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“Wake me if you see headlights,” my mom mumbled, her voice slurred as she parked the truck. The light above us flickered to green, and she quickly succumbed to sleep.
It was late, and we were in our small pickup truck on a deserted road in Texas. My mom was driving, and I, just eleven years old, sat frozen and frightened, keeping watch for any oncoming cars. The darkness outside felt suffocating, and despite her presence, I felt utterly alone.
My mom’s drowsiness wasn’t from exhaustion; it was the result of a mix of prescription pills that left her nearly unconscious. That night, I was terrified of the possibility of headlights piercing through the dark. If they came, they would expose us to the world. Everyone would see that my mom was out cold from her medication. What if a police officer noticed us idling at a green light? Surely, that would seem suspicious. I feared what might happen next. If we stayed put, I worried she might drift off and crash. The reality was, I was scared whether we stayed or moved on.
In that moment, like so many others with her, I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me. It burned deep inside as I glanced at her head resting against the window, eyes closed and mouth ajar. My friends’ moms didn’t behave like this; I couldn’t grasp why mine did.
I often ponder why that particular memory resurfaces. It may seem trivial compared to the more severe challenges I faced due to my mother’s addiction. I can’t recall if headlights ever appeared that night. Eventually, I would wake her, and we would continue our journey, somehow reaching our destination. Yet, I realize now it was probably one of the first instances where I felt it was my responsibility to care for her. I suspect it’s also when my anxiety issues began.
Eventually, my embarrassment morphed into deep resentment. Why was I burdened with worry while she escaped reality? Why couldn’t she be a typical mom? These questions gnawed at me until, as an adult, I found myself avoiding her calls and distancing myself from her life. I pretended she didn’t exist.
Her addiction had severe consequences for our family. I bore witness to a tumultuous divorce, a custody battle, her homelessness, multiple arrests, and ultimately, her death from an overdose in 2013. I regret to admit that I spent many years fixated on the painful memories. Although her passing brought profound grief, I convinced myself that I had the right to suppress any good memories of her.
Now, at thirty, after nearly two decades of resentment, I am slowly learning to empathize with her. I’m beginning to let go of my own hurt to understand hers.
Despite the vivid bad moments, there were also good ones. They may not be clear memories but instead fragmented feelings—a scent, an image, a song. Occasionally, something will trigger a fleeting glimpse of happiness I experienced with her. When she was sober, my mom was fun, witty, and loving. She had charm and beauty, and I know there were many joyful moments, even if I can’t fully recall them.
Much like my mother, I grapple with debilitating anxiety, depression, and panic attacks. For most of my life, I’ve worked hard to ensure I don’t mirror her struggles (my children will never endure what I did). However, I understand the temptation to surrender to fear and desire for escape.
Fortunately, mental health is not as stigmatized today as it was two decades ago. I’ve learned to recognize and discuss my symptoms with others—a privilege I doubt my mom had. To many, she was just the troubled drug user, and trust was scarce.
I often wonder how different her life could have been with proper mental health care. Perhaps if someone had offered guidance at the right moment, things would have turned out differently. I know many tried to help; my father nearly depleted his resources in the process. Even when offered support, it often seemed she didn’t want it. Addiction is a formidable foe, and those who suffer from it can feel too weary to fight. Still, I can’t help but think that if she had reached out early on, before it spiraled, perhaps today would look different.
I love my mom. I always have, even amidst my anger and embarrassment—even during those times I had to keep watch for cars at that traffic light. It’s been nearly eight years since her passing, and I miss her every day. Her struggles with mental health and addiction obscured her true self from me, and I wish I had more time with the real her. I watched her make significant mistakes, yet I still cling to the reasons I have to love her.
For more on navigating these complex emotions, you can check out this other blog post that explores similar themes. Additionally, if you’re interested in starting your own family journey, Make a Mom provides excellent resources for couples. For more information on pregnancy and home insemination, visit Cleveland Clinic’s podcast.
Summary:
This article reflects on the author’s complex relationship with her mother, a drug-dependent woman whose addiction shaped both their lives. The author recounts moments of fear, embarrassment, and eventual resentment as she navigated her mother’s struggles. After her mother’s death, she begins to process her feelings and recognize the good alongside the bad, ultimately seeking to empathize with her mother’s pain.
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