A Family Disease

When alcoholism entered my family, it wasn't limited to one person; it radiated outward, impacting every relationship. For years, I narrowly viewed alcoholism as solely the drinker’s problem, assuming my reactions to the chaos were simply normal responses to an abnormal situation. This perspective prevented me from realizing over and over again that I, too, was experiencing an illness—an illness that left me feeling constantly anxious and utterly depleted.

My well-intentioned attempts to manage the drinking morphed into their own destructive patterns. My constant need to control situations, my obsessive focus on others’ behaviors, and my deep distrust of my own judgment were not merely temporary reactions. They were symptoms of a profound family illness, showing up in me as powerfully as if I had been drinking myself, leaving me feeling powerless and deeply wounded, though my suffering took a different form.

This realization—that I was just as affected, just as ill, just as much in need of healing—was both agonizing and liberating. It forced me to relinquish the familiar role of the "healthy one" or the "savior" and instead compelled me to face my own illness, which brought with it a wave of grief for the years I had lost. With that acceptance came the profound understanding that my recovery wasn’t secondary; it was essential, primary, and utterly mine to pursue.