About six years ago, I took my father into business with me, hoping it would straighten him out. I think the pressure of the job just made him worse. He's been an alcoholic for as long as I can remember. He drinks, he insults customers, and he costs me a lot of business. I've got to get him out of there, but I'm terrified. How the hell do you fire your own father? It would destroy him. Whenever I try to talk to him about it, all he says is: "You talk to me with respect or you don't talk to me at all." I'm going nuts.

Midway through our first session, Glenn started talking about another source of stress at work:

Glenn, a tall, rugged-looking man who owns a small manufacturing company, came to me for help primarily because his timidity and lack of assertiveness were affecting both his personal and professional relationships. He said he felt nervous and restless a great deal of the time. He had overheard someone at work call him "whiny" and "depressing." He sensed that people were uneasy when they met him, which made it difficult for him to turn acquaintances into friends.

Glenn's excessive sense of responsibility, his need to rescue his father, his personal insecurities, and his repressed anger were classic symptoms of adult children of alcoholics.

The emotional and psychological climate in alcoholic families is much the same as in families where parents abuse drugs, whether illegal or prescription. Though the cases I've chosen in this chapter focus on alcoholic parents, the painful experiences of children of drug abusers are quite similar.

If Richard Nixon's White House staff had taken cover-up lessons from anyone in an alcoholic's family, "Watergate" would still be just a Washington hotel. Denial takes on gargantuan proportions for everyone living in an alcoholic household. Alcoholism is like a dinosaur in the living room. To an outsider the dinosaur is impossible to ignore, but for those within the home, the hopelessness of evicting the beast forces them to pretend it isn't there. That's the only way they can coexist. Lies, excuses, and secrets are as common as air in these homes, creating tremendous emotional chaos for children.

The Dinosaur in the Living Room

Glenn learned early on that his father's drinking was a Big Secret. Though his mother told him not to tell people about "Daddy's problem," his shame alone would have been enough to keep his mouth shut. The family put on an "everything is fine" face to the outside world. They were united by their need to deal with their common enemy. The secret became the glue that kept the tortured family intact.

Glenn's experience was characteristic:

My earliest memory is of my father coming home from work and heading straight for the liquor cabinet. It was his nightly ritual. After downing a few, he'd come to dinner with a glass in his hand, and the damned thing was never empty. After dinner, he'd get down to some serious drinking. We all had to be very quiet so we wouldn't disturb him. I mean, for Christ's sake, you'd think that he was doing something really important, but the son of a bitch was just getting juiced. On lots of nights, I remember my sister, my mother, and I had to drag him to bed. My job was to take off his shoes and socks. The damnedest thing was that no one in the family ever mentioned what we were doing. I mean, we did it night after night. Until I got a little older, I honestly thought that dragging Dad to bed was a normal family activity. Something every family did.

The alcoholic's denial of his or her alcoholism in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary and in the face of behavior that is both terrifying and humiliating to other family members.

The denial of the problem by the alcoholic's partner and frequently by other members of the family. They commonly excuse the drinker with excuses such as, "Mom just drinks to relax,"

The Big Secret has three elements:

The charade of the "normal family," a facade that the family presents to one another and to the world.

"Dad tripped on the carpet," or, "Dad lost his job because he had a mean boss."

"The charade of the normal family" is especially damaging to a child because it forces him to deny the validity of his own feelings and perceptions. It is almost impossible for a child to develop a strong sense of self-confidence if he must constantly lie about what he is thinking and feeling. His guilt makes him wonder whether people believe him. When he grows older, this sense that people doubt him can continue, causing him to shy away from revealing anything of himself or venturing an opinion. Like Glenn, many adult children of alcoholics become painfully shy.

The Little Boy Who Wasn't There

This loneliness drags him deeper into the family morass. He develops an enormous and distorted sense of loyalty to the only people who share his secret: his family co-conspirators. Intense, uncritical loyalty to his parents becomes second nature. When he grows to adulthood, his blind loyalty remains a destructive, controlling element in his life. This is what prevented Glenn from asking his father to leave the company, despite the fact that his business was suffering because of it.

