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Authors: Mary Jo Buttafuoco
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dreadful dance, one familiar to anyone who lives with an alcoholic or drug addict, and we both knew all the steps.
When Jessica arrived in March 1983, I now had two babies— three, if you counted my husband. If anything, Joe’s binges were becoming worse. The pressure of living with a cocaine addict while pretending everything was fine sent my anxiety levels off the charts. One day, I headed to the store to buy Jessie some diapers. Both kids were parked in the shopping cart, and as I walked the aisles of the familiar supermarket, which I visited twice a week every week of my life, a wave of nausea swept over me. I suddenly found it hard to breathe and started gasping for air. The world turned black at the edges as my vision narrowed. I began to panic and broke into a cold sweat. I was so dizzy that I was sure I was going to pass out, and all I could think of was what would happen to my babies if I lost consciousness, not to mention how embarrassing it would be.
I’ve got to get out of here! was the only thought in my head. Now! It was an all-consuming urge. My brain was literally screaming, Run! Go! I grabbed the kids, abandoned my cart, and ran out of the store. Once I got outside, I felt normal again within three minutes. I packed the kids back into the car and sat there wondering, What the hell just happened to me? The most debilitating wave of sheer terror had come from nowhere and taken over. I had never felt that scared in my entire life. I gave up on shopping and drove home.
Of course, I had to go back to the store the next day to get the diapers, but once I parked in the lot, I couldn’t force myself out of the car. The fear of another attack kept me rooted in the front seat. If it happened to me again while I was in the store with the kids, what was I going to do? I agonized for half an hour, then gave up and drove home. The voice in my head that constantly monitored my behavior was taunting me full blast. What kind of mother are you? You can’t even go into the store and buy diapers. What a dope!
The fright had been so overwhelming that I felt like I was going to die. I almost would have preferred to die rather than live through an experience like that again. The anticipatory anxiety of having another attack was horrible. I could not make myself go into that grocery store. Not that day, or the next, or that week. The wave swept over me again the following week after I’d sternly told myself to pull it together and screwed up all my courage to enter the hardware store. Once again, I found myself shaking, sweating, and gasping on the sidewalk.
Still, I tried to keep up appearances. Nobody knew that Joe was disappearing for days on end, nobody knew I had excruciating panic attacks, nobody knew that my life was falling apart. I was too ashamed to tell anybody; that old feeling of not living up to expectations kicked in, effectively sealing my mouth. It took all my energy just to keep daily life moving along. I was holding all my problems inside while playing the role of happy, devoted wife and mother. It was killing me.
Joe’s father and brother had a pretty good idea of what was going on with him because they saw him every day . . . or didn’t, when he didn’t bother to show up for work. His brother Bobby in particular had his suspicions, especially after things started to go missing in the shop—money, car parts, tools. But Joey could look him straight in the eye, tell him a story, and make him believe it. Joey was Bobby’s kid brother, the good guy, the prankster, the lovable rascal. Joey knew just how to handle his brother. His father, meanwhile, ignored Joey’s erratic behavior and hoped for the best, handing out his regular paycheck every week as he’d always done. All of us were enabling Joey, but we didn’t think of our behavior in those terms. It was family, and we all wanted to help.
Paul was enrolled in a nursery school, and part of being a parent there meant helping the teacher one day a
When Jessica arrived in March 1983, I now had two babies— three, if you counted my husband. If anything, Joe’s binges were becoming worse. The pressure of living with a cocaine addict while pretending everything was fine sent my anxiety levels off the charts. One day, I headed to the store to buy Jessie some diapers. Both kids were parked in the shopping cart, and as I walked the aisles of the familiar supermarket, which I visited twice a week every week of my life, a wave of nausea swept over me. I suddenly found it hard to breathe and started gasping for air. The world turned black at the edges as my vision narrowed. I began to panic and broke into a cold sweat. I was so dizzy that I was sure I was going to pass out, and all I could think of was what would happen to my babies if I lost consciousness, not to mention how embarrassing it would be.
I’ve got to get out of here! was the only thought in my head. Now! It was an all-consuming urge. My brain was literally screaming, Run! Go! I grabbed the kids, abandoned my cart, and ran out of the store. Once I got outside, I felt normal again within three minutes. I packed the kids back into the car and sat there wondering, What the hell just happened to me? The most debilitating wave of sheer terror had come from nowhere and taken over. I had never felt that scared in my entire life. I gave up on shopping and drove home.
Of course, I had to go back to the store the next day to get the diapers, but once I parked in the lot, I couldn’t force myself out of the car. The fear of another attack kept me rooted in the front seat. If it happened to me again while I was in the store with the kids, what was I going to do? I agonized for half an hour, then gave up and drove home. The voice in my head that constantly monitored my behavior was taunting me full blast. What kind of mother are you? You can’t even go into the store and buy diapers. What a dope!
The fright had been so overwhelming that I felt like I was going to die. I almost would have preferred to die rather than live through an experience like that again. The anticipatory anxiety of having another attack was horrible. I could not make myself go into that grocery store. Not that day, or the next, or that week. The wave swept over me again the following week after I’d sternly told myself to pull it together and screwed up all my courage to enter the hardware store. Once again, I found myself shaking, sweating, and gasping on the sidewalk.
Still, I tried to keep up appearances. Nobody knew that Joe was disappearing for days on end, nobody knew I had excruciating panic attacks, nobody knew that my life was falling apart. I was too ashamed to tell anybody; that old feeling of not living up to expectations kicked in, effectively sealing my mouth. It took all my energy just to keep daily life moving along. I was holding all my problems inside while playing the role of happy, devoted wife and mother. It was killing me.
Joe’s father and brother had a pretty good idea of what was going on with him because they saw him every day . . . or didn’t, when he didn’t bother to show up for work. His brother Bobby in particular had his suspicions, especially after things started to go missing in the shop—money, car parts, tools. But Joey could look him straight in the eye, tell him a story, and make him believe it. Joey was Bobby’s kid brother, the good guy, the prankster, the lovable rascal. Joey knew just how to handle his brother. His father, meanwhile, ignored Joey’s erratic behavior and hoped for the best, handing out his regular paycheck every week as he’d always done. All of us were enabling Joey, but we didn’t think of our behavior in those terms. It was family, and we all wanted to help.
Paul was enrolled in a nursery school, and part of being a parent there meant helping the teacher one day a
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