Pruning Back the Dysfunction
When my mother died 20 some years ago, my children and I planted a variegated maple tree in the front yard, in her memory. Occasionally a non-variegated branch emerges from the trunk. If not pruned away, more and more of the tree will lose its variegation. If left unattended, the variegations will become lost altogether.
Our heritage may involve pathological aspects that we wish to cut away, thereby making the family healthier. Some require only a bit of trimming and shaping to keep the plant flourishing. Others have great unhealthy and rotten limbs, the addiction, the abusive behavior, to sever and remove lest the rot further spread through the branches.
If we are to break the cycle of dysfunction so ingrained through the generations, we must carve away the damage and rot (maladaptive behavior) that prevents us from thriving in a complicated and demanding world.
By breaking the legacy of family dysfunction, and nurturing the souls of our children in a way that may not have been possible for our parents, I believe we have the opportunity to repair, compensate, make amends, and symbolically recreate our own childhood.
I was thirteen when I realized my mother had a drinking problem. I watched in horror as she spiraled deeper into the bottle. Her growing instability and mood swings were pretty terrifying in light of the mother I had known to that point.
I kept constant vigil, secretly trying to smell her breath, searching through the cabinets and basement trying to find her stash, tearing through the village in panic to find my Dad and let him know that “it” was happening again.
The humiliation as our secret became public; the confusion as to why this was happening and what I needed to do to fix it, (it was “my fault”, after all); the strong sense of guilt that my epilepsy was the reason for it; the fear for her safety when she would disappear; anger and disgust in the face of her drunkenness; and the helplessness in making it go away, largely defined my adolescence.
(Sidebar)
Living with Alcoholism
Approximately one in four people is affected by alcoholism during their lifetime, but the stigma is so great that many remain unaware of what goes on in the homes of some of our friends and neighbors.
Alcoholism is a family disease. Not only does it tend to run through the generations of a family (e.g., grandfather, mother, uncle, brother, daughter…). It has a devastating impact on the parents, spouse, and children of the one with the drinking problem or addiction
Family members develop coping mechanisms in handling the pain involved with having an alcoholic parent. Often there is a change in the behavior of spouse and children as a means of dealing with addiction in their home lives. It is not unusual to see some variation of the following roles develop among the family members.
- The Hero is a high achiever, trying desperately to compensate for the family’s distress by being extremely “good”, trying like the dickens to “fix” things. They never break the rules, and perform exceedingly well in school; and in their mind it is never enough. Their sense of inadequacy is tremendous.
- The Clown draws attention away from the pain and dysfunction at home by entertaining others, by being cute or funny. This behavior provides a good cover to the supreme sense of insecurity that this child feels.
- The Scapegoat attracts negative attention by acting out, getting into trouble, hanging out with the unsavory crowd, making extreme fashion choices, and experimentation with the very substances or activities that create so much turmoil in their life. Feelings of anger and helplessness and being misunderstood abound.
- The Lost Child tries to make themself invisible, keeping to oneself, attracting little attention, or leaving to hang out with friends outside the home as much as possible. This child feels lonely and unimportant.
- The Enabler is usually the spouse or child closest to the addict emotionally. They try to protect the alcoholic person by making excuses for their behavior, picking up the slack around the house, bailing them out of jail. This allows the drinker to continue without suffering the natural consequences, social ostracism, and financial effects of their drinking
As these dysfunctional roles become ingrained amongst family members, relationships between siblings develop unhealthy patterns of communication. While sibling rivalry is normal and necessary in children, it becomes a huge problem when childhood competitions are carried into adulthood, as often happens in the midst of such dysfunction
The result is a struggle of negative, childish feeling and supreme sense of inadequacy and betrayal which has followed us into maturity. At family gatherings, old conflicts reduce these adults to the childish response played out as youngsters. It is likely to cast a dark shadow over our relationships with our partner, children, professional relationships, and friendships. We are setting the example our children are likely to follow if the cycle is not broken. Guidance by a professional may be what is required to break these destructive patterns of communication.