Because so much energy is expended on futile attempts to rescue the drinker and maintain the cover-up, there is little time or attention left for the basic needs of the alcoholic's children. Like children of deficient and inadequate parents, children of alcoholics often feel invisible. This becomes an especially painful catch-22 because the more troubled the home, the more the children need emotional support.

It takes a tremendous amount of energy to keep the charade going. The child must always be on guard. He lives in constant fear that he may accidentally expose and betray the family. To avoid that, he often avoids making friends and thereby becomes isolated and lonely.

My father never did any of the things that my friends' fathers did with them. We never tossed a football around or even watched games together. He would always say, "I don't have time -- maybe later," but he always had time to sit around and get drunk. My mother would say, "Don't bother me all the time with your problems. Why don't you just go off with your friends." But I didn't have any friends. I was afraid to bring anybody home. My folks just ignored me and didn't seem to care what kind of trouble I got into just as long as they didn't have to deal with it.

As Glenn and I explored the connection between his current difficulties and the emotional seesaw of his childhood, he remembered:

I said to Glenn, "So you were okay as long as you weren't seen or heard. How did it feel being invisible?" Glenn's expression became pained as he remembered:

It was awful. I felt like an orphan most of the time. I would do anything to get their attention. Once, when I was around eleven, I was over at a friend's house, and his dad had left his wallet out on a table in the hallway. So I took five dollars, hoping I'd get caught. I didn't care if my parents gave me hell, as long as they'd know I was there.

My dad put me down whenever I spoke up. If I dared raise my voice to him, he'd slug me. It didn't take me long to learn not to cross him. If I stood up to my mom, she'd start bawling like a baby, then he'd get mad and belt somebody, and I'd feel twice as bad for the trouble I'd caused. So I learned to stay away out of the house as much as I could. I got an after-school job when I was twelve, and I would lie about what time I got off so I could come home as late as possible every night. Then I'd leave for school an hour early in the morning, just so I could get out before he woke up. I can still feel that loneliness, sitting by myself in the schoolyard every morning, waiting for somebody to show up. The funny thing is, I don't think my parents even noticed I was never around.

Glenn got the message early in life that his existence was more an aggravation than a blessing to his parents. His emotional invisibility was reinforced by the fact that it was his safest haven from his father's frequent violence. He recalled:

I guess so. I can't ever say anything that offends anybody, no matter how much I want to. I swallow so many words, I think I'm going to throw up sometimes. I just can't stand up to people. Even people I couldn't care less about. If I think what I want to say is going to hurt somebody's feelings, I just can't say it. Period.

I asked Glenn if he thought the same fears that had kept him from asserting himself as a child were now controlling him as an adult. Glenn admitted sadly:

As with many adult children of alcoholics, Glenn felt responsible for everyone else's feelings, just as he took responsibility for his father's and mother's feelings when he was young. He went to heroic lengths to avoid confrontations with his parents because he didn't want to be responsible for causing anyone (including himself) pain. He could not express his emotions as a child should be able to. He had to suppress them, and he continued that pattern in his adult life. When Glenn helped put his father to bed, when he took responsibility for keeping his father from getting upset, he was acting as a parent, not a child. When a child is forced to adopt the role of parent, he loses his role models, threatening his developing identity. This destructive role reversal is common in alcoholic families.

"I NEVER GOT TO BE A KID"

As we have seen, and will continue to see, role reversal occurs in almost all families where there are toxic parents. In the alcoholic family, the drinking parent actively usurps the child's role through his pathetic, needy, irrational behavior. He's such a handful of a child himself that he leaves no room for any other children in the family.

