Sober Momma Blame Game

I do have the tendency to look for who to blame in my life. Why am I this way? Why is every freaking day a struggle? Alcoholic, blame dear ole Dad. Bitchy wife, blame dear ole Mom. Hysterical, paranoid and borderline psychotic lunatic, blame genetics (my mother’s side of the family. Yes, I mean you, Grandma. Bless your heart.) and alcohol (my dad’s side of the family. Yes, I mean you Grandpa.)

Couldn’t possibly be my fault. Nah. Not me. Or could it? If I can see all of the problems of others and point fingers and blame them for my problems, isn’t the real problem that I didn’t do differently?

My dad was a raging alcoholic, although I was unaware of it until I was in my 30’s. He was always a happy guy when he was around me. He left my mother when I was very small (I don’t blame him. She’s nuts. Sorry, Mother. It’s true.) and I always felt like he was trying to compensate for that. Once I had kids in my early 20’s, he was the best grandfather to them. I never saw anything negative from him. If his grandbabies wanted to swing on the swings, he was there. If they wanted to get in the pool, he got their towels, sunscreen and pool floats for them and sat quietly in the sun and watched them. If they wanted to play a game of ball, he was the first to be ready. He was good to them. He was good to me. He got cancer and died a very slow and agonizing death, but that’s a story for another day. Today, I’m choosing the good thoughts or I might find a bottle and just say, “F— it.”

My mother. Always the victim. Dad left her for another woman and that made every man a lying, cheating piece of trash. Her negative, slanderous attitude was so ingrained into me that it nearly cost me my marriage. She had me convinced all men were slime and all were cheating, lying assholes. And thanks to the ability to drown all that shit in alcohol, when I was drunk, I was convinced my husband was cheating on me. She told me that he had moved me away from home so that he could cheat on me and leave me like she had been left. I believed that horrid bullshit for years. I’m mostly over it now, but the damage was done. I trust no one. Good job, Mother. Oh, and did I mention she gets plastered drunk at every holiday gathering and only talks of how great my dad was and how in love she was with him? Right in front of her husband of thirty years? Thanksgiving is forever a pain in my ass and a solid reason to drink.

Now, it’s after 5. I’m doing that thing where I contemplate drinking. I know my husband isn’t where he should be and my mind wanders to “Where is he? Why isn’t he home? Who’s he with?” Drinking would help me forget that. Drinking would solve all the problems. For a minute. For an hour. Maybe two. But as I read earlier today, I would rather eat shit and die. Thanks for the priceless words, Girl. You know who you are. It’s the only thing keeping me sober right this minute. So, to all those women and men out there that wonder if their writing is doing any good… it is. Don’t quit.

Thank y’all for the encouragement. I will sit here and sip my soda water and God Help Me… not drink.

Ray

 

 

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