So apparently I started writing this in October, and then just, never actually did anything with it.
Sounds about right for me; I have plenty ideas for blogging, but I hate sitting down and writing. Same with writing actually.
But as it's COAWeek, I figure now is as good a time as any to talk about this.
This post obviously, deals with alcoholism, but it also touches on my mental health issues and suicidal ideation, so if that's a trigger for you, please step back and look after yourself.
Last year, between July 1st and September 31st, I walked 1,000,000 steps in aid of NACOA (and inadvertently set a bunch of other people off to do the same a few months later)
It was too warm, and too wet, and by the end of it too damn dark, and I'm still not sure how I managed it beyond flaying myself to exhaustion every fucking day.
I helped run two major LARP events, which sort of help the step count, went to Aberystwyth (not helpful) and London (helpful-ish) and got to know my local area really fucking well!
I raised around £500 in the end, which I was pretty pleased with. And agreed with a friend that we would NEVER do this challenge again.
A lot of the time I walked with friends at weekends, but during the weeks, and in the last few days of the challenge, I spend a lot of time out and about on my own, which, when you're me, leads to lots of thinking.
People have an amazing way of going very quiet when you explain what charity you're doing an event for if it's something awkward. It'd be funny if I didn't find it so frustrating at how little people are willing to talk about it.
I'm pretty open about a lot of shit in my life; my depression, my sexuality, the fact that my mum is dead and that she was an alcoholic. I think sometimes I'm a bit too open about that last one; dad sometimes acts as though he'd rather forget, which, I honestly don't blame him. We don't talk about it really. We don't actually talk about mum all that much. We're that sort of people; it took us years after she died, and to be honest, me moving out, to really be able to deal with each other. We're far too similar and she was the one who always mediated between us when I was little.
A lot of the people I've talked to over the years hear "alcoholic parent" and assume that a) it was my dad and b) they were abusive. It doesn't work like that.
Addiction runs in mum's family, along with a host of mental health issues (I got lucky? I so far just have the crippling depression and anxiety) but it was never a thing until suddenly it was.
She was never abusive, physically or verbally or emotionally. She was just a bit shit to be honest.
Forgetting to pick me up from school, falling asleep rather than making dinner, being mortifyingly embarrassing to my friends and at parents evenings (when she was sober enough to turn up)
Looking back, it was only 5 or so years, but when you're a teenager, that's forever, and we managed to pack a lot of shit into those 5 years.
Medical issues, stints with the AA and various other 'rehab' attempts. A stint in a residential rehab place, more health issues, me calling her every name under the sun, nearly setting the house on fire, multiple shitty jobs that she couldn't hold down because the tremors were so bad.
But there were also some great laughs, and getting closer to her when she was sober, us being a family.
But then there was also her going through my room to raid my savings box, me running off to my gran's and having my aunt take me home to yell at her sister, there were days when dad wouldn't even speak to her, when we tried to bribe her to sobriety with the promise of a new dog, there was her being so awkward that I couldn't bring friends home and the guilt that came with that.
There were money issues and social awkwardness and all the woes that come with being a teenage girl on top of everything else.
And there was no help. I mean, not for me. Dad got some counselling I think, as part of mum's rehab, I got a couple of leaflets and the school nurse trying to "be there for me", and teachers who tried to understand, but who didn't have a clue, and who were, to be honest, kind of judgmental.
And then there were just health issues.
My maternal gran died in August 2001, and mum's drinking and health just took a nosedive afterwards. And I think we just sort of stopped trying to keep her on the straight and narrow.
I can remember being allowed to keep my phone on me during classes because she was in hospital, and I can remember being called to the head teachers office because dad had come to get me because they were pretty sure she wasn't going to last the day.
I know it was a Tuesday, because I should have been at biology revision after school, and that Buffy was on (it was the season where Joyce was dying and they were dealing with Glory and I've not been able to watch it since)
I remember seeing her in a hospital bed, not knowing who I was, and looking so fucking frail and not her. And then being sent home with my boyfriend (who everyone hated, but who was a fucking godsend in the days after). I remember understanding that dad had said she had died, but I don't remember what he said. I don't remember a lot to be honest, but I know I went back to school on the Thursday because I am TERRIBLE at sitting doing nothing, and no one would let me do anything because I was 15 and too young to be involved and god knows dad doesn't do emotions.
I remember a couple of weeks later coming home from school and sitting in the middle of the floor with a knife and knowing I could end it all, but then dad would be alone and in all honesty that has been what's kept me alive for a very long time.
That and my stupid dog demanding fuss (dogs are amazing; Roxy was dumber than a sack of bricks but he loved us)
I know I had a say in what she wore for the cremation, and in the music (my aunt wanted a terrible version of fields of gold, we ended up with Rhapsody in Blue and one of Elgar's cello concertos performed by Jacqueline du Pre) and I remember seeing the body the day before the funeral.
