My mother is an alcoholic. I have an eating disorder. She can't stop buying the booze, and I can't stop buying the food. I bet she acknowledges her vice, that it's hurting her, just like I do with mine. But when outsiders want to help, we're both in denial.
"I didn't have anything to drink," she slurs. You can smell the vodka on her breath.
"No, it doesn't smell like vomit in the bathroom," I say, breath stinking of bile and unwanted food.
We're one in the same; like mother, like daughter. The difference between us is that I know she has a problem and I want to help her, that I think she needs help, to see someone, go to AA. I'm fairly certain that she knows that I have a problem, but she chooses to turn a blind eye. She asks mild questions that I can lie my way out of, expresses her suspicious concerns, but not once has she sat me down and told me "I know what you're doing." And either I'm a damn good liar, or she's an awful mother. Either way, I'm thankful.
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