Some Words...

I became a 'saver' at a very young age. My father is an alcoholic. Wow, that actually hurt typing those words out. I wonder if it's as painful for the addict to admit their addiction as it is for their child to acknowledge it? I'd love to be able to put the words 'recovering' in front of that word - alcoholic - but I can't. Although my dad doesn't drink nearly as much as he did when I was growing up, he is not 'recovering'. This time of year always ties me up in knots. Maybe it's the stress that comes from trying to divide my time between three sets of families (my parents are divorced and remarried), or maybe it's the stress that comes from knowing I'll have to be around my dad while he's knocking back a few 'hot totties' to get in the spirit of the holidays. I love my dad, there's never been a doubt in my mind about that, but I cannot erase all the years of damage his drinking has done to me. I can't remember the first time I realized my dad was an alcoholic, but I do remember the first time everyone else discovered he was. I was 14 and my dad came to see my gymnastic meet, he was intoxicated. He kept trying to talk to me in that loud voice that was supposed to be a whisper, only everyone else on the planet could hear him. I was embarrassed, not for me, for him. I knew that no matter how wonderful I thought my father was, all anyone else would see was his disease. My dad wasn't one of those stereotypical drunks, you know the ones we see the actors on tv portray? He was never violent towards me, he never missed a day of work - in fact he was a respected English Professor at a state college. My dad was a drunk but people still liked him. He was handsome and smart and knew how to be the life of the party. It was when he came home from the party too wasted to remember how to pull in the drive way without hitting the garage door, or take his shoes off, or his clothes before getting into bed. It was the hangover he had the next morning that made him too tired to watch cartoons with me, or play outside, or be - a real dad. It was the realization that alcohol would always come first and I would follow with a distant second. It was all these things that made me hate him, love him, want to save him. I tried to save him. I begged him to stop drinking, I hid his booze bottles, I took his car keys so he couldn't drive to the bar, I stole his wallet so he wouldn't have any money to buy more alcohol - but somehow he always found a way to drink. The person that ended up needing saving, was me. My mom divorced my dad and that left me, the one and only person my dad had in the whole world. He reminded me on a daily basis which put even more pressure on me to save him. I can tell you this, a life line can be pretty heavy for a 14 year old to carry. The weight of my dad's disease almost destroyed me many times. Once, he went to AA and I saw bits of hope. He stopped going because he said 'those people' were not like him, he could stop drinking whenever he wanted. If that was true, did that mean he actually chose to be a drunk over being my father? I've actually lost count on how many attempts I made to save him. They all sort of blur together from the first time he called me from jail after being picked up for a DUI to the last time he called me at 2 in the morning to tell me he loved me. I've discovered that words mean less when they come from the mouth of a drunk person. Eventually I stopped trying to save my dad, when I realized I had to save myself or risk losing a part of myself I may never be able to regain. It was so hard letting go of that burden, letting the life line go, and I felt guilty. One day I woke up and I felt broken. Broken from the string of failed relationships with men who reminded me of my father, men I tried to save but couldn't. I was broken from failures that were not my own, broken from failing myself. Then, I got angry. I was a kid, how could anyone expect me to save him? I was mad at my mom for leaving him and putting the burden of being his savior on me. I was mad that I never really got to be a child, a teenager, a young adult. I was forced to skip right over what were supposed to be the best years of my life, into the years that would scar me for the rest of my life. I did all I could do. I broke all contact from my dad for an entire year. He was devastated, he was pissed, he was lost. I could not find him, lift him up, make him happy. Eventually I was able to heal. After many therapy sessions I learned that the only person that could save my dad, was himself.

It's been many years since that 14 year old self blushed with embarrassment over my dad's drunkenness. My dad actually doesn't drink much anymore, at least not around me. I know he's still an alcoholic and yes, that realization still hurts, but I've learned that I cannot change who he is. I've learned that when he's determined to have those 'hot totties' to get in the holiday spirit, it's time for me to go, to leave that place that ties me up in knots and return to the sanctuary I've constructed for myself. That place used to be built of steel, miles and miles of never ending barricades, but now, it's built of love - for myself. Now I'm the one who can put the word 'recovering' in front of her name.