The Man I’ll Never Know
Anonymous // March 15, 2013
His words hit me like a metal pipe to the back of the head. My body went numb, the blood drained from my heart and pooled at the bottom of my feet. I had no more fight left in me, nothing more to give this man. I needed help.
Hello, my name is _______, and my father is an alcoholic.
I have these wonderful memories of being held in my dad’s arms while he danced to Rod Stewart in the living room. I remember the feel of his silk, buttoned shirt against my cheek and the sound of his voice singing the ballads. He would sing Purple Heather like it was written just for me.
To me, my father is two men. He is a sweet, caring father who would do anything for his little girl. The other man consumes mass amounts of alcohol so he can believe he is that other person. I know the alcoholic well. I know his short temper, his slurred voice and his slumped over posture. I have only caught a glimpse of the other person over the years. That person doesn’t talk, he hides behind a computer or a television or a book. He hides from the world and he hides from me.
My mother worked hard to hide his drinking problems from me. She would send me to bed when my dad came home. She would spend extra time making up for the father that never seemed to be around. She fought on the front line every day to keep me from seeing the person my father became when he drank. But my protector died when I was just a child of 13. And a part of my dad died with her, leaving me to pick up the pieces.
As he said, “It’s just you and me now. We have no one else but each other.” I believed him for a long time. But what he really meant was, all he had was me. I would be the only person to take care of him, carry him up the stairs, put the bottles and cans away and tell him everything will be okay.
I’ve spent a big chunk of my life dedicated to helping him and coaxing him to change. I believed if he could just change his lifestyle, then my life would be better too. Everything I did was to help us so we could be okay.
It was the spring, and my third year of university when I planned my final attempt to change him. The winter had been a long six months of continuous binge drinking and pointless arguments targeted at me. But I believed I was going to stop this cycle once and for all.
I had spent the previous nights writing out a bulletproof speech. I recited it over and over, pinching myself every time tears started to build up. I was training for a battle and I was prepared to win.
The sun was setting, reds and purples painting shadows on the table where we sat. Our conversation was casual, but as the empty cans began piling up the conversation turned bitter. His slurred words became the background to my thoughts.
Finally, I burst out in speech. I told him how he’s hurting himself, how he’s hurting us and how he’s hurting me. I hadn’t taken a single breath, too afraid I might cry. When I stopped talking, I could barely look at him.
He didn’t say a word. He just stared through me like a wild dog preparing to fight. All the love I had known from him had disappeared. It was like he no longer knew who I was or why I was there.
I tried to speak again, but he cut me off. He denied it all. He shovelled my words into the ground like they never existed. I was furious; I raised my voice and repeated the chorus of my speech, “Your drinking hurts me.” His eyes flickered with annoyance as I drew in a deep breath and wiped away my tears.
‘If you don’t like it than you can fucking leave. There’s the door.’
And that was it. I had lost the battle, and was realizing this was a war I would never win.
I had pushed away the idea of seeking help all my life because I never thought it was serious enough. I had never been physically abused so the situation with my father seemed almost insignificant. And I had my pride. But this final fight with my father made me reconsider. I had nothing left to lose. I went to a counsellor.
She made me think about the last 21 years of my life. I told her all the memories I had of my father and his drinking, all my feelings and fears associated with his problem. The mantra she had me repeat was, ‘you cannot change him.’ We would circle back to this again and again until, finally, something clicked. Something sunk in.
I cannot change my father. I cannot save him. I can only save myself.
