Hypocrisy

Whatever you condemn, you have done yourself. ~Georg Groddeck, The Book of the It, 1950

I know I won't be sleeping tonight. No way. No how. Even were it not for the huge sense of responsibility on my shoulders, I wouldn't sleep anyway. The guilt, the deep, dark, all consuming sense of guilt, not to mention fear, wouldn't allow me to, instead gnawing away at me, at my conscience, at my very being.

My fifteen year old daughter is sprawled on her bed, her vest top riding up in a way that makes me feel physically sick, her jeans clinging to her baby girl curves in a way that does likewise. Her mascara has run, and there's vomit in her hair. The stench of alcohol is coming from her like she's been bathing it. In short, my little girl is drunk out of her mind.

Any other parent might be angry. And you know what, I was. In the beginning. When I answered the door to our apartment and found my daughter there, being propped up by the father of one of her friends, clearly completely off her face, I was furious. Incandescent.

Not that I let it show. My whole life has been about keeping up appearances, and so I thanked Mr Jones politely, and brought my daughter inside. Then? Then I let rip.

To begin with, she took it. Then after a while, she seemed to tire of my ranting, pushed past me, walking unsteadily into the living room and crashing down onto the sofa before being violently sick on the floor. I followed her into the room, ignoring the vomit and carrying on my tirade.

Again, she accepted to begin with, more focused on trying to stay upright than my words, but then, slowly, she looked at me, and it seemed like the points I was making were sinking in. And they were. Just not in the way I'd hoped.

She looked at me coldly. Like she hated me. Stared me right in the eyes.

"I was at a party. A party with people."

She let the slurred words hang in the air only momentarily before she slumped forward towards the coffee table to pick up a half empty scotch bottle I'd been working my way through earlier that evening. The look in her eyes told me what she was thinking, so I wasn't surprised when she unleashed it.

"How many people at your party mom?"

I could have got angrier still, but I chose not to. 3 months earlier I might have done, but I'd been seeing a counsellor, and we'd talked a lot about taking responsibility for my actions. Losing my temper with Olivia, even if she deserved it would really, truly only be a way of diverting attention from my own behaviour and in spite of how she was acting, it still wouldn't have been fair. Instead, I sat beside her, and tried to be honest with her.

"I was just having a drink Liv. It's Friday night."

She looked at me, struggling to focus, although suddenly her ability to speak and on target accuracy when it came to being completely vicious was right on target, "Every night's Friday night for you mom."

I couldn't argue with that. Yeah, I'd been in counselling lately, but I was a long way from being off the wagon. But then again, actually, that was the whole point. That was why I was so concerned. I tried to explain that, but Olivia, my drunken little headstrong princess was too out of it to listen.

"I'm not like you." She spat at me, "I didn't drink tonight to hide from who I am. Because I'm too pathetic to cope with my own life. I was partying mom. So get over it."

I can tell what you're thinking. You're wondering why a grown woman would take that kind of abuse from her daughter. You're wondering why I haven't long since put Olivia over my knee and given her a complete hiding.

The answer is simple. Simple and straightforward. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it is. The truth is, that just as she spat all the bile and hatred inside her at me tonight, so I've done the same to her in the 15 years that have led us to this point. And like with her this evening, I only have myself and the demon drink to blame for all of it. For the nights I've abused her verbally, neglected her emotionally and generally been a lousy mother.

So tonight. It was just payback.

That didn't stop it hurting though. Or scaring me. It was frightening on so many levels. I hated that she could be so cold, so unfeeling, that my little darling had become such an angry young woman, not least because she reminded me so much of myself. Bitter. Furious at the world. That was the last thing I wanted for the little girl whose hair I used to braid and who I used to tuck up into bed with a stuffed bear. Not all the time, I can't claim that, but I did do it, sometimes.

Then, there were all the things that I knew could happen to her in that state. She was dressed like a tart, and in the condition she was in, anyone could have taken advantage of her. And that was far and away the last thing I would ever have wanted for her. I'd been there. Done that. Knew how bad it was.

Finally, there was the simple truth that she was the daughter of a drunk, and science says that kids with those genes just can't do it, can't risk it. Any drinking at all was quite frankly tempting fate, but being so drunk so young. It was just asking for trouble.

But even as I tried to talk to her, gently, calmly, tried to explain to her why I objected to her behaviour, she wasn't having any of it; drunkenly tossing her hair in a way that only a teenager can and eyeing me like I was a particularly unpleasant looking bug that she'd quite like to squash.

"You," she said, getting to her feet, swaying as she did so, "can lecture me, when you can look at me like you love me without pouring a drink; when you hug me or hold me without drinking half a bottle of vodka first; when you start acting like a proper mom." Her words hit me where it hurt, but even the verbal onslaught wasn't as bad as the sad look in her eyes that I knew that I'd put there with my own behaviour, my own actions.

So that's why, tonight, I'll sit with my little girl. I'll wipe the sweat from her forehead, and make sure that she doesn't choke on her own vomit. And tomorrow, when she's in the grips of her first ever hangover, I'll do everything I can to help her.

How could I not? Because, at the end of the day, she's a product of the upbringing I've given her. Because, at the end of the day, this is all my fault. And if I don't take care of her, what kind of hypocrite would that make me?