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“Have you heard from Will lately? Mom’s worried.”
I read the text from my sister. Here we go again. Yes, I heard from our brother Will exactly one week ago. On the tragic and heart-breaking day we found out that his son, my beloved 29-year-old nephew, Andrew, had passed away. He was too young. Too intelligent. Too loving, caring and kind. He was trying too damn hard to turn his life around. He was showing vulnerability and accountability and so much hope. So how, then, did Andrew or I or God or any of us let this happen? Surely, we could have prevented his passing. And just as I tried to process the hole that took over my heart, I received a phone call from my brother.
When I saw his name pop up on my cell, I was initially comforted by the thought of speaking with someone who loved Andrew as much as I did (and do). “Hey, it’s Will. Just wanted to talk about Andrew.”
My stomach turned. I knew it immediately. The slurred speech. The distracted thinking. The confusion in his voice. He admitted it, too. “I had six months sober today, but when I heard the news about Andrew, I drank.”
Even though I, too, am an alcoholic (sober for 11 years), this made no sense whatsoever to me. I heard the sadness in his voice. I knew the feelings of guilt and shame that accompany relapse all too well. I’d like to say I was sympathetic toward his struggle, but I wasn’t. I was livid. How the hell could he pick up a drink? The same day we found out that we lost Andrew to alcoholism. How could he do this to our parents? His family? To any of us? Doesn’t he see where this ends?
I continued the call with feigned empathy, offering him the advice others offered me years ago: “Just because you drank today doesn’t mean you have to drink tomorrow. Get to a meeting ASAP. Call your sponsor.” I offered compassion, but inside, I was furious at him, at myself for not saving Andrew, at the disease of alcoholism and at everyone in my family who continued to drink alcoholically. I was exhausted by the havoc this disease was unleashing on our family. And now I was worried about my brother, too.
Worry, secrets, chaos — it’s all part of the DNA of an alcoholic family. When my mom inquired, “Any word from Will?” I felt as though I had no choice but to protect her. She was grieving. I could not add to her worry. I would not tell her that Will was drinking. I couldn’t do it. He promised he wouldn’t drink tomorrow… I tried to convince myself.
“Yes, we talked the other day. He seems like he is holding it together,” I lied. When you are knee-deep in addiction or loving an addict, lies and secrets become second nature. In an attempt to control the uncontrollable, we desperately hold on to a false reality.
It rarely, if ever, works, and when my sister told me our mom was worried, I realized my lie had failed. My mom was worried anyway, and my lie just contributed to the chaos. My sister’s experience added to the insanity of it all. “Well, I don’t blame him for drinking,” she texted, “all I want to do right now is drink.” She, too, is an alcoholic.
Seriously? You want to drink? What is wrong with you? Andrew is dead! From alcohol! It kills. And look at what the worry does to Mom and Dad. My anger swelled. If you want what I have (long-term sobriety), go to AA! But I didn’t share this. Instead, I sent the “Yes, it is so hard” text and tried to make my sister feel less alone and more understood.
This disease is a beast. It grabs hold of generation after generation. Wherever it lives, chaos, lies and secrets follow. When they say alcoholism is a family disease, it truly is.
I don’t know what the future holds for my family of alcoholics. I don’t know how to fix them or us. I wish I could show everyone that sobriety is not only possible but beautiful and that they are worthy of love, serenity, peace and emotional health. I want to tell them that life without drinking isn’t nearly as scary as alcoholism tells them it is. But I know that I can’t talk them into being sober. I can’t love them or scare them into being sober, either. And it’s my job to accept that and love them anyway. It is also my job to resist the lies and secrets and cover-ups. Perhaps if I can navigate my journey with honesty and humility, free of guilt and shame, we will all heal a little. Over the past 10 years of living in sobriety, I have found this to be true.
My nephew died a tragic and heartbreaking alcohol-related death. Rather than chaos, secrets and shame, let there be love, support and healing. I will continue to do the only thing I can to contribute to this: I will choose every day to be sober. And moving forward, I will do it in Andrew’s honor.
Have any of you dealt with addiction in your family? Let us know in the comments below.
Chiara Ghigliazza
Follow Article Topics: Relationships
