I had told my dad that I was going to give my mom an ultimatum. My plan was to tell her I would go live with him and his family if she didn’t go into rehab. I remember being aware that I had to present this to my father in such a way that he didn’t feel as if living with him was considered a punishment or something I dreaded in any way. I was very sensitive about his feelings as well. But we both knew that the thought of losing me was the only real threat my mother would respond to.
I had been told that in order for intervention to work, it would have to hinge on immediate rehab, because simply getting Mom to promise not to drink, without professional help, had already proven futile. Dad agreed to all parts of the plan; he would wait patiently to hear the intervention’s outcome. I can’t imagine how he felt hearing his thirteen-year-old child having such resolve.
Finally, the day had come. Auntie Lila had secretly packed a bag for my mother’s impending trip. Lila picked me up from school. I somehow got Mom to meet me at the Freedom Institute offices to discuss something serious. It was a nervous, scary time. My mother was never one for surprises, or for any situation, for that matter, in which she did not have complete control. To this day I’m still shocked that she even showed up to meet us.
I remember sitting down with her in a small, poorly lit room. Maybe the lighting was fine or just fluorescent and unflattering, I’m not sure, but I do remember seeing darkness out the sides of my eyes. My vision was narrowing. Lila was there, too. All the sounds in the room, including our voices, had a sort of muffled quality, like we were speaking underwater. I assume now that this was the result of heightened anxiety; I was on the verge of the flight side of the fight-or-flight response.
I did not flee but instead sat down facing my increasingly anxious, soon-to-be-blindsided mother. Once settled, the counselor from the Freedom Institute began giving my mother some background on who she was and what the Freedom Institute was about. She explained that I had come to them some weeks ago to ask for help with my mother’s drinking.
I remember immediately thinking that Mom must be getting mad that I went behind her back to discuss her with a stranger. The woman then looked at me and asked me to tell my mother some of the stories I had told her and explain how they made me feel.
I began talking. What could be going through her mind? I imagined Mom saying, “Fuck this,” and storming out and going straight to the closest bar. But to my shock, she stayed in her seat. I looked at her and mustered the strength to pretend that I would rather live with my father than with her drinking. For the first time in my life I didn’t attempt to get her approval. I kept talking. I explained how mean she got when she drank and how it scared me. I told her I loved her and I wanted to have fun with her but when she drank she changed for the worse.
Her lips pursed and she was silent. One of Mom’s go-to tactics in an argument was to keep silent while somebody ranted and then coldly pose the question “Are you finished?” When you said yes, she would basically shut the whole debate down by claiming she would do nothing you asked. How dare you question her?
I expected the same this time. As I spoke about how she acted when she drank and how hurtful she was to me, I had a sort of tunnel vision, the blurry haze that encroaches just before someone is about to faint. Lila chimed in to say that it was mainly for my mother’s own benefit that we were doing this. We each had our parts to play. Mom scoffed at the idea of anything ever being for her.
The woman from the Freedom Institute said that there had been arrangements made for Mom to go to a place called St. Mary’s in Minneapolis, Minnesota. For what seemed like an eternity, there was silence. Then I remember Mom saying she would “think about it.”
I thought: Oh no, we are losing her. I knew it wouldn’t work.
But I didn’t give up. We explained that there was actually no time to think it over. That we had her bag ready and that the flight was in a few hours.
Even I felt this was harsh. If it had been me, I would have felt helpless, hurt, and angry. I couldn’t tell how she was feeling. My mother’s exterior did not betray her emotions, and I could tell she had decided to humor us and play along with this little game we were ignorantly playing, but had not yet decided to concede. She was steely, and I could tell she was upset and hurt and even scared but would never let on.
I knew she was also placating us. She was condescending to our lack of judgment. She was sure she didn’t have a problem and would just prove us wrong. She could always turn even the most clear-cut situations into ones where she was calling the shots. She looked only at me and said, “Are you finished?” “Yes, Mama.”
More silence and then: She finally spoke. “I’ll go. But I am going for you. I’m doing this for you, Brookie, not for me. I don’t have a problem.”
She got into the car we had reserved, stoically turned her gaze straight ahead, and that was that. I honestly believe Mom hadn’t seen any of it coming.
I didn’t understand how I felt as I watched the sedan drive away. I was stunned. At that moment I didn’t realize that I would only ever get one chance at such an intervention. I felt relieved Mom had not put up a fight. But I suddenly had the urge to run after the car and apologize and take it all back. I had a pang in my chest and immediately missed her like crazy. I was relieved she was safe. And I was thankful that, in this case, her absence didn’t mean she was out at some bar. I instantly felt guilty for having ambushed her and knew she might never forgive me.
The woman from the Freedom Institute sat me down briefly and said we had done well. She said that the important thing was that she had gone. She told me that many people insist they don’t have a problem and try to put the burden on the family members and friends doing the intervention. There was a certain pride in the idea that the drinker was taking the high road and doing a loved one a favor by giving in.
