From when I was born to when I was about eight years old, there was one thing that I hated most: alcohol. I grew up with a father who had one favorite thing: drinking. Don't get me wrong, I love my dad. I love that he was able to stop drinking. I guess you could say sometimes I get stuck in the past. I see people drinking or I myself have a drink or two and it seems wrong. It doesn't seem right because in my mind alcohol is bad. Being the child of an alcoholic isn't easy, you see, or have seen, things you shouldn't have to. It's a story in its own.
The first few years of my life seemed to be very repetitive. Dad would go to work, come home, start drinking or leave with his friends to go drink. He wouldn't come home for hours or sometimes me and my mom would have to go find him. I remember one time we found him and he had wrapped his truck around a tree. I thought that this was normal. I believed that everyone's family was just like mine, but that's not true.
A nice drunk was far from what I was around. Dishes flying through the air or holes punched in the wall were common occurrences. My dad was an angry drunk. He wouldn't focus, but then again: how could he? His mind wasn't in the right state. I remember multiple times that my mom was forced to sweep me up and carry me out of the house because dad was erratic. It wasn't normal. I began to become resentful. I began to become angry and did not understand why I had to grow up with a daddy who liked alcohol so much.
One night when my mom, sister and I were at home, dad was outside drinking and cleaning his shot gun for hunting season. I was in bed when all of a sudden I heard a crash. My sister tried to shield me from what happened, but a five-year-old wants to see and know everything. My dad shot himself. My dad had been so careless and mind altered that he forgot to unload a stupid gun and almost lost his life. Alcohol was my enemy.
Towards the end of my dad's drinking problem, he finally decided that he needed to seek help through rehab. Mom and I would go to the rehabilitation center a couple times a week to see my dad. He just couldn't quit on his own, as most alcoholics can't. My dad saw his wrongdoings and always had something for me when I came to visit, bead bracelets or even little notes. I was finally gaining the father I always wanted.
Alcoholism isn't a joke. Some kids grow up with parents who can responsibly drink a glass of wine every night with dinner. Then you have kids like me who have a parent who cannot even touch alcohol. Growing up with a parent who suffers from alcoholism means you don't get to live a normal life. You deal with anger, confusion, and even being chosen second to a bottle. My dad got lucky. I got lucky. He was able to quit before it was too late. Many of my dads "drinking buddies" have since passed due to live failure. I can't be but so resentful because there was one thing that made him change. Family. He finally picked us over his obsession. Alcohol.
