A story about my Mom

My name is Colleen, and I am the daughter of an alcoholic.

My Mom was born right outside of the city of Boston. She was a middle child and grew up in a picturesque neighborhood in the suburbs. In the pictures that I have, she is a happy child, well dressed and surrounded by loving family and friends.

Despite her promising upbringing, she fell into alcoholism.

She was always in denial about her addiction, so I am not sure when it started. From the little I have been able to dig up, she was already drinking by the time she met my Dad.   They dated for a few years before deciding to get married. Her alcoholism was bad enough then that his family had understandable doubts about the marriage. My father loved her and chose to marry her anyway. They moved to New Hampshire, building a house in a small town tucked into the southwest corner of the state. I was born a few years later.

From an early age, I knew something was wrong. Each morning we went to the grocery store.  Mom always made excuses about why we were there. She needed rice to make dinner that night, or we needed milk. Yet we always ended up in the beer aisle, with her lifting a 12 or 24 pack out of the cooler. In the check-out line, I  was allowed to pick out a treat if I promised not to tell Dad.

She would change after those trips. My Mom had beautiful expressive eyes. When She drank, they became dull and lifeless.  She also became extremely emotional. When sober, Mom was kind, but distant.   When she drank, emotions of anger and sadness came tumbling out. She constantly repeated that she loved me. If I did not reciprocate, she accused me of not loving her.

By the evening, she was slumped over on the couch, attempting to smoke cigarettes, screaming and raving. During this, Dad would usually arrive home from work.  He was the safe parent, so I stayed close to him. This made Mom angry, and she turned her aggression towards him. There were many nights when I was kept awake by the sounds of them fighting

The mornings were always confusing.  Sometimes, she would still be drunk, Dad would be gone, and I  was left  to fend for myself. Other mornings, she would be sober.  My parents would be sitting there, having coffee like nothing happened. It was extremely perplexing for me as a child.  We never acknowledged the fighting or the addiction. I was left to interpret what happened on my own.

 I grew to resent those trips to the grocery store. I was constantly put into unsafe situations due to her addiction. That made me angry.  One time, she drove us into a ditch.  Someone called the police, and she was arrested for DWI. We were separated, and I watched as she was dragged into the police station.  I was seven years old.

After her arrest, I knew that what she was doing was wrong.  I did not trust her anymore. Trying to understand it, I confronted her about it. I begged her to stop. She refused to acknowledge her alcoholism. She pretended everything was fine, even as it was falling apart. Each day she would go to the store, and each day we were forced to deal with the aftermath of it.

The messages I learned at school only made things more complicated. Growing up in the 90’s there was not compassionate, trauma informed viewpoints on addiction.  Drug use and alcoholism were heavily stigmatized. I learned that those that fell victim to drugs or alcohol had failed morally. I was ashamed that my Mom drank the way she did. I felt that her alcoholism made me a bad person too. I kept what was going on at home to myself for fear of being judged.  I had no one safe to talk to, so I stayed silent.

My life was often confusing and contradictory. One misconception about growing up around alcoholism is that things are always bad. That our childhoods are a series of painful events, with nothing good to speak of. This is not the case. Often it is a confusing mix of good and bad.

There were many times that my mom was able to rise above her addiction and be present. I struggled with Freshman English, and she called my teacher to advocate for me. Sometimes she made coffee and we would sit on the porch and talk. Each year she made me a cheesecake for my birthday.  In the Summer, we went to the White Mountains and went camping as a family.   There were good moments in my childhood too.

My Mom loved me, but her addiction often shaped our relationship. She would cook me my favorite dinner before a big test, then days later, go through my journals and hurl something she read at me.  I loved her, but our relationship was complicated. That is the hardest part of loving someone in active addiction. The good is woven in with the bad. I stayed silent because I had no idea how to share the story without being misunderstood.

Years would pass before I would share my story openly.

In my early twenties, Mom’s alcoholism caught up with her. She was constantly coughing, and she began to lose her memory. Her legs began to retain fluid. We begged her to go to the doctor, but she refused. I think she knew what was coming and wanted to face it in her own way. It was selfish, but there is also part of me that understands her choice.

