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I remember it clearly: he was slumped on the hallway floor; an empty bottle beside him. He stank of lager. I bent down and put my finger under his nose – like I always did – to check if he was still breathing. I positioned his body and head the way you’re meant to, and sat beside him, praying he’d make it through the night.
He hadn’t always been like that. When I was younger, he would tuck me into bed and tell me stories, all kinds of fairy tales. He’d read them from the book his mother gave him, which was passed down by her mother. I remember always asking him to turn to page 23, because on page 23 was a beautiful illustration of Jack climbing the beanstalk into the sky. All the way up into a new world, my father would say, one day we’ll go together.
He taught me how to fly a kite, and we’d spend days outside in the nearby park under the summer sun. The park itself was small and the grass unkempt, but none of that mattered. There were no high-rise buildings blocking the sky. I could see the clouds, and as my kite flew through the air, I’d imagine that kite was our magical beanstalk, and one day it’d take us high above into the clouds, and we’d be witness to the marvellous world hidden above.
He wasn’t a good baker, mind you. He tried his best to teach me, but no matter what we attempted – cookies, cupcakes, bread – they’d always end up burnt. He’d blame the oven; an outdated thing that needed fixing. But I didn’t care if they were burnt. He was by my side.
It changed when his mother (my grandmother) died. It was unexpected: a heart attack. When it happened, we’d been down at the beach. She was out cold on the sofa for twelve hours before her neighbour noticed she hadn’t left to go on her usual walk.
I remember my father answering that phone call, and within moments, his smile was gone. He fell to his knees. He said nothing, he just stared at the sea and watched the waves.
After that, he stopped telling me fairy tales. I never saw the book again.
My mother tried her best to comfort him. She cooked all his favourite meals like toad in the hole, and we’d watch all his favourite movies together. When I was meant to be asleep, sometimes I would peek into their bedroom, and I’d see her holding him tightly, and she’d whisper into his ear, but he’d stay silent.
He started going out by himself. He’d be in the living room with us, stare distantly, fiddle with his watch, then get his car keys and leave. My mother would chase after him, and they’d argue, but it would always end with him slamming the car door and driving off.
He would come back in the evening, and at first, he would come back laughing – cheerful almost. I’d be welcomed by open arms, and it was like he was his old self again. But he would hug me, and then I’d smell it on his clothes and his lips. I’d notice the strange way his words would change.
Initially, I didn’t realise what the smell was or why he sounded strange. But I didn’t question it. I pushed those thoughts away because it felt good to have him holding me again.
Soon my mother stopped welcoming him home. She’d stay in her bedroom, door shut. I knocked on her door once and told her he was back; he was finally back. But she didn’t open the door. Instead, she turned the TV up louder.
He started coming back later. My mother and I would have meals by ourselves. I remember I’d always be adamant that we needed to set the table for three, not two – just in case.
As time went on, I continued to wait for him, but eventually, he no longer returned with a smile on his face and he never welcomed me with open arms. He began drinking more and more, and he would stumble through the door mumbling under his breath. He would stagger straight past me and tell me to go to bed. If I persisted and tried to speak to him, he’d snap and say harsh words which today still linger in my memory.
Sometimes, I guess when he remembered it, he would apologise in the morning and tell me it was just a rough day, and he loved me dearly.
I became desperate to save him. I convinced myself every little action I did would either push him further away or bring him back. Setting the table for three would bring him back. Waiting for him every night would bring him back. Kissing him goodnight, even when he was knocked out cold, would bring him back.
One day I forgot to lay the table with his plate and cutlery, and after I realised, I completely broke down. I thought I’d lost him forever, and he wouldn’t come home again.
There were days when he wouldn’t come home. We’d find him asleep in his car at the pub, or on a bench in some barely lit street.
Soon, every time he left, I was overwhelmed with fear. Sometimes I would scream at him not to go, and that if he cared about my mother or me, he wouldn’t leave us ever again, he would stay and eat with us, he would go out and fly kites with me, he would watch movies, go to the beach like we used to – like who he used to be.
At times, I hated myself: I wasn’t enough to save him. I thought I wasn’t loving him enough and some God above could tell and was punishing me. Just like the fairy tales he read to me, I thought if I proved my love, I’d get the happily ever after and it would all be okay again.
