Identifying as an adult child of alcoholics for the first time at 39

Not forgiveness, but maybe acceptance of my dead alcoholic parents

My mother’s ring and my father’s coin.

I sit on the fluffy carpet, my legs pulled up, my back against the couch, my milk-drunk, sleepy newborn facing me, resting against my thighs. Eyes closed, mouth partially open with a little milk dribble trickling down her chin. I feel warm and relaxed, even though my nipples are raw, and my vagina is held together by fresh stitches following the birth of what looked like a 3-month-old. The nursing didn’t elicit the usual painful cramps. I don’t care that I haven’t slept. I feel wrapped in billowy layers of cotton. Everything will be fine. Nothing is hurting. After the intense pain and fear that comes with childbirth and the aftermath of a body that is sore everywhere and a mind tortured by sleep deprivation, I feel fantastic. And as I’m thinking that thought, I realize I should not be feeling fantastic.

I’m never going to take these pills again.

My doctor prescribed me opioids for pain relief after birth. This was over a decade ago, and things are a bit different now, but back then I had a little orange plastic container with oxycodone in my cabinet after my normal, healthy, vaginal birth. I’m not saying I wanted to be in pain after giving birth, but I am saying that taking drugs so strong that I felt like…