The Ballad of Dumb Drunk Judy...
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Join Date: Oct 2014
Location: South Carolina
Posts: 1
The Ballad of Dumb Drunk Judy...
...Started years ago and grew longer: More verses, but the chorus never changed.
"So, you kids have a nickname for me." There, it's out.
"Oh?" She's a good kid. She's never mean, she's obedient. She's my rock.
"Yeah, I'm not deaf. I can hear. Even if you don't think I'm listening, I hear what they're saying. And I don't like it. Dumb Drunk Judy. I'm tired of it."
She looks at me, her gaze level. This is new, ever since she graduated from college. "Did you ever think that maybe we're tired of Dumb Drunk Judy?"
I'm taken aback. She doesn't do this, my daughter. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I'm tired of carrying you out to the car, like last week. An entire party watched you drink vodka out of a beer stein. You made a fool of yourself, lost your keys, Thank God, and Grace and I literally carried you out to the car. We undressed you. You pissed yourself. We're sick of it. Tied of it. You're my mother. Grow up."
I was speechless. This was a turn of events. They'd never really turned on me like this. Ever since they'd gone off to college, becomes teetotalling vegans, they'd been different. Disrespectful. "So I got a little tipsy. Just cause I'm your mother I can't have a little fun? And calling your mother Dumb Drunk Judy, that'd over the top. I'm surprised at you."
She looked straight at me, didn't flinch. Kids grow up. "Look, I had nothing to do with that. I've never referred to you that way. Clay and Wes came up with it." Her cousins. Children I consider as close as my own.
"But you laughed when they say it. I heard you. Last night."
"Sorry. I guess I thought you were passed out. That's usually a safe bet."
"I was dozing. It was late."
"Look, you were lying down because you were hammered. Again."
"Whatever, still, I want you to stop calling me Dumb Drunk Judy."
"I want you to stop being Dumb Drunk Judy."
"I'm not dumb."
"That's true, but you are drunk."
"We're on vacation."
"Mom, you've been drunk since I can remember. You've gotten worse since dad died. He raised us. We raised you after he died. When was the last time you made dinner? You didn't cook a damn thing when I was in high school. We defrosted out own dinners every night. The microwave did more mothering that you did." This last part hurt, because it was true.
"So, I'm not such a good cook."
"That's not true. I remember cooking dinner with you every night when I was little. You cooked all the time, I can picture it now. You always wore a yellow apron, and had a glass of wine in your hand. Eventually that dwindled to just a glass of wine."
Suddenly I deflated. Her vision: me in the kitchen, my daughter's eager face - was she in first grade? - swam before me. Just a moment ago I'd been angry, furious, determined to win a fight, have it out over this horrid nickname, but the terrain had shifted - how had that happened? She'd always been the good child. I wanted a glass of wine. I needed a glass of wine.
"I don't know how to put it any other way. I'm through covering for you. All of us are. Besides, I have to think about what's best for me, my family." She looked at me, her face drawn, sad. "I'm pregnant."
This took me by surprise. "You're a child!"
"I'm 24. I have a job and a husband. Soon I'll have a child. And you have a lot to think about. I don't trust you when you're drinking, and...I don't need to spell everything out for you. You're not dumb."
I've been humming a different tune for a week now. I'd like to say it's sweetness and light, but it's not. It's a dirge, and it's all I can do you make it through the day. I can't sleep, I can't eat, and I can't drink. I spend every minute of every day waiting for 5 o'clock, and then realize it will never be 5 o'clock for me again.
I go walking. Nothing else helps. My feet hurt, I've lost at least 10 pounds, and it's been raining, but I go walking.
"So, you kids have a nickname for me." There, it's out.
"Oh?" She's a good kid. She's never mean, she's obedient. She's my rock.
"Yeah, I'm not deaf. I can hear. Even if you don't think I'm listening, I hear what they're saying. And I don't like it. Dumb Drunk Judy. I'm tired of it."
She looks at me, her gaze level. This is new, ever since she graduated from college. "Did you ever think that maybe we're tired of Dumb Drunk Judy?"
I'm taken aback. She doesn't do this, my daughter. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I'm tired of carrying you out to the car, like last week. An entire party watched you drink vodka out of a beer stein. You made a fool of yourself, lost your keys, Thank God, and Grace and I literally carried you out to the car. We undressed you. You pissed yourself. We're sick of it. Tied of it. You're my mother. Grow up."
