The phone rang. I jumped up from my comfortable seat on the couch and sprinted to the old-fashioned landline. This was the routine every night for six months. Ring. Jump. Chat. Usually cry. Go to bed.
With mom being gone, our nightly phone calls were my only connection to her. Sure, we got to visit. But she stayed an hour away, and we struggled to get there with dad only being able to drive when he had a free night or weekend. That was rare, considering he did this all by himself. He dealt with me, my brother, the dogs, and all the boring adult stuff I did not (okay still do not) understand.
Six months. That’s pretty bad compared to the other times. Three months, two months, a couple weekends here and there. Those were doable. I could handle those, sometimes. But six months? How can a fourth grader deal without her mom for six months?
We were pretty used to this by now. Those three months, two months, and a couple weekends had been frequent enough that it did not come as a shock. Though, as a nine-year-old I had no idea what was going on. She would do weird things, pack her bags, and be gone for a while. When she came back, she hugged me and kissed me and went to all my soccer games like normal. So why did she have to go away?
She went away the day after she kissed me on the forehead with puke rimming her mouth. She went away the day after she and dad screamed at each other for a while.
Fast forward a couple years, now she’s gone forever, and I finally understand. In 8th grade, I grasped what had consumed my mom. Alcoholism put her in all those treatment centers, forced us to only communicate via phone for months, and eventually took her life.
Now that I’ve had plenty of years to think it over: growing up with a parent in treatment sucks. I never knew why she wasn’t at my soccer games. I didn’t know how to explain to my friends where my mom was. I didn’t understand the looks of pity I received time and time again from teachers and church leaders. I felt nothing but confusion when I was sometimes the last kid to be picked up from the afterschool program because my dad had to work late.
Now that I’ve had the time to think it over: it made me strong. I learned early on what it feels like to have people leave. I learned patience. I learned about long distance relationships. I grew. This experience gave me responsibility at a young age. My focus went into my little brother, figuring out how to make food when Dad’s schedule ran late, and the dogs. Chores became higher priority; actually, I learned what a priority even is. It made me caring (maybe a little too much) and also hard. Someone once pointed out to me that I appear bored and uninterested during arguments, and little do they know this is due to my extreme, built up tolerance towards feelings.
Now that I’ve had the time to think it over: it all sucks. But, it shaped me into who I am: a slightly too caring, overly dedicated, dog-loving child of an alcoholic who still can’t figure out how to adult sometimes. And that person doesn’t suck so much.
