How The Child Of Two Alcoholics Broke The Cycle


I am six years old. My dad and mom are fighting. This time over a field trip that I missed because my parents slept in too late. The screaming starts. I go into the kitchen to see what the commotion is about. I hear my dad yell at my mom and then push her into the glass door. That is my first memory of my parents.

I am 12 years old. It’s late and my parents are drinking again, like every other night this week. My sister and I are lying in our bunk beds, trying to go to sleep for school the next day, when the fighting starts again. This time, I blame myself. “I should be doing more to protect my sister.” “They always fight … maybe it’s me?” My sister and I sneak out into the kitchen to pour some of their alcohol down the drain so they wouldn’t get so drunk.

“If they stop drinking this instant, I will never drink in my life, I promise.”

I am 14 years old. It is my birthday and I decided to make my own cake. My mom let me bake it, and it was always a treat to be able to bake. Except this time, it wasn’t a treat. That night my parents ended up getting their usual, a fifth of Crown Royal. They bought it to celebrate me because that makes sense, right? That night, I ended up sitting in the kitchen alone, singing “Happy Birthday” to myself as my parents partied by themselves in the living room.

I am 16 and offered my first drink. I imagine all the nights I stayed up crying in bed about my parents’ drinking. I imagine my sister’s big brown eyes looking up at me in disappointment if I accepted the invitation. With ease, I decline the drink and don’t even second-guess myself. I wouldn’t start drinking until nineteen.

I am 20 years old. My parents have filed for divorce. Shockingly, it is a messy one. “Messy” being the nicest possible word I could use to describe it. My dad is going on huge benders at this point and calling my mom hundreds, yes hundreds, of times and threatening her life. He bought a gun. The court system does nothing for her and I am genuinely concerned for my mother’s life. I am currently pregnant with my first child, which happens to be an extremely high-risk pregnancy. Instead of worrying about that, though, I am fully invested in my parents’ divorce and trying to protect my mom.

I am 21 years old and a new mother. My son spent ten weeks in the NICU and is now home and safe. I embrace the “mommy wine” stereotype and have my weekly wine. Weekly wine turns into a couple times a week, but that’s all. I couldn’t possibly have a problem because I am paying attention closely to make sure I don’t fall into the habits of my parents. I know the warning signs. I am solid. Right?

I am 26 years old with cop lights behind me. “You’ve really done it this time, Lacey,” I think to myself as the officer asks me to perform sobriety tests. I spend the night in jail. Everybody I know has an OWI/DUI so it’s really no big deal. A night in the slammer always makes a good story, right? I don’t have a problem because I am aware. I know what I am doing. Only, a week later I get into an “accident” while blackout drunk and told the paramedics I wanted to die. For the record, I did want to.

DUI-2, Lacey-0.

I am 28 and am now court ordered to attend two AA meetings a week. I don’t care about these meetings, or life in general, and go to get my paper signed … that’s it. I assumed all the old guys who claimed thirty years of sobriety were full of shit. There was no way someone could abstain from alcohol for thirty years.

I am drinking a half a fifth of rum every day at this point. I am depressed beyond belief with severe anxiety. Yet alcohol seemed to make me feel happy, so that’s what I went back to, repeatedly. I don’t have a problem because I can quit when I want to, I just choose not to. Everybody else concerned about my drinking was merely being overdramatic. The fact I had two DUIs and two stints in the mental hospital, all after drinking a lot, wasn’t my problem. It was just the luck of the draw.

I keep attending meetings.

Nine months into going to meetings twice a week, something clicked for me. I wanted what they had. I wanted happiness. Stability. Fellowship. Calm. I realized I had become exactly what my parents were, even down to the fighting with my sweet husband. My life was in shambles, and I was the biggest denier of them all. Every day I woke up in a sheer panic after a night of drinking. What did I do the night before? Who did I text? What did I post on social media? Delete. Delete. Delete. The migraines kicked in every morning, which caused me to spend most of my mornings and afternoons nursing a gnarly hangover and cuddled up to the toilet. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror without being disgusted. Something had to change.

On November 14th, 2020, I said “enough.” I finally wanted to escape alcohol like a girl to a bad boyfriend. I loved alcohol, but it was no longer serving me and my life. I jumped into “Quit-Lit” and submerged myself into the sober universe. I made a “sober” Instagram separate from my personal account and followed hundreds of sober people. Any and everybody. I started taking AA seriously and started going four times a week. I discovered new hobbies, went for long walks with my dog, and babied myself. I nursed myself to sobriety and strength. On the days the cravings were bad, I’d go for a run or take a nap.

I am still 28. I wake up before the sun, almost six months sober, to make coffee and care for my kids. I kiss my husband as he goes off to work. I breathe in my morning cup of joe and take a look around. Calm.

Life is good … finally.

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