The Ties that Bind

I've been thinking a lot more about my father and his relationship to alcohol and how that may have shaped the kind of drinker I became. My father was a party animal. He even had a t-shirt with these words on it, illustration of a huge foaming beer mug underneath. He was the center of attention, the life of the party. Until that party came to an end 6 months before his 50th birthday.

He had a lot of friends. He was a force. My parents, in particular my dad, was the very picture of "work hard, party hard." My mom and dad were married when they were teenagers and I was born before my mom's 20th birthday. Their friends were all the same age and everyone had families young. Welcome to the early 70's! My childhood is filled with warm and fuzzy memories of cookouts at my godparents' house that started at noon and raged into the wee hours. They lived in the boondocks, had plenty of land and could basically get as rowdy as they liked without complaint. There were many games of horseshoes, boisterous laughter, rock and roll and good food. We kids would run around all day playing, daring each other to sneak booze (we were always too chicken to actually go through with it). When it got dark, everyone gathered down into the finished basement, which had a pool table and a fully stocked bar. Adults and children would meander between the living room and kitchen upstairs and the basement. My mother never drank much, so she was always able to drive us home. This is the world I grew up in and this what I thought adulthood was all about. The grown ups were all hardworking and responsible. They were active parents who cared very much about our futures, but part of that aspiration. at least for me, was to be like my old man.

I was a square teenager. I didn't drink or do drugs, nor did I have the desire to. I used to want my father to think I was as cool as he was, so I used to pretend like I was going to have wild parties when my parents went out for the night. I'm sure he laughed wildly in his head when I dropped hints because he knew his kid. I wouldn't dare go through with anything like that because (a) none of my friends drank and (b) I didn't have this huge pack of buddies, ready to unleash in my parents living room, like you see in the movies and on television. I was boring and predictable. At his insistence, I was a very accomplished teenager. I graduated with honors from high school, held a part time job, took dance lessons and stayed far away from trouble.

So, when I came of age and I was able to drink with my dad, I think we were both pretty excited. It was a bonding experience. Like when I was 8 and he took me for ice cream or to the hotdog stand. Father and daughter sharing a pitcher of beer. I had arrived. I was a chip off the old block. It might be hard to understand, but this was a way of showing love. Similar to the way some people cook to show their love, this is what we had. Being able to drink large amounts of alcohol was like a badge of honor. See, dad? I can work hard and party hard, too! The other important contributor to this is that I was a girl. And my parents only had me. If I were a boy, my dad would have had someone to fix up cars in the garage with, to go drag racing with, to roughhouse with, to have man-to-man talks with. I wasn't a boy. When I was born, I'm sure a small part of his brain thought, "Well, what the fuck am I going to do with this?" So, drinking together became more important, more special, more of a bonding experience.

I had no idea that I was an alcoholic waiting to happen. I didn't realize what I was signing up for or that I was playing with fire.

Now, I don't, in ANY WAY, SHAPE or FORM blame my father for my disease. He and I were born with it. It wasn't his fault he was an alcoholic, either. But coming out as an alcoholic would have been MUCH HARDER for him. He was the mitochondria of his circle of friends. When he died, he left a giant hole that still remains. All of his friends drank the same as he did. They drank the same beer in the same volumes. But that beer was like a glue that kept them together, it unified them in a strange way. He worked out of our garage and that place was a holy sancuary for them. A place where they could confide in one another, needle one another, laugh together, complain about shit together. It was their man cave. A man cave without alcohol would be a strange, unrecognizable place. And admitting that he had a problem with alcohol would have put him in a vulnerable position, opening the door for ridicule. It would not have been safe. So, on top of grieving the loss of beer, he might have had to deal with the loss of his drinking buddies. Because that kind of admission would have been like holding up a giant mirror in all of their faces. They put up a brave and manly front. But trust me, this disease is fucking powerful. Mighty enough to turn them all into cowards if they dared confront it.

I'm not churchy. I waved good-bye to Catholicism decades ago. But I am spiritual and do believe that he has been there for me and is here for me now. Helping me to do something that he never had the courage to do. So that maybe I can make it to my 50th birthday.

Okay, I think I need some tissues now.