Mother dearest darling daughter

I am thinking about moms.

My friend J.'s mother died last Friday. Actually, J. is mostly S.'s friend, but he has become my friend through a process I like to think of as being similar to osmosis. I would say that he is my friend. I just always feel the need to clarify, as if I have to explain why on Earth another human being would be my associate.

I never met J.'s mom, not even when J. lived with S. in Waterloo (they and five other guys shared a house while they attended the same university). I have heard J. talking about his mother at least within the last four months, and always without being upset. His girlfriend explained that she had been sick for some time; I don't know how long -- I would never have known anything was wrong in J.'s life. He is a very happy person and I always found that to be a great (and enviable) quality.

I feel for J. because I do know how much it sucks to lose someone, although I do not know how much it sucks when that person is your mother. J. is 24, a year younger than me. He has siblings who are younger, and I feel for them because no one wants to lose a parent when they are still barely an adult. Before it's time for that sort of thing. Especially when that parent has barely hit middle age (I think I am correct when I say J.'s mother was not even in her 50s).

So I am thinking about my own mother right now, and poking around my current feelings about her. At the moment I feel guilty; J. no longer has a mother, and I do, and I am often irritated with her. Instead of cherishing my mom and being thankful, I get upset with her.

My mom is what my dad calls an intermittent alcoholic. I think he says that just to feel as if he has, in his mind, not yet condemned her to full-blown alcoholism. At home, at my parents' house, if you don't hide your alcohol, she will drink it. My dad is very creative in this aspect; he hides his rum above the basement ceiling. There is a hole in the ceiling (put there in order to do wiring or some-such) and it is covered with a white plastic square that pops into place and makes it look very tidy. And that is where he keeps his stash.

Of course, this does not mean that my mom does not buy her own alcohol. She hides beer around the house, or vodka. Occasionally I will stumble across an empty, hidden bottle. My dad and brother have a tendency to ignore this. They put the evidence in the recycling and no one ever mentions it. I used to do that as well, until I realized that does no good, and more or less got fed up. Nowadays I tend to deposit them on my mom's bed and ask her if she can please not leave empties just lying around the house. It's messy, I tell her. At least make sure to remove the proof of your secret drinking.

She drinks and she is not a merry drinker. My dad, my brother, and myself are all relatively happy when we drink. I had a spot of difficulty a few years back, before I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. I drank more since it made me feel more normal. Later I learned in hospital that this is called self-medicating. Prior to being medicated, I would drink and it would drastically alter my mood; I would either be very manic (which I thought was an improvement on my regular self) or severely depressed. It could be a bit of a toss-up and I wasn't in the state of mind where I even cared what happened. Now that I am balanced, I don't need to do this anymore and I can enjoy a glass of wine without downing the whole bottle in half an hour. I didn't know I was having a problem until it was pointed out to me.

My mom, though, she knows she has a problem. We've all talked to her about it. She acknowledges it herself; every so often she says she's trying to drink less. She'll say something like, "Oh, it makes me act a bit weird". A bit weird. Try ... ruining dad's birthday this spring, or not being able to do more than slur on the phone when I call you.

We had an incident the other day, my mother and I. She called my cell phone the other day while I was at work. On my break a few hours later, I gave her a call back. She was so wasted, she could barely keep up a normal conversation. I was in the midst of headaches and a lowered mood. She mentioned that she was feeling tired because she had taken an Ativan (also known as lorazepam; it's an anti-anxiety medication) and had a couple of beers later on. Every time she does this, she acts as though she's so surprised to be feeling so out of it, like Oh my goodness, whatever has come over me. Golly fucking gee. I had no patience for her and I didn't want to take the kind approach, so I said, "Yeah, well, you've done that before and passed out. You missed most of Christmas, remember?. Don't act so fucking surprised. It's not like you don't know the medication has that effect if you drink." She slurred, "Don't use that kind of language." I told her I'll behave well and use proper language once she gets her shit together. She started to tell me that she is having a bad day. I told her I didn't care and asked her to give me a call back when she wasn't drunk or passed out, "but oh wait, mom, that might be never!"