And then everything is just sort of a blur, because after 5 years of living with that, you have to learn how to live without a person and without the drama. It was finding bottles of port and vodka round the house for months after, dad and I not talking to each other, it was me blagging through GCSEs and A-levels and hiding self harm and depression for years.
It was me watching dad going down the pub every evening and being terrified that he wasn't coming back because he was going to get in an accident, or that he was going to end up like mum.
It was going to university and after a year of binge drinking every night, sorting my shit out, and then being told by people I thought were my friends that I was too sensitive and that I should just get over it.
(I did, sort of, just not in the way that they were telling me)
Now, 18 years later, I try to have a healthy relationship with alcohol. I've not cut it out entirely, although I do go very long stretches without drinking. I don't drink alone, and I don't drink vodka or port (her preferred poisons) or white wine (I had a very bad time on 2 bottles in one evening... teenage regrets!) and I only drink around people I trust.
I'm not perfect, I go OTT sometimes, but I'm careful, and my friends keep an eye out for me, and they will call me on it if they think I'm drinking too much.
And, I have more to say, but I can't work out how to say it.
I loved my mum, and I hated her as well, partly in the way that most teenagers hate their parents, but also because she left me high and dry, and left my dad devastated and in debt.
I hate what happened, because she was this amazing, vibrant, larger than life person. She was artistic and smart and funny, and that all just got sapped away, piece by piece as she drank more, and it affected her more. I suspect, although I'll never know, that without the booze, she was bi-polar. The ups and downs and larger than life personality contrasted with hiding away and being moody as fuck at times. I think she was medicated for a while, before and while she was drinking, but I was too young to know what the hell was really going on. I wish I could know; I wish I could have actual answers (and some clue as to what I'm in for as I get older, I guess)
I have boxes of photos of her smiling and laughing, and virtually none from the last year or so of her life. I can't remember what her voice sounded like anymore, but I can remember her standing in the kitchen with her foot behind her head singing along to "love shack"
There are foods she used to make that I can't replicate because she never wrote things down, and I spend so much time trying to work out how I would be different if she was still alive, and whether she'd be proud of me now.
Who knows? There's no use living with what ifs and maybes. I've lived that bit of my life and now I'm moving forwards; what gives me hope is that there is more education about alcohol abuse out there, and that NACOA are a thing, and that with more people aware of them, kids like me can get help now.
Sounds about right for me; I have plenty ideas for blogging, but I hate sitting down and writing. Same with writing actually.
But as it's COAWeek, I figure now is as good a time as any to talk about this.
This post obviously, deals with alcoholism, but it also touches on my mental health issues and suicidal ideation, so if that's a trigger for you, please step back and look after yourself.
Last year, between July 1st and September 31st, I walked 1,000,000 steps in aid of NACOA (and inadvertently set a bunch of other people off to do the same a few months later)
It was too warm, and too wet, and by the end of it too damn dark, and I'm still not sure how I managed it beyond flaying myself to exhaustion every fucking day.
I helped run two major LARP events, which sort of help the step count, went to Aberystwyth (not helpful) and London (helpful-ish) and got to know my local area really fucking well!
I raised around £500 in the end, which I was pretty pleased with. And agreed with a friend that we would NEVER do this challenge again.
A lot of the time I walked with friends at weekends, but during the weeks, and in the last few days of the challenge, I spend a lot of time out and about on my own, which, when you're me, leads to lots of thinking.
People have an amazing way of going very quiet when you explain what charity you're doing an event for if it's something awkward. It'd be funny if I didn't find it so frustrating at how little people are willing to talk about it.
I'm pretty open about a lot of shit in my life; my depression, my sexuality, the fact that my mum is dead and that she was an alcoholic. I think sometimes I'm a bit too open about that last one; dad sometimes acts as though he'd rather forget, which, I honestly don't blame him. We don't talk about it really. We don't actually talk about mum all that much. We're that sort of people; it took us years after she died, and to be honest, me moving out, to really be able to deal with each other. We're far too similar and she was the one who always mediated between us when I was little.
A lot of the people I've talked to over the years hear "alcoholic parent" and assume that a) it was my dad and b) they were abusive. It doesn't work like that.
Addiction runs in mum's family, along with a host of mental health issues (I got lucky? I so far just have the crippling depression and anxiety) but it was never a thing until suddenly it was.
She was never abusive, physically or verbally or emotionally. She was just a bit shit to be honest.
Forgetting to pick me up from school, falling asleep rather than making dinner, being mortifyingly embarrassing to my friends and at parents evenings (when she was sober enough to turn up)
Looking back, it was only 5 or so years, but when you're a teenager, that's forever, and we managed to pack a lot of shit into those 5 years.
