What's Love Got to Do with It?

by Jenny Molloy

  As far as mammals go, humans are born with the most poorly developed brain, with only 10 per cent of the grey matter wired and ready to go – 75 per cent of human brain growth takes place after birth. From the moment the baby exits the womb, the brain starts to develop at an almost unbelievably rapid rate. Millions of synapses are created every second. By the time the baby is three years old, 90 per cent of its neurons are wired and ready for a lifetime of use.

  Our experiences during this period are therefore crucial. The stimuli we receive determine how we’re wired. The brain adapts to the environment it finds itself in. Those connections used most often grow strong while those that are ignored wither and die. What happens between the ages of zero and three years is the most important biological factor in terms of whether a child will grow up predisposed to addiction of any kind.

  Nutrition, security and emotional nurturing are the key environmental factors that decide how well a baby’s brain will develop. The baby’s immature brain looks to the parents’ behaviours to establish its own thought processes. It looks for any clue to learn about the outside world. These clues come from the way they’re held, the way they’re spoken to, the facial expressions of the people closest to them and, amazingly, even the size of the parents’ pupils (the more dilated, the happier the person is and the better this is for the baby’s development). Stressed parents raise stressed children, no matter how much they love them and how hard they try to do the right things.

  Almost all addicts had tough starts to life and were predisposed to addiction because their parents, by abusing them sexually, physically or emotionally (perhaps just starving them of love), hardwired all the major brain systems necessary for addiction.

  Imagine a child that no one ever smiled at, that never heard love in their parents’ voices, was never cuddled or played with. Imagine the kind of adult that child would grow into. They would grow up at an extremely high risk of becoming dependent on drugs to make up for what their own brain is lacking.

  Countless studies have revealed that most drug addicts have suffered from childhood traumas, such as sexual, physical and emotional abuse, domestic violence, the death of a parent, divorce, or drug/alcohol abuse. For each one of these experiences a person goes through, the chances of their becoming an addictive drug user are increased two to four times. For addictive alcohol use the rate is two to three times.

  Physical and sexual abuse are perhaps the strongest predictors of addiction. Some people who have suffered childhood abuse and who are predisposed to addiction never find out. But for those who do finally try heroin or cocaine or alcohol, they are hit with overwhelming sensations of euphoria, comfort and security. Their experience is far more intense than for a ‘normal’ person. As well as the euphoria, they experience sudden and sheer relief from the anxiety and stress that has accompanied them throughout their life.

  Addicts take drugs for respite from the emotional pain caused by the agonies they suffered in their pasts. But, on top of that, their past experiences have corrupted the development of their emotional brain.

  As well as a permanent decrease in oxytocin production, lack of maternal contact leads to a permanent decrease in the mood chemical serotonin (stimulated by antidepressants). Decreases in serotonin lead to aggressive behaviour in adolescence and excessive consumption of alcohol, compared to their peers, while decreased oxytocin reduces a person’s ability to establish loving attachments and long-term relationships – such people are more vulnerable to the overuse of drugs and alcohol as ‘social lubricants’. The lack of supportive relationships only adds to the stress of the addict’s life which, lacking clarity and control, is filled with uncertainty and this, in turn, enhances feelings of isolation and is likely to lead the addict to use the childlike behaviours of aggression and conflict during social interaction.

  The damage that the lack of love can do to a child is far greater than most people imagine.

  HOPE

  I’m in a strange house. The bed is soft. My baby is beside me. It is safe. It has all the good smells of family – soap, clean washing, nice food, perfumes and deodorants – each one a luxury. The fear and pain are present but weakened for now.

  I called the only number I had – Rebecca, the director of the fostering agency who’d once told me, ‘If there’s anything you need . . .’ I don’t think I needed anything so much as the help Rebecca gave me. As soon as I said, ‘I can’t cope in this place and I don’t know what to do,’ Rebecca drove up to see me that night and took me back to her house. I stayed with her, off and on, for a couple of months.

  Rebecca managed to get Lauren and me into a house they used as a semi-independent home, even though it wasn’t meant for a mother and baby, and persuaded me to see a good doctor, and we talked for a while.

  ‘So you don’t leave the house,’ she said. ‘You’re crying all the time. You’re in a permanent state of anxiety with regard to Lauren and are most worried about cot death.’

  ‘Yeah, pretty much.’

  That wasn’t everything. Some of the social workers who’d been with me when I was still at the children’s home had made a point of warning me against pregnancy. They made it clear that if I had a baby my life was over; that I wouldn’t be able to go out and that my baby would be crying all the time and I’d have to spend every waking moment watching over her. I believed them and obsessed over Lauren; I was so scared something would happen that was out of my control. And top of the list was my irrational worry about cot death, which was far greater than I admitted to the doctor. I read everything I could get my hands on about this subject and would have probably given a world expert a run for their money in terms of my knowledge. I never let Lauren sleep in a cot. She was in bed with me, or right beside me in her carrier, so I could quickly check on her at any moment. I was convinced she was going to be taken from me – either through death or by social services.

