Enabler: one that enables another to achieve an end; especially: one who enables another to persist in self-destructive behavior (as substance abuse) by providing excuses or by making it possible to avoid the consequences of such behavior.
Thank you Webbster, for making such a term so easy to comprehend.
There it is, in black and white, that which I hate most about myself. My inability to utter a simple, “no” no matter the circumstance.
At 20 years old, I am an enabler. Where would one as young as myself learn such behavior?
By being raised by an alcoholic, of course.
There’s even an acronym for people from my… situation. COA; Children of Alcoholics.
We have our very own organizations and meetings… almost like it’s us that have a disease.
Maybe we do.
We learn from a young age that it is common to watch mommy drink so much that suddenly she’s sleeping, bottle of amber liquid nearly empty by the bed. It is normal. How could it not be? It has happened all our lives.
Nobody in polite society talks about this though.
Oh, that is so sad about that Martha’s mother, did you hear? She’s stuck on the bottle.
Hushed whispers, best that Martha not hear it, of course.
It’s not like we don’t know.
We notice at some point, that suddenly our childhood friends aren’t allowed to visit our homes anymore. Eventually it sinks in that somehow, our home is different from the others.
It makes us bitter.
As we get older, we start to hear the whispers.
That husband of hers should do something, he really should.
Of course! It’s his fault, always his fault. Couldn’t be her fault, no, no, no, his fault. He didn’t tell her no. He didn’t rip it from her fingers. He didn’t STOP IT.
But then he did tell her no, ripped the bottle from her fingers, and for a moment, he stopped it.
Ahhh, but she left him for that, didn’t she?
It’s not her fault though, she’s sick. That’s the word they tell you. Diseased, sick, it's just not her fault…
The whispers continue.
I worry for that girl, she’ll turn out just like her mother. It’s in the genes, you know. In the blood.
And we start to believe it.
We look at ourselves and see them instead. All becomes inevitable, for who can escape such a future. Who can escape their own blood? The whispers turn to screams, and the bottle turns to us.
And as if our own future has been ripped from us because of their choices, we perpetuate the cycle. And we tell ourselves it’s not our fault; it’s a disease.
It’s in the blood.
And if we’re lucky, we’ll someday create our own little COA’s, and the cycle will live on.
Until one comes along and breaks it, laughs at the whispers, and creates their own future.
The lucky ones make it out, and earn a new title; ACOA.
Adult Children of Alcoholics.
The 'adult' part is questionable.
We, who fear abandonment so severely we can't even utter a meager little "no." Because they'll leave you if you contradict them, didn't you know?"
We, who lived in dysfunction for so long that suddenly dysfunction is normal, and normalcy feels awkward and unnerving.
We, who can barely enter into the world without throwing up guards to shield us from the whispers that have haunted us throughout our lives. But no one is saying a word.
Me, with strong convictions I don't know how to stand up for. Who can have a voice when you're raised to be silent?
Me, who whispers in hushed tones. "Did you hear about my mother? She's stuck on the bottle."
Me, the ACOA, the enabler, the f-r-a-u-d.
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