I remember how my mother would come running to me when Dad got out of control and she'd cry about how unhappy she was. She'd say, "What am I going to do? You kids need a father, and I can't go out to work." It upsets me, just talking about it. I used to dream about taking her away to an island where my father couldn't find us. I'd promise her that as soon as I could I'd take care of her. And that's what I'm doing now. I give her money all the time, even though I can't afford it. And I'm taking care of Dad, even though it's killing my business. Why can't I find somebody to take care of me for a change?

Glenn grew up believing that his role in the world was to take care of others and not to expect anything for himself.

Glenn is still burdened with guilt over his inability both as a child and as an adult to fix his parents' lives. Despite his dream of finding a woman to take care of him, the woman he finally settled down with was needy and helpless. Glenn sensed that she wasn't right for him when he married her, but his need to play out the rescue fantasies of his childhood overwhelmed his better judgment.

The Myth of Fixing the Past

It didn't take long for Glenn to learn that he had married a secret drinker. If he had known before he married her, he probably would have married her anyway. He would simply have convinced himself that he could change her. Adult children of alcoholics frequently marry alcoholics. Many people find it bewildering that someone who grew up in the chaos of an alcoholic family would choose to relive the trauma. But the drive to repeat familiar patterns of feelings is common to all people, no matter how painful or self-defeating those feelings may be. The familiar provides a sense of comfort and structure for our lives. We know what the rules are, and we know what to expect.

"THIS TIME I'LL GET IT RIGHT"

When I met Denise, I didn't even know she drank. When I found out, she gave up trying to hide it. I'd see her drunk three, four times a week. I begged her to stop. I took her to doctors. I pleaded with her to go to AA. I locked up all the liquor, but you know how drunks are… she'd always find a way. The only time she'd stop is when I'd threaten to leave. But after a while she'd fall off the wagon, and we'd be back to square one.

More important, we reenact past conflicts because this time we hope to make it come out right -- we're going to win the battle. This reenactment of old, painful experiences is called a "repetition compulsion."

I can't emphasize strongly enough how much this particular compulsion dominates our lives. Almost all self-defeating behaviors, particularly those involved in establishing and maintaining intimate relationships, begin to make a lot more sense when seen in the light of repetition compulsion. Glenn provides a perfect example:

Since denial and cover-up seemed normal during his growing-up years, Glenn moved easily into an adult relationship where the same elements recurred. Only this time he thought he might succeed at rescuing his wife where he had failed, as a child, to rescue his parents. Glenn, like almost all adult children of alcoholics, had made a fervent promise to himself: he would never have another alcoholic in his life. But a deeply ingrained repetition compulsion is a lot stronger than any conscious promise can ever be.

Jody, a petite, black-haired, wide-eyed 26-year-old, came into one of my therapy groups at the suggestion of her supervisor at the private substance-abuse hospital where she worked as a rehabilitation counselor. As with many counselors on the program, Jody was herself a recovering alcoholic and drug abuser. I first met her at a small staff party celebrating her second year of sobriety.

"WHY DO I KEEP GOING BACK FOR MORE?"

Jody had recently ended a relationship with a violent, abusive man. Her supervisor was concerned that she might be tempted to return to that relationship and suggested that she see me.

In our first private session together, Jody was tough and belligerent and not at all convinced that she needed help. I wondered about the pain behind this facade. The first words she said were, "They told me I better get my ass into therapy or else I'll get canned. Why don't you give me a break and tell them I'm doing great and don't need to come back."

Another promise that often dissolves because of the power of the past is the promise never to repeat the violence and abuse that are often an integral part of the alcoholic household.

"I can see that you're really thrilled to be here," I replied. We both laughed, which helped ease the tension. I told her I knew she wasn't seeing me by choice, but since she was here anyway, she might as well try to get something out of it. She agreed to give one of my groups a try.

I began by telling her how concerned her colleagues were that she might go back to her abusive boyfriend. Jody admitted that they had reason to be concerned:

I really miss that turkey. He's basically a terrific guy. It's just that sometimes I open my big mouth and it pisses him off. I know he loves me, and I keep hoping we'll be able to work it out.

