Drying the Laundry

The last few weeks have seen emotional breakthroughs in succession. I have had the steady pace of overcoming the great obstacle (Wall of China) that is my mind. I am trying to repudiate my nonclinical depression from the life I should be so happy (!!!) to be a part of.

Life is a hayride.

The biggest thing I allude to in my writing about myself but, rarely, state outright,
is my parents alcoholism.

It isn't real, to them. There is no physiological dependence on the wine and the ale they consume nightly.
It's just a silly habit that they could stop, if they really wanted.
But, as it turns out, they don't.

I walk into my kitchen and glance at the counter. There is a case of Henry Weinhard's pale ale. Wonderful. I believe it was only a week ago when my (visibly drunk) mother was telling me about how much a pain it was to be liquored up every night. We made a plan that would stop their drinking altogether in a not so distant future. The first step was to not buy alcohol during the week, and if they felt like drinking on the weekend, they could.
And they did.
This was a week and a half ago when all of this was put together,
and I saw them stay sober for a work week. It was amazing.

The weekend came and they were more drunk than usual.
Not really a surprise, but a step in the other direction.

And it's Thursday today.
And there is beer on the counter and wine in the fridge.

Immediately, I see a need for action.
I give my mother, not drunk, as of yet, a deliberately casual question.
"Why is there beer on the counter."

She explains that her and my father went lax, specifying his suddenly noncommital attitude towards being dry. She heard his agitation over the phone, didn't sound so good.
Doctors say one glass of wine, my dad would give them more, if he could.
She buckled and bought a box of beer.

We kept talking...

She was argumentative and defensive when I told her about my codependence and how I never want to be around them when they are drunk. It hurts me as a person.
She turned it around and actually believed that I meant that I didn't love her or my dad when they were drunk.
What?

This idea was so far past what I intended, I succumbed to this bullshit charade and hugged her until she stopped crying.

My name is Joel Arken and my parents have been alcoholics for over sixteen years.
I have been contact-sober for about an hour.
I wish I could be contact-sober for my life.
I'll let my dreams be dreams for now.