I grew up not knowing that my father was an alcoholic 

I am 39 years old. I lost my father when I turned 30. I grew up not knowing that my father was an alcoholic.

But I did grow up in a house where he and my mother fought constantly. He was never physically aggressive to her, but he threatened her more than once.

I remember sitting at the top of the stairs, listening to him shout, “I will break your fucking neck!” and “Your demons! It’s your demons!”

(My mother grew up with an alcoholic mother who recovered with the sheer amount of will power she had and the fact that my mum was expecting me and was told she would never see me if she was drinking. My gran got sober and remained sober until the day she died). 

The smell

I remember the smell of the house. The stale, yet sweet smell almost every morning when my father was drinking heavily.

I grew so used to it that it didn’t seem abnormal. I did sometimes wonder why my friends’ houses did not smell the same as mine did. Their dads did not smell the same as mine did. 

Bouts of sobriety

I loved my father. I truly did. I still do. I was a daddy’s girl. I wanted his approval. I wanted him to be proud of me.

When he had his bouts of sobriety, we lived happily, laughing, joking, me and my dad going to meet my mum finishing her work, getting take out and an Azad video rental on a Friday night, playing the mega drive together, laughing, joking, bickering when I stole the dinosaur mount on Golden Axe out from under him. Playing Streets of Rage, him as Axel and me as Blaze.

It was ‘normal’. 

The cycle

But it was not normal. It was a cycle.

The fights, the threats, me leaving the house when I became old enough to walk to my gran’s house. She would say nothing, just put on food and give me a hot meal and someone to just sit quietly with. 

Then the tears, reconciliation, love bombs and all would be fine for a while and round and round it went. 

An unpredictable home

My dad worked night shifts; he was intelligent, resourceful, proud.

He was a social worker, working with children who had come from some absolutely hellish home conditions, and yet, his own child was growing up in an unpredictable home with a mother who tried her best but she also grew up with an alcoholic mother and yes, it had a lasting impact on her but that was not my mum’s fault. 

Finally, he was fired for showing up to work with a drink in him and falling asleep. I had just turned 21 and my mum threw him out and filed for divorce. She couldn’t handle it anymore. 

Lonely and isolated

I failed my degree year as I never saw my dad and when I spoke to him on the phone, he was angry, irrational, and drunk.

I felt lonely and isolated as I was the only one in my friend group going through something like parents getting divorced.

My mum met someone right away, leaving me feeling abandoned by the only person left in my life that I could trust. My father’s parents were dead, his sister a chronic alcoholic and his brother morbidly obese with food addiction. My mother’s parents did what they could but I was angry.

I started drinking to excess on nights out with the girls from work, coming home sick, sleeping all day then going out the next night and doing it again with my old school friends (none of which I am in contact with anymore). 

Eventually, my mother and I found a small flat, our own space but she moved out quite soon after as I had a full-time job, and her new partner had asked her to move in. I do not blame my mother as she was also in a terrible situation but I had to give up my dream at the time to go into teaching so I could work full time to afford our flat. 

Now, at 39, I know now that teaching was not my calling. 

I still had no idea he was an alcoholic

However, over the years, my relationship with my dad improved a bit but I became his unwitting drinking buddy when I was with him.

I drank more when I was with my dad than I did anywhere else and yet, I still had no idea he was an alcoholic, and I had no idea that I had addictive tendencies. 

Then the sickness and totally unrelated hospital visits started to pick up the pace. So, he would say. Hospital stays, pneumonia, flu, anything. He was good at averting the truth about why he kept being sent into hospital.

He would take himself to Thailand for weeks at a time, to stay with his brother, who also drinks too much, as well as his food addiction. They would eat and drink for weeks on end, with my dad strung out when he would return home.

My father then broke his back. He was going away for a few days, but I got a call from a hospital in England, asking me to travel down there, alone, to a place I had never heard of, never mind go there. I had just started a new job, temping, as I had been made redundant from the lawyers office, I was admin in. I refused.

I finally got it; my dad was ill. He had a fit while driving, threw himself from the car and was most likely hit by another car. But he would never admit that, if he could even remember it. 

Getting on with life

I finally got what I would call my dream job, a support worker at a university for students with disabilities. I got the job when I turned 29. 

My father was proud, I had earned that from him. I felt amazing. He also helped fund a very important surgery I had at 26 years old; a breast reduction and he was so proud and happy for me as I was getting on with life. I also moved into a new flat, with an absolute saint for a landlady who I am still with. 

The call

Then, I received the call at 30 years old. While I was sitting in a 4-hour exam with a student on April 29th, 11.30 in the morning. Actually, I received 17 calls from my cousin. I knew something was wrong. I had not spoken to my father the fortnight previous as we had a falling out. I thought my dad was just in the hospital again. 

Wrong. My father was dead. 

I hung up on my cousin, and just went back to the exam, ready to scribe for the student again. The invigilator and student asked me what was wrong, and I just simply said, my dad just died. I was ushered out of the room, my bag was packed and told to call someone and go home. 

