Today I got triggered by a bottle of vodka, and I needed to consult my inner child to figure out why. I was eating my breakfast at the kitchen table when my husband pulled off the shelf the jar of vanilla we began "brewing" last week and the bottle of vodka we used to get things started. He wanted to compare the color of the vanilla to the vodka. Nothing threatening in that, right? Except that I suddenly felt a grip of fear around my heart. In the past, I might have ignored it, or more likely tried to chalk it up to what I was eating. But I've stopped running. The shadow can no longer hide in the darkness. I will turn on the light and face it every time, as I did a little while ago.
So, I asked Little Cheryl what she was afraid of, and she told me. The vodka made her think of Dad, who too often chose alcohol over relationship, over his wife, over his children who so desperately needed him. He even chose alcohol over himself. Rather than face his demons, rather than feel the emotional pain that came from not having his needs met as a child (which doomed him to never getting what he needed as an adult), he chose to escape. Every beer can he opened, every shot of Canadian Club he poured down his gullet promised to numb the pain, to hide it, to tuck it away where he'd never have to deal with it. But the alcohol lied, and my father welcomed the deception for years. He spent most of his life running, even after he had given up drinking and smoking, but he could not outrun the bill that NEEDED to get paid. His body would not settle for the escapes, so it betrayed him as he had betrayed it. About a week before he turned 71, he died of complications from lung and esophageal cancer, after nearly a year of unmitigated misery from chemical and radiation poisoning sold as "medical treatment."
I am sorry, but that is far too high a price to pay for avoiding emotional pain now. I will not do it, and while I understand that this makes me a threat to anyone hiding from his or her own buried anguish, please do not ask me to compromise in order to make you comfortable. I betrayed myself for far too long by doing exactly that and in the process hurt not only myself but everyone I ever cared about.
—Postscript: I nearly scrapped this post, because my heart was pounding as I searched for a photo to go with my words. But I took deep breaths and reminded Little Cheryl that telling our story is necessary for the healing to happen. The image, by the way, is of my husband and our daughter Stella, taken back in 2012.
I'm glad you're telling your story, Mom, and that you're listening to Little Cheryl. ❤️
Recognizing or feeling the feeling is only half the battle, I've come to realize. It's asking the next question, "Why?," that really starts the healing ball rolling. Powerful post.