by Jeanne Marie

Created on: February 12, 2009

SOMETIMES AT NIGHT

Sometimes as I drift off to sleep, my mind wanders back in time and I'm a little child again. The last conscious thought I discern is my own voice calling, "Mom? Mom?" She doesn't answer now, just as she didn't answer back then.

In reality, I'm fifty-five years old, but as I fall asleep I lose track of time and I feel eight or nine. Terrified. Alone. A jolt of fear runs through my veins and I struggle to pull back from the drifting darkness of sleep where I'm trapped, helpless and afraid.

Losing the battle, I fall off the edge of awareness, tumbling through sleep's doorway. The faces I observe are familiar, but I fight the memories. I can't bear to see what my subconscious wants to show me and the little girl inside of me is so afraid. I run from the illusion, crying, sobbing my heart out.

It seems to last forever, but as I open my eyes, I see the fluorescent numbers on my alarm clock. It's been less than an hour since I fell asleep. I sit up in my bed, shaking, still afraid. My husband lies sleeping beside me, but I don't wake him. Many nights, I have screamed until my own commotion has awakened me and he has slept on, unaware. I don't know how. I'd awaken him if he could comfort me, but he can't.

Going out to the living room, wrapped in his bathrobe, I get my Marlboros, and make a pot of coffee. Then, I sit in the dark, my eyes squeezed shut, trying to stop the tears from leaking down my face. The aching for my mother is so strong that I actually pick up the phone to call her. Hesitating, I don't dial the number. Holding the receiver in my hand, reality comes back and I hang up the phone.

My mother can't bear my pain because she carries enough of her own. I don't hold it against her; but, I'm so alone. All I want is for my mother to help me to feel safe. I'm vulnerable as a small child and that child doesn't feel safe. My mother's hugs and reassurances didn't make the fear stop when I was a little girl, maybe that's why I long for her to console me now. "Okay Mom, let's agree to do it over and we'll make it come out right this time!"

I'll call her tomorrow and barely touch upon my fears, my need last night to hear her voice. I'll hear the discomfort behind her words and I'll change the subject. I don't want to hurt her and she still can't save me. The answer beats in my own heart and on a conscious level, I know that. I've been blessed with that knowledge in my own recovery from alcoholism, which also helps me to understand my father's alcoholic

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