It was a late night in rural Texas, and we were parked at a lonely traffic light in our old Ford pickup. “Wake me up if you see a car coming,” my mom mumbled, her eyes drooping. As I stared into the dark outside, I couldn’t shake the feeling of isolation, despite her presence beside me. She wasn’t just tired; she was deep in a haze of prescription pills, leaving me, an eleven-year-old, terrified and alone.
My heart raced at the thought of headlights breaking through the darkness, exposing us to the world. I imagined a police officer stopping to check on us, realizing my mom was passed out, and I was left to face the consequences. The fear of staying still or moving forward overwhelmed me. In that moment, I grappled with embarrassment and deep resentment. Why was I left to bear the weight of our reality while she escaped into a drug-induced stupor?
Those feelings of resentment festered into years of avoidance. I distanced myself from her, ignoring her calls and pretending she didn’t exist. Her addiction wreaked havoc on our family, leading to a painful divorce, custody battles, her homelessness, and ultimately her overdose in 2013. I buried myself in negative memories, allowing grief to overshadow any good times we shared.
Now, at thirty, I’m learning to empathize with my mom. After almost two decades of anger, I’m finally recognizing the complexity of her struggles. Amid the chaos, I can recall fleeting moments of joy, even if they come to me as vague feelings rather than clear memories. When she was sober, she was vibrant, fun, and loving—qualities that often get lost in the shadow of her addiction.
I, too, struggle with anxiety and depression. I’ve spent my life trying to avoid her path, ensuring my children don’t face what I had to endure. Thankfully, discussions around mental health have changed, and I’ve learned to talk about my own feelings. I often wonder how different my mom’s life could have been with proper mental health support. Though many tried to help her, she often resisted assistance, feeling trapped in her addiction.
I love my mom, even amid my anger and embarrassment. It’s been nearly eight years since she left this world, and I miss her daily. Her struggles overshadowed the real person she was, and I wish I could have known her better. Despite her mistakes, I hold onto the reasons to love her.
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In summary, my journey of understanding my mom’s struggles with addiction has transformed my perspective on her life. After years of resentment, I’m beginning to see her as a person rather than just her addiction, allowing me to embrace the love I have for her.
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