Hello all!

First post on here. I mostly need a place to put this all down and hopefully get some support, thoughts, and advice from others going through it. 

My mother has been an alcoholic since I was about 12 or 13, right after her mother passed away. I'm 100% positive she was dealing with depression and used alcohol as a coping mechanism.  She was emotionally, verbally, and occasionally physically abusive all throughout my teenage years, and once when I was 17 I actually fought back when she was trying to drag me up the basement stairs by my hair.  I ended up doing community service for this "domestic abuse" (because legally, apparently parents have more leeway when abusing a child than a child does when fighting off a parent.) It was what it was; I moved out as soon as I could, joined the military, and have been back sporadically ever since. Most of my fights with my mother since I left have been verbal, and she classically does things most addicts do; says terrible, unsayable things in the heat of her rages, and then blames all of her behavior on me, even her drinking. 

We had come to a point where I thought we could actually have some semblance of a relationship; we talked openly about her drinking, and she said that she respected my choices as an adult (she didn't, but I just let it slide) and that I should respect her choices as well; that she chose to drink and I had to stop "harraunging" her about it (never mind that me harraunging her about it usually involved me asking her to please stop emotionally abusing me, but okay.)  This last weekend, I went to my hometown to participate in a bellydance festival (I'm a dancer) and instead of staying in a hotel I stayed with my family, because they insisted, and because it was Easter weekend.  The last night I was there, I went into my mothers bedroom to say goodnight to her because she had gone to bed while I was in the shower and I was leaving early the next morning.  I found her crying; I put my arm around her, sat next to her on the bed, and asked her what was wrong. (my big mistake.)  She started talking about my little brother, her worries for him, her fears, and etc.  I attempted to comfort her, and she immediately went from 0 - 60 in no seconds flat; she insinuated that I didn't know what I was talking about and that I was a slut who slept with a ton of men, out of the blue.  I said, "Okay, well, enjoy your crying." and got up and left the room, willing to just leave it at that, and knowing that she had been drinking all night and was probably drunk.  She followed me into my room and started harassing me as I packed, bringing up all matter of past ill that I had done (some of them made up by her, because her memory is trashed due to her drinking for 20 years or so) including the time that I had "beaten her up" (I had hit her twice in self defense and then ran away from the house; she likes to forget how many times she beat the crap out of me and my brothers and probably my dad, as well.) 

This time, unlike every time in the past, I just ignored her.  I kind of chuckled as she went through her list of horrible things, like how she wouldn't be coming to my wedding, or how she felt sorry for my fiance for having to marry me, or how I disgusted her and was a terrible slut, and that my life was completely screwed up.  I just responded with, "Okay, why don't you go to bed?" and "My life is pretty great, actually, but I'm sorry you feel that way."  I could see it in her face as she ranted; she would say something terrible and then watch me, waiting for me to break down in tears, or apologize for "hurting" her or do the million things I'd done in the past when I was confused and really did believe her when she said I was bad.  When I just stared at her and responded as if she weren't even saying anything, it just seemed to make her angrier, and she called my father up into the room, demanding that he also start yelling at me.  He was confused, naturally, and I watched him become instantly agitated; they both started shouting at each other.  Whenever I interjected with, "Maybe mom should just go to bed and we can talk about it in the morning?" she'd turn to me and start screaming.  

It got to the point where she actually stepped across the room and put her hands on my throat. Now she's not strong, but she's overweight due to all the drinking, and is heavy, so it took my dad's help to pull her off of me.  My dad put himself between us while she kept screaming, and stayed there for another good 20 minutes while this continued.   Finally, she tried to reach around me and hit me; she tripped, missed my face, and hit me twice in the chest, before my dad pulled her back and out of the room. I could hear them yelling at each other as they mvoed down the hall into their bedroom; my mom was talking about how it was "her turn" (apparently her turn to beat me up) and I remember my heart just skyrocketing through my throat.  I finished packing as fast as I could, ran my stuff out to my car, said goodbye to my little brother, and went upstairs for my last suitcase just as they came out of the bedroom.  I was practically running; I hurtled down the stairs dragging my suitcase, fumbled with the front door, hearing their steps behind me.  Out of the house, down the drive, and into the car. Thankfully, she stopped at the front porch and just watched me, probably because now the neighbors could see her if she tried anyhting crazy.  But I remember feeling like that terrified 17 year old again; the place that was supposed to be safe for me was no longer safe, and I threw myself into the car and got out of there.

I live 4 hours away from my folks, so at 11pm at night, I began a long, dark drive back to my house where my fiance was sleeping.  I'll never forget that drive;  I knew I was tired, I knew it was dangerous to drive tired, but I just hurtled onward into the blackness, heading to safety. 

It's now 4 days later and I'm still trying to process what happened. My dad emailed me the next day saying he "wasn't happy with how the conversation went the night before." I replied promptly and said that it wasn't any kind of conversation, and that I didn't want contact with my mother anymore, calling her by her name instead of calling her "mom." I haven't heard anything back, and I probably never will. 

All I know, is that my own children will never go through this. Ever.