Mom had always believed me, always had my back. Mom could and would trust me - rightfully so - and back me up when others couldn't or wouldn't. She believed me when my life was on the line, when my honor was on the line, and when my emotional well-being needed protecting. She had my back when she confronted her own sister when I told that my uncle - her sister's husband - had abused me.
So that Sunday when I told her what she had done the night before - and this time I had a witness there, too: my date to the high school Christmas dance the night before - I just knew she would listen to me and understand.
It was a gray, dismal day. This kind Houston was infamous for. Muggy and warm, even though it was December. She was in her robe in the kitchen, shocked and remorseful that she had said such horrible things and didn't even remember it. She was ready to go to AA. She got out the phone book.
I left, went with my date to return his tux, came back home, and found her drunk.
"Mom, I thought you were going to try A.A.!"
"You just don't want me to have fun!" she hollered back at me. "That's why you want me not to drink!"
It was crushing and sent my mind reeling. Not only had I wanted to trust Mom, have her get better, and have my mom back, but I had also been trusted by Mom. And here she was treating me like some conspiratorial suspect.
So, I was enormously hurt by her accusation. I knew it meant something was heinously wrong.
Also, it was absolutely terrifying, the lengths that she would go to to hang on to her drink. I never forgot it.
I believe it is much of the reason that a couple years later when I had a drink in my hand, and friends who were trying to take it because they thought I'd had enough, that I hollered and screamed and one of them said, "just give it to her" with a defeated tone, it wore on me. One year later I was looking for the number in the phone book for myself to get help.