Coming to my Truth
Ironically, I join the ranks of alcoholics in my family. This is dreadfully humiliating since the escalation of my drinking occurred after training and practice in the field of Substance Abuse Rehabilitation.
I went into the field with the intent of fixing my alcoholically dysfunctional family of origin, curing my mother and brother of their alcoholism, looking for the answers and tools necessary to get my own precarious psyche on track.
During my training, I learned that it takes a child under the age of five, five weeks to become addicted to alcohol; under the age of 15, five months; a typical adult, five years. I knew myself to be at risk, potentially alcoholic given the fact that I come from a strong line of drunks. Even then, I ditched my three beer bottles in the barn at the back of my apartment, until I could dispose of them permanently. But I had plenty of time. My “situational” bout of alcoholic drinking was purely “temporary”, until I got back on my feet after being pp rejected by the first love of my life.
Years pass, I get married, relocate, have children. During a visit to my parents house over the holidays, my mother discovers my wine stash in the closet. After agonizing for days over this turn of events, she confronts me. I flee to stay with a sister friend, and then spend my remaining time in New England in a motel, so as not to face my parents. Mom is convinced that I leave them prematurely to resume my drinking, but she’s wrong. This was what I had needed to stop.
I confessed to my friend and my sister, and in passing mentioned to my husband that I had the “potential” to become alcoholic. “So stop drinking.” And I did. For three weeks. After which I took my drinking underground. I didn’t drink in public. Ever.
Three years later, at my mother’s death bed, not wishing for her to die with that boulder tied around her neck, I assure her that I have taken care of the problem. “I know,” she beams. She has noticed that I no longer drink at our family gatherings. Little does she know…
But I know the signs, and I have them all. Following my mother’s death, I nearly go off the deep end because now she knows everything. That I’m still a drunk, a drug thief (what happened to the drugs?), and my children may be in danger.
Three more years pass. I come home for a moment, for some brilliant and well planned excuse, from a neighborhood gathering to fortify my alcohol level with the wine hidden behind the furnace, or in the root cellar, or my closet. There are times that I chalked up the discovery of hidden bottles to my mother’s previous visits. Can’t do that anymore, and must remember to bury the bottles in the garbage on pick up day.
By then I was plotting to ensure that I had a constant supply. But I didn’t want everyone in my small town to know, so I alternated between liquor stores. I learned everyone’s schedule so as to make my purchases seem more spread out. I invented reasons to go to the city. I needed some supplies from the craft store (and while I was at it I’d just slip into the nearby liquor store). When I went out with friends, I’d leave the restaurant to go to the package store next door, under the guise of going to the ATM two doors down for cash; I’d stop on the way home from my therapy appointments in another town to “pick up a bottle of wine for a friend”. My counselor didn’t have a clue.
I was constantly on the lookout for options, and excuses to go to new locations. I’d even gotten a purse large enough to accommodate two 1.5 liter bottles without splitting it out. When I arrived at home with my stash replenished, I was giddy with relief and anticipation.
At the airport, during layovers I sampled wine from each bar within the allotted time frame. I tried once to smuggle a bottle onto the plane, but security made me get rid of it, dammit.
I dampened my husband’s suspicions by gaslighting him: the alcohol he thought he smelled must be the breath freshener I used, or I was slurring because my brain waves were screwed up. I stayed home when the boys went skiing, hiking, camping, bowling. Over the last two or three years, I had spent as much as $60 a week on cheap wine, asked friends to pick up a bottle for a “romantic dinner”. I threw up a quart of wine that graced the toilet in its original form, and went back to the closet for a replacement slug. It was bad.
In the mornings over those last three months, as I stood at the bathroom sink, looking into my mother’s eyes, I sensed her presence day after day, as she seemed to nudge my left shoulder and breathe encouragement- Come on Ruth, it’s time to pull yourself together. Ruth, you can do this, it’s time…
But I couldn’t do it. I tried. I resolved to put an end to that hell. And I couldn’t make it beyond a day or two. Finally I realized that the only way I could do this was to let my husband know that I was in trouble, but I didn’t know how to tell him. So I hid my bottles where he would be certain to find them- in the cabinet with the cat food. He fed the cats every day, he couldn’t miss it. After several days of dread-filled walking on eggshells, I chickened out. I moved the bottles. Several days later, the dreaded confrontation happened as he angrily told me of his discovery. He was furious.
