The last time I spoke to my mother was on June 19, 2020. I can’t quite recall why I reached out; I was on vacation with my husband and kids, enjoying the serene upstate trails and peaceful boat rides on the lake. It was a calm morning, and as I sipped my iced coffee while strolling through Main Street, I felt unusually relaxed.
Given my mother’s fragile mental state, this call could have waited. My therapist emphasized the importance of boundaries, urging me to establish them. Yet, for some reason, I dialed her number that morning.
For twenty minutes, we discussed everything from politics to Netflix and the pandemic. It soon became clear that something was amiss. Her speech was rapid and slurred; each word bled into the next. She was paranoid, convinced her neighbor was plotting against her and that the political climate would be her demise. She repeated herself incessantly. I tried to remain calm and collected, but my patience wore thin, and I abruptly ended the conversation.
“I love you. Take care,” I said, knowing she was anything but okay. Just hours later, I found her face down, unresponsive, in her own vomit.
It’s a heavy truth to admit that I saw this coming. My mother had been unwell for years. In the ’90s, she battled anxiety and depression without any professional help. By 2010, she resorted to self-medication, consuming alcohol to cope with her deepening despair. When she lost her job in 2013, her meager resources shifted from essentials like food to alcohol.
Her depression deepened over the years; she was often irritable, filled with anger and sadness. She would either sleep excessively or not at all, neglecting her hygiene to the point of developing rashes on her skin. I did everything I could to support her, both financially and emotionally, desperately wanting to mend her brokenness.
Caring for a parent with mental illness and alcoholism means trying to save them from their own demons, staging interventions, and reminding them they don’t have to endure this alone. The burden of addiction is immense, and I mourned my mother’s loss long before she physically left this world. Yet, I clung to hope, the only thing that kept me going.
It also involves a constant state of anxiety, where each text message sent is met with a breath held in fear of what the response—or lack thereof—might mean. Living with the shame of her struggles, I often hid her condition from others, fearing their judgment.
The hardest part was reconciling who my mother was with the woman she had become. I longed for the vibrant person my relatives spoke of—full of life and laughter—but all I knew was a sad, unstable woman who had lost herself.
It’s exhausting to care for someone in such a state. The emotional toll is heavy, pushing you to your limits. And then comes the guilt: I couldn’t leave her, but I also couldn’t save her. I learned that I couldn’t help her unless she was willing to help herself.
Did it hurt? Absolutely. The pain remains, and I miss the relationship we could have had. I attend therapy regularly, discussing my feelings with my children about their grandmother. Ultimately, I know her death wasn’t anyone’s fault. She was ill—deeply troubled and suffering.
This realization is the most challenging aspect of caring for a mentally ill, alcoholic parent: knowing doesn’t ease the pain; it doesn’t bring her back, but it can lead to acceptance and peace.
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Summary:
Caring for a parent struggling with mental illness and alcoholism is a deeply challenging experience marked by emotional turmoil, guilt, and the struggle between hope and despair. The author shares personal insights into the complexities of navigating such a relationship, emphasizing the importance of boundaries, the burden of shame, and the painful acceptance of loss.