I went to the bingo/spaghetti night at the local synagogue (whoda thought that I'd ever set foot back in the synagogue?! ) Anyway, this is what I've realized at the end of the night: 
 
 I blamed the synagogue for years that my father didn't stop drinking. I was certain that the members of the brotherhood and the sisterhood were enabling my father and mother. I was certain that they were making it so nothing was done about my life. As I was sitting there, watching the activities and things go through, I realized something: they got screwed too. Whenever my father had some measure of sobriety, he would get involved in the brotherhood. Perhaps he would be the liason for the yearly Passover blood drive (plague of the river turning to blood--a river of blood in a synagogue--get it? ); perhaps he would be the transporter, bringing wood from Lowe's to the synagogue for the sunday school sukkah; but as soon as he drank, it was all over. "Sarah, where is your father? He was supposed to...." "I don't know Sam, I haven't seen him in X days"  "Doesn't he live with you?" "I haven't seen him in X days, Sam!"  The brother hood got screwed, the synagogue got screwed, everyone got screwed.
 For my mother's part, I was certain that if the sisterhood just did something, SOMETHING, she would straighten up. She would stop enabling my father, be accountable and rescue me from this insanity that was my life. But again, as I sat there in the festivities, another thing stood out: the women that were involved were the women that were always involved. Like we often say in Al Anon (cue the Rolling Stones) "You get what you give in the program." The women who were most involved in the night's festivities were the most involved in Hannukkah for the homeless; New Year, New You make overs; Purim carnivals for the children. These women were the ones that made sure the synagogue was open for the Al Anon and AA meetings we hold there; for the grief support groups; for the pilates, choir practice, Torah study groups and God only knows what else goes on in any 7 day period in that synagogue.
 I realized these women, too, got screwed. My mother, resourceful, creative, energetic, dedicated, would be a member in name only. Many times had they called her, asked for her help, and she would show, half hearted, being a waste of human space. No matter how they tried to reach out to her she was stand offish, snotty, and cold. I realized that there was only so much these women could do that, at a certain point, my mother's personality and her own defects were too much.
 I also realized how true the sign "you are not alone was." I sat next to a family where the grandparents had brought their grand children. The 15 y.o. was angry and sullen; "He's LD," grandma told me. "My parents ARE NOT(!!!!) getting a divorce," he said to me. Over the course of the night, I watched him, miserable and lonely. Their parents weren't there, and didn't have anything to do with them, not entering any facet of the conversations. School was talked about only in the darkest of terms. The 8 y.o. girl ate cookies by the handful, claiming she wasn't hungry for the spaghetti main course.
 And I realized "How painfully true our common threads are."
 No one gets away from alcholism unscathed. The disease is the ephemeral pebble in the pond, its effects far reaching and hurting everyone. Often times, I find myself volunteering for the miserable manipulative martyr, claiming "You don't understand;" "You don't get it;" "You don't know what it's like to be me;" "You haven't had the experience I've had;" "You haven't lived my life."
 I've realized, especially if tonight is any indication, it doesn't matter. It just doesn't matter.
 I think like you; I feel your feelings; I have your idiosyncrasies. I've lived your life in ways I can't explain. I understand where you're at. Completely.
 One final note: as the festivities ended, I told the 15 y.o, "Please, don't quit on yourself, man. I totally know where you're at, and it totally gets alot better."
 He laughed. "Don't you think I've given up already?"