Afterward, I remember walking down Third Avenue in a bit of a daze. I felt like it had gone way too easily for total celebration. This should have served as a premonition. Also, with the constant preoccupation of Mom’s drinking eliminated, I felt awkwardly unfettered. There would be so much more time to devote to other things; I was suddenly at a slight loss.
• • •
Afterward, I went back to our apartment, where Lila would be staying with me for the next few months. I was glad that I didn’t have to go live with my father. It wasn’t that it would have been terrible, but it would have been inconvenient. I knew it was going to be a hard time. Even being back in the apartment near my mom’s things felt suddenly unfamiliar. It felt a bit like a death because we would not even speak to one another for weeks. Phone calls were not allowed.
But life resumed, and Auntie Lila and I settled in to being roommates. I had a routine at home for the first time, which proved to be a welcome change. I started getting to school on time and eating at the dining table. I admit I loved the feeling of consistency yet felt equally guilty about preferring an ordered way of life compared to the chaos in which my mother lived.
The program lasted three months and included a family week. Auntie Lila and I would visit and engage in group sessions. I remember driving through Minneapolis, seeing big signs for addiction and depression and thinking that Mom had been sent to the right place. Within a day, however, I realized that the dreary place we were visiting was enough to make anybody want to drink. God, it was depressing. I really doubted that this environment would help my mom. But maybe it was supposed to be so bad that people wanted to be clean just so they did not have to return to godforsaken Minneapolis.
It had been a month since I’d seen my mother. During that time we hadn’t communicated at all. The separation, the longest we’d ever had by far, felt violent and much like when animals are separated from their mothers for a forced weaning process. However, letters were permitted, and I had sent cards of encouragement. She sent letters back and in one explained how she had already been given the title of group leade
r and how her counselors continued to praise her. This immediately sent up a red flag to me. My heart sank at the thought that Mom had already seduced the therapy team. She kept alluding to her being the only person at the facility who was different and how, consequently, she was singled out and given more responsibility. I read “superior” as being the underlying subtext. Of course she was running her group. Of course she was not “common.” Part of me thought it may have been the truth. Mom had always been unique and set apart from others. I would not learn until years later that this resulted from a sort of self-imposed exile. Mom could not admit to being like the other people in the hospital. They were “crazy” and they had “real problems.” My mother’s insecurities lay deeply embedded in her psyche. She would prove to be much harder to crack.
Maybe I saw the writing on the wall. Or feared she would outwit the people I had prayed would help. But in any case, I went to family week and resented the whole thing. I hated being there and despised going through the family sessions and lectures. Luckily, I wasn’t quite a household name yet, so anonymity was relatively still on my side. I painstakingly stepped up and did what was asked. Ever the eager front-row, approval-seeking student, I completed the reading material and volunteered in class and spoke about hurt feelings. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
You were encouraged to cry and tell the truth, and for once and for all to come clean. I had already done that. I could not understand why it all had to keep being my problem as well as my mother’s. I had done my caretaking and I wanted it to be her turn. When could I be done with it? I was angry that I had to spend my time in dingy Minneapolis, going to lectures on the effects of substance abuse when it was her problem. How could listening to how some redneck father hit his wife help me? Maybe I felt a bit superior as well but the people there were all extremely different from my mother and me. I was miserable, drinking weak coffee with disgusting Cremora. It was nothing like the buttered roll and delicious coffee in Anthora-patterned cups we’d had at home. In this place, I felt like a spoiled little kid who wanted to stamp my feet and storm out of the room.
I couldn’t identify with any of these people or their stories. I had been told that I would meet people much like me in this environment and finally feel supported and fortified. It could not have been further from the truth. I could not have felt more isolated. I don’t mean that the differences stemmed from the fact that I was a “movie star.” The truth was that there was a cultural difference with regard to references and complaints. The people were actually lovely but I felt I was in a foreign country. The problem was that Mom was indeed savvier than many of the people at the facility; I could only imagine my mom reprogramming and manipulating each one of them. I had been told that once I realized that others had gone through the same experience I had by living with an alcoholic, I wouldn’t feel so alone, but in this case, the booze seemed to be the only underlying similarity.
I honestly didn’t fit in there, and I worried that Mom actually did not, either. Mom was one of those unbelievably sly, influential drunks who could hook you in, all the while cutting you down. It was borderline sociopathic, minus the murder. St. Mary’s was, and is, a great and reputable institution that came highly recommended and regarded, but sadly it was not a good or effective fit for my mother. Had I made a mistake? Was Mom right, once again? I felt Mom really was smarter than most of the patients and even cleverer than some of the counselors. Why had I not been even smarter than she was for once? She was right again! Mom wasn’t, however, smart enough to choose health over addiction. I wouldn’t realize until many years later that my doubts were all part of my codependence. The venue may or may not have been ideal for her, but it was not necessarily because she was too much of a genius. It was more a product of her inability to be honest with herself or strong enough to choose to be healthy.
Aunt Lila and I completed our “family week” and left Mom to finish out her stay. Mom made one lifelong friend at St. Mary’s. Except for one relapse a few years later, Mom’s friend would remain sober for the rest of her life. I always wished Mom had been that type of a recovering alcoholic.