  ‘I think you have post-natal depression and need a little help,’ the doctor told me. ‘These pills will do it. Take one, three times a day.’

  Chesterfields Children’s Home: Report by the Educational

  Psychologist

  10 May 1988.

  Hope Daniels.

  Age thirteen years and nine months.

  She dismissed having any concern that she might develop an alcohol problem. (There is however the risk of identifying with her parents, especially when there is a distressing break in her relationships in her substitutive home but I did not mention this to Hope.)

  I wouldn’t admit it to anyone but I knew that I was at risk of alcoholism from when I was a teenager. I could never just have one drink, something inside me compelled me to get blotto and then stay that way for as long as humanly possible.

  Alcohol was always an integral part of my parents’ life and it was the ‘third person’ in my relationship with them. To feel its strong grip, coming in a rush of excitement that started in my heart and head, scared and thrilled me. I didn’t want to become my mother but, for me, a drink was never just ‘a drink’. Something in me actually needed it, depended upon it and counted on it to feed this desire.

  I thought I could control it. And, after Lauren was born, I knew I had to. Especially as I then fell pregnant with a baby boy. Despite this, I was still alone. It was just me and two babies. And, again, I stayed away from doctors and the hospital until my eighth month. And, even though I knew a lot more about having babies, the post-natal depression hit me even harder. But this time I had a wonderful midwife, a Jamaican lady called Beatrice with a friendly motherly way. The kind of woman you just want to hug, everyone’s favourite aunt.

  She knew enough to suspect that I might have some issues after Joshua was born. I was scared of leaving the hospital. I complained to Beatrice that my boobs were really sore after breastfeeding and she said: ‘You know a trick for that?’

  ‘No, what’s that?’

  ‘Geranium leaves.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘No, I’m serious. P
ut those on your breasts and it helps soothe them, really now.’

  I don’t know what it was, perhaps it was just Beatrice’s straightforward kindness that tipped me over the edge, but something inside me broke and I burst into uncontrollable sobs.

  ‘What is it, sweetheart?’ Beatrice asked.

  When I finally caught my breath, I said, ‘You have to take my babies, I can’t do it.’

  ‘But why on earth not?’

  ‘I will infect them, with my life and my mind. I will infect them. They can’t be with their mum.’

  Beatrice sat with me for hours as I sobbed and talked, telling her about my life, and she tried to talk me around but I just couldn’t get my head to a point where I could imagine being a mum to these two beautiful little children.

  Beatrice told me I would be fine and said she wasn’t going to tell anyone if I didn’t want her to but, as I left the hospital, I started haemorrhaging – which to me was another sign that I didn’t deserve to have children – and I had to be brought back inside.

  As I lay in recovery, Beatrice found me. ‘You’re going to go home and we’ve arranged for some health visitors to come around, just to make sure you’re OK .’

  Right then I felt as though I was incapable of even changing a nappy.

  I waited patiently in my local social services’ reception, with Lauren and Joshua sitting quietly in their pushchairs. A man in a suit, who looked like a police officer, was sitting, slouched in one of the chairs. He smiled and nodded hello.

  I can’t drink – but I have to.

  I’d fought to control it and had managed. On my two allocated drinking days, Wednesday and Friday, once the kids were in bed by 7pm, I would drink from then until midnight, only drinking a carefully rationed supply I’d bought earlier that day – usually four bottles of beer. I knew that if I didn’t drink from midnight until six in the morning, I’d be clear of alcohol and the day could begin as normal for the kids.

  But the psychological price of this extraordinary routine of mine was too high, too impossible to live with. And the pain in the mornings, the emotional pain, as well as the hangover, was always stronger as my brain begged for a refill of the chemicals that numbed my feelings of emptiness, confusion and emotional despair. This methodical and controlled approach to drinking was exhausting.

  I can’t do this and be a mum to my children.

  I had hung on for so long because I loved my children so much. When I was with them I was able to transform into supermum.

  And then I realised that me loving these children was going to do them more harm than good.

  My parents had loved us kids, despite their irrational and irresponsible behaviour that masked almost every last piece of affection. They had always wanted to see me, even when I didn’t want to see them any more. Suppose I ended up like that? I didn’t have the strength to keep up this way of life. I had no one to help, to relieve me and provide respite.

  ‘Please take my babies.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I can’t do this any more. You have to take my babies. I can’t cope.’

  The receptionist had found me a social worker and we were sitting down with a cup of tea in a side room on the ground floor of the building. The sound of traffic came through an open window.

  The social worker, a woman in her early thirties, looked at Lauren and Joshua. Lauren was playing as Joshua looked on.

  ‘Looks like you’re doing just fine to me. They’re lovely. Tell me, why do you want to give them up?’

  ‘I don’t want to. I don’t. I just can’t. It’s too difficult.’

  I didn’t tell them about my drinking. I didn’t see that as the problem, I just talked about the feelings that were driving me to drink.

  ‘Hope, we’re not going to take your children from you but we can give you some help.’

