30 June 2012
When I was little, my dad was always my rock. So stable, so safe. But at some point, that changed. I'm not sure when, but it did.
My dad has always been one to appreciate a good whiskey. Or a beer with dinner. Or maybe a glass of wine on the porch on a Saturday evening. But somewhere along the line, something changed. I don't know when.
But suddenly, something changed. Suddenly, daddy wasn't safe anymore. Suddenly, the glass of wine turned into a bottle, the beer with dinner turned into several, and the whiskey seemed omnipresent instead of occasional.
I was maybe seven years old when I started to see the connection, and even though I didn't understand, it scared me. Instead of begging to dip a finger in daddy's beer, and then grimace and spit from the taste, I started crying and tried to take it away. And he started to get angry. To get mean.
Before I knew it, my dad was mean every night. And I was scared. So I fled. Fortunately, I chose the right place, and the right people. I fled to the stable. It was my safe house.
This was a big part of my growing up. Probably bigger than I like to admit to. But now I'm not scared anymore. Not for myself anyway. But for my sister. For the danger he is putting her in when he gets drunk and passes out in the house, or in the boat with a bunch of candles lit, or the stove turned on, or any of the other things he does. I am so scared for her.
And I am so disgusted by what he does to her. Because it is exactly what he did to me. And when my ten year old sister comes up to me and whispers "Is daddy drunk again?" it makes me so sad, and so insanely angry. But the thing that upsets me the most is that I still don't know what to do about it. I don't know how to save her from him. Or save him from himself. I know nothing more now than I did ten years ago. That's what really scares me.
My Drunken Dad • Opuss № I