Around 1992, I had figured out that when my parents went “for a few minutes” at my uncle`s place, it usually meant “for a weekend” so I just plain refused to get out of the car. Just like a hippie at a sit-in: not going anywhere, no m’am!

I did not know what words like “alcoholic” or “drunkard” meant, even though I heard grown ups call each other those names very often. I had my first discussion about addiction with my step-brother. He was in his late teens and was often baby-sitting me when my parents were away. I had a very good relationship with him and my other baby sitters so in the end, I wasn’t exactly the most unhappy child of alcoholics out there.

I think I was reading some pamphlet about the “other” wing of the Tracadie hospital, the one facing the river, the one that locals call “the detox”. I was around 8.

-”The add-ict-ions treat-ment cen-ter off-ers care to per-sons suf-fer-ing of al-co-ho-lism, drug or gam-bl-ing pro-blems” What an addiction?”

-An addiction is when people can’t stop drinking or doing drugs. It’s a disease and it can be cured.”

Years later, I had a similar talk with my niece. She had asked me, like only 8 year-old kids can, “Why are you always sleepy when you come here?”. A year and one therapy later, I told her “Aunty was always sleepy because she was smoking too much pot. But she’s much better now”.

You don’t fix generations with one word, but at least saying that word, “addict” and not “drunkard”, might take some of that toxic shame away.

That shame might be even more terrible than alcoholism itself because it makes people hide abominations. The village was already hiding another open secret about my uncle. The kind of secret that, if you have the slightest question about it, will only be answered by “Well...you know!” or maybe some antiquated homophobic platitude like “What do you think two f”gs do together, anyway?”

“...you know!”

No, dammit, I don’t know!