Motion Masquerade

Since Cole’s passing in 2018 my folks have made a valiant effort to become the parents we always needed them to be. They’re softer versions of the people they once were. They are easier to talk to, less judgmental (which still makes them more judgmental than most), and more supportive; but, in many ways, they are still willfully blind to what’s right in front of them.

Uh… Duh.

I had lunch with my folks a couple of days ago when they returned from a recent European vacation. Thankfully, Chase had already spoken to them about having been laid off from his job; but, he wasn’t completely transparent about the reasons for the lay off. Not knowing this, of course, I walked right into one of Ma’s manipulative traps.

“It’s kind of frustrating that your brother’s drinking had something to do with the lay off, huh?” she said.

“Well, I mean, it’s not that surprising given his history, is it?” I replied.

“You see,” she exclaimed, looking at my father, “I knew it had something to do with his damn drinking. So what really happened, Cassie?” she asked.

Feeling like a prize idiot, but also sore at my brother for not being honest — and a bit floored that my parents could still be surprised by the fact that his drinking keeps blowing up his life — I just laid it all out on the table. (At that point, anything else would’ve been futile with Ma.) I explained the no call-no shows, the recent uptick in his binge drinking, and how the company had decided to lay him off due to “restructuring” because they valued all he had done for them and wanted to give him a fighting chance at redemption.

“How the hell is he going to survive now?” Ma asked.

“He was given six weeks severance, and he said he has a pretty substantial amount in savings. He’s also filing for unemployment. He told me if he lives modestly, he’ll be okay for at least a year. And he’s already started looking for a new job,” I said.

“If he doesn’t stop drinking, he won’t be able to keep a new job,” Ma said.

“He knows that,” I said. “And he’s asked me to help him get sober when he gets back to town. But in order to do that, I’m going to need a favor from you guys.”

Grant Me the Serenity to Accept Her Insensitivity

“What?” Ma asked, while Dad looked at me suspiciously.

“I need you guys to clear out all of the liquor you have at his place before you leave. No beer in the fridge, no hard shit on the storage shelves. I also need you to take the coffee table books — like the one about the wine — with you. Anything that might trigger him needs to go,” I said.

“Okay,” Ma agreed, shaking her head.

I took a deep breath and said, “You also need to stop ordering alcohol at family dinners.”

“We don’t order alcohol at family dinners,” Ma said defensively.

“Ma, at my birthday dinner, Mike and I were the only ones who didn’t order liquor,” I replied.

“That’s not true,” Ma exclaimed.

“Yeah, it is,” I countered, “you and Dad and Anton and Madi all ordered margaritas.”

“No,” Ma said, “we didn’t.”

“Yeah, Ma,” I replied, “you did. Trust me. Alcoholics notice these things; and, you can’t order drinks when you’re out with Chase anymore. You just can’t.”

“Okay,” she said. “Fine.”

There was a long uncomfortable pause, and then Ma said, “He’s going to go through DTs you know. What are you going to do about that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Honestly? He needs to be in a hospital or a program. It could be dangerous for him to do this alone.”

“I know that, Cassie,” Ma said angrily, “I’m a nurse.”

“I know you are; and, I know you know. I’m just saying that I’m scared. He doesn’t want to go to a detox program because he doesn’t have insurance, and I’m not sure I’m equipped to handle this,” I said.

“Wait,” Ma said, “what do you mean he doesn’t have insurance?”

“He lost his job, Ma,” I replied, “which means he lost his insurance.”

“He can’t not have insurance, Cassie!” she said. “You need to make sure he has insurance!”

“He might be on COBRA,” Dad interjected, “we don’t know.”

“That’s true,” I said, “he just mentioned that he won’t have coverage for an inpatient or outpatient facility. And once he gets back, he can probably apply for AHCCCS.”

“Well, make sure he applies as soon as he gets back,” Ma said. “He can’t be without insurance. If he gets sick, it’ll bankrupt him. And if he’s going to try and get sober he may need to go to an emergency room. People going through detox can die, Cassie!”

“Honey,” Dad said, “don’t yell at Cassie. This isn’t her responsibility.”

“I’m not yelling at Cassie,” Ma said, “but she’s going to be the one here taking care of him.” Ma looked at me and said, “You need to call around and see if there are any programs that could take him on AHCCCS and make sure that he applies as soon as he gets back to Tucson.”

“I know the dangers of detox, Ma,” I said. I was angry that she was treating me as if I’d never known the perils of recovery myself, and frustrated that she was putting all of the responsibility for Chase on my plate.

“No,” she said. “You don’t. You don’t know!”