 In those last few months there was a shift in our relationship. She was sober. She was finally trying to take care of herself. I was still guarded, but I wanted a relationship with her so badly.  Looking at her health, I knew her days were numbered. I did not want the pain of the past to define the last days I had with her. During time, we were able to connect in a meaningful way.  

Then one day she apologized to me.

We were sitting on the couch drinking coffee, catching up. She turned to me suddenly and said,

“Colleen, I am sorry for everything.”

Her apology caught me off guard.  As a family we never expressed our emotions.

I awkwardly mumbled that it was ok. Then we went back to our conversation, like nothing had happened.  Little did I know that moment would come to shape me.

 It was a rainy day at the end of June when we lost her. We had known it was coming, but nothing truly prepares you for it.   I struggled after of her death with a complicated set of emotions. I was incredibly sad that she was gone. Yet there was also part of me that found closure within her passing.

The first twenty-four years of my life were shaped by Mom’s alcoholism.  My childhood had been chaotic and confusing.  My family ignored the problem, and at school I learned alcoholism was bad. I had reached adulthood still holding onto shame and secrets. Yet even though she struggled, I loved Mom. In the wake of her death, I saw the opportunity for healing.

I wanted to share her full experience in her eulogy.  I decided to openly acknowledge her alcoholism. It was terrifying, but I needed to share the truth.  Prior to her death, she had tried to do better. I wanted to acknowledge that, but I could not do that without sharing the whole story. So, I stood up in front of everyone I loved an told them that my Mom was an alcoholic.

Something incredible happened in that moment.  A weight I did not realize I was carrying was lifted from my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I was being authentic, and it felt good. There was a freedom that came to me in that moment.   

 Inspired by the positive experience I had sharing my Mom’s story. I began to share on Instagram. I was struggling emotionally and needed a space to move through that. I talked about my mom, and how her alcoholism has hurt me. That has been an incredibly healing experience. For years, I thought I could run from my past or repress it.  It was only when I turned to face it that I became whole. Telling my story set me free.

The Past

“You need to get over the past.”

It is a phrase that is flung my way every few months. Unfortunately, It is something It comes with the territory.   My advocacy work makes some people defensive. It makes them look at things they are uncomfortable facing. My truth can be threatening to those who do not want to look back.  Yet I don’t speak out t hurt them, I do it because I need to use my voice in order to move forward. For me it is important in my healing joruney to face the past.  Yet I wish people understood, that the past is a place that I work each day to leave behind.

I grew up in a traumatic environment. Due to my Mom’s alcohol dependency, I witnessed addiction and domestic violence numerous times during my childhood.  There are memories that still bother me. Memories that left indelible marks on who I am.

That manifests itself in many ways. Raised voices make me nervous. A sound, smell or phrase can bring me back to a scary memory, and my body reacts accordingly.

My body is shaped around protection. It is used to the worst happening suddenly. Many of these reactions date back to when I was the last line of defense, protecting me and my sister from the chaos. Many of them no longer serve me, but they protected me for years. I honor them, even as I work to build healthier patterns.


As the child of an alcoholic, my past often returns unexpectedly.

I want people to see that. I heal loudly, because for years I thought I was an aberration. I silently suffered through my triggers unsure of how to reach out. I thought something was wrong with me, when in truth I was simply reacting to a trauma.

It isn’t about “getting over” my past. It is about honoring it while working to move into the future.

Together we heal

Navigating the good and the bad

“If you want, or need to tell of your experiences, it’s ok with me. I’d just hope that you don’t discount your good memories because those are the ones I cherish most. “

After a few months of limited contact, my Dad and I are talking. Its complicated for me as I work to navigate that old relationship with new boundaries. It brings up many feelings.

I was not surprised by the statement. He tends to be uncomfortable when I tell my story. He thinks that I am rehashing the past. That I am focusing too much on my pain.

I love my parents deeply despite their flaws. I tell my stories in a compassionate way, doing my best to show the complexities of families like mine. Yet In order to be authentic, I need to share the full truth of being the daughter of an alcoholic.

Moving forward into healing, I need to integrate each part of my story. That means holding space good memories, while also acknowledging the painful one.

