Codependent No More
Junior AP English
Ms. Sasser
19 August 2013
Codependent No More
I don’t remember much of my childhood. It’s been said that when you experience trauma, your brain has a defense mechanism to help you forget it ever happened. This is both helpful and hurtful in terms of carrying on. I don’t remember much of my mother before her alcoholism began to control her. I wish I could remember what she was like; I’ve been told she was a wonderful mother, though it’s very hard for me to believe that now.
Growing up, I always wanted to help my father. I wanted to get tools for him and rattle off facts, even when we both knew they were wrong. My drive to help people never lessened as I grew up, though it did evolve. My dad would watch me be on the phone for hours on end, listening to people’s problems, rarely speaking myself. Dad would always say, “You’re wise beyond your years, Loobie,” and I would chuckle, believing him wholeheartedly. Being the daughter of an alcoholic, I had my own troubles, but I ignored them for I was under the impression that I was wise and wise meant you could handle anything thrown at you. I felt as if I was fine and just wanted to listen to other people’s troubles, distracting me from my own and always more manageable. My father let me be, because I was happy doing what I loved: helping people.
As my mother got worse, and my friends continued needing me like a newborn calf to its mother, I began to lose it. Whatever “it” was, I may never know. All I know is that I could no longer help people if I couldn’t help myself. The only thing I ever felt good at was helping people, but with my sanity on a tight-rope and my happiness sinking in quicksand, I found myself hopeless and unable to help those that needed me.
I began high school with a mother in rehab, and my sister, or what I referred to her as, my best friend, left for college. I was stuck in a house with my father, the only person I could ever trust. We were both confused about how to
Ms. Sasser
19 August 2013
Codependent No More
I don’t remember much of my childhood. It’s been said that when you experience trauma, your brain has a defense mechanism to help you forget it ever happened. This is both helpful and hurtful in terms of carrying on. I don’t remember much of my mother before her alcoholism began to control her. I wish I could remember what she was like; I’ve been told she was a wonderful mother, though it’s very hard for me to believe that now.
Growing up, I always wanted to help my father. I wanted to get tools for him and rattle off facts, even when we both knew they were wrong. My drive to help people never lessened as I grew up, though it did evolve. My dad would watch me be on the phone for hours on end, listening to people’s problems, rarely speaking myself. Dad would always say, “You’re wise beyond your years, Loobie,” and I would chuckle, believing him wholeheartedly. Being the daughter of an alcoholic, I had my own troubles, but I ignored them for I was under the impression that I was wise and wise meant you could handle anything thrown at you. I felt as if I was fine and just wanted to listen to other people’s troubles, distracting me from my own and always more manageable. My father let me be, because I was happy doing what I loved: helping people.
As my mother got worse, and my friends continued needing me like a newborn calf to its mother, I began to lose it. Whatever “it” was, I may never know. All I know is that I could no longer help people if I couldn’t help myself. The only thing I ever felt good at was helping people, but with my sanity on a tight-rope and my happiness sinking in quicksand, I found myself hopeless and unable to help those that needed me.
I began high school with a mother in rehab, and my sister, or what I referred to her as, my best friend, left for college. I was stuck in a house with my father, the only person I could ever trust. We were both confused about how to