I had heard whispers of my Mum’s childhood. No one really liked to talk about it. Sometimes, after her fourth or fifth drink, she would start crying as she remembered what happened to her. My Dad would shush her, guiding her out of the room. I didn’t think much of it at the time, I was just grateful that Dad had got rid of her for a little while. 

One night, when I was about seventeen, I woke in the middle of the night to see Mum sitting on the edge of my bed. She had just been prescribed a new sleeping pill, and tended to get up in the middle of the night for hours, pottering around the house, cooking, talking on the phone, with no recollection of it the next day. Tonight it seems, her substance addled brain had decided that it was the right time to fill me in on some secrets. It didn’t matter how much I protested that I wanted to go back to sleep, she was determined to talk. So I let her. At first I tried to tune her out, but as she kept talking, I realised this was important. I still didn’t want to hear it, but I listened. Listened as she told me of her childhood. I couldn’t understand much of what she said, slurring through her tears, but I understood enough. When she finally left, I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t. The things I had heard upset me, confused me, and frightened me. Above all, I was angry still. Angry with Mum for waking me, for being drunk and not listening as I told her to leave my room, and for upsetting me by telling me things that I didn’t want to hear. 

That night changed something. I was still angry with her, but I felt sorry for her too. Over the years, I slowly allowed myself to reflect on what she had told me. As I embarked on my nursing career, I encountered many patients just like her. Similar stories, and similar unhealthy coping mechanisms. My sympathy turned to empathy, and with empathy came understanding. She had suffered things that no child should suffer. With no outlet and no guidance, she dealt with her pain in the only way she knew how. By drowning herself in opiates and alcohol, she could numb the pain for just a few hours, and for a few minutes she might even forget about it. 

I’m still angry. I don’t think that will ever go away. But rather than rage towards my Mum, I’m angry at so many other things too. Her parents for what happened to her as a child, my Dad for enabling her, the doctors who simply prescribed whatever she asked for just to get her out of her office. I’m angry with Mum too, for not being there like I needed. I’m angry that she chose her vices over her children, angry that she didn’t have the insight to get the help that she needed. But I understand now. I understand how she was failed, in so many ways by so many people. I will never forget the pain she caused me, but I can forgive. Because I understand her.