My mother had tried to intervene countless times. She would beg him to get therapy and support. She would even try to trick him into going to AA meetings. She’d tell his friends of his struggles (many of which he cut contact with) and would ask them to talk to him and encourage him to get help.
He denied everything; he wasn’t a heavy drinker – we were overreacting. He barely drank. It wasn’t every single night so he couldn’t be an addict.
My mother told me if he didn’t change, we wouldn’t be able to see him for a while, a long while.
So I started cleaning up after him. I wanted to help him hide it. I felt like my mother was trying to break our family apart, like she was giving up on all of us. I would throw away the empty cans and bottles, mop up any spilt drink or vomit.
But of course, I never could truly hide it.
He started hiding half-empty bottles and cans around the house; under the sink, buried under piles of clothes in the laundry basket. When my mother would confront him about it, he would tell her he loved us both, and that he wouldn’t do it again.
And when she confronted him again, he told her the same. That it wasn’t a problem, and that was definitely the last of it.
He started drinking in the mornings. Or perhaps I started noticing it more. I would see him in the kitchen pulling out a flask from his jacket and downing it. He would then shake the flask to make sure he’d gotten every last drop. Every time it made me sick, and I’d struggle to breathe. Each sip he took stabbed me in the chest.
It was a constant battle: if my mother wasn’t screaming at my father she’d be crying, exhausted, worried that the man she loved would one day be gone completely. There’d even be days where she couldn’t look at me directly because I looked more like him than I did her, and my likeness was a too painful reminder. His drinking was a disease which spread to everything.
The last straw for my mother was when she found a flask hidden in my bedroom. We’d been collecting spare toys, clothes and other goods to donate. It was under my bed in a box filled with old VHS tapes. I remember her pulling out the box, opening it, then shutting the lid abruptly. Then she wept. We both wept. I wanted it to be some lucid nightmare, hoping that
if I closed my eyes for long enough, I’d “wake up” and it would no longer be there.
My mother confronted him and told him if he wasn’t willing to change and get help, he wasn’t going to bring us down with him any longer. Again, he told us he loved us, would always treasure us, then he denied and said he didn’t have a problem – we were the problem. He asked us why we couldn’t just trust him.
We left the house and moved in with my grandparents (my mother’s side). But I still packed the old kite. I packed all the family photos.
Even though he was no longer with us, I could never stop thinking about him. I questioned why I wasn’t enough, why my love wasn’t enough. I felt I was to blame, like I didn’t do all I could’ve done to help him, and I couldn’t compete with whatever happiness the bottle gave him, and many, many times, I resented him.
Whenever someone would bring him up, or a friend would talk about their own father, I would snap, because he wasn’t here, and he wouldn’t change for me, and he denied and denied and denied. I didn’t grow up having the childhood I deserved – he took that away from me. I had to be the one to mop up after him. I had to come up with excuses for him when he would go out and start yelling drunkenly at the neighbours. He hurt me in so many ways.
But I also resented that I missed him and still loved him to death. That I still hoped one day he’d turn up at our door back to who he was.
When I became strong enough, I went to therapy, joined support groups and opened up to my friends, all of which helped me process those feelings I had and helped me understand alcohol use disorder better. I now know that it’s a debilitating illness; my father wasn’t making a choice between the alcohol and me.
With time, I forgave my father. But most importantly, I forgave myself. I hadn’t failed my father. I was not to blame. He was a victim of the drink, and so was I.
For many years, I didn’t hear from him. None of us did. But two years ago, he reached out to me. He told me he was now sober; he’d gotten the help he needed and was on the path to recovery. He wanted to meet me and make up for time lost. He told me how sorry he was that he wasn’t there for my mother and I, that he was sorry for all the pain he caused. He said he would understand if I didn’t want him back in my life.
He’s been sober for three years now, and we’re making amends. We make sure to call every week. It’s a slow process, and there’s a part of me deep down that will always be paranoid he’s going to turn to the bottle again. But he tells me about the trips we can go on together in the future; hiking in Peak District, exploring the sites in Edinburgh, having a picnic in Richmond.
I know he’s finally looking forward. We’re both looking forward.
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