Overall, Mom played by the rules but never did the “steps.” I don’t believe she ever committed authentically, and the therapy never fully registered with her. She used the recovery catchphrases like a dutiful student. But all the while she was scoffing at how they didn’t actually apply to her. She beguiled the staff with her humor and her street smarts. She was incredibly intuitive about the way others behaved and what their needs were. She could outwit almost anyone. But, sadly, she was still an alcoholic and hardly two steps closer to recovery.
I truly believe she thought she didn’t have a problem and that she could control her drinking. But I’m not convinced she ever did the work that would help her get there. Vulnerability equaled weakness for my mom. One of the early steps in AA deals with admitting helplessness about your problem. Well, being helpless was never something Teri Terrific could cop to. I don’t believe she ever fully admitted to the severity and authenticity of her disease.
• • •
Mom returned home after three months. I made a sign and got her flowers to celebrate her homecoming. Lila and I had taken a photo of us together and had put it in a little frame. It was the kind you get in a photo booth. Mom for some reason got so angry that it was of the two of us that she tore it up. I told her it was only supposed to mean we loved her. Shockingly that was where my sweetness ended. In the next few weeks and months I was horrible to her in any way that I could be. I may have been lashing out and punishing her for years of drinking. I may have been testing her to see if she would crack and start drinking again. Maybe I was just so uncomfortable with her sobriety that I was acting out.
I was putting her on trial for some reason, and I got a quietly maniacal thrill when I hurt her. I felt terrible about it, but in a weird way, I wanted to create a new dysfunction because that is what was familiar.
I couldn’t stop being nasty to her. Yet she neither fought me nor began drinking just yet. It was all so awkward and foreign, and I realized I had no idea how to act around her when she was sober. I was so used to navigating her drinking and being sad, angry, or afraid, that without the existence of trauma, I was floundering. I hated her drinking but at least I knew what to expect. The protocol of being the child of an alcoholic was second nature to me, so without it I was again slightly lost.
I also realize that, in a way, I saw myself as a better person than she was when she drank. I liked that feeling. Most of my life I just wanted my mother’s approval. But admittedly, when she was drunk, there was a type of freedom for me. I was justified in fighting her when she drank, but take away the booze and I just didn’t know what to fight.
I could have never anticipated it, but I unexpectedly hated her for her sobriety. If Mom and I were not getting along for some reason or if I was feeling the growing pains that all kids go through, I did not have anything on which to place blame. It was very unsettling facing her insecurities and her behavior without accusing the booze. Having the troubles actually be a part of my mother’s deeper personality was even more tragic. I even secretly wanted her to start drinking again so I could say, “I told you so. I knew you couldn’t do it.”
I was also so angry at St. Mary’s and the Freedom Institute for seemingly having more control over my mommy than I did. It was all so fucked-up and confusing and I began lashing out at everybody.
The sweeter she was, the more I punished her. The more people tried to help me, the more I stomped and pouted. I even turned against Lila and cast her aside emotionally. On top of all that, I was getting my period for the first time and my hormones made me an emotional and irrational mess. I had been used to my codependence, and as much as I thought I wanted it, I was resisting the change. I wanted to hurt my mother. It was plain and simple. I pushed and pushed until I got tired.
• • •
I don’t know how she did it, but my moth
er didn’t crack. She stayed steady and loving. She was the most mature I had ever seen her. Maybe they’d told her at St. Mary’s to expect difficult behaviors from family members. But for whatever reason, she waited it out, but it remained.
There was no alcohol to blame or to retreat toward. We all needed to adjust to this new dynamic.
The tragic part to me now is how idealized I had made her recovery. As a child of an alcoholic, I believed in a silver lining. One day it would all be better. I believed in the idea of a promise. Once this or that milestone was reached, then she would see and she could smile. One day she would be happy.
But the truth was that as kind as she was being, Mom had trouble being honest with herself about anything. How could she suddenly morph into this fully resolved and self-actualized being? I don’t think my mother ever released her pain or her hurt, and therefore her healing was going to require more than just stopping drinking. I could not know this then. I was just baffled at how there was no rainbow.
I don’t remember ever being told at the time what I learned later, which is that even if you remove the alcohol, there is still unresolved pain and hurt in a relationship. Damage has often been inflicted by both the drinker and those closest to the drinker. It must be acknowledged.
But just because the booze went away, it didn’t mean the damage went with it. The term dry drunk means that the drinking may not be current but the precipitating feelings that drive the drinker to abuse alcohol have not gone away. People told me that drinking revealed a person’s true personality, but I could never believe that. I refused to believe that, deep down, my mom was honestly that ugly. I did believe that deep down she could have been that damaged and hurt, but not ugly. There were wounds that needed to be faced and attended to for both of us. The problem was, however, that for me, I didn’t want to ruin these moments of sobriety by stirring up my old hurts. It is so much easier to sweep them all under the carpet and pretend they never existed. This, unfortunately, took a toll.
There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me Page 13