  Outside, in the real world, I wanted everyone to think I was all right and I kept people away, until the health visitor sent around by social services appeared. She was my saviour. Maria came around every single day for I can’t remember how long. She was just amazing. It was like having a social worker without having the worry of a social worker. She gave me time when there were days I couldn’t move, couldn’t answer the door and Lauren would open it. She looked after the kids and helped around the house, checking I was up to date with all my bills and so on.

  I never considered the idea that people didn’t drink. Everyone liked to drink. I certainly did. And I continued to control it. Kids in bed. Sit down with my drinks ration and steadily work my way through them, longing for the feeling of numbness to come. But that feeling grew ever briefer. Come midnight, I staggered to bed, already sensing the hangover and the yawning emptiness that would come the next morning.

  When the kids went to see their dad for the weekend, I drank for forty-eight hours straight and would wake up in the street, in the police station or in hospital. I was never violent when drunk (as least from what everyone told me). I was a risk to myself – as a young woman passing out in the roadside, falling and banging her head – and a temptation to abusers.

  Come Monday I’d be back to ‘normal’ again.

  It got worse the better my life got. I climbed out of my post-natal depression and got my life back on the rails and moved into a new house that I loved to bits and I kept it spotless, scrubbed within an inch of its life. Then, after starting out as a voluntary worker for a charity, I was offered a paid job for the Citizens Advice Bureau.

  I helped the lost and lonely, addicts and homeless, advising and helping them as best as I could, and I loved it. I identified. Suddenly, life was going well – under control. I had a job that paid the rent and the bills and I looked after my children, who were loving school.

  Then, in a pub one day, I met Danny. It was a struck-by-lightning moment as I knew the second I saw him that I was going to marry him. I asked him out and he agreed. I was in love from that first moment. He was wonderful to me and loved the kids, who fell for him straight away. I hadn’t been looking for anyone but something in Danny filled me with a desire to share my life with him. To give myself over completely – as I never do things by halves. We’d been together for a week when, one night, on my way home after seeing Danny, I took a minicab. I knew the driver quite well and asked him if he knew Danny. He did.

  ‘I’m going to marry him!’

  He looked at me like I was mad.

  A couple of years later, Danny and I were walking through town when we bumped into the same taxi driver. We stopped to chat and he said: ‘I met this girl a few months back and she said she was going to marry you!’

  ‘That’s right,’ Danny said. ‘We’re getting married tomorrow!’

  At the time, I thought I was the dog’s wotsits. Life had its ups and downs but they were, as I saw it, mainly ups.

  I continued to drink in my controlled fashion and managed to keep my excesses from Danny as he worked nights. The occasions when I appeared to be seriously the worse for wear, seemed to Danny to be widely spaced.

  It is the nature of the addict to be deceitful. I knew this from my work but I could not see it in myself. It was just what I did to manage my drinking.

  And then I got my files from social services.

  The power that even the shortest phrase had on me was devastating. I broke down, not realising how hard these words would hit me – they were a sucker punch that left me reaching for bottle after bottle of wine in defence. Kill the pain. Kill the pain.

  Deal with it. Alcohol.

  I had been drinking too much for eight years. When Danny went to work and the kids were in bed, I started drinking. I was at the point where the shakes started to come on at 4pm, while I was still at work. I blamed everything else but my drinking. I found every excuse, from fatigue, too much coffee, needing a cigarette, being stressed, working too hard.

  One night I ended up at a party in a horrible house, an old door on packing crates for a table, rotting carpets, loud, aggressive music, bad people.
But there was alcohol. As much as I wanted to drink. So I kept going, kept the off-switch in my brain pressed firmly down, for as long as I could find a drink.

  The police found me on the street, insensible. They put me in a cell and called Danny, who came from work to get me. Danny’s step-dad had died from alcohol abuse and, although I’d been crafty hiding it from him, there came a point when it was obvious I had a problem. But if I didn’t want to change, there was very little he could do about it except do everything he needed to so that the kids wouldn’t notice – so that they wouldn’t have bad memories of their mum the alcoholic.

  A few times I would end up in dangerous situations. Most of the time I couldn’t remember what had happened until the next day when Danny was telling me off, furious that I’d put myself in danger yet again, yelling at me, my head thumping, having landed on it again the previous night after toppling over, insensible, on a street somewhere in town.

  Danny talked to me about going in for treatment and I went to the doctor, admitting finally that I was drinking too much. She suggested trying Alcoholics Anonymous. This, for me, didn’t work. All the women there reminded me of my mum and so I hated going. I could only identify in the worst way – it reminded me of Mum and made me want to drink.

  ‘You have to find something that works, Hope,’ Danny told me.

  I knew what that was but I didn’t want to have to accept it. There was a local alcohol service that would take me. The only problem was that it was the one that I’d spent the last few years referring my clients to.

  I made an appointment and I didn’t turn up.

  So I made another one.

  And another.

  And another.

  And then I went on the binge to end all binges.

  I wake up and the room spins. I’m lying in a strange bed and I can’t move. I’m thirsty. God, I’m thirsty. Feels like I haven’t drunk for days. The dizziness subsides and I start to shake uncontrollably. What’s happening to me?