Addiction is a solitary experience; as the addict isolates with inexpressible shame, so do those around them. How could I ever tell anyone with any dignity that my mum lived in squalor, that alcohol had made her incontinent to the extent that she was literally living in her own shit, or that bar alcohol, all she consumed was eggs, organic full-fat milk and wine gums? Shame was one part of a fragmented identity that I had developed; sadness, bereavement, guilt and anger were some of the others. The anxiety of her addiction was so omnipotent that I could not define myself in any other way than as the daughter of an alcoholic. This internal identity crisis came into other people’s consciousness as well, as friends would ask "How’s your mum?" instead of "How’s work?", "How’s life?", "How are you?" I’ve learnt that it is common for those close to an addict to shift their identity away from anything distinctive about themselves towards an articulation of their addict’s latest impulses, relapses, and respites. Addiction doesn’t just swallow the user, it engulfs everything and everyone around them, too.