Having a conversation with an alcoholic is like being on a carousel, ferris wheel, and really wild roller coaster – all at once.
That’s something I’ve learned, at least. And I don’t really enjoy the ride.
The problem is learning not to get on.
It’s hard sometimes. You’re going along, thinking you’re handling yourself okay, and then suddenly the ground slips away and you’re off, spinning and climbing and falling and not knowing which way is up.
You’d think I would recognize the ride before it begins, but sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I open my mouth and, with a word, hand over my ticket.
I know, I’m being all cryptic.
It’s hard to write about things that swirl around in your brain. Having conversations with my mother about her drinking are like that. Swirling.
She twists things. Tries to redirect. Distract. Divert. Avoid.
“You don’t understand…”
“There are things you don’t know about…”
“When you’ve lived as long as I have…”
“I guess I’m a bad mother.”
“Do you have anything good to say about me?”
Those last two…so totally and obviously diversionary.
Apples and oranges, Mom. Apples and oranges.
You were a good mother, and we’ve said plenty of good things about you.
You just don’t remember any of them.
This morning I told her, in response to that last question above, that yes, I’ve said good things about her, written good things about her…but her brain is now so pickled with alcohol she doesn’t remember ANY of it.
She didn’t have much of a response to that.
Most recently she spent a couple of nights passed out on the floor in the porch. She’d been drinking (obviously) and couldn’t get up. Dad covered her with blankets or coats or something so she wouldn’t be chilly in the middle of the night. At least it’s summer, so there’s no danger of hypothermia.
Yesterday, or maybe it was the day before, Dad somehow got her on a towel and dragged her into the living room.
My sister told me about that. Apparently he was sort of amused by that part – “once I got going it was pretty easy” he said. Or words to that effect.
We find the humor where we can.
It’s gotten harder and harder to FIND that humor, but we grab it where we can.
It’s what keeps us sane.
Then I guess yesterday Dad took Mom out to lunch at a little Italian place.
Mom had two glasses of wine.
This is the sort of thing that makes my sister’s and my heads explode.
WHY, Dad? Why do you give in?
And then, after they got home, he was doing something and she apparently took the keys and drove off.
Dad called my sister and she told him to call the police…and then he went out looking for her. When my sister called the house again a bit later, Mom was home. My sister unloaded on her, her words liberally seasoned with F-bombs and other choice phrases.
That’s what my mother will latch onto – the swear words. Nothing else will stick.
“There are things…”
That’s what she started to day this morning. I interrupted her. I’ve heard that before. Things. Reasons. Heartache. Drama.
“Mom, EVERYONE has THINGS.”
“What?”
Everyone has THINGS.
“Yes,” she switched gears. “Yes, they do.” She says this meaningfully. Like She Knows All.
“Yeah,” I continued, “but OTHER people deal with these THINGS without drinking.”
“You’re absolutely right.”
I hate that.
It means nothing.
It’s patronizing.
I couldn’t think of the word, though, when she was doing it, so I couldn’t tell her to stop patronizing me, which was rather annoying. Then, when I was relating all this to my sister afterword, I thought of it.
“I should call her back and just say ‘patronizing!’ and then hang up.”
Hahahahahahahaha.
Again – humor where we can find it.
Survival of the wittiest.
