That’s what it was like for me, anyway.
I had never imagined that the very traits in which I found myself absolutely repulsed by when it was my father sitting in the drunken seat, would become my own and I’d have a throne that embraced me like no other.
Growing up, being a young girl, naive to the cold, hard fact that my father was, indeed, a drunk — I would have never guessed that I’d meet the same fate. I had not quite fathomed at such a tender age that because my father, and his father and his father, was an alcoholic, that I was sentenced to its predisposition.
It is an idea that is vaguely explored but rarely, nor thoroughly, explained. I’d like to believe that if my father had been informed, with precise explanation, that his addiction was a potential precursor to the inevitable addiction of his only child, he might have surrendered himself to sobriety much sooner.
He’s a good man in that way.
At 30 years of age, with 172 days of sobriety under my belt, I have learned more about him than I could have ever by simply conversing with him. To truly understand him, in ways that most probably never will, it was essential to see things from his perspective. It was a gesture that my anger and resentment would not allow, and was almost entirely impossible by encompassing the vision of a mere onlooker.
My anger and resentment, along with many new items of emotion that found a home within me, had eventually, and very relentlessly, steered the course of my life toward an immensely dark and desolate corner of the world. I had become a recluse, indulging in isolation, dipping my tears deep into countless bottles of Jose Cuervo and songs of Etta James.
It was not a transformation whose catalyst was a trifling overnight. There were no obvious signs in the beginning. It commenced with a beer, a beer that had graduated to smooth shot glasses filled with the abrasion of hard alcohol and made its final emergence in the shape of a 750ml bottle that was drained of its solace in one sitting.
For a time, I was quite content with this newfound loneliness, convinced that I was in dire need of its presence in order to sustain survival. I fooled myself into digging my heels deep into the faith that I was not an alcoholic. I simply liked to drink.
Don’t we all, to a degree?
Isn’t that what we’re told? That a beer or two or three is exactly what we need after a day of labor? Aren’t we exposed to this hyper-glamorized idea that shot after shot is not only normal, but encouraged? Is our music not filled with lines of drunkenness? Will it ever be possible to watch the Super Bowl without million dollar halftime commercials telling us that we need a beer or two or three?
“Drink responsibly”.
Irresponsibility is the key component of alcoholism, and I hadn’t come to the realization, just how irresponsible I had been until I was forced to endure the repercussions of my actions. By then, it was much too late a realization.
Those once-upon-a-time, and seemingly unrequited, feelings of anger and resentment towards my father have now become daily occurrences geared at my existence any time I dare to peer at my reflection. Puzzled. Some days, I see the young girl, saddened by the throws of her father’s worst days. Others, I see the woman still clawing her way out of those same depths.
I was once a very exasperated girl; all too often drowning in the anguish of my life. I frequently wondered if my father loved me, confused by the idea that he did because to a child, it is very black and white — you do not harm those in which you claim to love. Yet, day after day, I was defined by a new trauma.
With full awareness, I understand now, the notion that it is possible to love and harm all in one fell swoop of a fleeting moment, without true intent of the latter.
I gaze at my children, roaming the stretches of our backyard, and ponder about what an absolute devastation it would be if they ever believed that they are without their mother’s love, and in the same regard, I would not be riddled with upset if they did. To a child, it is very black and white — you do not harm those in which you claim to love. It is a concise division of good and evil that I find, not very difficult at all, to comprehend, for I have been that child.
However, I am no longer the child. I am now the adult. While it is an untroubled task to cast blame upon my father for this predisposition, it is neither fair to him, nor crucial to my own sobriety, to shun the idea that I am, and have always been, in charge of my own fate in life.
I have disentangled the knots of bewilderment, recognizing the reasons that my father had for not blaming his father, and his father. And with that, I have faith that this cognizance will ultimately break the cycle, ending the predisposition for my children, and theirs.
But it remains….
The funny thing about being an alcoholic is often being taken aback by the fact that such a label is fitting to the duress that is now your life.
Alcoholism.
It is very much like a disease; nobody wants it but anyone can get it. It can even be hereditary.
-Jess.
