My stepfather was an abusive alcoholic. My mother was a bipolar addict. My uncle was also an alcoholic and he died of cirrhosis. I was raised by my grandparents. My grandmother died when I was 14. My mother decided it was a great time to force me to move back home. Within months I was placed into foster care due to the horrific abuse I received. I wasn’t allowed to go back to live with my grandfather because CYS determined he was “too old.” Guess what? Foster care wasn’t much better in terms of abuse.
Despite that, I got a full academic scholarship to a private Catholic school. I busted my butt. I stayed after school until 9 most nights because school was my home. I was newspaper editor, mock trial captain, academic league champion, had my writing published multiple times. I knew that nobody was going to pay for college for me so I had to work my butt off to get a scholarship or I would end up like every other foster kid who ages out of the system with nothing to show for themselves. I graduated top of my class and earned a full academic scholarship to college. Now that I was on my own, I reconnected with my beloved grandfather. I eventually graduated with dual degrees. I started multiple businesses. I made something of myself. I got married to a wonderful man. For those raised in crappy home lives, we often fall into the trap of marrying the wrong person because we don’t know what a healthy relationship really is. But I picked a good one. I never touched a drop of alcohol. Never did a single drug. I was always petrified after seeing the drug and alcohol addictions I grew up with, especially knowing the genetic component. Still haven’t to this day done any drugs, even weed.
But then my grandfather’s health started failing. I took care of him. The rest of my family didn’t care. I changed his catheters, fed him, took care of his meds, got him to his appointments. When it got bad, I was at the hospital with him every single day. I did everything I could for him because he was my everything and he deserved it. He was the sweetest, kindest, most gentle soul ever.
And then he died. Everything inside me shattered. He was the glue that held me together and made me believe in goodness in the world. At his wake, they poured out a shot. Everyone raised their glass to toast my pap. How could I not? So I drank.
And I didn’t stop. Did. Not. Stop. I had always told my husband there are two things I’m not going to be able to handle: when my grandfather passed and when our dog passes. I was right. I just broke in every conceivable way. I just drank day in and day out. Wine at first. Half wine, half juice. Then straight wine. Then vodka cranberries. I was a tame drunk. Wasn’t mean. Didn’t go out and cause trouble. Didn’t drink and drive. Still kept a tidy home and got my work done. I guess you could say I was a functional alcoholic. But I started losing time. Blacking out. Neglecting things that could actually legitimately help me heal from the pain in favor of the temporary fix of a bottle. Equal parts wanting the pain to go away along with the desire to slowly kill myself and be done with it all.
I eventually quit cold turkey (no, I do not advocate this— but I am very OCD and I am an “all or nothing” type so emotionally I needed to do that even though physically it is very dangerous… if you happen to be an alcoholic and wish to quit, please speak to your doctor first who will likely recommend tapering off). I dealt with shakes, chills, sweats, nausea, vomiting, zero appetite, itchiness all over, mini seizures, insomnia, confusion, agitation, paranoia. In short, it sucked. Withdrawal usually lasts a couple weeks, but can sometimes last several months. I must have been lucky because I had about 2-3 days of withdrawal and then I started feeling like myself again, so the process was quick for me. I have an app on my phone called the I Am Sober app that counts the time I’ve been sober and checks in with me every morning and night about my sobriety. I was in therapy before I began drinking, but I still am to this day. I have a list on my phone of reasons I want to be sober. I feel happier, healthier, and I have a better life now. And the other bad thing I told my husband I couldn’t handle recently happened to. We lost our beloved dog of 14 years due to old age. But I didn’t drink. I cried and I cried and I cried. I still cry daily. But I haven’t drank. Instead, I added to my list of reasons to stay sober: “I want Clover (my dog) to be proud of me” and “Clover wouldn’t want me to hurt myself.” And we opened our hearts to a new puppy, then I added “I need to be able to take care of Darby (my puppy).”
Being an alcoholic can make you do bad things. But it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a bad person. Nobody picks up a drink and decides to become an alcoholic. It’s not a choice, and sometimes one drink is all it takes. Genetics and trauma create the perfect storm for this disease to take a terrible and unforgiving hold on some people. Why not focus on having sympathy for all parties involved in making it either/or? He sounds like a man caught in a spiral of very deep pain and self sabotage. And she sounds like she had a very traumatic experience walking into work to that. But sympathy isn’t mutually exclusive. Have care for both.