Ten - A Reflection on Being the Child of An Alcoholic

Growing up in a home with substance use, we often share challenges. It is difficult.

Ten - A Reflection on Being the Child of An Alcoholic
by Lisa Macafee, PsyD

It occurred to me, as I was getting ready this morning, that my daughter is ten years old and I was ten years old when my father really started to neglect his responsibilities to me.

Some background.  My father survived horrific trauma as a child.  I don’t know how he learned to function at all, and deserves a lot of credit for becoming the person he did.

However.  This led to some generational trauma and neglect to his child, me, and harm to me.  I have had a hard time making sense of this as an adult.  Below follows some sense-making attempts.

When I was eight years old, my parents moved us across the country from Chicago to get a fresh start for my father to hopefully aid his depression.  This attempt at better mental health was ruined when the work-place bully he was fleeing in Chicago followed us to California, causing my father to have a nervous breakdown, quit, and spend some time in hospitals.

I wonder how much of his stressors might have been related to being undiagnosed autistic, like me.  It would have been terribly upsetting to miss social cues and have people backstab him at work and be caught off guard every time.  

Many neurodivergent people turn to substance use to mask their challenges.

By the time I was ten, my parents had bought a pet supply store so he wouldn’t have to answer to a supervisor.  My parents and older brother worked there, and later, my closest friend.

Everyone else got to see my father while at work, where he was, by all accounts, a deeply caring man, passionate about equity and fairness to marginalized people.  

He served as a pseudo-parent for many of the employees my parents hired at their store and many people admired his commitment to others and strong moral compass.

When he came home though, he parked in the garage and drank a fifth of vodka in his car before ever setting foot in the house.  Where he was my caregiver while my mother worked late hours.

My brother was a teenager at this time, and was either cloistered in his room playing video games, working, or out with friends, which left me alone with my father, blackout drunk most of the time.

He was never dangerous or scary, but I could not understand why he wouldn’t talk to me or engage in conversation.  My ten year old self could not reason out why my caregiver ignored me and would not answer questions.

​Growing up, I assumed the fault lay within me.  I wasn’t worthy of attention.  Didn’t warrant the time or energy required to speak with me.

I could not know that his own trauma as a child made him afraid to touch me or interact with me for fear he would replicate things done to him.

It was made worse because no one else knew how much he was drinking, because I was the only one there with him, and I was a child.  

I know that he did not understand that he was not a safe person to be with and my mother had no idea that she entrusted my care to someone not able to provide it.  He certainly never told her he had a problem.

I hesitate to write this now, for fear my mother will read this now and be upset.  But she didn’t know.  Mom, if you’re reading this - you didn’t know.  There’s nothing any of us can do if we don’t know.

I grew up quiet.  I read a lot.  I internalized a lack of self-worth.  Apparently, children of alcoholics often follow similar arcs to me.  

According to the AI Overview when I googled my situation, “Children of alcoholics (COAs) often face a range of emotional, psychological, and behavioral issues due to the instability and trauma associated with growing up in an alcoholic household. These can include anxiety, depression, difficulty with emotional regulation, and a higher risk of developing substance use disorders themselves. Additionally, COAs may struggle with relationship difficulties, low self-esteem, and a tendency towards isolation or approval-seeking behaviors.”

I think I read this three times.  It’s like they wrote this about me.  Every word hits true.

Fast forward 35 years to now.  Now, I am a parent and am terrified of harming my children’s sense of self-worth.  I don’t ever want them to have the sense of shame and worthlessness I experienced.  Don’t want anyone to have those feelings.

I’ve done a lot of therapy.  It helps.

I am so  proud that I was able to work through most of the self-destructive thought cycles, leave substance abuse, and find a partner who treats me well, instead of repeating the unhealthy patterns of dating abusive partners who affirmed my sense of worthlessness (as I did in my teens and early 20s).

I am so proud of the active parent I try to be.  Of my daughter’s ability to make fun of me without being afraid of her parent.  Of going back to school to be a psychologist.  Of the advocacy work I do in the neurodivergent and queer community.

We can grow.  We can change.  We can become more than we were.

But I miss the friends who haven’t yet been able to break out.  

And it’s damn hard.  

Hang in there, all.  

“Adult Children of Alcoholics was largely based on the premise that for the ACoA there is a lack of data base: ACoAs do not learn what other children learn in the process of growing up. Although they do wonderfully well in crisis, they do not learn the day-to-day process of “doing life.” — Janet Geringer Woititz