“Wake me up if you notice a car coming,” my mom mumbled, her words slurred as she parked the truck. The light above us flashed a glaring green, and then she drifted off to sleep.
It was late, and we were inside our two-door Ford pickup, waiting at a deserted traffic light on a quiet road in rural Texas. My mother was at the wheel while I, an eleven-year-old boy, sat frozen with fear, anxiously scanning for headlights. I gazed into the blackness outside the window. Despite her presence, I felt utterly alone.
My mom wasn’t dozing off from fatigue or a long drive; she was under the influence of a mix of prescription medications that left her nearly unconscious.
That night, the thought of headlights piercing through the dark terrified me. If they appeared, it would be like searchlights, exposing our situation to the world. Everyone would know my mom had passed out from too many painkillers. What if a police officer noticed us idling through a green light? Surely, that would raise suspicions. He would come over, see something was off, and then what would happen to us? I wanted desperately to drive away, but fear soon took over my frustration. If we moved, she might fall asleep again and steer us off the road. We could end up in a fatal accident. Either way, fear gripped me—whether we stayed still or moved forward.
In that moment, as in many others with my mother, I felt a powerful wave of embarrassment wash over me. It burned as I looked at her head resting against the window, eyes shut, mouth open. Other kids’ moms didn’t do this; I couldn’t understand why mine did.
I’ve often pondered why that scene continues to replay in my mind. It seems mundane, just a small glimpse into the chaos of my childhood shaped by my mother’s addiction. I can’t recall if I ever saw headlights that night. Eventually, during one of our stops, I would rouse her, and we’d continue on, somehow reaching our destination. Reflecting on it now, I realize it was one of the first moments I felt responsible for looking out for her. It’s likely when my anxiety began.
Over time, my embarrassment turned into a cold resentment. Why did I have to bear the weight of our situation while she numbed herself with those pills? She could escape while I was left grappling with reality. Why couldn’t she just be a normal mom? These questions gnawed at me, leading to years of avoidance—ignoring her calls, pretending she didn’t exist. Her struggles became too much for me to handle.
Her addiction shattered our family, resulting in a bitter divorce, a custody battle, her homelessness, multiple arrests, and ultimately her death from an overdose in 2013. I’m ashamed to admit that for years, I focused solely on the painful memories. Despite feeling profound grief over her death, I pushed most of my memories of her deep into my mind, allowing only the hurt to surface.
Now, at thirty, after nearly two decades of resentment, I’m beginning to cultivate empathy. I’m learning to release my pain and grasp hers.
The reality is that while the painful moments are etched in my memory, the good ones exist too, albeit as vague feelings rather than concrete recollections. A scent, an image, a song can unexpectedly bring forth a wave of happiness from my time with her. When she was sober, my mom was fun, sharp-witted, and loving—charming and beautiful. I know there were many good times, even if I can’t fully capture them.
Much like my mother, I grapple with anxiety, depression, and panic attacks. I have spent my life striving to be nothing like her—my children will never experience the turmoil I did. Yet I understand how easy it is to feel trapped, overwhelmed, and desperate to escape.
Fortunately, mental health is no longer as stigmatized as it once was. I’ve gained enough knowledge to recognize and discuss my symptoms openly. I don’t think my mom had that opportunity. To many people, she was simply the troubled drug addict. Trust was scarce, and it was hard for them to believe what she said.
I often think about how different her life might have been if her mental health had been properly addressed. Perhaps things would have turned out differently if someone had offered her guidance at the right moment. I’m not suggesting that help wasn’t available; many people tried to assist her, including my father, who nearly lost everything in his efforts. Even with support, she often seemed unwilling to accept help. Addiction can be an exhausting battle, and I know those suffering can feel too weary to fight. Still, I can’t help but wonder if she had sought help early on, before it spiraled out of control, things might have been different.
I love my mother. I always have, even during the times of intense anger and embarrassment—even when I had to watch for oncoming cars during those traffic light naps. Nearly eight years after her passing, I still miss her every day. Her struggles with mental health and addiction created a barrier between us. I wish I could have spent more time with the authentic her. Though I witnessed many of her mistakes, I hold onto every reason to love her.
For more insightful reflections on this topic, check out another one of our blog posts. Additionally, if you’re interested in fertility-related topics, this resource for supplements can help enhance fertility. For further reading on pregnancy and home insemination, visit this blog.
Search Queries:
- What to do when a parent struggles with addiction
- How to cope with a loved one’s drug addiction
- Understanding the effects of addiction on families
- Finding support for families dealing with drug dependency
- How to help someone struggling with addiction
Summary:
The author reflects on their complex relationship with their mother, who battled drug addiction. Through fear and embarrassment in childhood, resentment grew, leading to estrangement after her untimely death. Now, years later, the author is beginning to empathize with their mother’s struggles, recognizing both the painful and joyful moments shared together. This journey toward understanding highlights the importance of mental health awareness and the lasting impact of addiction on families.