#acholism

[katesbookobsession]

The Mess

The child bounds into her father’s bedroom, his figure still sleeping on the queen sized bed.  She uses the wooden foot posts to pull herself onto the bed, her little feet jumping around.  Her blanky in one hand that she holds up to her nose, wafting the scent of dirt mixed with laundry detergent.  Her mother follows in only a moment later.

The room is a mess. Piles of laundry, both dirty and clean, litter every flat surface: the old TV that hasn’t work in decades, the large oak dresser, the window seat, the bedside tables.  Dirty plates are piled on the ground by the bed, empty glasses lay on their sides.

The sleeping mass moves.

“Are you going to get up today?” the mother asks.

“Be quiet, Amy,” he snaps.

The child continues to jump around.

The mother moves around, picking up the dishes and the glasses.

“Stop touching my stuff, woman.  I’ll take care of it.”

“Yeah?  When? This plate has mold on it.”

They continue to yell, the child continues to jump.

“Dad, can we play?” she asks, moving up the bed.  The child uses the headboard as leverage to jump even higher.

It all happens in one quick motion.

The dad pulls the child, flipping her as she screams her giggles.  Her hand releases the blanky that she held against the headboard.  It falls behind, to the floor.

When the dad releases her, as her giggles subside, she stands back up.  She jumps over to the headboard, looking for her blanky – unaware of what was to come.

The child peers behind the headboard, she sees her blanky there.  

The mom saw what happened, she knew what would be next.  The child needs her blanky or she will cry, wailing, until she gets it.

“Mommy, what’s that?” she asks, pointing down.

“No, baby, don’t go back there,” the dad says.  “I’ll get your blanky later.”

“I’ll get, it’s not like you planned to get up anyways,” the mom rolls her eyes.

The mom leans behind the headboard, her arm already reaching.

The dad tries to stop her with one last attempt.

But it’s too late.  The mom’s face transforms into a livid, raging animal.  All she’s thinking is it fucking happened again.  The words race through her mind on a loop.  It’s a three-second song on repeat.

Her arm lifts above the headboard, an empty bottle of vodka, the black label reading a cheap brand that the child doesn’t understand.

“That’s it,” the mom breaths.  Her voice is calm, much calmer than her face. “That’s it.  I’m filing for divorce.”  The words are said as she pulls more and more bottles from behind the headboard.  Some of them are empty, bone dry, other’s are almost there, only a few more swigs left.

The child doesn’t understand what’s happening.  She doesn’t know what divorce is. She doesn’t know what the bottles mean.  She just picks up her blanky, jumps off the bed, and skips out of the room.

The child is completely unaware of that this one morning, that her blanky fell behind the bed, would be her first memory of her addicted father. And the last moment in her parent’s marriage.

[peacefullydisturbed-blog1]

At least the physical scars heal

My dad broke my heart before any boy even had the chance to

I was raised on empty promises and lies

Whats a mom and dad when you’re all alone

Questioning which dad was going to come home

Wondering if mom was even going to make it home

Maybe, this is why i thought abuse was normal

Maybe, this is why i accepted his apologies

I was always told sorries

I was always told it’ll never happen again

Only to watch it happen again

Maybe that’s why i was never surprised

I then found myself becoming that scared little girl again

Helpless, scared, alone

But hey, i was the love of his life

Just like my dad would tell me

And just like id tell my dad

I forgive you

Just like my dad , he’d hurt me again

Connecting dots throughout my childhood

It all makes sense to me now

After the mental abuse i’d always take back my dad

And after the physical abuse i’d always take him back

That’s the only way i know

Psychological warfare

A game i know far too  well

Will these mental scars ever heal?

Not if you keep reopening them.

[ahdrag]

Father.

I'm blessed.

 There are a lot of bad fathers out there. Luckily I didn't receive one of them. While my father is far from perfect, I owe the man that I am and the man I am becoming in part to him. He's asked very little of me over the years and has worked unfairly hard to try his best for myself and my two older sisters. He's been a role model both through his successes and through his mistakes as to the type of man I want to become. While it's fair to say he is far from perfect, I would still argue that there is no better man. No one else truly captures what it means to be a man better than he does.