I remember collapsing in the middle of the street, screaming that my dad was gone. I remember a lecturer stopping and helping me up, asking if there was anything she could do. I remember meeting my mum, going to her home, staying with her.

Operating on autopilot

I remember planning the funeral, gutting out my dad’s home….a hoarded but strangely organised mess (another trait I have picked up from him but I keep tight control on my hoarding tendencies).

I remember seeing his death certificate. Burst polyps in his throat, cirrhosis of the liver, oesophageal tearing. My dad drowned in his own blood.

Thankfully he was not alone in his home when he died. His doctor was with him as my aunt (who was in recovery at that time felt my dad was not right). I couldn’t bear to think about my dad dying all alone. 

I paid for the funeral, with the sum of money that was sitting in his bank account, I closed his accounts down, I had to do everything and I had no idea what to do so I operated on autopilot, sitting in tears in the bank with an angel of a worker who stayed with me for hours out of her day, making sure that I was alright and taking care of my dad’s finances. 

I fought for his death gratuity from his work and I got it. 

But I would give anything to have him back and I still would. 

Lasting effects

However, I have had many lasting effects from my dad’s alcoholism and death. 

I have a deep rooted fear of being alone, despite naturally being a very isolated creature. I do not let people in as I have been betrayed too many times. I only have a few close friends whom it took me years to let into my life. 

I live with my best friend, who also lost her father to alcohol. 

I have a fear of rejection, I cannot stand confrontation, have acute social anxiety and cannot stand being in closed or small spaces.

I have on-off depression spells and I cannot be near anyone who is drinking. I cannot go into bars as fight or flight takes over and I have to flee. I cannot stay out at night as I get so overwhelmed and anxious that I just need to get home. 

Trust

My friend came home drunk from a night with her work 2 years ago. She doesn’t go out with them often but if she does, I am sick with anxiety. She came home and verbally assaulted me with the most hateful words that I had heard from someone who I see as my soulmate. Someone I love dearly.

I felt like a little girl again, with an enraged father standing in front of me.

She said it was my demons, I was boring, everything wrong with her life was my fault. That I don’t do anything, that I control her, I stop her having fun. We are both almost 40….and something about 40 year old women spending all their time in bars, there is nothing fun about that and I know, she thinks so too as we prefer day trips, good food, spending time with our dog, having our 2 close friends over for meals that she cooks, she loves to host. 

She remembered nothing the next day but, I eventually spoke to her about it, calmly, with aid from my mum and she said she would never hurt me like that again and 2 years later, she has not. But, it has not repaired the damage that she did to me that night and I will never trust her fully again. 

Not knowing when to stop

I struggle with having alcohol in the house and if I do have a drink, I do not know when to stop. So I prefer to be teetotal.

I have gotten better but, my friend loves a small glass of wine every now and again with her dinner. I used to stare at it, not being able to take my eyes off it.

I have gotten better and I make light of it now….a ‘sip sip’ I call it. I know it can get on her nerves, but she totally understands. I know that her having one glass of wine will not make her an alcoholic. 

I refuse to let it define me

I have lasting guilt, anxiety, fear of abandonment, fear of many things.

Some people close to me think that I am on the spectrum with all the unconscious repetitive comfort things I do. With how I have issues with smells in my home, I need it to smell clean and fresh.

Some believe I have PTSD from the years of living with an alcoholic father.

I struggle with so many things, but I refuse to let it define me anymore. I have anxieties and mental health issues, but I get on with my life as far as I can and avoid certain situations that send me into an episode. 

I am not to blame

However, I would have my father back in a heartbeat. I miss him terribly and think about him at some point every single day. The anger is gone, the betrayal is gone, that he picked alcohol over me.

My father was a very ill man as alcoholism is an illness, not something he could just shake off. His pride however would not let him admit that he had a problem.

Today, I think about the good times and that his issues were not my fault. I am not to blame for what was wrong with my father.

I loved him and I accept that he is gone. Do I wish he was still with me? Yes, but only in the event that he got help for his addiction. 

This has been extremely hard to get down on paper, to get my thoughts out there. It has also been cathartic and in a way, good to get out there. So that someone else can read my story and can relate to it in some way. 

I believe women who are adult children of alcoholics respond very differently and also whether the parent is the mother or father. My male cousin responded totally differently to his mother. My mum responded totally differently to her mother, and I responded differently to my alcoholic father. 

It is not your fault

Just remember, it is not your fault and the awful, cutting words they may say in a fit of rage, are not actually about you. It is all about them and their unhappiness.

Everyone lashes out when they are angry. Sadly, an alcoholic seems to be angry so much more often as they start withdrawals, or they have that drink that pushes them from being the life of the party to the demon from the dark. 

I do carry many demons from my father. I will never be a mother; I never want to be. I do not believe I would be a good mother. However, I adore my dog. My best boy. He is everything.

I adore my friend I live with even if she can drive me up the wall and I with her.

I have slowly come to terms that I am not the same as everyone else. I have deep rooted scars and trauma that I may never get over. But I can live with that. With the support of those around me who understand and care.

L-A

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