I guess it was like that with my old man. He was a grade-A, fourteen-carat drunk who used to beat the shit out of us. He'd come home drunk maybe five out of seven nights a week. And he'd find any excuse to beat us. He'd beat my brother until he bled. My mom couldn't do anything to stop him. She was too scared to even try. I would fuckin' plead with him to stop, but he was like a crazy man. I don't want to give you the idea that he was some kind of monster, because when he wasn't drinking, he could be cool. I mean, he was my best friend. I loved it when we'd pal around together, just the two of us. I still love it.

I suggested that she had confused love with abuse, as if she unconsciously needed to elicit extreme anger from her lover as proof of his intensity and passion. I asked if this felt familiar to her, if it had happened to her in other relationships. She thought for a moment, then replied:

Many children of alcoholics develop a high tolerance for accepting the unacceptable. With no idea of how a loving father behaves, Jody could only assume that if she wanted the good times with her father, she had to put up with the bad times. She formed a psychological connection between love and abuse. She came to believe that you don't get one without the other.

My dad started off by giving me a sip of booze maybe once a week. I hated the taste, but it always made him real happy when I had some. By the time I was eleven, he'd go into a liquor store and bring out a bottle. We'd sit in the car and share it, then we'd go for a joyride. At first it was exciting, but after a while I'd get pretty scared. I mean, I was just a kid, but I could tell he didn't have such great control of the car. I kept doing it because it was something I had with him that nobody else had. It was this special thing between us. I really got to like drinking because it made Dad like me more. It got worse and worse until I finally drank myself right off the deep end.

Jody's father taught her by example that she should do whatever it took to keep a man happy so that he wouldn't beat her. To keep her father happy, she had become his drinking buddy at age ten.

The Buddy System

Even if a child has not been actively recruited by the alcoholic, he or she remains especially vulnerable to eventually becoming an alcoholic. We don't know exactly why this happens -- there may be a genetic predisposition to addictive behavior or a biochemical disorder. I also suspect a strong factor is that many behaviors and beliefs are formed through imitation of, and identification with, our parents. Adult children of alcoholics have been handed a legacy of rage, depression, loss of joy, suspiciousness, damaged relationships, and overdeveloped sense of responsibility. They have also been handed a method of trying to deal with this twisted legacy: drinking.

At least one out of four children of alcoholic parents become alcoholics themselves, and many of these adults were given their first drink at a very young age by the alcoholic parent. The drinking creates a special and often secret bond between parent and child. This particular type of conspiracy feels like camaraderie to a child. It is often as close as the child can get to something approaching love and approval.

Because their first and most important relationship taught them that the people they love will hurt them and be terrifyingly unpredictable, most adult children of alcoholics are terrified of becoming close to another person. Successful adult relationships, whether between lovers or friends, require a significant degree of vulnerability, trust, and openness -- the very elements that an alcoholic household destroys. As a result, many adult children of alcoholics are drawn to people who are emotionally unavailable because of deep conflicts of their own. In this way, the adult child can create an illusion of a relationship without confronting his or her terror of true intimacy.

Jody's Jekyll and Hyde boyfriend was a repeat of her father -- sometimes wonderful, sometimes terrible. By picking a volatile and abusive man, Jody was both repeating the familiar experiences of her childhood and guaranteeing that she would never have to risk entering the uncharted waters of true intimacy. She clung desperately to the myth that her father was still the only man who really understood her. Her unwillingness to confront this myth contaminated her relationships not only with her friends but with me and with other members of her therapy group. In fact, the myth was so powerful that she eventually gave up on herself.

