On Thanksgiving, as I sat at the table, stuffing myself with turkey and pumpkin pie, I thought what a miracle it was that I was there at all. I surveyed the room filled with loved ones—grateful that I was still alive and that I no longer needed to use.

Before recovery, I felt that the universe owed me something, but I had nothing I deserved. Using made life bearable. It started in my teens with the classic progression—booze, pot, pills, and eventually, cocaine and heroin. I spent 18 years on methadone programs, as I continued to use heroin. Methadone was supposed to block the opiate high, but all it did was make my life a little more stable, while, at the same time, keeping me connected with people who were actively using.

I always wanted to blame my parents for my addiction, particularly my father. I grew up poor, in the Brooklyn housing projects. My parents were uneducated immigrants from Mexico who gave me mixed messages of despair and hope. My father was an abusive alcoholic, who, in the depths of his drinking and misery, would sit at the kitchen table and cry that no one “understood” him. I thought it was the most pathetic thing in the world—a grown man feeling sorry for himself and crying about it. I swore I would never end up like that.

But many years later, I found myself in the same place. I was working as a night porter in a building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, taking out the garbage and mopping floors. My life had become a series of failures, and I hated myself for it.

Then, at the age of 45—after 16 years of marriage to another addict, and after having a son born to this disease—my wife asked for a divorce. I was terrified; I did not know how to live life on life’s terms, nor on my own.

 I called a friend who was in a twelve-step program and agreed to join him at an N.A. meeting; I listened to what was said and decided to give it a try. By talking to other addicts, I soon discovered that I was not alone. They became my support system and we learned from each other through our shared experiences. It took a year to get off of methadone, with the help of the program I attended.

Gradually, I began to change my thinking. I realized that no one owed me anything, and if I wanted something—including self-esteem—I had to work for it. Today, I’m pursuing dreams I thought were lost forever. I always wanted to be a filmmaker because I loved to tell stories, but I never graduated from film school. I now know that I can go back to school and get my degree. In the meantime, I can continue to tell stories through my writing; I’ve joined a writers’ workshop, which has become an important part of my life. 

Most importantly, I’ve learned how to be grateful for what I have, rather than resentful for what I don’t have. I am now married to a lovely woman I met in recovery, and I was able to care for my father for the last years of his life without bitterness. I have a wonderful relationship with my son, who has never had to hear his dad talk of self-pity. For this, I am truly grateful.              

People rarely ask me why I drank, which shows either great self-control, or (hopefully) a greater understanding of the disease of alcoholism. After all, I drank because I drank, because I am an alcoholic. I would argue (given family history and upbringing) that I stood a 90% chance of becoming an alcoholic, like my mother, my grandfather, and my ancestors before me. But I did notice a steep dropping off point (jumping off is too optimistic) once I became a mother of twins.

Like any good alcoholic who hasn’t yet exhibited the heavy drinking, denial, and troubling proclivity for daily hangovers, I’d been able to drink fairly normally in my 20s. I could take it or leave it and often did, for weeks at a time. Nor did I typically binge in between (though exceptions did occur). 

But after my daughters came along, there was a perfect storm that provided all the kindling my little match fire needed to rage. I was lonely, in a troubled relationship, with a partner who was laid off two weeks prior to the twins’ birth. Plus, I was plum worn out. Like most parents, I tripped into parenthood singing a melody of hope and love, but was very quickly side-lined by the grueling reality of little to no REM sleep and the babies waking me up every 90 minutes or so.

I couldn’t go anywhere—not even to the grocery store—without some major production with formula, strollers, crying babies, and total hassle. Stuck at home, the only outlet I could find, aside from bad mystery novels, was a glass of wine in the evenings. White, crisp, tasty wine in a glass, while sitting in my reading chair devouring the latest book, after the twins were in bed was my idea of sheer heaven. So heavenly, in fact, I very quickly decided two glasses would be even better, and three better still.  In about two months, I was easily drinking nearly a bottle of wine a night. And it didn’t stop there.

Fast forward three years, and I was missing my daughters’ school events, having an affair, missing work, and living miserably from one afternoon to the next. Drinking took over, and you, I’m sure, know the rest.

Are mothers today under more pressure than our mothers before us? I’d have to argue yes. We’re charged with raising healthy, happy children, bringing home a significant portion if not all of the family income, and looking 20 years younger than our actual age. Given that many of us also walk through divorce, job loss, and single parenthood, in my view, it’s amazing we’re not all alcoholics.

I found my way into recovery after I finally told my brother Mark what was really happening in my life. I guessed correctly that he’d be supportive, but I hadn’t counted on him telling me to go to an AA meeting that day. In fact, he told me he’d call me later that evening to make sure I had attended.

Because I listened to him, I am now a proud, sober mother who brings her kids to my meetings when they’re not in school. Recovery has involved getting to two or three meetings a day, finding a sponsor, and working through the steps with other alcoholics. Without that multi-pronged approach, I’m quite doubtful I’d have two years sober today.

Motherhood did not cause my alcoholism, but it did provide the circumstances for me to succumb to its grips. I now believe our recovery efforts should be directed to the place in society where women, always striving for perfection and never measuring up, are trying—often alone—to rise up and raise up our next generation.

In recovery, we can find an antidote to these pressures, and even more, we can find a sisterhood of loving support, such as we never dreamed of finding.

Rachael Brownell

 For information about Phoenix House’s programs for mothers and children, please visit our New York or California pages.