Medical issues, stints with the AA and various other 'rehab' attempts. A stint in a residential rehab place, more health issues, me calling her every name under the sun, nearly setting the house on fire, multiple shitty jobs that she couldn't hold down because the tremors were so bad.
But there were also some great laughs, and getting closer to her when she was sober, us being a family.
But then there was also her going through my room to raid my savings box, me running off to my gran's and having my aunt take me home to yell at her sister, there were days when dad wouldn't even speak to her, when we tried to bribe her to sobriety with the promise of a new dog, there was her being so awkward that I couldn't bring friends home and the guilt that came with that.
There were money issues and social awkwardness and all the woes that come with being a teenage girl on top of everything else.
And there was no help. I mean, not for me. Dad got some counselling I think, as part of mum's rehab, I got a couple of leaflets and the school nurse trying to "be there for me", and teachers who tried to understand, but who didn't have a clue, and who were, to be honest, kind of judgmental.
And then there were just health issues.
My maternal gran died in August 2001, and mum's drinking and health just took a nosedive afterwards. And I think we just sort of stopped trying to keep her on the straight and narrow.
I can remember being allowed to keep my phone on me during classes because she was in hospital, and I can remember being called to the head teachers office because dad had come to get me because they were pretty sure she wasn't going to last the day.
I know it was a Tuesday, because I should have been at biology revision after school, and that Buffy was on (it was the season where Joyce was dying and they were dealing with Glory and I've not been able to watch it since)
I remember seeing her in a hospital bed, not knowing who I was, and looking so fucking frail and not her. And then being sent home with my boyfriend (who everyone hated, but who was a fucking godsend in the days after). I remember understanding that dad had said she had died, but I don't remember what he said. I don't remember a lot to be honest, but I know I went back to school on the Thursday because I am TERRIBLE at sitting doing nothing, and no one would let me do anything because I was 15 and too young to be involved and god knows dad doesn't do emotions.
I remember a couple of weeks later coming home from school and sitting in the middle of the floor with a knife and knowing I could end it all, but then dad would be alone and in all honesty that has been what's kept me alive for a very long time.
That and my stupid dog demanding fuss (dogs are amazing; Roxy was dumber than a sack of bricks but he loved us)
I know I had a say in what she wore for the cremation, and in the music (my aunt wanted a terrible version of fields of gold, we ended up with Rhapsody in Blue and one of Elgar's cello concertos performed by Jacqueline du Pre) and I remember seeing the body the day before the funeral.
And then everything is just sort of a blur, because after 5 years of living with that, you have to learn how to live without a person and without the drama. It was finding bottles of port and vodka round the house for months after, dad and I not talking to each other, it was me blagging through GCSEs and A-levels and hiding self harm and depression for years.
It was me watching dad going down the pub every evening and being terrified that he wasn't coming back because he was going to get in an accident, or that he was going to end up like mum.
It was going to university and after a year of binge drinking every night, sorting my shit out, and then being told by people I thought were my friends that I was too sensitive and that I should just get over it.
(I did, sort of, just not in the way that they were telling me)
Now, 18 years later, I try to have a healthy relationship with alcohol. I've not cut it out entirely, although I do go very long stretches without drinking. I don't drink alone, and I don't drink vodka or port (her preferred poisons) or white wine (I had a very bad time on 2 bottles in one evening... teenage regrets!) and I only drink around people I trust.
I'm not perfect, I go OTT sometimes, but I'm careful, and my friends keep an eye out for me, and they will call me on it if they think I'm drinking too much.
And, I have more to say, but I can't work out how to say it.
I loved my mum, and I hated her as well, partly in the way that most teenagers hate their parents, but also because she left me high and dry, and left my dad devastated and in debt.
I hate what happened, because she was this amazing, vibrant, larger than life person. She was artistic and smart and funny, and that all just got sapped away, piece by piece as she drank more, and it affected her more. I suspect, although I'll never know, that without the booze, she was bi-polar. The ups and downs and larger than life personality contrasted with hiding away and being moody as fuck at times. I think she was medicated for a while, before and while she was drinking, but I was too young to know what the hell was really going on. I wish I could know; I wish I could have actual answers (and some clue as to what I'm in for as I get older, I guess)
I have boxes of photos of her smiling and laughing, and virtually none from the last year or so of her life. I can't remember what her voice sounded like anymore, but I can remember her standing in the kitchen with her foot behind her head singing along to "love shack"
There are foods she used to make that I can't replicate because she never wrote things down, and I spend so much time trying to work out how I would be different if she was still alive, and whether she'd be proud of me now.
Who knows? There's no use living with what ifs and maybes. I've lived that bit of my life and now I'm moving forwards; what gives me hope is that there is more education about alcohol abuse out there, and that NACOA are a thing, and that with more people aware of them, kids like me can get help now.
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