“What the hell do you think I went through?” I asked.

“You weren’t sick like Chase is sick,” she said.

And there it was.

Ma and Dad weren’t around when I was active in my addiction. They wrote me off because of the lying (and there was a lot of lying — on my part — and mistrust between us) and left me in my husband’s hands. My parents didn’t see me at the bottom. They weren’t there when I white-knuckled my way off of narcotics and benzos. My folks weren’t around when I was shredding my skin with my nails, violently shaking from muscle spasms, body slick with sweat, puking my guts out, throat raw from screaming over horrible hallucinations.

Dad and Ma don’t know about the sexual humiliation I put myself through while drinking, or the pain my husband endured while I was out essentially screwing myself numb with strangers.

They forget that I was just shy of five months sober when Cole died by suicide. Ma doesn’t know that I drove to the store, picked up a bottle of Jameson’s and drove around with it all night — contemplating drinking it — before ultimately going to a 5:30 a.m. meeting and turning it over to an AA mentor.

I want to scream all of this at her — at the top of my lungs — but I know it won’t do any good. She won’t hear any of it. So I take a deep breath and swallow the anger; but, before I can say anything else, Ma follows up her last zinger with the next.

“You aren’t a real addict,” Ma says, “and you need to be extremely careful with Chase.”

I feel the bite of her remark like a slap across the face. Tears sting the corners of my eyes; but, I will not cry. I will not give her that satisfaction.

“I will be,” I say, “but there’s only so much I can do. Chase is going to have to save himself; and without a job, his drinking might get worse. You need to prepare for that, Ma.”

“You have to save him, Cassie,” she says. “He has asked you for help. This is your job as his sister.”

“Sharise,” my dad says, “just stop. You can’t put this all on her.”

“Chase asked her for help,” my mom says. “Just be careful, Cassie.”

“I will be, Ma,” I say, “I promise.” I don’t say, You’re his mother! Where are you in all of this? What’s your role, goddam it?! Why is this my job?! Fuck!!!

You Knew the Signs

My mother, on more than one occasion (and always in anger), has said to me — in various ways — “You were intimately acquainted with suicide. You knew the warning signs. How could you have missed them with your brother?”

To her credit, she always apologizes for saying it later; but, it cuts deep none-the-less.

If something should happen to Chase-o — and I pray with all my heart and soul that it doesn’t — you better believe that I’m going to take more than my fair share of the blame.

Since having lunch with my parents, I’ve been plagued with nightmares. Ones where something terrible befalls Chase, and then Ma pounces on me and tries to choke me to death. I wake up thrashing and coughing and gasping for breath, Michael holding my arms, saying, “Honey? Honey! Look at me. Can you see me? It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Michael has also said that I have his full support and that he will do everything in his power to help me help Chase… but I don’t know if we’ll be enough.

I keep thinking about how different Chase the man is from Chase the child. Chase-o was a quiet, introspective, sensitive, little kid. He was gentle and soft-hearted. He was a peace-keeper. Now he’s loud and gregarious, but also a misanthrope. He’s hard and closed-off, and likes to start shit with people. He’s a brilliant man with no common sense. He avoids personal relationships because he’s destructive when he drinks. He can also be unbelievably cruel when he’s angry or on a bender — and he’s angry a lot.

Ma said, “I think his drinking has gotten worse since Cole died, and he never wants to talk about it.”

She’s right. His alcoholism was always bad, but it’s gotten terribly worse since we lost Cole and Chase never wants to talk about our brother. At all. In fact, Chase isn’t interested in talking about anything from the past — and therapy is a non-starter with him. Having a conversation with Chase is like walking on eggshells that have been carefully laid over a field of IEDs. Tread too heavily and the boy will explode like a bomb and tear you limb from emotional limb.

He wants to get sober, and he wants my help; but, Chase doesn’t want to go to AA meetings. He doesn’t want to admit himself to any treatment programs. He’s not interested in mental health care support. The only friends he has in Tucson are the ones he regularly drank with. Right now, he doesn’t have a job — which means he’ll have more idle time on his hands — and a bored addict in his own company is in bad company with nothing to do but make bad decisions.

I’m ill-equipped to handle this situation. I know that. I will do my damnedest to support him through this process, but it’s a process that’s mostly dependent on him — and he’s unreliable as all hell.

Of course, so was I once… and I did it. Shit. If I can do it, anybody can. Still, please say a prayer for us (if you believe in that sort of thing) or send a healing thought into the universe; because, trust me, we’re going to need all the help we can get.

“Only You Can” by Sasha Sloan