Diane’s visible decline started with the death of her father, following the wake of Hurricane Katrina. She, and her now ex-husband, had just begun the process of separation. She and her daughter moved into a two-bedroom town home in a gated apartment complex a few months later. Her older sister received a call one night during dinner, Diane couldn't find the strength to sign away her marital commitment. Her sister, Mae, told Diane to calm down, and that everything would be okay in the end. Diane signed. Later, she moved her grief to the kitchen, practicing her craft and enjoying a glass of wine -- whether or not she intentionally kept the sight of alcohol from her daughter remains to be determined.
Years passed around her in secret. Diane found herself, again, living in the home she shared with her ex. It was going into foreclosure, because neither James, the ex, or she, whom didn’t have a job, were making mortgage payments. They decided to cohabit again. Their daughter survived in the house by working as a double agent. She’d spend time with her father only when her mother was away, or hiding in her room. She was only hiding from her mother. Diane would take it personally that Bethany preferred her father.
James -- a police officer (who acted like a police officer), cheated on his first wife, on Diane and on his girlfriend after his divorce. James’ presence made Diane feel validated in her self-victimization. She couldn’t be responsible for pain that someone else causes. She drank because of James, not because she needed to. James drove her to drink, and quietly, she would drink more and more. She didn’t show it off, but everyone knew. She complained about James with alcohol still fresh on her breath.
Mae reached out. She sent Diane a letter, telling her gently to get her shit together. Mae predicted that without changing, Diane would end up dying too young, in a matter of a few years, with a daughter who emotionally emancipated herself long before.
Diane either didn’t believe her sister or didn’t care. She kept her habit, now more secretive; Everyone knew still. She’d show up blazed to Christmas and the fourth of July; Bethany, only 14, would drive her mother to the family lake house for long weekends. She pretended to be fine, but her gut stuck out more than a woman in her third trimester. Her legs held her body, despite being thinner than the sticks flamingos walk on. Most importantly, she looked sallow. Her skin was always slightly orange, but to someone on the outside, it looked like a bad spray tan.
Again, Mae sent Diane a letter -- less gently urging her sister to seek help. Diane ignored it. She thought that she couldn’t need help if she ignored the truth. She was taken to a hospital for kidney stones, and then discharged because she lacked health insurance. Her shoulder, months later, was injured in a car accident. It was an easy fix, but she hadn’t worked in years, so she couldn’t afford to take care of the injury. She tried killing the pain with alcohol. Her mom, a nurse, would refuse to sneak pain meds to Diane -- not on moral medical grounds, but because she knew that all the proper medications had possible fatal effects if mixed with any amount of alcohol. The alcohol never left Diane’s body.
She started taking acetametaphine tablets for the pain. She took too many too often. She’d wash them down with a glass (or two, three, four, or often more) of wine. She hid the booze from James and Bethany, but bared the pain as proof that she should be pitied and excused for her actions.
Bethany would spend as much time away from the house she shared with her irreconcilably divorced parents. She sought and found solace in her friends and their families. Bethany told the truth. When Diane would call her daughter a bitch for not being affectionate toward her drunken mother, Bethany would shout. She would shout until her throat was raw from the truth. She wouldn’t cry though; she didn’t care enough to cry. Diane used this to further herself from her choices.
Mae wrote another letter; the last letter. Mae told her sister that she was at rock bottom, and she needed to move in with their mother. Mae told Diane that she’d be in the hospital, on the way to death in a matter of months, if she didn’t try harder.
Diane kept blaming her drinking on James, and on Bethany; on her shoulder, and on her pain. The alcohol soaked her brain, until connections were broken. Then, Diane couldn’t be saved.
She was forced her into a state hospital due to jaundice. Her liver was failing; Her body was shutting down. Her eyes, her skin and her nail beds were all the color of the urine she couldn’t pass. She looked like a zombie -- deteriorating into nothing but a sickness.
She was discharged when she was considered stable. Her color didn’t come back. She moved back in with James and Bethany.
Less than a week later, her mother received a call from Bethany. Bethany begged her grandmother to take Diane back home.
Diane returned to the state hospital. Mae visited. She told Diane that this time, it was unlikely Diane would be leaving. Diane cried. Diane signed a paper that said she wanted all measures be taken to keep her alive.
She wanted to go out selfishly. She wanted to be removed from the responsibility of death. She wanted her family continue to love her, despite the fact that she blamed them for her sickness.
Mae predicted the future with her first letter. She isn’t proud of it.
Alcoholism is a deadly disease. It’s a sickness. The person who has it does not know that they have it, and they will deny it at every chance. It’s a parasite that feeds on those who’s natural inclination is to play the victim. Some get help. Others go out in a selfish blaze of tubes and incessant beeping, even after the brain has died, and a selfish, alcohol-soaked, pile of grey and pink matter sits in its place.
If you, or someone you know is suffering addiction, reach out and offer help. Be prepared for them to bite you at every opportunity, but don’t get discouraged. Diane didn’t want help; she only wanted to be seen as deserving of love. She always deserved it; so do you, and so do they.
