It’s hard to believe I was in Buenos Aires a mere ten days ago, at the height of summer. It’s hard to believe whenever I stepped outside, I was bathed in warm, moist air, that carrying any sort of layer was always superfluous, that the trees were full of pink flowers, that I could afford a cross-town taxi any time I wanted, that a coffee could be had at one of thousands of vibrant cafes for about a buck.
It’s been quite a re-entry. I came home early to attend my aunt’s wake and funeral. This was my mom’s sister, the last of her generation, and I wanted to pay my respects and support my cousin. All of my siblings would be there, which is highly unusual and may be the last time we are all together. It seemed important, and I had high hopes.
I do that to myself. I hope highly, and it’s a form of insanity. My own knowledge, wisdom, and experience go by the wayside as I fantasize a time together, a time in my family where things feel wholesome and healthy. For example, my mind knows that when an alcoholic says they’ve “cut down,” it means absolutely nothing. Yet, I chose to believe my sister when she said that very think more than a year ago. “You probably drink more than me now!” she’d joked.
She was already at my house when I arrived. Shortly after I landed in Dallas for my connecting flight, she was calling. “Your house is freezing, but Ryan won’t let me turn the heat on,” she complained. “Also, he did something that hurt me so much, that mom used to do to me. He took the dog into his own bedroom and shut the door!”
I could hear her puffing on a cigarette, which also made my heart sink as she’d told me years ago she’d quit. I hadn’t seen her in at least five years.
She started getting loud, and her voice was slurred.
I was incredulous. Could she actually be drunk? It was 4 in the morning at my house. “Why aren’t you sleeping,” I asked. “Isn’t it super early there? Can you go back to bed?” She became agitated and started yelling. I said, “Please get off the balcony and go inside. You’re going to wake the tenants.” She hung up on me.
When I got home, my son told me K. was up all night, watching TV, guffawing, and drinking. In the morning, we found a nearly empty Gallo jug beside the couch. There was also a bottle of wine tucked under the nightstand in her bedroom. And a big coffee mug of wine on the dresser. I nearly swooned with horror and bad memories and PTSD and what have you.
The next night was more of the same.
Driving with her was a nightmare. She was belligerent and bombastic. At one point, she threatened to “pop me in the head.” There’s no point in trying to explain the substance of the arguments. In one case, my son and I were simply discussing when to leave for the funeral, as I had a job interview on the same morning. That was cause enough for her to go careening off into a narrative about how we were nefariously hatching a plan to make her late for our aunt’s funeral.
This is all very ugly stuff, and I’m sorry to tell you about it. But, I have to get it off my chest. It’s all very sad, of course. What’s even sadder is that it’s the story of my life, and I no longer want it to be. I spent most of my life, most of these past five decades, trying to save my family from the throes of alcoholism. But this disease is beyond pernicious, and I’m apparently beyond dense.
My sister was diagnosed with first-stage liver disease years ago. Her body now looks appalling. Her liver is incredibly inflated, and her stomach is severely distended above the belly and below her chest. I must say, I didn’t feel a lot of compassion for her. In fact, I felt rage. I felt rage also at myself, for letting this into my life and into my home—again.
My son was appalled.
When she nearly “popped” me in the car on the way home (and we knew she would; she’s violent, and gave my ex- a black eye once while he drove her home), my son pulled off the highway and tried to reason with her. Mistake. Bad one.
She called the police of course. I said, “Let her.” I was perfectly happy for her to go to jail.
Anyway. I can’t write about this anymore. The level of insanity and horror is over the top. If you have addiction in your family (and maybe insanity), you know what I’m talking about.
What IS different this time is that my son would not tolerate it. He would not tolerate my sister sliming our home and our lives. He said, “She can’t stay here another night.”
I marveled. It didn’t occur to me we could say no. That we could put our foot down.
Ryan called my brother, who offered to buy her a hotel room where he and my other sister were staying. The next morning, K., my sister, railed about me and my son in the shower, yelling at us as though we were in there with her. When she was out, my son drove her to BART (metro), and she was… gone. Silence settled over the house.
We got through the funeral. I never looked at my sister K. again. When we got home, my son saged the entire house, and we washed and cleaned everything in sight.
I immediately got taken down by flu, flu I probably caught on the flight. The stress of my sister in the house seemed to take my immune system entirely offline, and I was really sick, with a fever for five days. Although the fever broke six days ago, I still feel weak and a little nauseous.
My son and his girlfriend A. just got up. I said, “I’m having trouble writing about what we experienced with K.” A. said, “That’s because it’s not grounded in realit… or not grounded in this plane,” and she made a horizontal line with her hand. That’s true. What we experienced is so far out of the realm of normal that language fails.
I’ve been here before. As I said, my family is riddled with this stuff. The difference now is that I’ve learned I don’t have to tolerate it. My son showed me it’s possible to say no. No, this isn’t good for me. No, this isn’t my responsibility. No, this isn’t my fault. No.
I attended a Recovery Dharma meeting last night.
After witnessing what the drink has done to my family, it’s fair to ask why I allow it into my life. And it’s fair to take a critical look at the role it plays. Maybe it’s okay to give it a rest. Give it all a rest.
Bravo!