“Mom, I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict.” I sat across from my mother at her antique oak dining room table where most of our family discussions were held, and looked her in her eyes.

“You can’t possibly be an alcoholic! We’re Christians. Women in our family don’t even drink. And you’re certainly not a drug addict.”

My mother is a bright, intelligent, accomplished woman. On some level, she knew my drinking and drug use caused problems years before I was able to admit and accept it.

She knew the school nights I came home late hours after curfew and reeked of alcohol and marihuana. She could not smell the other drugs.

“Where have you been?”

“Out.”

I leaned against the wall, too drunk, too stoned, to stand before her.

She knew when my school counselor told her, when my probation officer told her, and when the psychologist who administered court-ordered diagnostic testing told her.She knew the morning shortly after I turned 18 and was drunk at breakfast.

“You can’t live here and drink anymore.”

I moved.

My mother wanted me to quit drinking and using drugs. She demanded I quit drinking and using drugs.

But she didn’t want her daughter to be an alcoholic or a drug addict. Whatever images those labels conjured up for her, weren’t ones she wanted to apply to me.”You mean you are going to go to those AA meetings and everyone there will know that you are an alcoholic? What if someone sees you?”

“I’ve already started going to meetings.  Everyone there has the same problem. It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me, and it should be to you.”

I bought my mother Alcoholics Anonymous, affectionately call “The Big Book,” and she read it. I invited her to attend an open meeting with me, where anyone interested can attend, not just self-professed alcoholics.

When we entered the AA clubhouse, I introduced her to my sponsor and several of my new friends before the meeting. A woman approached my mother knew professionally. Mom whispered, “Oh no, what if she thinks I’m an alcoholic?”

I have yet to invite her to accompany me to another meeting.

To celebrate my first year of recovery, she invited me to dinner. For desert, she served a birthday cake with a one-shaped candle.

My mother’s archaic pre-conceived conceptions about alcoholics and drug addicts might never change. She may always choke when mentally applying them to her daughter.

But today, I know she is proud of me and my recovery.

Recovery Rocks!

Roxie

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