Magema did a spit take, splattering neon blue sport drink across the inside of her windshield. She stared at the electrolyte droplets in disbelief as they rolled from the glass to the dash, her mouth ringing with the taste of vodka. The singeing potato liquor scorched downwards as a boiling surge of hurt rose to meet it.
She was scalding.
She was furious.
Another return to the bullshit and betrayal in the never ending loop of her mother’s alcoholism. The fresh wound crystallized to tears in the corner of her eyes. Within the wave of a swelling yell Magema pounded the rubber steering wheel with such ferocity a flash of worry it may break stuttered her hand. Concern was swept quick with fury. Curses grew louder and louder, until the volume competed with the howls in her head.
When the tirade came to its inevitable end her throbbing palms found their way to her eyes. Flooding thoughts raced backwards, taking inventory, noting stumbles, teetering balance, and fumbled sentences once chalked up to aging fell under relentless scrutiny. The reassurance that those loving stresses of a parent’s final chapter were blessings disintegrated. The comforting reflection Able had shared how far they’d come, and how much kinder it was to fret over the natural cycles of life than the possessing spirits of bottled up demons stolen. Recent anxieties regarding her mother’s mobility felt so foolish. It was impossible not to chastise herself over the amount of thought she’d devoted to her health concerns. Contacting doctors, running around to appointments, wellness classes, at the cost of time with the kids, clients, and her husband. For the sake of sips?
All those years of sobriety down the toilet. Magema had no clue how long she’d fallen. She knew her mother was still going to meetings, but months, years, anything was possible. Magema wasn’t alone, she’d been lying to everyone. Her sponsor, her friends. There had to be some semblance of control, she was far from the bottom where sobriety had last rang.
Of all days to discover a relapse. Clients’ crises piled as if they’d planned in cahoots, the peak of her children’s schooling and sports demands, friction with Able, the household fraying, Magema was already drowning in the currents of life. To meet this mountain again, she couldn’t handle it. The anger, an animal. She took a breath. With great effort she attempted to summon compassion for the woman. She knew her mother was still struggling with her father’s death, the cause of the last slip years before. Tried to sympathize with how disparaging the helpless feelings of aging were. Remembered overhearing her mother sharing how pointless she felt, how meaningless it was maintaining her health, visiting the prodding doctor’s, the constant testing, the yoga, strength and mobility classes.
Fury looped to embarrassment, and back, until it turned in on herself. Guilt, and ravenous shame compounded for not noticing, for getting duped yet again. The humiliation of her faith in her parent churned her stomach. She found herself counting loses. Time rose to the forefront. Regardless of the fact that her license had been stripped away before sobriety, her mother was now far too old to drive. The personal work Magema had done over the years to look at communal erranding as privilege within their finite clock rather than another burden had been a tremendous undertaking. All for not.
Wendy, her mother’s sponsor, crept across her thoughts. This would rock her. The pair were almost inseparable. Been through untold trials, and tremendous support for one another. The woman had become a part of their extended family, another grandmother to her children, filling the void of their grandfather. While Wendy understood the disease more than anyone, the lies would cut deep.
Knowing Wendy would need a call ravaged her racing mind. The bitter taste of anger began to compete with the burning accents of alcohol not so subtly hidden between the electrolytes. The unfair weight of the messenger fell to her. She had to break it to Wendy. Had to disappoint the rest of the girls. She had to fess up to Able. Face the look of the disappointment in her husband’s eyes after all that they’d been through. All the sacrifices washed away. It felt like they’d only just been able to have booze back in the house. So many years spent without a drop of wine at their dinners, beers at barbecues, or crafting cocktails in the evenings as she used to during their courtship. The inevitable brutal boundaries that would come as consequence were devastating. No more babysitting, or help watching the kids, conversations of her moving into the household for her last years would pause. Back to the circus of chasing her mother to meetings.
Endless circles. Everything ruined, again. Because of what?
Because her mother couldn’t deal with her own sorrow? Which now meant Magema had the burden of explaining the situation to her kids, her husband? Had to pick up the pieces. Goodbye to that sweet, shaky relief she’d carried thinking that they’d dealt with it all. That she’d dodged explaining their grandmother’s alcoholism to her kids for a few more years, until they were a little older.
Anger bubbled back. Vision blurred in red, she thirsted for action, control, and like many in the grips of desperation, reached for destruction. Without thinking she grabbed the plastic bottle for her own relief, and slugged. Self awareness caught the second the pitiful cocktail passed her lips, and in a moment of self disgust kicked open the car door and spat it to the asphalt. Vodka rattled her taste buds under the toxic blue raspberry tapestry, and the daggers returned inwards. What was she thinking? Destroying herself, risking her own license, and safety of others, whether or not if she was far from a legal limit wouldn’t solve things. Burning with hypocrisy she dumped the bottle.
What if she hadn’t sipped? How long would the charade go? To conniving charade veiled in the forgotten drink, an unnatural blue, a junk brand Magema would never stoop to sip save for desperation on a hot day. She gripped the steering wheel, shook it, this time trying to pry it from its frame. She was losing so much.
Guilt poured over a repugnant reluctance towards any nagging hopeful thoughts. She fought against the currents, pushed away any comfort that how she’d been through this before, that things would be okay again. Magema didn’t want to think of something positive, do breath work, meditate, journal or write a gratitude list. She didn’t want to use her professional toolkit, rationalize as a therapist, and think her way to a solution. She just wanted to scream, and be the brokenhearted daughter that she was.
A tear rolled as she unlocked her phone and scrolled through her contacts. She couldn’t call Able, couldn’t face him, or her best friends. Wasn’t ready to speak with Wendy. Couldn’t face familiar faces in an Al Anon, and ripples of her share. Corned in the car seat she tossed the phone to the passenger side and started blubbering. Tears poured, and she went red as people in the parking lot passed by while she sobbed. The shame like gasoline to the flames of her mother’s mistake.
How could the embarrassment of tears ever compare to the conceit that she didn’t want to make the effort again. She didn’t want to chase her mother’s sobriety. Tired of helping the drowning woman, and she was ashamed. She couldn’t remove her own feelings. She didn’t want a hug, or pat on the back, comfort from family, or someone telling her everything would be okay. She knew all the words she would say if she was her own therapist. She also didn’t care. Her trust was broken. She was broken. She wanted everything to stop.
Rough napkins tore at her nose and eyes as she wiped away tear after tear. Despite being all too familiar with the steps, in this moment, she didn’t know what know what to do or where to start. She bowed her head down, lashes pressed against the coarse tissues, and recited the serenity prayer until she felt good enough to drive. She knew of a meeting in a few hours, shot a text to Able, and made her way. Everything else could wait, the first move had to be getting through the moment, then, the day.
Thanks for reading! Be sure to check out the rest of the The Haés’s chronicles.
-Mr. Write