Page 85 - Too Much and Never Enough - Mary L. Trump

equals—but as two people who had a problem to solve, even though they might never agree on the solution. Although the medical view of alcoholism and addiction had changed drastically in the previous few decades, public perception hadn’t evolved much. Despite treatment programs such as Alcoholics Anonymous, which had been around since 1935, the stigma attached to addicts and addiction persisted.
“Just make up your mind, Fred,” my grandfather said, offering a useless platitude that Norman Vincent Peale would have approved of. The closest thing Fred had to a philosophy was the prosperity gospel, which he used like a blunt instrument and an escape hatch, and it had never harmed any of his children more than it did right then.
“That’s like telling me to make up my mind to give up cancer,” Dad said. He was right, but my grandfather wholeheartedly embraced the “blame the victim” mentality that was still pervasive and couldn’t make that leap.
“I need to beat this, Dad. I don’t think I can do it by myself. I know I can’t.”
Instead of asking “What can I do for you?” Fred said, “What do you want from me?”
Freddy had no idea where to start.
My grandfather had never been sick a day in his life; he had never missed a day of work; he had never been sidelined by depression or anxiety or heartbreak, not even when his wife was near death. He appeared to have no vulnerabilities at all and therefore couldn’t recognize or sanction them in other people.
He had never handled Gam’s injuries and illnesses well. Whenever Gam was suffering, my grandfather would say something like “Everything’s great. Right, Toots? You just have to think positive,” and then leave the room as quickly as possible, leaving her alone to deal with her pain.
Sometimes Gam forced herself to say, “Yes, Fred.” Usually she said nothing, clenched her jaw, and struggled to keep from crying. My grandfather’s relentless insistence that everything was “great” left no room for any other feelings.
We were told that Dad was sick and would be in the hospital for a few weeks. We were also told that he had to give up his apartment—apparently the landlord wanted to rent the place to somebody else. Fritz and I went to