

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I can still feel the effects of growing up in an alcoholic home. To this day, I still struggle with stretching my legs out in hotel beds for fear of feeling something like wood chips in the bed with me. Watching my parents not communicating with one another didn’t leave me with any guidance for healthy communication with a spouse, so I continue to do a lot of healing work around relationships. For a long time, I worried that everyone who had even one cocktail or glass of wine might be an alcoholic. I was scared I would either end up an alcoholic myself, or, end up marrying one.

I continue to read books and learn about addiction and recovery, and I still work with a therapist from time to time. Life is so much different now than it was while I was growing up and, for that, I couldn’t be more grateful. I am also aware of the lasting effects of living with Dad’s drinking for so long. Again, addiction is never simple, never easy. My personal hope is that we can learn to support those living with, and recovering from, addiction. The wounds are deep, and the scars can take a long time to heal; yet with acceptance, patience, compassion and love the return home to one’s whole self can begin.