Growing up, my father was a beacon of faith and discipline, untouched by alcohol. He was so devoted to his beliefs that he wouldn’t even indulge in rum-flavored treats or dishes cooked with beer. The thought of him drinking was unimaginable; alcohol simply wasn’t a part of our lives.
However, everything changed during my teenage years. A series of heartbreaking events struck him one after another. The sudden loss of his mother in an accident left him in deep sorrow. Shortly after, he faced corporate downsizing, losing a career he had dedicated 25 years to, along with his dreams of early retirement. Attempts to start a business with former colleagues failed, and he settled for a corporate job that paid the bills but brought him no joy.
As he watched the life he built slip away, he fell into a deep depression. This was the turning point when he distanced himself from the church, and my mother, devoted to him above all, chose to follow. With the support system from our church gone, my father began to drink.
At first, he hid his drinking. He would come home from his unfulfilling job smelling of whiskey, and my mother would discreetly offer him mouthwash to mask the scent. She would help him change clothes while discussing the day’s events, ensuring he appeared somewhat engaged at dinner.
Eventually, he developed a passion for wine. He started collecting bottles, studying varieties, and memorizing pairings. For the first time, alcohol entered our home. It cleverly disguised his hidden drinking habits; he could sip Scotch in secret and still claim to just enjoy a glass of wine.
Before long, he missed significant moments in our lives. My brothers and I grew up and moved away—one joined the Navy, while the other pursued university in Vermont. My mother tried to hold everything together, but after a tumultuous period filled with drinking, arguments, and chaos, she left to protect her heart, and I understood her decision.
But what about me? He is my only father. As his health declined, I remained at his side, despite the pain of his addiction. I knew I couldn’t love him out of it, but I felt that walking away might lead to his demise. Yes, I had the right to set boundaries, but love complicated everything.
What followed was a harrowing journey. My father lost his job, his prized wine collection, and eventually, our family home. He faced DUIs, jail time, ambulance rides, and frantic calls to hospitals when he went missing. I spent sleepless nights caring for him after he fell, quietly cleaning up after him, and enduring heated arguments about his alcoholism when he was sober enough to engage.
Despite his struggles, he was never a mean drunk. Instead, he was remorseful and saddened by his situation. Our fights were filled with tears, a cycle that dragged on for years.
Occasionally, he would find some stability, getting a job and regaining my trust. I’d believe in him wholeheartedly, but he would inevitably succumb to temptation once more. It was a painful pattern; he was charming and warm when sober, a man who didn’t fit the stereotype of an addict.
Then things changed a few years ago. During one of his periods of sobriety, he fell in love. I can’t understand why my mother or my brothers and I weren’t enough, but her presence has helped him maintain sobriety more often than not. They’ve built a life together with stability and happiness, appearing to have conquered alcoholism.
Yet, beneath the surface, I know he still battles his demons. One brother has a child my father has yet to meet, their relationship strained by the tumultuous past. The other brother prepares for every family event with contingency plans, knowing that the joy can trigger his father’s drinking. This awareness is a protective measure, but it stems from a place of fear for our hearts.
I’ve stood by my father throughout his journey, constantly reminded of my loyalty. His gratitude is heavy, weighing down on me as I wipe the slate clean after every relapse. But this addiction is a beast; I know it could eventually take him from me. Despite our years together, my heart has braced for the day I could lose him.
I love him deeply, but I also keep my distance, afraid of the inevitable loss. Every day he remains a gift, and I try to appreciate the time we have, even if it’s shaped by trauma. While I’m grateful my childhood wasn’t destroyed by his alcoholism, it has undeniably impacted who I am today. As an adult, I navigate my own relationships and parent my daughters with the weight of this experience.
My dad seems to be on a promising path now, and I hold onto hope. Yet, my strength is waning from carrying all these clean slates for him. I often wonder if my choice to stay has truly helped him or made things worse.
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Summary:
The narrative explores the author’s emotional journey with a father who fell into alcoholism during her teenage years after experiencing profound loss and disappointment. Despite her father’s initial dedication to faith and sobriety, personal tragedies led him down a dark path of addiction. The author reflects on the pain of witnessing her father’s struggles, the impact on her family dynamics, and her own battles with love and boundaries. While her father has found some stability through a new relationship, the fear of losing him remains a constant weight on her heart.