I share all of this to give others hope. For the millions of children around the world living with an alcoholic parent. For those adults that are still coming to grips with that legacy. There are so many people that need to see what being a COA like. I feel a responsibility to tell my story. To make things easier for the next generation of children of alcoholics.

I will always cherish those good memories, but sharing those challenging experiences is important too.

And that is exactly what I told him.

Having to walk away.

This was taken at Father Daughter dance at my wedding. This is the moment my Dad chose to apologize that his girlfriend was not there.

“ You know __ is sorry that she isn’t here right?”

As the child of an Alcoholic I am expert at hiding in plain sight. Covering my emotions when needed. But on that day my mask slipped. The disbelief showed on my face. We were surrounded by cameras, so I quickly forced a smile. I didn’t want anyone to know something was wrong.

But the photographer caught it.

This picture holds so many emotions. I feel anger, and sadness and disappointment. I look back and I feel let down. He took a moment from me that I will never get back.

Outsiders who say “ But they are still your family” have no understanding of how how hurtful family can be. They don’t understand the pain that brings us to the point of no contact. It is not easy, but sometimes we are left with no choice.

People always ask where my healing journey began. It was in this moment. When my concepts of my family was shattered and I was forced to see the truth. When I realized that the dysfunction was much bigger than my Mothers alcoholism. When things got incredibly complicated, but also painfully clear.

The truth is sometimes the best thing you can do is leave your family behind. You can love them and still walk away.

It is complicated sometimes.

Hindsight 20/20

When I look back at old pictures of you it is bittersweet.

 I have an entire album of pictures of you. I felt a protective pull over those photo albums. It was all I had left of you. Looking backwards makes me smile.  In those pictures, you look healthy and happy. Well dressed. Being held by loving parents. Surrounded by friends. You look like the stereotypical American child.

You had no idea what was coming. How your choices would come to shape your life. How your addiction would come to shape mine.

Unfortunately I saw the tragedy of your life unfold. I watched you claw at the edges of addiction unable to escape. I was shaped within the dysfunction brought forth by your addiction. I was there at the unfortunate ending. I watched Alcoholism end your life.

It still hurts in many ways I struggle to put words to. There are memories that I am not ready to unpack yet.

I don’t know where your addiction started. That was one of the many secrets you took with you. In the wake of your death, I have come to terms with living with the unknown. There are things that we will never know, because of your silence.

There is nothing I can do about the past. It is done.  Looking back at my childhood with anger, does nothing, but hurt me. I can hold you accountable, and still find it in my heart to forgive you. within healing I can stop this pain from continuing forward to my children.

In the end, I think that is the best gift I can give all of us.

Complicated Grief

After My Mom passed away, my emotions were complicated.

We lost her on a rainy day at the end of June. I still remember the rain on my face, as I ran down the driveway. Running by the ambulance in the driveway. The group of people gathered there speaking in low voices. Walking into that living room, and the jolting moment when my life was split into a before and after.

Losing my Mother left me with a deep sadness.  The grief that follows the death of a parent is difficult to explain. It is permanently pulls from your own childhood. In the aftermath, you are faced to face your own mortality in an intimate way. As a young child, you believe that your parent is invincible. When that is proved wrong, it changes you.

 Yet there were other feelings too. In the days following her death, I developed a deep sense of closure. A heavy weight that I had been carrying my entire life was lifted. It felt good but was at odds with what a daughter is supposed to feel after her Mother’s death. I kept those complex thoughts and feelings hidden. I did not want to be judged. It was easier for me to sit and nod at the condolences.  Yet as I listened to mourner’s kind words, I became uncomfortable. Our life as a family was being idealized. There was more to the story, and it felt like that uncomfortable truth was being ignored.

Healing and time have given me a deeper understanding of my mindset.  Those complicated feelings were valid given my childhood environment. Living with someone in active addiction is a nightmare.

I was 24 years old, when my Mom passed away. She struggled with Alcohol the entire time that I knew her. Our relationship was unpredictable, confusing and painful. There were days I could feel her love deeply. There were also nights where I feel asleep crying, hating her.

When she was sober it was a mixed bag. Some days were good.  Where there was warm food and a smile waiting for me when I got home. Where I felt loved and cared for. It would never las though.  The longer she went without drinking, the more rigid things became. She would snap at us for being late to dinner or laughing too loud. She had lost control of her life due to addiction. She compensated for that by exerting an iron will on us. It made life suffocating and unbearable.

