When the Photos Don’t Match My Alcoholic Memories
The Past in Pictures
I had one simple assignment—to find an old picture of myself, a “before” picture to show what I looked like in my drinking days. It sounded simple enough, but since it had been a couple years, the task would take some work.
So at 11 pm, I ventured into my husband’s home office to find our ancient computer, the one that scared the entire family because once it got plugged in and turned on, it sounded like a jet engine firing up for take off. I never knew if it would blast off or blow up; it was that old. I dug around for the right cords and after long pauses with my fingers crossed, photos finally began to show up on the screen.
I braced myself. Specifically, I was looking for pictures from our time living in North Carolina, where my first relapse back into alcoholism took place—the years there were so painful I refer to them now as my “Blue Period,” a subtle nod to Picasso’s own era of grief and depression. As I started opening files of photos, I slipped into a time warp. My kids got younger, seasons changed and I was nowhere to be found.
Well, that’s a slight exaggeration. But in the hundreds of pictures I looked at, I was in about 12. There are a few reasons for that. One explanation is I’m the mom, the main family historian, the who has somehow been designated the sole provider of every photograph taken. Apparently I’m not alone, as I’ve heard other moms over the years complaining about the same dilemma. Not until recently did I bitch about the problem and make my way into more family photos. But back then, when the kids were younger, I didn’t think about it much. I wish I had. Another reason is the alcoholism. If I was struggling through a relapse, I didn’t want my picture taken. Or I was gone at rehab. Or suffering from such ridiculous anxiety trying not to drink I looked like a skeleton.
Looking a Little Deeper
In my hour of scrolling, I started noticing something so peculiar I stayed at that roaring computer long after I had found a couple eligible pictures of myself. I was captivated by the faces of my family, specifically my four kids. I zeroed in on what they were doing, and how it was me, there behind the camera, undoubtedly participating in the life they were living.
There was Becca as a preschooler, standing at the kitchen sink, holding a freshly washed carrot. I remember I had dug out the garden behind our house one spring, replacing weeds with some vegetables and flower bulbs. Becca and I had gone down one day and pulled up our little treasures, the carrots that had magically grown in spite of everything else going on. The picture was proof not only of my daughter’s excitement and pride, but also that it happened, that I was there, doing positive mom things with her.
In another photo, the kids are playing with sidewalk chalk in the driveway, with their outlined bodies traced in different positions and colored like ballerinas with tutus and crowns. I looked closer at the computer screen, deciphering which parts I drew and which parts the girls did. I noticed the bikes and the trikes, convinced we had taken a walk at some point. I don’t know if I had been drinking at that time. The odds are I probably was, and I was more than likely in a deep state of internal pain. But right then, that afternoon, those kids were happy. They were playing with each other and with their mom. A sense of peace hit me right in the heart.
Memories Can Change
Not every photo was profound, but the majority made me rethink portions of that “Blue Period.” During those days, and in the years that followed, all my focus went to the bad parts. My personal hell consumed my thoughts because that’s how alcoholism works. It became my everything. And thus, the memories stacked up in my mind were of all the disasters I created—the tears, the trauma, the fights and all that I missed during my trips to rehab to put myself back together. I could only see what I had done wrong. I assumed all I ever created was pain and suffering for my kids. But these pictures scrolling down my old computer screen showed the contrary. This was a life I had almost forgotten, little drops of validation that I actually was a mother, and a decent one some days. During those times of my relentless pursuit to keep my drinking a hidden hell, I wasn’t always successful, but apparently sometimes I was. Those kids looked happy, active, loved. I was there, because I was taking the pictures. They were essentially smiling back at me.
I would not have been capable of looking at any that a few years ago—not the pictures, not my part in what happened and not even accepting that an imperfect mother is good enough. I never gave myself credit for the things I did right. I think about that woman behind the camera, and I compare her to who I am today. Honestly, I don’t know how she did it. Four young kids and an overworked husband, 1000 miles away from friends and family at the height of her addiction, but she still kept trying. I would tell her I’m proud of her, that she did her best, and that her kids turned out amazing. That she will be okay. Day after day, I don’t know how she did it, and I’m infinitely grateful I’m not still doing it today, for everyone’s sake.
I eventually saved the few pictures of myself and added a few extras that I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to just yet. I turned off the ancient computer that had now reached an external temperature of about 100 degrees. It was time to go. Half of me was afraid to crawl into bed, worried that I’d toss around with shame and remorse from the old times. But when my head finally hit the pillow well after midnight, I had zero problems falling asleep. That whole experience was a perfect example of a changed woman. I wasn’t blinded by a bunch of guilt and self-hatred when I dared to look at the past. Before, my memories had been held captive and overshadowed by alcoholic tragedies none of us wanted to remember. I didn’t want to see it, and I definitely didn’t want to feel it. Not anymore. What a gift to have the guts to go back and look. I found such treasures that night…the best one being peace.