You Can't Trust Anybody

I still remember the sadness I felt the night she announced she was leaving group. I reminded her that she knew this work was going to be painful, that pain was part of the process. For a split second, she looked as if she might reconsider, but then:

Jody's group was composed of other adults who had been abused as children, and they understood what she was going through. They were extremely supportive and loving with her, but she couldn't accept that. To Jody, the world was a devious place full of emotional vandals. She was convinced that if she let anyone get too close, they would hurt her and let her down. The irony is that these beliefs would have been very accurate in regard to her father.

Look. I don't want to give up my dad. I don't want to get angry with him. And I don't want to keep defending him to you. My dad and I really need each other. Why should I trust you more than him? I don't think you or anybody in this group really gives a shit about me. I don't think any of you will really be there for me when I get hurt.

Trust is a common casualty among adult children of toxic parents. Listen to Glenn:

I was always scared when my wife would want to do anything without me -- even just going out with the girls for dinner. I was afraid she'd abandon me. I just didn't trust her. I was afraid she would find somebody better than me and leave me for him. I wanted to control her so she'd always be around and I wouldn't have to worry all the time.

Jody's inability to trust was a major casualty of her father's alcoholism. If you can't trust your father, whom can you trust? Trust is like the runt of our emotional litter; under harsh conditions, it's usually the first to die.

Jealousy, possessiveness, and suspicion are recurrent themes in the relationships of many adult children of alcoholics. They learned early that relationships lead to betrayal and love leads to pain.

"BUT YESTERDAY YOU SAID IT WAS OKAY"

Carla, a tall, soft-spoken, dental hygienist, came into therapy at the recommendation of her physician, who suggested that her recurrent headaches might have a psychological basis. Since headaches are so often a symptom of repressed rage, one of the first things I asked her was, "What are you angry about?" My question took her by surprise, but after a moment she answered:

I told Carla that this sounded as if it was an old story for her. She agreed:

You're right. I am angry. At my mother. I'm forty-seven years old and my mother's still running my life. Like last month. I was all set to go on this terrific trip to Mexico. I was really excited about it, but three days before I was supposed to leave, I got a call from Mom. Right on cue. I wasn't even surprised. I could tell she'd been drinking because her speech was real slurry, and she sounded like she'd been crying. She told me my dad had gone on a two-week fishing trip, and she was real depressed… and could I just stay with her for a few days. I told her I had this vacation planned and she started to cry. I tried to talk her into visiting my aunt, but she started saying how I didn't love her, and one thing led to another and before I knew it I promised to cancel Mexico and come out. I wouldn't have enjoyed myself anyway knowing she was in the pits again.

Yeah, it happened all the time when I was a kid. I always had to take care of her. And she never appreciated it. She was always ragging at me. I never knew which of my mother's many faces I was going to see at any given time, and I could never figure out what would please her from day to day. I remember getting a D in history and being afraid to come home. A D was good for about four hours of being told that I was a worthless, ungrateful failure, and no man would ever want me. When I finally got home, it turned out she was in a good mood. She just signed my report card and said, "You're smart; you don't have to worry about grades." I couldn't believe it. But then she had her usual four cocktails before dinner that night. I set the table and forgot to put out the salt and pepper. When she sat down, she exploded as if I'd caused a world war or something. I couldn't understand how she could stop loving me just because I forgot the salt and pepper.

All parents are inconsistent to some degree, but the "it's right one day and wrong the next" syndrome is dramatically intensified by alcohol. Because the signals and rules change so often and unexpectedly, the child always falls short. The parent uses criticism as a means of control, so no matter what the child does, the parent will find something to criticize. The child becomes an outlet for frustration, a scapegoat for all that is wrong with his parents. This is an insidious way for alcoholic parents to justify and ventilate their own inadequacies. The message becomes: "If you wouldn't do everything wrong, Mommy wouldn't have to drink." As Carla put it:

"IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT"

Carla's mother's behavior ranged from smotheringly loving to excruciatingly cruel, depending on her mood, her alcoholic consumption, or, as Carla put it, "the phase of the moon." Carla told me there was rarely any normal, everyday middle ground with her mother. So Carla was constantly trying to second-guess how to get her mother's approval. Unfortunately, the floor kept shifting beneath her feet; the same behavior would please her mother one day and set her off the next.