 Yet that was still better than the alternative. When Mom drank, she was a monster. She would blame us for things, invade our privacy, and scream for hours on end. In high school I would hang out at school, avoiding going home. When I got a cell phone, she called me constantly. I did not pick up, she left screaming voicemails. Our entire life as a family revolved around the uncertainty of her addiction.
For years we knew that her death was inevitable. She drank close to 30 beers and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes in a day. She was running herself into the ground. It was hard, but we knew that it was only a matter of time. You cannot cheat death indefinitely. It catches up with you.

When it happened, there was part of me that was ready.  I had been thinking about it deeply for years. Mentally preparing myself so that when I was faced with it, it did not hurt as much. My reaction to her death surprised me though. I had expected the pain, but not the relief.

Yet looking back, I understand why I felt that relief. Life close to an alcoholic is hard. Her death closed out a difficult part of my life. I no longer had to worry about what I would walk in on at my parents’ house. The fights were over. I would never have to call 911 when my parents got violent.  I did not have to prepare for her cruel words. Or worry that she would get behind the wheel of a car and kill someone. That vicious dynamic was finally at an end. It makes sense that I felt relief.

I understand it, but it is still hard to share that.  I worry that people will judge me for it because it is hard to understand. We are not supposed to feel a sense of relief that our parents are no longer here. I usually keep it secret because it is easier. I still feel a certain sense of guilt for it. despite our differences, and her addiction, I loved My Mom. People do not understand the complicated nature of coming from that legacy of addiction.
But I have come to understand that my feelings are valid. They make sense. They are part of me.
I miss her deeply. There are moments when I feel her loss deep within my bones. When I silently cry in my car, wishing I could hear her voice again. Yet I also feel a sense of relief. That I no longer have live within that dysfunction. That that pain and dysfunction is done. That she is no longer in pain.  I am thankful that now I get to look towards the future.

There is peace and healing now. I miss her deeply. But there is a sense of closure and relief.

I have realized there is room in my life for both.

New Year’s Reflections

  Yesterday was New Year’s Day. We left the challenging year of 2020 behind.  Over the last few days, I have been taking some time to reflect. For me, the past year was a mixed bag. I am still working to come to terms with all that it meant.

One thing that is bothering me is the typical stuff that you see at New Years. The predictable, typical New Year, New Me! posts. Which honestly have me disappointed. It makes me sad. So much has changed, yet we are still falling into this end of the year pitfalls.

I wish that we would slow down. Takes some time to pause and come to terms with how the year has shaped us. I think it is great to look forward, but that this should be part of a larger reflection. I personally feel that before we surge forward into a new year, it important to take inventory of the past 12 months.

 This year I have come to recognize that the only permanent thing is life is change. Everything else can easily change. The jobs are not permanent, and societal shifts happen quickly. If nothing else, this year has shown that we need to be flexible.

 It has helped teach me that the permanent parts of our lives are much less tangible.  It is the relationships, the memories and the moments that make our lives rich.  That sometimes the best adventures are those that are unexpected. Our existence is a miracle of the universe. We do not need to prove that we have value. We are worthy of love, regardless of what we create. Our creations and works should be an expression of our experience, not something in which to prove our value.  This year, I learned to be thankful to be here.

 For me it was a year of discovery. I spent a lot of time learning how to listen to the rhythms of my soul. To recognize my passions. To express my needs. This year was challenging, and I felt like I grew from it. for me, 2020 was a year of modest growth. I am thankful for that. For me, 2020 was a year of modest growth and for that I am thankful.

Yet I also want to hold space for those who struggled this year. 2020 was incredibly challenging. It is okay if you fell short of your goals or were not as productive as you wished. It is ok if you simply survived. If 2020 was a year where you kept your head down and waiting till the storm passed, celebrate that. By keeping your head down, you made it through. Celebrate that, sometimes that is what victory looks like.

  I approach the new year, with compassion. For me, 2020 taught me about patience, strength and reflection. It was a hard year, but it showed me how to persevere. I look forward to bringing these lessons into the new year.