I was confronted on a daily basis for years by my husband’s seething anger and utter lack of trust, as I struggled to gain sobriety. I was on my own. My lies and his fury very nearly destroyed our marriage. Miraculously we managed to survive despite that hellish period in our lives.
It has been 20 (26) years since my last drink, and that’s the truth.
Despite awareness of the indescribable pain resulting from addiction, and every intention not to allow that to happen to ourselves (for no one wants to become an addict!), it happens. Over and over again, in an endless cycle through the generations; until one takes action to break that cycle through treatment, or involvement in a 12 Step Program, or other self-help group.
The problem comes in seeking love and acceptance, happiness and fulfillment from external sources. In order to alleviate the deep sense of insecurity and yearning we carry within us, we require the approval of people around us. We blame other people or circumstances for the sense of failure we feel. There is a tendency to turn to alcohol, food, electronics (gaming, social media, video), or any number of sources for comfort.
Gardens need cutting back. One loses sight of the beauty of the coveted blossom through trivialities and distractions. You buy a flower (an electronic device, a bottle of wine perhaps), that you are convinced will improve the quality of your garden. This pretty thing goes about the daily business of growing, invading the root space of other beauties: reading, playing outdoors, interacting with the environment. . You don’t want to get rid of it entirely, but as long as it has space in the plot of life, it becomes greedy, taking over more than was originally intended. Too much of a good thing turns out to be detrimental, just as sweltering sun leads to dehydration and burn out, withering the soul of the individual.
I have heard it said that one of the most valuable gifts you can bequeath to your children, is to work out or come to terms with unresolved quarrels with your family of origin.
The thick gnarly root of an unwanted vine is metaphorical to being so set in blaming and stubbornness, as to become impervious to forgiveness. For instance, bittersweet is a tenacious creeper vine; it proceeds to choke a rose bush in much the same way that stubborn resistance to change impedes our capacity for personal development; it is bound and determined to override the desire for new growth. Negotiation, compromise, and realistic expectations are what is needed to keep a relationship thriving.
Several years ago, most of my siblings and I gathered for the funeral of a beloved aunt. As usual, I was filled with fear and trepidation at the prospect of reuniting with my family of origin. I cannot stand the games, the manipulations, the secrets, the competition, the dishonesty; the pitting of one against another, and the tremendous sense of being so judged and completely misunderstood.
The opportunity presented itself to work through these lifelong rivalries that had escalated upon the event of our father’s passing, tearing us apart in ways that seemed beyond the scope of reconciliation. That is when I lost my brother once and for all, though not to death.
After once again rehashing old wounds, we agreed to make a pact, quite simple really:
- We will let go of past grudges once and for all.
- We will say what we mean and mean what we say.
- We will talk to each other, not about each other.
- We will keep our relationship and issues with each other between ourselves; and not pull the others into disagreements that have nothing to do with them.
This was a turning point, especially for me and my eldest sister. Often referred to as the “Queen Bee” in our family (a.k.a., Hero), she had been burdened with way too much responsibility at too young an age. She continued to think that she must step in on behalf of her grown siblings. Much to our relief, she has been “dethroned”, and we now stand as equals.
The legacy of alcoholic dysfunction that has been widespread through so many generations of my family has taken a turn. This truly feels like one of my biggest accomplishments as a parent. I have done what I can; now it is up to my children to make use of the information they have been given, or learn their own lessons the hard way.
By becoming honest with ourselves and knowledgeable about the disease of alcoholism and other addictions, we may suspend the on-going repetition of dysfunction, setting a new example for our offspring.
The questions remain: How does one go about creating a new vision for future generations? How is it possible to set a good example if there has been no positive role model to demonstrate effective child-rearing practice?
Read on.