Sick of the Heaviness of it All

This past weekend was one of the hardest of my life. It was so full of pain, anger and sadness, with no time to myself to process and let it go. It just lived in me, growing and twisting. I've never wanted to run so far or so fast.

I went home for the weekend, earlier than planned because my great aunt passed away unexpectedly. She left behind my Uncle Ed and their three kids, all around my age, and one grandbaby. The family was deeply in shock, in turns crying hysterically or retelling the story of her death, writing it anew with every pass, maybe until it was real. My heart broke for them, is still breaking.

But the worst part for me was, predictably, my mother's drinking. I watched her drink about 10 glasses of wine at my grandparents' house after the funeral. I asked her to stop after two-she had to drive my brothers home, an hour and a half away. She told me not to worry about it, she would stop and wouldn't leave until she was fine. She drank more and more. I worried more and more. I felt it build inside of me, this worry and pain and anger, as she became more incoherent, slurry, belligerent and embarrassing. She says things when she's drunk, hurtful things, without realizing what she's saying. She does real damage and this time was no exception. This is how it always is now.

(I later found out that she and my brothers slept at my uncle's house. She didn't drive, thank god.)

I went to yoga today. We were instructed to let our negative thoughts and our pain float away, like bubbles into the sky. But my pain was too big for flimsy little soap bubbles. I began to think about all of the time and energy I have put into my family's addictions-most of it internal-the speeches I give to them, our imagined arguments, my empathy, my love and my anger. The stress that precedes every visit. The planning on how to avoid catastrophe. The deer in the headlights aspect of living through the actual drunkeness and later, alone, doing damage control within myself, feeling the anger and trying, so hard, to let it go. Because I don't want to be this bitter person. I don't want this anger. I don't want to dread seeing her.

I guess what I really want is my mother back.

This weekend made me realize that I am very close to being done. I don't think I have another episode like that left in me. When I weigh the pain of dealing with her and her alcoholism against the love, support and encouragement mothers and daughters should share between them, I seem to be getting the very short end of the stick. When does it become not worth it anymore? When and where does it end? It's beginning to feel like self-abuse, to keep hurling myself into such painful situations. But how do you leave your mother?

I don't want that. I've been thinking about writing her a letter. She is supposed to come visit me next month to celebrate our birthdays. I've already begun worrying about making sure there is no alcohol in the house, but it won't matter. She will bring her own. I think I have to say something before that happens.

It is very scary for me to think about writing her this letter. She has had a lot of pain in her life and I certainly don't want to hurt her. And I don't fool myself into thinking anything I have to say will make her stop drinking. But something has to change and she is either incapable or unwilling. So I guess it's my move, if only for self-preservation.

So, so hard.