Sometimes I’m surprised I’m still alive. I’m sure I was a passenger in my mother’s car many times while she was drunk. Crazy, right? But it’s the truth.
My first “drink” came when I was 12 years old. It was a hot August day, I was playing baseball in Niagara Falls, and I had been pounding Gatorade all day. My mom had a bottle too… the only difference was she spiked hers with gin. I grabbed what I thought was mine, took a swig, and instantly knew something was off. That was my first sip of alcohol, completely by accident.
And then we drove home from Niagara Falls. At 12 years old, I didn’t even process how wrong that was. She was my mom… it was her job to keep me safe. Now that I have kids who are 13 and 11, I can’t even imagine putting them in danger like that.
There were other moments burned into me too. Like the time someone actually followed her home, pulled into our driveway, and told her they were worried about her driving. Imagine that. A total stranger worried enough to say it out loud. I remember standing there, embarrassed, confused, wishing it wasn’t happening but knowing it was.
My mom was an alcoholic, and my dad only made it worse. Instead of getting her help, he mocked her. His solution was to mark the liquor bottles with a pencil line, stick them in a cupboard, and then do his little “taste tests.” Not locked up, not hidden… right there where she could reach them. So of course she did. She’d drink, fill it back up with water, and then they’d fight. Same cycle, over and over again. And he’d act like that was “control.” It wasn’t. It destroyed her.
The truth is, my dad wasn’t just refusing her help. He was fueling the fire. He made her feel weak, ashamed, worthless. She wasn’t only fighting alcohol, she was fighting him. And I was right there in the middle of it all.
I think about Marco Muzzo and the three kids he killed, and I think about how close I could have come to being one of those stories. My mom was in pain. She drank to numb everything my dad did to her. But she still got behind the wheel. And every single time, it could have been the end for me.
I hear that commercial all the time: “85% of Canadians wouldn’t get in a car with someone who’s been drinking.” And every time I wonder what about the other 15%? Are they absolute morons? Do they not get it? One ride could be the last ride.
I used to joke that I had so many friends because I was always the designated driver. It was true. People counted on me. And honestly, I liked that role. After what I lived through, it felt good to know I was the one keeping people safe.
And for the record, I’ve only been drunk twice in my life. The first time, I was 16 at a house party. Typical teenage move. I thought maybe I was missing out. I wasn’t. It just made me feel out of control, and I hated it.
The second time was at my best friend’s wedding. I was the best man, nervous about my speech, so I took a shot of vodka. One turned into two, and by the end of the night it was probably eight. Most of them after the speech, when I was too far gone to care. Everyone thought it was funny, but I hated it. I hated that I let myself become the very thing I swore I wouldn’t. And all it did was confirm what I already knew: alcohol isn’t for me.
So yeah, this is why I don’t drink. It’s not just a choice, it’s a scar. I know what alcohol can do. I’ve lived it. I’ve seen it tear apart a person, a marriage, and a kid who just wanted to feel safe. Choosing not to drink is how I break the cycle. It’s how I make sure my kids never feel the way I felt.
Next time on Tattooed Truths:
“The Constant Clock: Living Life Around His Work Schedule.”
A story about how every meal, every outing, and every moment in our house revolved around one man’s moods… and how that kind of control shapes a child forever.