Where To Begin

 I am writing this without knowing my intentions. 

I have no idea whether I will ever publish, post, or share what I write.

I'm not sure if this will continue as a blog filled with random memories, frustrations and feelings, or become something more.

The one thing I know for sure is that it will be years before this is known to exist, because it's about my mother. A mother who holds herself on her high horse, cares deeply how others perceive her, and is unwilling to take down the defensive wall she has spent decades cementing into place. 

So, hi, my name is Lauren and I am the daughter of an alcoholic narcissist. 

To give a little background, my mother grew up poor. She was one of eight children, and her parents, who had to work multiple jobs, were barely home. Like any adult, she wanted better for her own children. She was smart as all hell, graduating high school early and continuing on to become a nurse and eventually a psychologist.  She married young, at 17, and had my brother at 19 - my dad being 6 years her senior. They waited another 13 years to have me, which made growing up pretty lonely. 

My brother left for college when I was 3 years old. We grew up with two, very different versions of our mother. My brother got the motivated, hard working, sober version. I, on the other hand, didn't. 

My mom craved attention, validation, to feel needed, and for her successors to be known. Because of this, she was constantly on the phone. In her defense, going back to her wanting better for her children, she thought being home was enough - after all, that's what she missed in her childhood home. But for me, it was frustrating. I'd come home from school eager to tell her about my day, and she was on the phone. When the phone call ended I'd be bursting with impatience, only for her to ring up another friend or sibling. When I finally seemed to get her attention, the phone would ring again. I've never once seen my mother let the phone go to voicemail. Ever. She would talk and pace and talk and pace, giving advice and boasting about her degrees and abilities, all while I was waiting. The waiting was the worst. She would fill the air with empty promises of going to the park, or to a movie "as soon as she was off the phone". I'd spend time alone in my room packing up my dolls and their accessories, and then pacing the hallway while her conversation lasted longer and longer. And when we did get to go, the outing was usually tainted, because on top of always needing to be talking, she also always needed to be drinking. 

Apparently, the drinking started after I was born. She became good friends with neighbor Cathy, who had a daughter almost exactly my age; I'm talking two days apart. Dual friendships were born after that first play-date when Sarah and I were just 3 months old. My mom and Cathy would get together, sip wine and snack, while Sarah and I played. These were some of my most cherished memories. Our houses were interchangeable, our holidays and vacations were intertwined. It was also my first glimpse into reality that things were off. 

As we grew older, we began to question our mothers' drinking. We would hide under the kitchen counter and tally up the wine glasses they poured. We would always ask them how many they had by the end of the night - to which my mother always answered "two" - only to show them that our charts suggested otherwise. I remember one night in my bedroom, where Sarah and I were nearly having an argument over whose mom drank more; I'll never forget her saying "yeah, but my mom only drinks on weekends and your mom drinks everyday". I suppose every kid thinks things are normal until they are shown otherwise. 

And, it's not that I even find daily drinking necessarily problematic; my dad has had two beers every day of his life and I have never once considered him an alcoholic. When my dad drinks, it's out of pure enjoyment or relaxation. Even now in his 70's, he will spend all day living his dream New Hampshire life of skiing or hiking all day, then coming home, cracking an IPA and saying "it doesn't get any better than this". My mom on the other hand, always found an excuse to drink, and worse, ways to hide it. 

I'm not sure when the transition from social drinking to all-day drinking occurred, but I do remember the cloud it left over my childhood. And, I actually feel bad for my mom, because all of the things she made the effort to do with me (fairs, weekend trips, picnics...) we remember quite differently; she remembers the memories, the views, the fun...I remember sniffing water bottles and knowing that I shouldn't get in the car with her. I remember tainted holidays because she threw up all over the hotel floor, or embarrassing birthday parties because she "fell asleep" in the chair. But what I hated most was the lying. 

Morning wine was sipped out of a tea mug for disguise, and when questioned about it she would ramble on (while putting her phone call on hold) about some medical issue that wine helped with. She drank wine out of a Snapple bottle in the car while driving because it allegedly helped her anxiety. At picnics it was smuggled in a water bottle, and in the safety of our home she had this clever trick of never pouring herself a full glass, so she could say things like "I only had 2 half glasses". I used to make a mark on her wine bottles to monitor how much she really drank. 

A moment of truth revealed itself when attending a neighbor's wedding when I was young. At that point, I was so used to being the self proclaimed alcohol police, that I did my rounds asking my usual "how many have you had". My mother gave her predicted "two glasses" answer as she stumbled around and kissed everyone a little too close to the mouth. But my dad? He held up 6 fingers when I asked. I loved that moment so much. I can still see it and still feel it. I couldn't care less that my dad was likely drunk, I just felt honored that he was actually honest with me. It was both the best and worst feeling, because as good as it felt, it also made me so much more angry with my mom for her dishonesty. 

As I move forward writing and sharing, I know there was nothing all that traumatic about my childhood. However, as my mother used to say, if you have the flu and your neighbor has cancer, it doesn't mean you don't have the flu. So this is my flu, despite so many others having the deadliest of cancers. 

I felt alone. Having a brother so much older made going through the frustrations with our mother so lonely. Wishing she were different and comparing her to the relationship Sarah and Cathy had made it worse. I watched them go shopping together, out on lunch dates, even just hang out at home together. If I was home with my mom, she was on the phone. If we were out, she snuck wine. There was this feeling of unworthiness I fostered, because why couldn't time with me just be enough? For someone who always wanted to feel needed, why couldn't she feel good enough meeting my needs? I was always put on hold, or waited around for a time that never ended up being present or fun.