'Growing up, my mum was the 'cool' mum. Behind closed doors, she was an alcoholic.'

This post discusses addiction, self-harm and sexual assault, and may be triggering for some readers.

It's Christmas Eve and I’ve been hanging out with my university boyfriend. When I arrive home, I find bloody footprints down the length of the corridor. My first thought: what’s Dad done to her?

I find my mother in bed in a pool of her own blood. My hands tremble as I shake her; her eyes open and she smiles lopsidedly before her pupils roll back in her head. My brother bandages up the gash in her leg. Dad is fast asleep in his own room.

Christmas morning is our last together as a family before my parents’ divorce is finalised. Mum chuckles as she wipes the bloody footprints with a mop. I feel ashamed for thinking Dad did this.

Watch: Susan Lund was found passed out drunk, nine times over the legal blood-alcohol limit. Post continues after video.

Growing up, my mum was the 'cool' mum. She’d chauffeur me and my friends wherever we wanted, smoke pot with them in the garage when my back was turned and tell dirty jokes. I was proud that she was mine.  

But my friends weren't there at the end of the night.

Back then Mum liked to eat dinner with a book in bed. One time, I heard an enormous crash. I burst in to find her dinner all over the floor and Mum apparently too drunk to grasp what had happened.

I only became conscious of Mum’s drinking in my teens.

Growing up, family life was not perfect. There was occasional shouting, violence, and threats of divorce.

I was in my mid-twenties when they finally pulled the plug. 

It was only then, on visits to Mum’s new house, that I became acutely aware of her drinking. I wondered why I wasn’t enough, why she needed to drink to endure me.

She’d drank throughout my teens, I reasoned, so the divorce couldn’t be the sole issue. Then I’d remember all the bloodied razors she’d found under my pillow; the daily, four-hour round trips to see me on the psyche ward; the endless meltdowns. That time I called her a sh***y mother.

My mum would call my aunt for a catchup every day at 5pm on the dot, poised for a chat over a glass of wine. 

She’d be chipper following that first glass, and the second, but I’d feel the tension building inside as I anticipated the third and fourth and fifth ‒ and so, when she offered me a glass, I’d accept. After that first sip I cared just a little less. 

Later she’d pass out in an armchair in front of the telly, me convincing myself she was just tired. Her eyes rolled to the back of the head when I tried to nudge her awake. 

"Someone had a bit too much fun last night!" she’d chirp, gesturing to a plastic supermarket carrier full of vomit in the garden and oblivious to the real culprit.

Sometimes I’d hide myself away in my room because I couldn’t bear to be around her. Then I stopped visiting altogether.

I pleaded with her to stop drinking and to my astonishment she offered a heartfelt apology, gathering bottles and pouring wine down the sink. I wished she’d spent that money on bills but still glowed with happiness because she seemed willing to change. 

The next time I visited, I thought I noticed a slur in her voice, but there was no wine in the fridge.

I told myself I was imagining it. 

A few days later, I found empty bottles stashed in a corner of the laundry room. I tried telling myself they'd been there all along. 

On my next visit, she cracked open a fresh bottle before offering up a glass. 

"I thought you’d stopped?" I said.

"I did! Last time!"

Until then I'd convinced myself my mum just drinks. She can hold down a job, can’t she? Doesn’t drink until 5pm, does she? Who am I to judge someone for how they unwind?

It’s only recently, as a 30-year-old woman, that something clicked inside my mind: my mother is an alcoholic.

My therapist was the first to say it: alcoholic. It’s a word that’s danced in my peripheral until now, its glare as blinding as the sun. I was quietly furious with my therapist for tarring my mother with such a word.

I’m also furious with my aunt, who delights in my mother’s drinking, and my brother, who chooses not to acknowledge it at all. 

Even now I only say I have a parent who drinks. I am convinced that if I use the A-word (alcoholic) God will strike down my mother to punish me.

I confront my mother and she roars, "Well I’m not the one who ran off to Edinburgh and got so drunk I got herself raped!"

My heart breaks in two. 

I finally realise my mother’s drinking was never about me.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous for privacy reasons.

If you think you may be experiencing depression or another mental health problem, please contact your general practitioner. If you're based in Australia, 24-hour support is available through Lifeline on 13 11 14 or beyondblue on 1300 22 4636.

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