Unconsciously, Carla still thinks she's responsible for her mother's drinking. That's why she's willing to go to such lengths to atone. She canceled a long-awaited vacation just to make a futile stab for her mother's approval.

I remember when I was about seven, my mother had been going at the bottle pretty heavy one morning, so I invited a friend over after school. I usually didn't invite people over because I never knew just how drunk she'd be, but this time I figured she'd be sleeping off breakfast by midafternoon. My friend and I were playing dress-up, wearing her shoes and putting on her lipstick and stuff, when suddenly the door banged open, and my mother lurched out. I was so scared I almost wet my pants. Her breath could've knocked us out. She went crazy when she saw us touching her things and started screaming, "I know why you brought your little friend over here… to spy on me! You're always spying on me. That's why I have to drink all the time. You could drive anyone to drink!"

Carla's mother was totally out of control. In addition to humiliating her daughter, she blamed her for her alcoholism. Carla was too young to see the holes in her mother's logic, so she accepted the blame.

THE GOLDEN CHILD

While some children of alcoholics are forced to be the scapegoat, others are cast in the role of the family hero -- the "golden child." This child is showered with approval from both parents and the outside world because of the enormous responsibility he or she is forced to assume. On the surface, this approbation would seem to put the heroic child in a much more positive environment than that of the family scapegoat, but in reality, the deprivation and the personal demons are very much the same. The golden child drives himself mercilessly to achieve unobtainable goals of perfection both in childhood and in adult life.

The family scapegoat is an all-too-familiar role for children in alcoholic families. Some try to fulfill their negative self-image by resorting to self-destructive or delinquent behavior. Others unconsciously find ways to punish themselves with various emotional and even physical symptoms -- such as Carla's headaches.

A few years ago I received a call on my radio show from a research chemist named Steve, who told me:

I asked him if there was anything going on in his life that might account for these changes. He said that his father had just been admitted to intensive care with severe liver damage. Taking my clue from that, I asked Steve if his father was an alcoholic. After a moment, he replied that both his parents were. Steve had grown up coping with the uproar at home by burying himself in schoolwork and becoming a superachiever.

Everybody thought I was Superkid… my grandparents, my teachers, even my parents… when they were sober. I was the perfect son, the perfect student, and later on, the perfect scientist, husband, and father. [At this point, his voice broke.] I'm getting so tired of being perfect all the time!

I'm just immobilized. I'm forty-one years old and I'm successful in my career. But lately I can't make a decision. I'm in the middle of the biggest project of my life and I just can't concentrate. A lot of people are depending on me. I'm petrified. All my life I've been such a high achiever… you know… straight-A student, Phi Beta Kappa… I was always a self-starter. But now I feel paralyzed.

I told Steve that his father's illness had obviously stirred up a lot of unfinished business for him, and that while I knew he was in pain, it was also a wonderful opportunity for him to start to deal with some really crucial issues. I asked him to look at the fact that becoming the family hero was his special way of coping with a horrendous childhood. The role provided a certain amount of safety and structure to his life. Unfortunately, he never learned to go easy on himself. Now, many years later, his search for perfection in all aspects of his life was, as is common with most perfectionists, paralyzing him.

His drivenness may also have involved an element of compensation. By becoming superadequate himself, Steve may have unconsciously tried to balance out his parents' inadequacy.

As a child, Steve earned approval by assuming burdens beyond his capacity and managing them with a maturity beyond his years. Instead of building a core of self-esteem by being treated as an innately worthwhile human being, he had to prove his worth through external achievement alone. His self-esteem became dependent on accolades, awards, and grades instead of inner confidence.

