I’ve been wondering, what was it about childhood that made play feel so safe and endlessly fun? I came up with one answer: I didn’t have to worry about any of my playmates getting drunk. We were sober, and damn, wasn’t that the best way to play? Hmm, maybe it doesn’t count to call a child sober, since they haven’t begun drinking? Let’s say a pre-drinker. (I realize some kids start very early, but I’m talking about my life–birth to fifteen: pre-drinker, twenty-six to the yet-to-be-determined surprise ending: sober.
My parents were alcoholics, and by the time I quit drinking, I’d perfected their functional drunk lifestyle. I could drink myself into a stupor without barfing the next morning. No matter what, you had to be able to go to work. That was thirty-five years ago. Of everything I’ve accomplished, quitting drinking is by far the best thing I’ve ever done. Sometimes I think about doing acid again, but booze? Never.
To say I don’t like to be around people when they drink, is an understatement. I loathe it, and as I age, I tolerate it less and less. What’s the big deal? It’s PTSD. I don’t like to see people change when they drink, even if they are funny or silly. My mom was very cruel when sober, but when she drank, she’d start talking in a sing-song voice and become like a toddler. Everything turned upside down. She was different–in an icky way. I didn’t want an icky, different mommy. I needed a grown-up mommy. It may seem odd to those who haven’t lived it, but I felt safer with the mean mommy who spanked me than I did with the goo-goo mommy that wanted to squeeze me. My little girl self coped by becoming a touch-me-not. The thought of another person’s skin touching mine made me nauseous.
Mom usually just passed out on the couch, but that wasn’t much relief, because it was hard to tell if she was still breathing. When I put myself to bed those nights, I’d begin to dread how she would be the next day, especially if it was a Friday night. Starting out the weekend with Mom hungover always went bad for me and my sister, plus we still had to survive her drunken Saturday and Sunday nights, and another hangover in between. Some fun weekend.
The reason I feel my past pressing so hard on me is because of a failed “play date” I went on last week. I’d gone to a friend’s house to hang out and play Scrabble. She’s in her 70s, and recovering from surgery. Twenty minutes in, I realized she was becoming “witty” and loquacious, and taking a very long time between moves. I felt myself stiffening and contracting, like I did when I was with my drunk mother. My friend belched and said something about what was in her mug. I don’t remember the name of it, but it’s a combination of dark beer and 7up. All the fun drained out of me. I played a little longer, then told her I needed to leave and why. When she stood up she was unsteady on her feet. Not good when you’re using a walker and wheelchair to get around.
We haven’t talked about it. She may not remember. Things are always different the next day. I just wish they weren’t icky-different.