Writing About the Past

Demons Included

I have been thinking about addictions lately. In my classroom, I have witnessed the powerful draw to electronic devices; I have even caught myself in that arena and, thus, try to find ways to force myself to refrain from scrolling. Letting go of the phone is not an easy task. Imagine how difficult it is for a youngster. And I certainly do not want to talk about that other tempting relationship with sugar.

In recent work, I have written rather vulnerably about my mom’s addiction to whiskey and diet 7-Up. Yes, I am an adult “Child of Alcoholics.” A COA for short. Ick. I do not like talking about it really. I have determined that I dealt with it all when I was younger and don’t want to hold up that sign now for everyone to see, especially since both parents are long gone. But writing about the past inevitably awakens those monsters locked up in basement cedar closets.

I watched a movie on a recent flight and heard the alcoholic character say that drinking is the only thing that quiets the voices in her head that tell her she is worthless, beyond redemption. And my own mother could never resist her favorite drink because she felt the golden mix was her only true friend. Even though both of her sisters died of cirrhosis of the liver, and she would eventually follow them, she would not end that friendship.

So how do I write about my family story without elements of addiction rising up from the grave? Those in my writing group listening to excerpts of my story say things like, “I would never know where you came from looking at you today.” Does being a COA usually show on our faces? Am I just good at hiding my past? Even my own daughter made a curious comment when I let her read my memoir in progress: “There’s a lot of . . . trauma here. I didn’t realize.” I laugh and say, it’s all fine now. And she answers with that funny rhetorical question common these days: “Is it?”

Sure it is. So many people had it way worse; I’m grateful I was not abused or anything. But I am learning that while all trauma is not equal, we still own it as it is . . . or was. Competition does not exist among us in that realm, especially since no one wants to win that contest.

In writing my story, I try to capture both the beauty of my childhood and the struggle. I have come to understand that addiction is a strong opponent and difficult to defeat for even the best of us. My mom tried but could not conquer that beast, and I am not holding her hostage over that failure. I strive to honor my parents while still valuing authenticity in my story. They are real people, so they show up as well-rounded characters in my work. Multifaceted. The demons are circling at times when I revisit my childhood, but I can make them stand down. With my parents’ death, some of the negative memories have dissipated, like ghosts, following close behind their bodies into the ground. Once I get the story out, I will seal that concrete lid over the burial vault. The demons have a hard time getting through it.

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