 My father was an alcoholic. That was before my first memory. And I'm proud of him for having come so far, celebrating another year of sobriety. I've lived a life without that turmoil. A lot of people falter and he hasn't. I think that's when he came to truly find his passion; family. He's changed... a lot. When I say that I don't just mean from when he stopped drinking. Even over the last ten years he's grown and changed a lot. It's an inspiration that even still he's becoming a better person.

 Thanks to him in that regard, I've avoided ever running into that issue myself. I've learned from his mistakes. Or at least the major ones. And that's not said with any sense of bitterness or judgement.  It's spoken more out of gratitude. If he hadn't made the mistakes that he did, I know I would have. He's taught me valuable lessons and I'm grateful for that.

 This however isn't so much a story about his tribulations, so much as it's an appreciation of the impact he's had on my life. That's something I've never really talked to him about.

I know he loves me. He doesn't say it much. I can only assume he knows I love him as well. I also don't say it much. After all, I am my father's son right? I don't complain though. It's fitting. It makes it more impactful when we do say it. I've inherited my father's stoicism. For those who know me they'll know I don't show or express emotions all too well or all too often. My oldest friends tend to consider me emotionless. It's not the case. I've just learned that there's a time and a place to show what's in your heart. Sometimes you need to keep a straight face so enemies won't see weakness. Sometimes you need to keep that straight face so that loved ones can let you support them when they're weak. He's taught me when and how to be strong.

 I know growing up I fucked up a lot of things. And I know growing up there was a point I started to disappoint him. I threw a lot away. From high school on I lost myself. I squandered those years. I squandered my talents. I'm a genius, in the literal sense. I could have ended up doing anything I wanted. This is something he and others often told me. School was easy for me but I just didn't even bother with it. I half-heartedly pursued what I thought was my passion at the time; chess. And this is where the disappointment comes in. I didn't let him down because I disliked school. I didn't let him down because I loved chess. I let him down because I was depressed, and passionless. All he wanted was that I  was happy and that I found a passion and pursued it with my entirety. I let him down. I bitched out on the school work I was good at, by just not trying or caring. And I bitched out by loving chess and not following it completely. I half-assed it...as I always have.

 If I hadn't been so gutless and weak-willed to chase my dream he would have accepted that. But I was too much of a pussy to do everything it took to make it happen. He would have accepted any choice I made for myself so long as it was what I truly wanted. That's the kind of father people talk about being, but rarely live up to.

 I thought back then I had passion. I realise now what he meant. He's shown me what passion really is. He's believed that once I found my passion...my calling... that I could do great things with whatever I choose. I've found that peace. I've found that happiness. And I have my passion. Without him I wouldn't ever have realised I was missing it, and would have lived out a life of mediocrity. Something I now strive to leave behind.  Watch what I become dad. You had faith in me even when I didn't have faith in myself. Now I'll prove you right.

 He's taught me to fight for what I love. He's taught me to fight for what I believe in. A man fights for what's important, whether that fight be literal or metaphorical. He's also taught me that a man doesn't take shit. Pride and integrity aren't common things. They're outdated terms from years long past. My father however believed in these ideals and thanks to him they're a large part of who I am.

 My father put me on the path of what it truly means to be a man. A path I journey down further every day. Without his guidance I wouldn't be the man I am proud to be. And I wouldn't end up the man I intend to be.

 Dad, I think it's safe to say that while Joy and Jen might not have had stories identical to mine about growing up, that they would agree you have helped love and guide them to the women they've become. We love you. We're proud of you. And we're grateful for the choice you made to quit drinking all those years ago. Thank you for being a father men dream of being.

 And mom, don't think that you were any less important to us. We are every bit as grateful to you for all you've done and love you just as much. I can only imagine how much it was to deal with raising kids when he was still drinking. And how difficult it was to be around during that. So please don't feel like we don't appreciate you.