#2. No Where To Go But Up, Right?

Wrong.

My father, now left the daunting task of raising 2 little girls alone. A newborn baby and a toddler at that.

The stories that I am going to tell you now and moving forward might push you to paint my father as the villain, but I’d like to encourage you to step back and see this from more than just 1 perspective. Try your best to imagine the pain of a widowed husband, the fear of a father doing it all alone, and the agony of a vulnerable man who has no idea where to go from where he is.

I remember moments of my early childhood, but only moments. My dad was what some would call a "functional alcoholic". He worked more than full-time as a computer programmer to be able to afford to raise us on his own. Most of my life, I have been able to find my dad tucked away behind his computer desk, throwing himself into his work.

As early as I can recall, my dad would be assigned these work projects with a deadline. Let's say he had two months to complete a project, he would go on a 6 week bender and get the project done up to perfection in the 2 weeks before it became due. Typically with only hours to spare. Sometimes even staying up for 2 days at a time. I vividly remember going to sleep at night while my dad was working only to wake up the next morning and he hadn't ever gone to bed. As a little girl, I always looked up to him for being able to create programs that exceeded the expectations of his superiors, while he was just completely winging it.

Without the understanding of how outside of normalcy this behavior was, how could I not admire him?

I didn’t wind up making the correlation between my dad and his drinking until I was about 4 years old. That's when I started to take notice of the other kids at daycare and their loving relationships with their parents.

Throughout my childhood, I was always extremely attached to my dad. Gripped by the fear that I could potentially lose him too, I developed a pretty intense case of anxiety at a very young age. I'd chase him to the daycare exit every morning at drop off. Tears running down my face, throwing myself against the glass doors, screaming for him to come back.

Not once in my life did I ever fall asleep at naptime. Most days, naptime would come around & I could be found in a dark corner crying myself into a full on panic attack. An adult would come crouch down next to me as I whimpered and sobbed for my mother, or how I wanted my dad to come get me. I'd beg to be taken to be with my sister who was in the classroom down the hall. Some days were so painful, they would give in and walk me down to Allyson's classroom. Being with my sister at school was the only sure-fire way to keep me calm while I impatiently waited for my dad to come back to get us.

The uncertainty of not knowing which version of my dad I would get on which days kept me on my toes. I was either going to get the father whose breath was soaked in Jim Beam or the father who was so sorry for drinking and would promise me he would be better. The ratio of those days was about 6:1 a week.

If you weren't raised by someone who struggled with addiction, it could feel impossible to understand how or why I couldn't I just hate him as a whole person. Though, as the daughter of an addict- it's not as complicated as it seems to everyone else.

Once I understood what it was to be intoxicated, I developed a certain understanding of my dad. I always knew that my dad loved me so much, but that at any moment, the whiskey was going to take him away from me once again. I kept my relationship with my sober father & my reckless father completely separate. I had to if I wanted any semblance of my emotions to survive. Now that I'm grown, I have no regrets in thinking the way I did as a kid. A person is not their addiction. Without a doubt I know this to be true, & little me always knew that too. My home life was dark and strange to say the least. I found I spent most of my time indoors- alone. I was a very quiet child. My dad would lock himself in his room for hours or days and our only job was not to disturb him. I learned to do most things without causing even the slightest stir in the house. I watched tv with the volume only turned up to 2, I only spoke in whispers, slowly opened & closed things like my toybox and cabinet doors, & I tip-toed everywhere.

There were 2 versions of my dad when he was drunk. (lots of versions of my dad to keep up with, I know.) The angry yelling one & the one that wanted to party. Honestly, the most difficult part of navigating those versions of him was that one could leave and the other could show up without a moments notice. When he was angry he could say things that would instantly put me into fight or flight mode. The words in his anger could fill your mind with feelings of complete and total worthlessness, fear, and a heartache that cut so deep, you didn't want to live anymore. The fear tactics were some of the most painful memories of those moments.

There were 2 things you did not do in our house, unless you had a death wish.

1. Do not pour out his bottle. As I got older, my dad got really good at hiding his whiskey. Each year that I got smarter, he would become more clever. Sometimes it would take me over an hour to find where he had hidden it. He would be passed out on the bathroom floor and I'd be quietly stepping over him searching everywhere frantically to find the bottle before he woke up.

2. Never, ever, ever, ever call his mother. If you do, you're a traitor. You're his worst enemy, and you will be punished. I remember clearly the times I did call my grandmother. I called her when I was truly fearful of what my dad was about to do. I called the only person who could help us. The worst part is, she never came to the rescue. My dad always managed to convince his mom that everything was fine- we were fine.. & she always believed her son.

If you did either of those 2 things, you found yourself in deep trouble. He would lash out, using our biggest fears against us. He would start looking at boarding schools online. I remember him telling us how certain he was that the only answer was to send us away. We didn't deserve to live with him.

This scared me so much, because if we were sent away- no one would be there to make sure he didn't die. These situations would leave me crying harder than I ever have, even to this day. I'd beg him for mercy & promise to be better.

When all along, it was him who so desperately needed to be better.

If my dad wanted to party, he would put us into the car and take us to one of his friends "houses". I say houses in quotations because these places were practically condemned and resided in literal dumps with piles of trash taller than the trailer homes everywhere around them. Most of the time we would go to Brett's. I loved Brett. Even though he was very much an addict, he never acted crazy around us. He had a way with kids and would even play with us sometimes. If my dad was passed out, he would comfort us with lies that he was totally fine and not to worry. Brett made us feel safe, even if we weren't.

We'd get there & my sister and I would be put in a room away from the adults. If we were lucky, there would be another kid there to play with or a tv to watch. I remember one night we went to "the dump" (that's what we called it, but we weren't allowed to call it that in front of his friends.) I saw Brett give my dad a beer. I creeped over and whispered to him "I don't like when my dad drinks those." He comfortably replied with "Oh sweetie, we ran out of cups, so I put a Dr.Pepper in this can for your dad." I believed him.

3AM would roll around and my dad would tell us to get in the car. Sometimes we would make it home, sometimes my dad would pull the car over and we would sleep on the side of the road so he could sober up. For me, this was normal.

We were on the way home one night when flashing red and blue lights suddenly filled the car. We were being pulled over.

I knew this was the type of situation that could take my dad away from me. Once the officer removed my dad from our car, my sister and I were left in the backseat, both hyperventilating in tears. The only words I managed to choke out were to the officer, begging him not to take my dad from me.

Somehow, my dad manages to pass the roadside sobriety test. The officer looked over at Allyson and I losing our minds in the back of my fathers Pontiac Trans Am, then he turned to my father and said "Sir, I know you're drunk." he let out a sigh, followed by "How far away do you live?" We lived right around the corner. My dad was given strict instructions to go straight there, and we did.

Years later, when I would ask him how he managed to pass that test, he would recall to me how he imagined a 100 foot metal rod running down his leg and deep into the ground supporting him as he stood on one foot, leaning back, and praying to God to sway the outcome of this situation he had found himself in.

There's so much I want to say, but I don't want to spoil the ending. Sign up to receive e-mails from me when the next blog is posted!