A responsibility that was never mine to carry

My dad drank. Somewhere along the way, I came to believe that perhaps I could help him stop. Perhaps if I said the right thing, behaved the right way, or was there for him enough, things might be different.

Of course, I know now that his drinking was never my responsibility. But when you’re a child, understanding something intellectually and knowing it in your heart can be two very different things.

My dad was from a very large family in Northern Ireland, and, at his core, he was a really lovely soul. He was wise, intelligent and cared deeply for my brother and me. There was so much about him to love, and that is important to me when I tell this story.

But there was also the drinking

As much as I loved my dad, he was one of the funniest people I have ever known. He could read people so well, picking up on the slightest nuance in their expression, and children and animals seemed to be magnetically drawn to his warmth.

But he could also be difficult to deal with when he was drunk, or when he was getting drunk. There was often an uncertainty around what version of him you were going to get.

I remember feeling uncomfortable bringing friends home, never quite knowing what they might witness or how things might feel. It could be isolating in a way that is hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it.

When my mum eventually left my dad, I stayed with him for a while, but his drinking spiraled out of control. He’d lost himself completely. He would get into fights, our house would be full of drunks, and all the while I was trying to do my A-levels. It was a tough time.

Looking back, I can see how alone I felt. I loved him and I worried about him, and I didn’t want to abandon him. Perhaps I felt responsible for him in some way too. I certainly believed I could change him. But eventually, I reached a point where I couldn’t stay any longer.

That was incredibly difficult

There is a particular kind of heartbreak in loving someone and knowing that love alone cannot save them. I think for many years I held both the love and the pain quietly inside me, without really knowing where to put either.

My dad’s drinking eventually led to Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome, and with that came another layer of loss. Watching someone you love become unwell because of alcohol is painful and complicated.

There can be sadness, anger, guilt, love, grief and relief all sitting alongside one another. Sometimes all at once.

And yet, within all of this, there was something unexpectedly beautiful too. When my dad moved into a care home, it meant I could visit him with my son and witness a strong and beautiful bond grow between the two of them.

If I could go back, I’d tell my younger self that none of it was her fault. That she didn’t cause his drinking. That she couldn’t control it and that leaving when she could no longer stay did not mean she didn’t love him.

In many ways, painting has become my great healer

Before I paint, I often journal directly onto the canvas. I write the words, thoughts and feelings that need somewhere to go. Sometimes they are things I haven’t said out loud. Then, slowly, I paint over them, layer by layer, until something beautiful begins to emerge.

The words are still there. They haven’t been erased.

They are simply held beneath something new.

There is something about that process that feels like a transformation in itself. I don’t paint to forget. I paint, perhaps, to make space for what happened and to find a different way of carrying it.

Painting the sea feels particularly connected to that healing journey. The sea has always felt like such an honest metaphor for life to me. There are times when the tide pulls away and times when it returns. There are calm waters and storms. You never really know what’s going on beneath the surface and nothing stays exactly the same.

More recently, I painted a piece called Surrendered Love. I think, without fully realising it at first, much of my work has become a conversation with the things I have had to learn about love: that you can love someone deeply and still need boundaries; that you can forgive without pretending something didn’t hurt; and that sometimes the most loving thing you can do is let go of a responsibility that was never yours to carry.

My dad was more than his drinking

He was my dad. A man with wisdom, warmth and a deep love for his children, who also had an illness and an addiction that caused pain and changed all of our lives.

And perhaps healing, for me, has been learning that I am allowed to honour the man I loved while also honouring the child I was, and everything she felt.

If sharing my experience helps just one person feel a little less alone, then I am glad I found the courage to put these words somewhere other than beneath a layer of paint.

Sharon

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