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Until I got into the car that night, I did not know the word alcoholic. I did not know my father’s drinking was dangerous. I did not know how my world would eventually shatter.
Until I got into that car I did not know about raw, entangled emotions, that I could feel so scared, so sad, so lonely, so lost, so angry. I did not know that I could have so much to say, but no way of saying it. I did not know that I would want to yell, “STOP!” yet stay silent. I did not know that the lines of a road could blur, that the exits were just suggestions, that I could grip a car door so tightly.
I did not know fear until that night and I still do not know how I made it back to the safety of my mother’s arms, who anxiously waited in our house for our return. My mother was strong, resilient, brave, strategic. She sheltered me as best as she could, but she could not shield me from the inevitable. I did not know how to tell my mother that I knew, that the glass palace I placed my father in was melting away.
I sat there on the couch in our modest living room trying to speak to my mother through shocked eyes and fiercely tight lips. Until that night, I did not know how to be quiet, how to pause between sentences, how to not say every little thing that came to my young mind. On that couch, I felt frozen inside and out.
Our home seemed smaller in that moment. I wanted to be alone, to separate myself from my father, but I could not move, I had something to share. I looked towards the faded, beige recliner sitting peacefully near the hallway that led to my bedroom. The bedroom that was filled with my innocent stuffed animals, a tape recorder, and my random collections of stickers, erasers and beads for future jewelry designs I would never make. I so badly wanted to run to that bedroom, so I could wake up from this moment that I could not comprehend. That I would never comprehend.
My father was hidden from sight as I gave the sign to my mother. A sign that would show her I knew, I understood, that she was no longer alone on this journey. As I slowly lifted my right hand in front of me, fingers curled as if I was holding an imaginary cup, I pretended to take a sip and locked eyes with my mother. She understood. I knew. Until I made that gesture, I did not realize a child’s reality could physically crumble.
Until I got into that car that night, my father was always perfect. I was “daddy’s girl.” He gave the best gifts, created the greatest adventures, and I worshiped him. I placed him on the highest pedestal. He was my father. Until I got into that car, I had not realized that my father’s drinking was a problem he hid so well for so long.
After that night, I learned about the drive-up ABC Liquor store. I learned about brown paper bags that contained glass bottles of peppermint schnapps. I learned about his hiding places throughout the house. They were behind cleaning supplies, in cabinets. I learned to question his intentions, his sobriety, and learned how to ask for him to quit. I learned how to love someone despite their flaws. I learned love, compassion, forgiveness, life lessons, and growth. I learned the value of a bad memory, and the warmth of holding onto the stronger, better ones.
When I got into that car, my father became more complex. Before, I only saw one side of my father. The man who always provided, who worked hard, built his own businesses, hand-fed squirrels in his front yard, and loved his only daughter. Until I got into that car, I did not realize he had a secret, that he was in pain, that eventually, I would not be able to save him.
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Photo credit: Pixabay