Patterns

an examination of my relationship with addiction

CW: eating disorders, addiction, substance abuse, child neglect.

The first time I drank alcohol I was in the backseat of a Ford Expedition. The King Ranch edition, the kind with weathered deep brown leather seats. A Texas truck. I took a big swig out of a water bottle that I’d found in the pocket of the seat in front of me. I was surprised and horrified by the burning sensation in my throat. It was a weekday, around four in the afternoon. I was eight or nine years old. Have you ever been absolutely parched and started chugging water but the water is vodka? 

I’m Hannah. I am the adult child of alcoholics. 

I did not know that my parents had addiction issues until I was in college. My dad is an alcoholic. My mom’s relationship with addiction is, to me, much more opaque and complicated. (My polite estrangement from my mother is also opaque and complicated.) Here is what I knew during my childhood: I knew that my father drank, often a lot. I knew that he had two close friends, neither of whom drank, who would sometimes come by our home late at night or early in the morning to speak to my dad. I knew that these men would occasionally, without prior warning, pick me up from school or other events. I knew that my dad sometimes went to a place called “the triangle” to see friends and that those friends all smoked cigarettes. I knew that our fridge was always stocked with either La Croix or beer. I knew that my mom slurred and my dad often fell asleep on the couch. I knew that my dad would sometimes come into my room at night and apologize, though I never knew what the apologies were about. I knew my father’s weight fluctuated wildly. I knew my mom hid cigarettes under a sweater on the third shelf of her closet and that my father kept a flask on the top shelf of his. I knew to always sniff drinks—even bottled water—before taking a sip.  

dancing with my dad. photo credit: Parker’s Pictures

My dad’s disposition was constant. When he was drinking or when he wasn’t, he was funny, charismatic, outgoing, and eager to make the people around him feel comfortable. I’ve always liked that about him. He feels authentic. Even when he was deep in the bottle, he was always Chip. My mom’s disposition was also constant. Far less desirably so. 

I didn’t realize my childhood was difficult until I got to college. Life felt like treading water. I assumed everybody felt this way. I had no support system, little work ethic, no direction, and few role models. My parent’s substance abuse issues affected me because they infected our home. My mom was mean and sometimes drunk. My dad was often drunk and rarely mean. He was passive, numb. The house was dirty. We often had fleas. The power, water, and phones were shut off frequently. I was not served breakfast and often went to school without lunch or money to buy food. I did my homework but no one helped me do my homework. My siblings and I were very close and very confused. I tried to emulate my maternal grandparents. They were sophisticates, brought me with them to the symphony and museums. Encouraged reading and worldliness and taught me manners. Whatever class I have, I inherited from the Doctors Coln. But I did not live with them and I did not know how to tell them what was happening in our home. 

In high school and college I was bulimic. My personal dance with addiction. My eating disorder was vicious and disgusting and I liked having it. After a life spent in confused chaos, I was desperate for someone to notice how badly I needed help. I was eventually sick enough to spend six months in outpatient rehab. I felt heard in rehab (have you ever been? There is so much talking! And everybody is required to be supportive!) and learned that bulimia is far from effective for weight management. I mostly stopped purging and completely stopped eating butter, refined sugars, white flour, and cream sauces. I was determined to never get better. I wanted the adults in my life to see how horrifically they had ruined me. The mind of a nineteen-year-old woman is so painfully cliche. 

I spent the summer after my freshman year of college in my parents’ home. One morning, I woke up very early and felt incredibly dizzy. I had eaten very little for three or four days. I walked to the kitchen, intent on eating twelve frosted mini wheats and going back to sleep. I collapsed before I could open the cereal and woke up some time later, alone and undiscovered. I crawled to the fridge, drank a non-diet soda, and ate a meal. I knew, immediately, that I was finished killing myself to prove a point about how unfair the world was. For me, it was that simple. I lived in New York. I was smart and outgoing and fun and I had friends and I knew that I could make a life for myself. I have never told a single person, not even a therapist, that story before. 

I have been thinking about my parents a lot. How I am like them and how I am different. Which of my mistakes are my own and which are inherited. I would like to have children and I think often about what I will do differently and what I will do similarly. I have no anxiety about becoming my mother or my father. I know that my home will never be like the one I was raised in. In a way that feels related, I have very little tolerance for adults who have not yet realized that their parents are simply people. Recently, I called my dad and asked him what it was that finally, after a lifetime on and off the wagon, made him stop drinking. He said that he had managed to eliminate many of the things that made him want to drink from his life. (He meant that he had divorced my mother.) And that he woke up one morning and realized he was finished being hungover all of the time. “I wasn’t having fun any more. I was just done.” 

In more than a few ways, I am my father’s daughter. And, my girls, I am proud of that. 

I love you, 

Hannah Stella 

PS: as I am sure you have noticed, I have been suffering from horrific non-fiction writer’s block. If you enjoyed this essay, please like, comment, share, or email me. Paid subscriptions are currently paused until I have a backlog of essays of value. I love you and am so happy you are here.