My Alcoholic Adoptive Mother
It makes me cringe when my adoptive mother is buzzed and wakes me up in the middle of the night to tell me in her childlike drunken voice claiming that "she loves me" although I had better not make any noise in the morning while she sleeps off one of her monumental hangovers. Then the fear will swell as she starts screaming from her bed my name coupled with profanities. When she has had all she can stand she will kick open the master bedroom doors and start hitting us kids or grab the hot wheel track and slap us with it.
When my adoptive mother is not feeling buzzed she is a cold dominating monarch,the personality that I fear most as she is intolerant of her pet adopted child that must be responsible for any household disorder.
Her two biological sons can do no wrong in any challenge but the adopted child was an afterthought, and a burden that friends annoy her about and anger her to the point she will chastise them about it being none of their business how she treats her adopted child. As an adult I have questioned these scattered and long gone temporary presences in my families life. The same answers come as they speak of the adopted child, now adult asking them real and direct questions about a time long ago in my childhood.
My aunt who lived across from my elementary school, she would watch me from her kitchen window as I am sitting, waiting by myself in the dark for my mother to come, pick me up from school. The aunt had asked my mother if I could come to her home after school, and the adoptive mother said to mind her own business, it was none of her concern, at which time the adoptive mother ended all friendly communication with that aunt.
The reason the adoptive mother never picked up the adopted child after school was because she was "chasing her husband to the bars" as her employee Sharon later told me. She was suspicious that he was going to be unfaithful while he was drinking and she had to always be there drinking with him to insure he did not have an affair. Most times when the adoptive mother picked me up in the dark at school, we would drive right back to the bar and be there all night.
You see the bars, cocktail lounges and fancy restaurants with bars are where I grew up.
I slept in every bar and restaurant in the 1970's north county area. Sleeping in the booths while the nightly party raged on from the drunks and my adoptive parents that did not want to go home early, because they would just fight. The longer they stayed at the bar drinking, the drunker they got, the less chance they could be logical enough to fight with one another. Yet my logic is not so solid because the fights always seemed so monumental to me. My first drunk I was three years old, the family thought it was adorable. The three year old being drunk was not a shameful event, the fact that I was their adopted child was the shameful fact.