Whenever I had a girlfriend, I always seemed to dump her while the relationship was going well. I guess I was afraid if I didn't dump her, she'd just wind up dumping me, so it was a way to stay in control. Today, I'm always telling my wife and kids how to do everything. I can't help it, I have to be in control. I run my business the same way. I mean, I still can't yell at anybody, but my employees always know when I'm unhappy. They say I put out vibes. It drives them crazy. But it's my business, right?

Children growing up in alcoholic homes are buffeted by unpredictable and volatile circumstances and personalities. In reaction, they often grow up with an overpowering need to control everything and everyone in their lives. Glenn reacted to the helplessness he felt as a child by finding his own way, despite his timidity, to become a controller:

At my urging, Steve agreed to seek counseling both to help him through his current situation and to deal with the deprivation of his childhood.

"I HAVE TO BE IN CONTROL AT ALL TIMES"

If you are the adult child of an alcoholic family, chances are -- unlike Steve, with two alcoholic parents -- your family drama involved one parent who was a problem drinker and one who was not. In recent years we have begun to learn more about the role of the nondrinking partner in these relationships. As we discussed in chapter 2, this partner is called "the enabler" or "co-dependent."

Unfortunately, his manipulative behavior created distance and resentment between himself and the people he cared about. Like many adult children of alcoholics, Glenn's need to control people resulted in what he feared the most -- rejection. It's ironic that the defenses he developed against loneliness as a child were the very things that brought him loneliness as an adult.

Glenn believed that by taking control of all aspects of his life, he could avoid reexperiencing the topsy-turvy craziness of his childhood. Of course, having problems with assertiveness forced him to find other means of control, so he fell back on manipulative techniques such as sulking or nagging, which he learned to use quite effectively.

"How Dare You Call Your Mother a Drunk!"

Carla and I began to make valuable progress in therapy. I wanted to see her interact with her parents firsthand, so I asked her to invite them to a session. When they arrived, I could see that Carla's mother was already upset. The very fact that Carla had asked her to come seemed to unleash her guilt. When I began to discuss the painful realities of Carla's childhood, her mother broke into tears:

This is the partner who, despite the suffering that the alcoholic inflicts, unconsciously supports the alcoholic's drinking. Through acceptance, co-dependents communicate that they will always be there to deal with the damage of their partner's destructive behavior. While co-dependents may nag, whine, plead, complain, threaten, and give ultimatums, they are rarely willing to take a strong enough stand to force any significant change.

I'm so ashamed. I know I wasn't a good mother to her. Carla, I'm so sorry, I really mean it. I'm really going to try to stop drinking. I'll even go into therapy if you want me to.

I told Carla's mother that psychotherapy is notoriously ineffective for treating alcoholism or any other addictive behavior unless it is used in conjunction with one of the Twelve Step programs such as Alcoholics Anonymous. Carla's mother pleaded:

Please, Susan, don't make me go to AA. I'll do anything for Carla but that.

At this point, Carla's father interrupted angrily:

Dammit, my wife is not an alcoholic! She is a wonderful woman who takes a couple of drinks to relax. There are millions of people just like her who have a drink now and then.

I confronted him with how truly destructive Carla's mother's behavior, combined with his lack of involvement, had been for their daughter. He exploded:

I'm a very successful man and have a beautiful home! Why do you have to drag me and my wife into this? Just concentrate on my daughter's problems and leave us out of it. My daughter's paying for you to take care of her -- not us. My wife and I don't need this kind of aggravation. Okay, so maybe my wife drinks a little more than most people. But she can handle it. As a matter of fact, when she has a few drinks, she's a helluva lot easier to be with!

Carla's father refused to come to any more sessions, but her mother finally agreed both to enroll in AA and to see one of my colleagues for counseling. What followed was a fascinating but not unexpected sequence of events. As Carla's mother stopped drinking, her husband developed severe gastrointestinal problems, for which -- as Carla told me -- his doctor couldn't find an explanation.

