New Memoir Chapter: How the hell did I get here?

Ok, so here's another installment for my book--(Heidi, you can get off my back about posting, k? LOL LOL LOL LOL LOL). I think this will be kind of like the intro for the book and then the last chapter I posted will come right after, but who knows, I may change my mind...stay tuned and find out. On Tuesday, I leave for NYC for a writer's conference and hope to present a proposal (including a few sample chapters to agents and editors. I pray that I have it done by the time I have to leave--but toinght's work has broken about a two-week block for me. THANKS HEIDI!) So, here it is! ******** HOW THE HELL DID I GET HERE? Each night, I turn on the cold water, fill a glass and place two small pills on my tongue. It’s only been about seven months since I started this little routine, but I’ve found that the process is almost natural now—I can do it without thinking. While the process may be second-nature, the reasons behind this recent addition to my life still nudge at me almost every night: two tiny question marks that punctuate the larger question of “How the hell did I get here?” Of course, if I had the answer to that question, I’d probably be a millionaire, and, in truth, I’m really not looking for the answer to the more abstract version of the inquiry. It’s just that sometimes, I truly wonder how I wound up being a 34-year-old woman, married almost nine years to a great man and mother to two beautiful daughters, ages seven and three. The paths I could have chosen--that many people in my place have opted to go down—are often too frightening to think about. Contrary to Robert Frost’s beautiful piece, the road not taken does not always lead to a better destination. As the daughter of an alcoholic father, I know that I’m not alone. Some statistics say that at least 1 in 4 children under the age of 18 are exposed to alcohol abuse (American Journal of Public Health, Grant, 2000) and more than one-half of American adults have a close family who has or had alcoholism (Dawson and Grant 1998). Statistics are good: they can help people get a clearer picture of large or abstract concepts. Sometimes, though, I think that statistics have a tendency to make issues too simple, allowing the public to see them as merely numbers and not how certain things affect individuals. Somehow, the personal stories of children of alcoholics get buried beneath the numbers. While the numbers give me comfort in the fact that I haven’t traveled down this road on my own, I don’t want to be known merely as a statistic; I’m not just a number in some group or agency’s report. Besides, statistics aren’t necessarily truth. According to other statistics about kids of an alcoholic parent, my performance in school should have been below average, many of my relationships should be dysfunctional and it is highly likely that I abuse alcohol, too. While these things may be fact for many family members dealing with alcoholism, it is not my reality. This is not to say that my life is idyllic. Remember my little admission above about my two little nightly pills? I’m sure the depression and anxiety I deal with is tied to my history. I don’t believe that anyone, be it daughter, spouse, parent or whoever, can come out the other side of alcoholism without some lingering effects. But, hey, I’ll take two little pills every day over any of the other options listed above. Back to my question, though, of “How the hell did I get here?” As I watch my daughters grow up and see time take its own toll on me, it is a question that I know has not one, but many answers. Some of the stories included here are my attempt to dig around a little and hopefully unearth some of the answers to this question that may be buried in my experiences. Others are just included simply because they paint a fuller picture of what life in my family was like. Yes, my father was an alcoholic. Yes, there were many difficult times. As a child, many of the moments went by in a blur of confusion and anger. However, there are also moments of laughter and love that I cling to and I know helped to shape me into the woman I’ve become. By accepting the good with the bad and understanding that my life doesn’t have to be defined by one of the other has been a first step into helping me cope with many of the uncertainties in my life, both past and present. Most addiction treatment programs, be it for addicts or family members, contend that acceptance is the key to healing. Acceptance just takes longer for some than others—for me, it started almost 11 years ago and has been a work-in-progress ever since. And, it began with five simple words… “My dad’s gonna die, guys.”