Raised on Alcohol

Photo by Richard Stachmann on Unsplash

We didn’t call it alcoholism back then—but it was.

The room was still warm with the echo of laughter, despite the fact that the linoleum was cold under our bare feet. My sister and I proceeded cautiously through the aftermath, raising half-empty glasses like scavenger magpies in a glittering wasteland. Whatever had been left behind in the fog of adult forgetfulness was brandy, gin, beer, or wine. We didn’t know what we were drinking. We just knew it made us part of something.

No one stopped us. No one noticed.

The adults had either passed out or become embroiled in arguments behind closed doors. Their shoes had been kicked off, their stories had become entangled, and their secrets had been spilled with the ashtrays and the overturned olives. It was our normal.

And that’s the problem.

I read an article recently—“Why Aren’t More People Talking About America’s Alcoholism?” —and it wasn’t the facts that struck me. It was the silence. The absence of collective outrage. That bone-deep hush that alcoholism depends on to keep its grip. I recognized it instantly. I grew up in that environment.

It wasn’t a crisis. It was a celebration!

Alcohol didn’t just show up to our family events. It was the honored guest. The conversations were always accompanied by a steady hum. My mother's emotions were perpetually in a state of flux, her laughter perpetually too boisterous, and her glass was never entirely empty.

Her acquaintances were a chorus of the same—their mouths were painted red, their voices were elevated, and their glasses clanked like windchimes in a storm. They were dazzling and unhinged. Some days, it felt like a party. Other days, it felt like a warning. And still, no one said a word.

I mastered the art of interpreting the weather through her mood. Would today bring warmth? Or would it shatter into something colder and sharper? Living in that house as a child was akin to inhabiting a season that was perpetually indecisive.

My father quit drinking in his 40s. Sobriety didn’t bring peace. It brought the rage that alcohol had kept half-submerged. And when it surfaced, we paid for it.

My grandfather, the only one who found true recovery, used to say, “If you go to AA, you’re an alcoholic. If you don’t go, you’re a drunk.” In our family, that line became the dark punchline—spoken with a chuckle, yet with the weight of a stone.

What grows in soil like that?

Hypervigilance. Shame. Perfectionism. Perfectionism is the relentless urge to manage everyone else's emotions so you don't drown in them yourself.

We were the clean-up crew. The peacemakers. We were the bedtime story readers who were not read to ourselves. We were fluent in adult discomfort before we ever learned how to comfort ourselves. That kind of childhood is ingrained in your bones. It doesn’t leave when you do.

You carry it. You adapt around it. You make it look like strength until it starts to hollow you out.

I got out—but I didn’t escape.

I don’t drink anymore. My sister doesn’t either.

For us, sobriety wasn’t a moral decision. It was a survival strategy. Each of us discovered it in our own unique time. Quietly. Gratefully. Imperfectly.

Some of our siblings still battle the bottle. My ex-husband didn’t make it. He died of kidney failure, his body finally giving up after years of drinking.

My road out wasn’t dramatic. A rock bottom didn't illuminate my path. It was a slow, deliberate climb—through therapy, education, and creating space. It was the acquisition of the ability to adapt to a body that was not always prepared for impact.

But no matter how far I’ve come, the legacy follows. Some ghosts don’t need permission. They just show up.

My mother died of the same cancer I survived.

She died before she ever saw the other side of it.

Colon cancer took her the way it tried to take me. The difference? I didn’t drink like she did. I believe—deeply, fiercely—that it spared me. I caught it early. I had the strength and the clarity to fight.

But knowing that doesn't ease the ache. It sharpens it. I recognized the potential for change. I continue to observe how many others are deprived of that opportunity.

We used to laugh about it. Now, I know the cost.

In the ‘60s and ‘70s, drinking wasn’t a red flag—it was a ritual. Did you find it amusing when someone passed out while eating mashed potatoes? Hilarious. Is it appropriate to have a beer before your feet hit the floor? This is often seen as "just being a man."

And today? It hasn’t disappeared. The brand has undergone a transformation. Presently, the phrase "Mommy needs wine" is followed by "rosé all day" and "just a few beers to take the edge off." We wear alcohol like an accessory. We make it the punchline. We don’t name it for what it is.

But it’s killing people. Quietly. Consistently. The impact extends beyond opioids. This issue affects more than 140,000 Americans annually.

I’m a cancer survivor. I don’t get to pretend.

When I got diagnosed, I started reading. Really reading. Alcohol is linked to seven types of cancer, including breast, liver, and colon cancer. And yet, the conversation barely flickers to life.

We tell pregnant women to avoid alcohol for nine months. During the rest of adulthood, drink up. It’s how we cope. It’s how we bond. It’s how we escape ourselves.

This isn’t judgment. This is love speaking plainly.

I’m not here to condemn anyone who drinks. I'm here for those who grew up in the midst of this storm and struggled to articulate their feelings. I am present to assist the children who are still cautiously navigating the aftermath, savoring the remnants and believing that they are a part of the joy.

I’m here because we need new language. We need truth. We need compassion with a backbone.

We need to talk about what the issue really is—not just addiction, but legacy. It's not just about behavior, but also about the harm it causes. Silence is just as important as choice.

I still see my sister and me, lifting those glasses as if we were participating in the celebration, unaware that it would take decades to free ourselves from the wreckage.

It didn’t have a name back then. Now it does.

And we are obligated to ourselves—and to every young girl who is responsible for cleaning up the party after it has concluded—to begin referring to it as such.