The Forgotten One

For those of us who grew up with one or both parents that were alcoholics, we learn first and foremost that we do not matter.  I remember when I was five years old waiting for my father, who was an alcoholic, to pick me up from school.  I waited and waited for him.  I watched child after child leave with their mom or dad.  They’d wave good-bye to me and say “see you tomorrow.”  Some of the mothers even asked if someone was picking me up.  “My daddy is,” I’d replied proudly.  But when all my classmates were gone, I stood alone.  Then, I decided to walk home alone. 

It was only a five minute walk to our apartment.  There were crossing guards at every street that I had to cross.  When I arrived at the four-unit building where we lived, I entered the hallway and proudly knocked on our first floor apartment door.  I just knew my father would be proud to know that I could come home all by myself.  But he didn’t answer the door.  I knew he was there; his car was parked right out front.  He was inside the apartment; passed out. 

For some reason I was unfazed.  I sat on the steps and read my school book for nearly an hour.  Then suddenly I saw my father dart out of the apartment and out the door.  He didn’t even notice me on the steps.  After another 30 minutes or so he returned looking crazed.  That’s when he noticed me on the steps.  You see, alcoholic parents are selfish, self-absorbed, and often forget the important things that go on in their children's lives, which leaves the child feeling as though they don't matter.  This caused me to have no faith in others growing up and to this day to some degree.

Whether they realize it or not, alcoholic parents teach their children to suppress their pain and their emotions to survive.  I don’t remember feeling any particular emotion that day when I couldn’t get into the apartment.  I just knew he was inside and had learned at a very young age how to entertain myself.

Alcoholics also teach their children that the things they say and hear didn't really happen; that reality isn't really reality, and the children grow up, unsure if there really was problem in their home.  I was in denial about the dysfunction of my home growing up for more than 50 years.

The only way to become a survivor is to separate our messed-up childhood from our present.  When we feel as though something is wrong, it's probably the pain of our past.  Only when we separate our present from our past can we truly begin to heal.

Hi, I’m Liz Hawkins and I’m an Adult Child of an Alcoholic.