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During the first one and a half years of my daughter’s life, I fought a pitched battle with alcohol and cocaine. My wife had thrown me out of the house and I was angry and heartbroken, but deep down I knew she was right to do so.
My father died from alcoholism at the young age of fifty-six. Shriven and red-faced his self and other destructiveness blew our family part. Time and time again I swore to myself and others, “I’ll never be like him.” I carried the shame of my wasted father. I wouldn’t do that to my kids. No way, not me! Yet, here I was a drunk and a junkie, destroying my own family.
I couldn’t stop; ever. Time and time again I would swear that this time would be different. Just a drink or two to take the edge off. Just one line, one hit off the pipe, then I’ll do the right thing. But this was a delusion, because once I started, the insatiable desire overwhelmed good sense and I had to have more, more, and still more. No amount was enough. I was compelled to use until the addiction denuded me of every last cent until the bottle was dry, the baggie empty and I was left yet again in despair.
And so, what kind of father was I? The disappearing father; for days with no explanation. The father of broken promises. The non-providing father: enriching the bartender and the dealer at the expense of his family. The father who is present, but not there: high, drunk or hungover and sick. The guilty father, knowing he’s not doing right by this beautiful vulnerable girl he brought into the world. The father of rage; the very thing I loathed in my own father. Now manifesting and growing within me.
The last straw was my daughter’s christening. Friends and family gathered for the celebration of a new life. I ended up drunk and angry. I blacked out after getting into a fight with my wife, In front of everybody that mattered to me on full display: Snarling slurring belligerence.
I woke up the next day: again my head-pounding, again sick to my stomach, again full of guilt and shame. Yet again. I felt utterly defeated. I knew with certainty I had no answers. I knew I needed help. This problem that had plagued me for years, and my family for generations wasn’t going to resolve itself. I needed help.
I picked up the phone and called a therapist I had been seeing with irregularity and a poor attitude (“the addicted personality, a raging ego-maniac with an inferiority complex”). I told her I really did need help. I told myself and her, “I’ll do anything it takes to stay clean and sober.” I went to treatment for a month and learned there is another way. I came out and went to Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotic Anonymous meetings every day for a year. I got better slowly.
Rebuilding a life, asunder from addictions for years, takes a sustained effort. Day in and day out. Destroying your life is too easy; one bad decision can change everything. I remember well the pain from my earlier days: the dislocation from the people I love, the desperation, self-recrimination and the groaning weight of my guilt and self-loathing. And so every day, consciously, I choose recovery.
What kind of father have I become? The father who is there, reachable, dependable and consistent. The accountable father, right sometimes, wrong others but the father who can own his stuff. The father who can provide, materially yes but emotionally as well. The father who can model to his children the bounty of a committed marriage. The father who is protective and demonstrates his love through words, hugs and laughter.
I’ve been sober and clean now for more than half my life. Last year on my thirty-fourth recovery anniversary, my daughter sent me a text unbidden.
“Relapsing for any addict-alcoholic seems like such a common occurrence, unfortunately. But, it’s not something I as a child had to deal with. I am so extremely proud of the challenges your overcame and your sobriety.”
This sentiment couldn’t have meant more to me. The daily toil of being clean and sober has repaid me beyond my most hopeful wishes. It can for you too.
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