At nine, my mother drank every day. Bottles on the counter. Missed mornings. Nights she didn’t come home. When she disappeared, nobody stepped in. So I did. I woke my siblings, fed them, walked them to school, cooked whatever was left, stayed awake until everyone slept. I learned that if I didn’t hold it together, things fell apart.
So now, even in safety, my body acts like a spill is a threat and a delay has consequences.
I love my kids. I don’t want to leave them.
I just don’t want to relive my childhood through them—and I’m starting to realize that thought is the warning, not the failure.
Between the ages of 9 and 14, I was responsible for my younger brother and sister. Not occasionally. Not “helping.” RESPONSIBLE.
Every weekday, I woke up before my alarm. I made sure they were awake, dressed, and fed. I packed lunches from whatever was left in the kitchen. I checked backpacks for homework. I signed permission slips using my mother’s name because she wasn’t home or wasn’t awake.
After school, I walked them home. I cooked dinner. I cleaned the kitchen. I supervised baths. I put them to bed. I did my own homework after they slept. No adult checked my work. No one asked how I was doing.
Our mother drank EVERY DAY.
Bottles didn’t get hidden. Wine sat on the counter. Vodka was mixed with juice so it looked harmless. Beer cans filled the trash.
Some days she left early and didn’t come back. Sometimes it was two days. Sometimes it stretched longer. She rotated boyfriends constantly. New men came through the house. New rules. New moods.
When she left, she didn’t arrange childcare. She left ME. When she stayed, she often slept through afternoons. Missed pickups. Forgot conversations. Asked the same questions twice.
She also took pills that weren’t prescribed to her. She called them “for her nerves.” They made time disappear. When she took them, she wasn’t fully awake. When she didn’t have them, she was sharp and unpredictable. I learned to watch patterns.
Because no one gave me rules, I created them. Keep the house quiet. Don’t bring friends over. Clean everything before she gets home. Don’t tell teachers anything personal. Make sure the younger kids look normal.
If she came home laughing, we stayed invisible. If she came home angry, we stayed silent.
Our grandfather showed up sometimes with groceries or repairs. He didn’t stop the system. He didn’t take us out of it. So the system stayed MINE.
I didn’t experience childhood as free time. I experienced it as LOGISTICS. I planned days in my head. I counted money. I worried about food. I stayed alert even when sitting down. By thirteen, I decided I would never have children. Because children, to me, meant NO EXIT.
I met my husband later. He didn’t assume I wanted kids. He didn’t sell me a fantasy. He talked about partnership, not obligation. That’s why I agreed.
I chose motherhood as an adult. And I am not disconnected from my daughters. I read to them. I play with them. I listen. I show up. But certain moments activate something old and immediate.
Two children speaking at once. Milk spilling while I’m answering a work call. One crying while the other needs help. Bedtime stretching longer than planned. When that happens, my body doesn’t slow down. It ACCELERATES.
My hands move fast. My voice sharpens. I start giving instructions instead of comfort. I don’t shout. I don’t break things. But warmth disappears.
After the moment passes, my brain turns on me. “You shouldn’t react like that.” “Other mothers manage this.” “You chose this—why does it feel heavy?” I don’t say these things out loud. I carry them.
This wasn’t about love. It was about CONDITIONING. When my daughters need me, my body reacts like I’m nine again, responsible for two other lives with no backup.
Noise feels urgent. Mess feels dangerous. Delay feels like failure. That reaction doesn’t come from the present. It comes from MEMORY STORED IN ACTION.
I didn’t learn caregiving in safety. I learned it under absence, and unpredictability. Feed them fast. Fix it before someone notices. Clean before it escalates.
So when my daughters act like children—slow, loud, messy—my body tries to control the situation instead of stay with it. Not because I don’t care. Because I learned care as SURVIVAL WORK.
I stopped telling myself to “calm down.” I changed structure. I set NON-NEGOTIABLE HANDOFFS with my husband—clear times when he takes over without explanation. I simplified routines so they don’t rely on me being alert every second.
I stopped multitasking during high-stress moments. When I feel my body speed up, I say it out loud: “I need a minute.” No speeches. No apologies. Just action.
When I mess up, I don’t spiral. I repair directly. “I spoke too sharply. That wasn’t about you.” Then I move on. No self-punishment. No silence.
This is not me blaming my mother for everything. This is not me avoiding responsibility. This is me NAMING CAUSE AND EFFECT. I learned motherhood under instability. Now I’m learning it under choice and safety. Those two systems don’t erase each other overnight.
I still have moments where my patience drops too fast. I still imagine an alternate life sometimes. And I no longer treat that thought like a crime. Imagining rest is not the same as wanting to leave.
If a child learns caregiving while managing an adult’s drinking, absence, and unpredictability—and later becomes a parent by choice—Is it failure when the old system activates? Or is the real work learning how to SHUT DOWN A PROGRAM THAT WAS NEVER MEANT TO RUN FOREVER?