Clearly, I had disturbed the family's equilibrium. It became apparent that Carla's father could live and function only in a state of total denial. Alcoholic families operate in a precarious balance, with everyone acting out their assigned roles. Once Carla and her mother both started actively working on their own problems, it drastically rocked the family boat. Carla's father was admired in the community as a model of devotion and loyalty. Carla remembers more than one family member saying that her father should be a candidate for sainthood because he was so forgiving and tolerant. In reality, he was a classic co-dependent who, through his denial, gave his wife permission to remain a pitiful alcoholic. He, in turn, gained power by this. As she disappeared into a drunken haze, he was free to run the family as he saw fit.

I continued to see Carla and her mother together for family therapy. Carla's mother began to see how her husband's self-esteem depended on his having single-handed control of the family. His wife's alcoholism and his daughter's physical and emotional problems made him appear to be the only adequate member of the household. Despite the powerful facade he put on for the outside world, Carla's father -- like many co-dependents -- was terribly insecure. As most of us do, he picked a partner who mirrored his true feelings about himself. Choosing an inadequate partner allowed him to feel superior by comparison.

My mother's in her late sixties, and I'm still trying to figure out why she let my father terrorize us the way he did. Why did she let her kids get smacked around? There must've been somebody she could've gone to for help. But she's like a broken record… all she keeps saying is: "You don't know what it was like for women then. You were supposed to stand by your man no matter what. Nobody was talking about these things out in the open like they are now. Where was I supposed to go? What was I supposed to do?"

Unlike Carla's father, Glenn's mother was a co-dependent who fully acknowledged the horrors of her husband's alcoholism and the child abuse that went along with it. Nevertheless, she was no more able or willing to initiate an effective course of action. As Glenn told me:

Carla's mother is now a recovering alcoholic and is making some very positive changes in her relationship with her daughter and her husband. Predictably, her husband's gastrointestinal problems continue.

Glenn's mother was simply overwhelmed by the family turmoil. Her helplessness, combined with her distorted sense of loyalty, gave her husband permission to continue his outrageous behavior. Glenn's mother, like many co-dependents, in essence became a child herself, leaving the real children unprotected. To this day, Glenn is caught between his need to rescue his childlike mother and his resentment of her failure to mother him.

Fairy tale endings are rare for families of alcoholics. In the best of all possible worlds, your parents would take full responsibility for their drinking, enter a treatment program, and become sober. They would validate and acknowledge the horrors of your childhood and would make an attempt to become responsible, loving parents.

Glenn finally got his long-sought-after "I love you," but it wasn't enough. It left him with a sense of emptiness. It was all talk and no action. His father was still drinking. Glenn's mistake was that he was waiting for his father to change.

No Fairy Tale Endings

About a year ago, my dad told me for the first time that he loved me. I gave him a hug and thanked him, but somehow it just didn't make up for all the years that he told me I was rotten. It was ironic because I'd dreamed of that day all my life.

Unfortunately, the reality usually falls far short of the ideal. The drinking, the denial, and the distortion of reality often continue until one or both parents die. Many adult children of alcoholics cling to the hope that their family life will magically evolve into "Ozzie and Harriet," but holding on to this hope can only set you up for a tremendous fall. Glenn found this out in a particularly poignant way:

If you're the adult child of an alcoholic, the key to taking control of your life is to remember that you can change without changing your parents. Your well-being does not have to be dependent on your parents. You can overcome the traumas of your childhood and their power over your adult life, even if your parents stay exactly the way they've always been. You just have to commit yourself to doing the work.

I suggest to all my clients who came from homes where alcohol or drugs were abused that our work together could be greatly accelerated by their joining Adult Children of Alcoholics or a similar organization. These groups provide excellent support, and through the exchange of experiences and feelings, children of alcoholics and drug abusers come to realize that they are not alone. They can face up to the dinosaur in the living room, which is the first step toward driving it out.