There’s a lot of factors going on with Mom. IMO, she’s in the early to mid-stages of some form of dementia, which so far is undiagnosed and untreated. Diagnosis will be difficult, as some days she’s perfectly rational and coherent. Other days, she’s pretty addled and conversation is frustrating. It’s like playing 20 Questions. For instance, a few weeks ago, she wanted to order “German Pancakes” at one of our favorite restaurants. Well, at this place, those aren’t offered on the menu.
I said, “IHop has German Pancakes, but it’s not on the menu here.”
Mom said, “But it’s what I always order.”
Me, “Oh, you mean buckwheat blueberry pancakes! Why did you call them German Pancakes?”
Mom, “Well, my father was German, and those were the kind of pancakes he ate. So they were German.”
Um, okey-dokey.
But I digress. She seldom recalls her behavior during a drunk. No, she NEVER recalls it. She apologises, but her apologies are insincere. She probably thinks we’re lying or exaggerating about the behavior.
I grew up with this ****. Dad and I got blamed for why Mom’s life was so dreadful, of course. It’s the same with every drunk, I bet. She’s rational (or used to be, before this dementia) when sober, but when she’s on a drunken binge, it’s like dealing with some kind of psychosis.
The most memorable episode was our last visit to the family ranch several months after her cousin died. I tried to discourage her from taking this trip, knowing it would be a physical strain on both parents. She uses oxygen, so any overnight trip has to be carefully planned and arrangements made for oxygen in the hotel room. I insisted we NOT stay at the ranch. The house had sat empty for over a year and the bedrooms are all upstairs. My parents are pretty crippled up, and the idea of them traversing those steep stairs to get to the bathroom gave me the willies. Mom, as usual, thought I was being silly. One trip up and down those stairs (she wanted to go through some clothes she had there) proved I was right. Anyway, by the next day, when we were ready to return home, she was in the mood to drink, to be argumentative and abusive to Dad and me.
For two hundred miles, all the way home she begged for a drink, saying that if she just had one drink, she’d quiet down. So, Dad asked me to stop. He bought her an airline-sized Vodka. She slugged that down, and by the time we got to the next little town, she was begging again, and throwing in abuse, too. Another drink bought us maybe 10 minutes of quiet. By the time we got within 30 miles of home, I told Dad he might as well stock up on airline Vodkas so he didn’t have to go out again. She was in full-blown Binge Mode and there was no stopping her now. Might as well let her get drunk, pass out, and suffer the consequences later. For two hundred miles, Dad and I suffered verbal abuse from Mom. Looking back at her in the rear view mirror I didn’t see Mom, but some demon-posessed hag that was hitching a ride home with us. I’d have liked to leave her at the liquor store in Manzanola. I was ready to drive the car into a telephone pole and kill us all.
She did not recall any of this after the binge, but remained angry at me for at least a week. Dad and I were both mystified. What had I done wrong?
I’m sick of her, sick of her drinking, at my wit’s end what to do about her deteriorating mental state.
I guarantee there is no agreement you can make, verbal or written, that she will not violate. She is not a rational person when she wants to drink. Agreements and contracts only work with rational thinkers. There is only one way out, one way she is guaranteed to never drink again. Sad, but true.