I was speechless. This was a turn of events. They'd never really turned on me like this. Ever since they'd gone off to college, becomes teetotalling vegans, they'd been different. Disrespectful. "So I got a little tipsy. Just cause I'm your mother I can't have a little fun? And calling your mother Dumb Drunk Judy, that'd over the top. I'm surprised at you."
She looked straight at me, didn't flinch. Kids grow up. "Look, I had nothing to do with that. I've never referred to you that way. Clay and Wes came up with it." Her cousins. Children I consider as close as my own.
"But you laughed when they say it. I heard you. Last night."
"Sorry. I guess I thought you were passed out. That's usually a safe bet."
"I was dozing. It was late."
"Look, you were lying down because you were hammered. Again."
"Whatever, still, I want you to stop calling me Dumb Drunk Judy."
"I want you to stop being Dumb Drunk Judy."
"I'm not dumb."
"That's true, but you are drunk."
"We're on vacation."
"Mom, you've been drunk since I can remember. You've gotten worse since dad died. He raised us. We raised you after he died. When was the last time you made dinner? You didn't cook a damn thing when I was in high school. We defrosted out own dinners every night. The microwave did more mothering that you did." This last part hurt, because it was true.
"So, I'm not such a good cook."
"That's not true. I remember cooking dinner with you every night when I was little. You cooked all the time, I can picture it now. You always wore a yellow apron, and had a glass of wine in your hand. Eventually that dwindled to just a glass of wine."
Suddenly I deflated. Her vision: me in the kitchen, my daughter's eager face - was she in first grade? - swam before me. Just a moment ago I'd been angry, furious, determined to win a fight, have it out over this horrid nickname, but the terrain had shifted - how had that happened? She'd always been the good child. I wanted a glass of wine. I needed a glass of wine.
"I don't know how to put it any other way. I'm through covering for you. All of us are. Besides, I have to think about what's best for me, my family." She looked at me, her face drawn, sad. "I'm pregnant."
This took me by surprise. "You're a child!"
"I'm 24. I have a job and a husband. Soon I'll have a child. And you have a lot to think about. I don't trust you when you're drinking, and...I don't need to spell everything out for you. You're not dumb."
I've been humming a different tune for a week now. I'd like to say it's sweetness and light, but it's not. It's a dirge, and it's all I can do you make it through the day. I can't sleep, I can't eat, and I can't drink. I spend every minute of every day waiting for 5 o'clock, and then realize it will never be 5 o'clock for me again.
I go walking. Nothing else helps. My feet hurt, I've lost at least 10 pounds, and it's been raining, but I go walking.
Trudgin
Join Date: Jul 2014
Posts: 6,348
Truly amazing post!! You appear from the outside to be highly intelligent and quite the wordsmith. You have so much to offer yourself and family.
Rarely do I read such an insightful, articulate - heartfelt post. You are incredible.
Judy - I am sorry about the loss of your husband. Maybe this was your point of no return to any hope of normal drinking. No idea.
Get sober - for your upcoming grandchild - for your kids - for YOU!
I can see this vision of you making thanksgiving dinner with your family - wow.
I had to grow up, get face to face support and change my behavior. It was time and at around 5 months it is with no question the best decision of my life.
Kids are 31 - 27 - 18
Now the reflection of my dispair in their eyes has turned to hope and grace.
You can do this JOLLY JUDY!!!
Come join us - we have a spot saved just for you. Drop the rock of alcohol.
Peace and post !!
Fly
Rarely do I read such an insightful, articulate - heartfelt post. You are incredible.
Judy - I am sorry about the loss of your husband. Maybe this was your point of no return to any hope of normal drinking. No idea.
Get sober - for your upcoming grandchild - for your kids - for YOU!
I can see this vision of you making thanksgiving dinner with your family - wow.
I had to grow up, get face to face support and change my behavior. It was time and at around 5 months it is with no question the best decision of my life.
Kids are 31 - 27 - 18
Now the reflection of my dispair in their eyes has turned to hope and grace.
You can do this JOLLY JUDY!!!
Come join us - we have a spot saved just for you. Drop the rock of alcohol.
Peace and post !!
Fly
instant
Join Date: May 2011
Location: Australia
Posts: 5,711
I remember finding out about what my daughter said to her friends on MSN about me- I knew she had a right to say it and she wasn't fabricating a story- still took me another four years to get sober. Thankfully I did- it is possible
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