My father has been an “alcoholic” most of my life.
I put the word in parentheses because I believe he would call it something different.
His choice of drink when I was younger was scotch on the rocks. He had a pretty crystal decanter that he would fill up from the plastic bottle he’d bring home in a brown paper bag.
My dad left our house when I was 19, a freshman in college.
Since then, my family has struggled to rebuild itself time and time again. Each one of us having our “moments” of defeat and triumphs, usually happening at different times. We’re all here making the best of a sad situation that took place years ago.
I can point fingers. I can call a spade a spade and say if this didn’t happen, then these other things wouldn’t be happening, but that would be foolish, pointless.
I remember my mother telling me when I was younger to not want to grow up so fast. Easier said than done, yes? I wish I would have listened to her, but my childhood and childish ways were taken from me the day he left for the airport. It really wasn’t up to me in the end.
I’ve been a parent longer than I have had children. Wishing and hoping, dreaming and worrying for my people. It is absolutely exhausting and frightening. You can say so much, but it’s not up to me to make the change. I can talk till I’m blue in the face and plead and beg to stop the inevitable, but it’s just wasted breath, or it has been up to this point.
All you can do is offer support and naive guidance and pray and pray that the phone never rings with news that there won’t be a tomorrow.
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