Here is are my issues with this:
1. Being soft about things won't get you anywhere. But apparently, tough love doesn't help either. So I go back and forth between trying to be understanding, or just telling it like it is and letting my disappointment show.
2. My mom frequently says that she is depressed, and tired. I tell her to go see a doctor or psychologist. I offer to call Dr. F. and set up an appointment for myself and my mom. I tell her she should have her iron levels checked (she and I both have a tendency towards anemia), and that since she is taking blood pressure medication, she should not drink so much, if at all. My mom says yes, those are all good things. Then she doesn't take any steps at all to fix her problems. But she continues to complain about the same shit over and over and expects me to just listen to it and then say, "Poor you," and pass the vodka.
3. I've read several articles on families and friends and their relationships with alcoholics. Apparently she is not the one to blame, it is us, for being enablers or what-not. I can understand where this is coming from; I'm sometimes not nice to my mom when she drinks and I see how this can turn me into a reason for her to drink. BUT. Being nice to her makes no difference. She knows there is a problem and will not resolve it. We can't force her to get help, and she seems to want help but isn't doing a single thing about it.
4. As for trying to get her some help, I have talked to my psychologist, Dr. F., and she has given me some advice but the situation is still no better. Basically, my mom has to hit rock bottom before she will see that she needs help. I am afraid that she is going to die before that will happen. She has very high blood pressure, and it is always creeping higher because she is overweight. And gaining even more weight. She never exercises because she is too tired. She has a stressful job. She drinks heavily. (She would probably not be so tired if she didn't drink so much, and then she would be able to exercise, and then she would be less stressed, and her blood pressure would go down. I see it, the solution is simple. Getting my mother to that point is not simple). And she comes from a long line (on the maternal side) of alcoholics who can't drive and have heart problems and mental illness, who either kill themselves, go into cardiac arrest, or crash their cars.
5. I often feel like her behaviour is some kind of convoluted punishment for my leaving home and moving in with S. These episodes have increased tremendously in the two years since I've moved out. When I stayed at home recently (due to the fridge incident), my mother became much more normal than she has been in that last few months. She often asks me (usually in jest), "How could you leave me with your dad and brother?" I usually joke right back and tell her that S. and I will move into the house with her, and my dad and brother can have the apartment. In the end we always decide that wouldn't be good idea because dad and C. would try and kill each other. Or starve to death. When my mom is drunk while trying to pretend to be sober, and not asking that question in jest, I then reply by saying something like, "You moved out of your parents' home, too, you know. You left Nanny with Grampy and your two brothers, and she managed without you." My mom will then accept this, but continue to nag me. We typically end with her saying, "It would be better if you stayed here more often, why did you have to leave me?" and me responding, "Gee, mom, I get home and you just keep reminding me why I left in the first place."

Since I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder and began devouring books on the subject, I find more and more that my mother displays much of the classic behaviour. I point these things out to her and she generally dismisses them, or says, "Oh. Aunt (so-and-so) was like that."
Her mood can change in the blink of an eye. During the course of a dinnertime discussion, she can go from bubbly and laughing, to crying and shouting. Sometimes she is irrational. She will have periods when she doesn't drink, or at least displays perfect moderation. This is when she is my lovely mother again. The next day she might be screaming at my dad for not tidying up the house while she is at work (my father is newly retired), and going on and on about how she has to do everything AROUND HERE and she is sick and tired of this and that and blah blah blah, and then pouring herself a big glass of wine while my dad says, calmly, "Maybe you shouldn't have so much to drink," and she says, "You do whatever you want to, why can't I have a drink if that's what I feel like?" My dad sometimes says, "T., sometimes you can be a little unpleasant if you have too much to drink." From time to time she accepts this, but mostly she just blows up at him again. I've heard her rants so many times before, she and I could do a lip-synching act.
When I was in high school I started making a huge effort to keep the house clean, and do whatever she needed, so that my mother would have fewer things to yell about. I didn't want her screaming at my dad or my brother in the background whenever a friend or a boy would call. I never even brought my first high school boyfriend home because I was terrified of having to explain my mother's behaviour if she suddenly began lashing out.
She is alternately delightful and terrifying, occasionally bewildering. When I am visiting home things do tend to be better; my father and brother and I are skilled at navigating the mine-field of her behaviour together. But I can't be home with my parents and brother all the time. I have my own life. I want to sleep in my own bed with S., I want to live in the apartment that I pay rent for.
My mom and I do have good times together. When we are enjoying each others company and going out shopping or for dinner, it's as if we push all that unpleasantness aside for the sake of a nice evening. We talk and laugh and confide and occasionally discuss her issues, but nothing is ever fixed. She and I become this temporarily normal mother-and-daughter team. There is this illusion, and I always want to believe that it's for real, and she's going to be better from now on, and that this, right here, is the start of things being good, for everyone, finally.

But then it always goes back to the way it really is. And the way it continues to be. She and I will talk (if she is able to talk) tomorrow, or the next day, and it will be one of those above-mentioned conversations, either pleasant or not. She will act as if she wants to move forward, I will be supportive as if we haven't been over this a million times before. Then I will wait for whatever: for her to be ready someday, for her to die, for her to finally hit rock bottom and have no other choice but to finally listen to us.