My child, my daughter, my 19-year-old treasure—she’s drinking! Our family has always been sober. I raised my daughter alone, living with my father (my mother passed away early). She grew up very frail. When she was in kindergarten, I was on sick leave every month. For a year, we were monitored at the oncology clinic, but thank God, everything turned out fine. I did everything I could to ensure my child grew up healthy, strong, and well-rounded. Every weekend, we had a cultural outing: to the park, the zoo, or out into nature…
I worked, and after school, she was always under my father’s supervision. My father passed away in 2016, right when she was in her final year of high school. I saved every bonus I earned to pay for her college entrance exam preparation: she went to a tutor twice a week and attended preparatory courses at two universities on Sundays. She did well on the exam in 2017, scoring 170 points, but she didn’t get into any school on a scholarship. Her eyes were so lost that I decided we’d go for a paid program. I took out another bank loan and started looking for a second job. I found one. I’d leave at seven in the morning and come back at nine at night, exhausted. Every day, I left her money for transportation and food. When I got home in the evenings, she was sometimes already asleep, and sometimes she’d open the door, swaying, and to my confusion, she’d say, “We had a little cocktail.”
The first warning came in the form of a letter from the university inviting me to a meeting. The deputy dean said they’d summoned the parents of students who were certain to fail the semester due to multiple absences, missed assignments, and lack of clearance for exams. I was so ashamed! I deny myself everything, work two jobs, and she’s not even attending classes. I came home and gave her a piece of my mind. In the end, she passed the semester with some makeup exams and forbade me from calling the university to check her results, saying, “Don’t embarrass me.”
The semester break passed, and I paid for the second semester. I’ll never forget February 8th: she called me in the evening, completely drunk, and said she wouldn’t be coming home to sleep.
I asked: — Is there anyone with you?
A sober young man spoke up and gave me the address. Thankfully, it was on the next street over. He helped her get home—she could barely stand and was aggressive, it was awful! The next day, she apologized. But after the break, the absences started again. The group leader called me constantly—my daughter was hardly showing up to classes. I did everything I could to keep her in school. She promised to try. But it didn’t last.
When she turned 18, it was like she broke free from all restraint. I’d come home in the evening, and the apartment reeked of smoke and alcohol. She’d be asleep, buried under her blanket. The first time she didn’t come home was on March 8th, and she didn’t even let me know where she was or who she was with. What a gift that was for me. I spent the whole night worried and in the dark. Later, she said she’d gone to a late-night movie with a boy and that if she’d told me, I wouldn’t have let her go. I’m at work all day, and she’s her own boss—clearly, she’s made friends with other truants and does whatever she wants. She was expelled in April 2018. For a couple of months, she quieted down and didn’t drink much, and I started to relax a little. In June, I got her a job at a food production company. She drank half the money I gave her for her medical clearance paperwork. She started the job, worked for two months, then quit. She got her final paycheck—and went right back to partying. I couldn’t understand what was going on. I begged her to tell me what had happened. Maybe someone had hurt her?
— Tell me, — I pleaded, — we’ll deal with it together. I’ll try to understand. I love you, and I’ll always forgive you.
But she’d turn to the window, cover her ears, and say: — Again? I’m not talking about this with you.
One day, I came home from work, and the door was bolted shut. She wouldn’t open it. I called the landline, her cell phone, pounded on the metal door, and even tapped on the window with a stick (we live on the first floor)—she didn’t let me in. I went to a neighbor’s with my bag and sat there for two hours. Finally, my daughter opened the door. Turns out, she’d gotten drunk before I got home and passed out.
What I went through that summer! She became very closed off: “Don’t say anything about my friends,” “You don’t know anything about me.” But I fought for her, telling her I wouldn’t let her keep drinking.
And once, she said: — At least you’re still fighting…
It felt like she appreciated it. In August 2018, my boss offered to get my daughter a job at our organization so I could keep an eye on her. She passed the interview and even liked it there, saying:
— Mom, I actually felt like a person here!
She needed to get a medical exam, and I gave her money for it. But then she called me in the afternoon, slurring her words:
— There’s a storm here, I’ll go to the clinic tomorrow.
I realized I’d be embarrassed for her at work, and I didn’t want to let my boss down—I’d been at that company for 28 years. So, I had to pass on the job offer. Later, she blamed me, saying I’d taken her job away. That was the first time I wanted to swallow a handful of pills and end it all.
Thank God for the people I talked to about this. They told me to be patient for two years—she’d grow out of it, get wiser, and it would pass. That gave me a lot of strength when I was ready to give up.
First, I turned to the church. It helped tremendously. I prayed and venerated the “Inexhaustible Chalice” icon when it was brought to our town. Second, I tried not to lose hope and took calming medication. I won’t go into every detail, but there was another university (it ended the same way) and a few more jobs I found for her, which she quit after the first paycheck.
When she pawned our family’s gold and silver and spent it all with her friends, I put a lock on my bedroom door—I was afraid she’d sign away the apartment in a drunken stupor, and we’d end up on the street.
That’s how 2019 went. My daughter doesn’t work or study. My father started working at 14 because he was an orphan. My mother grew up in a large rural family where everyone learned the value of hard work from childhood. I started working at 17. But she just rummages through the fridge. She stays up all night on the computer and sleeps all day. One day, I lost it and yelled at her about getting a job.
She calmly replied: — I’ll call the police right now, — and smiled.
On the other hand, I’m scared that if she works, she’ll drink her entire paycheck. So maybe it’s better she doesn’t work.
Of course, I see some small changes compared to 2018. She’s started cleaning her room and occasionally cooks. She doesn’t drink as recklessly as before, but now it’s weekly, and she stays overnight somewhere else so I won’t see. One day, something clicked in my chest, and I felt so sorry for her.
I hugged her and quietly said: — You don’t even realize what’s happening to you.
She softened in my arms. It was like love came back to us. We communicate differently now, finding some mutual understanding. But those overnight stays… When she comes back reeking of alcohol, with money in her pocket, I have my suspicions, but she says I think too poorly of her.
I’ve written so much, and it feels so pointless. But this is my pain.
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