My dad is complicated. He makes the lives of those around him either full of laughs, or full of stress. He is the epitome of a pain in the ass.
When I was younger, my dad was the only thing in my universe (besides my grandmother (his mother)), who I absolutely adored in every way possible), and it bothered my mother to no end. As I got older I understood, but to a little girl, a daddy is everything. He gives you love, attention, presents. He is there for the fun parts of life and lets mommy handle the nos and reprimands. At least, that’s how it worked in our house. If you wanted something, better to go to dad first and incur the wrath of mom later. This is how it worked, for a very long time. Well, a long time in my eyes. Too long, really.
When I started elementary school, things began to come clear. Things I either never saw, or couldn’t comprehend as a little girl, were presented to me in an almost blinding light. The man who was my favorite thing in the world, my daddy, was a horrible husband, an alcoholic, a wife abuser, and a straight-up awful person.
I suppose the abuse he put my mother through had been going on for years. The alcohol and (what I’ve been told) cocaine, were to blame. After all, it is a disease. Right? This disease that made him drink so much that he would verbally abuse my mother, punch holes in the wall, and eventually cheat on her with the nanny and divorce her. It wasn’t my dad, it was the drugs. It wasn’t his fault.
After the divorce, life was confusing. My dad and the nanny moved to Florida, and my mom packed my sister and I into the car and followed them. I suppose this was because my dad was a bad husband, not a bad father, and if we wanted to see him, and have him support us, we would have to follow him wherever he went. Looking back, I doubt he deserved this much kindness.
Life was pretty good in Florida, besides the neighbors who liked to argue and throw things onto our patio. Dad would come to visit frequently and take us out to eat, or to get ice cream. He’d even let us sit in his lap and steer the car once we got into the neighborhood. I think he dis this to earn our praise and love. To show that he is more fun to be around than our mom. And he was, as long as he was sober.
My mother started dating. We were relatively happy, I thought.
My grandmother came to visit often. I was always heartbroken to see her go. I went from living a five minute walk from her front door, to living hundreds of miles away (Florida to North Carolina). She also spoiled me, but not in a needy way, just in a loving way. One day she asked my mother if I could go back to North Carolina to visit the rest of the family. I’m not sure if she gave in easily, but she let me go. It turned out that my grandmother was not taking me back for a visit, she was taking me back for good. From what I understand she told my mother that it was time to move back, and that I was not going to be returning to Florida. If my mom wanted to see me again, she’d have to move back. I’ve actually never asked what really happened, but this is what I was told by my mother when I was younger. I was elated. A few weeks later, my mother came back with my sister. My dad and the nanny followed behind. I guess my dad really did want to be with his kids.
My mother lost a lot of weight. She was depressed, but a kid doesn’t know that. She was starving. She needed food, and, oddly enough, my father. I’m not sure of the time frame, but eventually he came back into our lives. Not willingly, but forcibly, after the nanny left him and took everything he had. My dad, devastated at this betrayal, walled himself up in a hotel room, drank himself into a stupor, and shot a shotgun into the ceiling. The police were called, and he was sent to the psych ward for a weekend. They determined that he was fine. My mother gladly accepted him back into our lives. That’s when I began to hear voices.
I don’t remember much about life at this point in time. Little snippets stand out in my mind, but sometime between my dad coming back to us, and my dad punching my mom in the face, I began to hear a voice in my head. I never understood what it was saying though. It was deep, and slow. Like on TV when they show someone talking in slow motion. It was so loud, and so deep, and so slow. It was terrifying. I’d run into the bathroom and sit beside the toilet, flushing it over and over again to try and drown out the sound, only to hear it continuing after the boil was filled. I got in trouble for flushing so often. I was told to ignore it. I was seven. I also began having panic attacks. They were so bad the doctors thought I may have a heart condition. I wore a heart monitor for 24 hours, but the doctors confirmed that there was nothing wrong with me.
The voice continued for a while. I don’t know how long. I don’t remember the last time I heard it. I don’t even remember when I noticed that it had gone, but one day it stopped and never returned. I continued getting panic attacks, and still have them to this day.
My dad continued to drink, and whatever else he did. He’d take my sister and I on long road trips, out into the bad towns. He’d leave us in the car, parked on the side of the street with the window cracked. He’d tell us he’d be right back. He’d be gone for 20-30 minutes. He’d come back out with a sudden burst of energy, and a paper bag. “Don’t tell your mother where we went today,” he’d say. I’m not sure if I ever did, but she always knew.
Life was hard. The days I’d come home from school and dad would skip dinner were bad days. The yelling, the holes punched in the walls, the doors ripped off hinges. (They really should make mobile homes more sturdy). The beer bottles piled up in the garbage can the next day, dad snoring on the couch, mom shrieking and whispering at the same time “don’t wake your father!” She looked as worn out as we were, but it was a different kind of worn out. We were tired from fear and crying, she was tired from fighting the person she loved most. That person she loved wasn’t really there though. The alcohol would drown him. He would revive a day or two later, happy, lovable, and refreshed. Confused as to why I wasn’t amused by his antics, his jokes. My dad was a beast with two faces. He was the best and the worst. He was a good father and a terrible husband.
He is still controlling, still an alcoholic. I no longer live at home, and no longer ask about his behavior, but my mother seems to be happy. He is her burden. I wonder what it’s like to love something that takes all the sparkle from you. To love two people, who live in one body. To be both afraid and in love with the person you have chosen to spend your entire life with. To walk on egg shells, forever. The smell of beer evoking panic. The glazed look in his eyes making your blood boil. To know the fear he has caused your children. The anxiety, the heartache. To know all of this, yet still love him. To love him the most. What kind of life must that be like?
My dad is the weakest person I know. His mind, his actions, his self-control is not his own. He is a slave to his addiction. I’ve never really considered alcoholism to be a disease, I consider it a weakness. A need, a desire, to escape. To become a person that seems like a good idea at the time. To regret, and to repeat. I pity the life he has chosen for himself. I hope that in another life, he can be happy with himself. That he can truly throw off the shackles of addiction and live up to his potential. I hope that in another life he can truly be loved, without fear, without pity. I know the sober part of him deserves it. He is my dad, and I love him.
Everything And All The Things 