Growing up, I had two dads. Both the same person, but still, I had two dads.
Sadly, I grew to like the unhealthier, weaker role model of a dad better than the sober, stern father I disliked as the authoritarian, clandestine alcoholic suffering withdrawal symptoms, harsh and irrational (although never violent)! I’ve grown, even still, to facilitate the former. I’ll come back to that. Like all father and son relationships – it’s complex.
Much of my peer group from my adolescent years are dead. By peer group I mean friends of my dad. Succumbed, one and all, to the demons of their own personal illness. Some may say weakness, some addiction, there are numerous definitions. Me, I see illness. An illness which pervades society irrespective of social class, personal strength, employment status or whichever label those of their own bias attribute to it. It’s an illness!
The reason I write this blog is that, for the first time in my life, I have had to reconcile myself with the fact that I will lose my dad prematurely. I will lose him through alcohol. It will likely be on a random day in which I least expect it – called to a hospital and, if I’m lucky, I’ll have a chance to say goodbye. He’ll never cure himself, he has no genuine desire to. There are always obstacles, there always new “friends” dragging him down, there is unemployment (a state he’s been in most of my life) but there is just simply the fact he is an alcoholic and he’s not wanting to be cured.
Well he has, he’s tried, I’ve seen it and I’ve liked the dad I got to know, briefly, when he was completely sober. Alas, in my 31 years, I make the record of complete sobriety to be about 8 weeks. Heart-breakingly, the last time I saw him sober for any duration was this time last year. I liked him. I liked the dad, the real dad, the one I never actually got to know – or ever will. I’ve surrendered myself now to this, make what I can of what I have, for I’ll always be the son of two dads – never the third.
Never the third I liked immensely and who would have been a pleasure to grow up with as a positive role model. That’s not to say I don’t love them all, I do. Even the stern dad is one I can understand. I never could as a child, but I can now.
I write this for therapeutic reasons alone. Sometimes it’s good to get thoughts on a bit of white paper and let your thoughts take you where you may not otherwise go. I’ve tried tough love.
Once I told my dad all this. I told him that I never really got to know him, as usual he had a drink in him. I’ve come to realise that’s his most natural state. However I did tell him I love him. I can’t do tough love. He is what he is. I can only be a son and I can only hope, as unlikely as it is, that one day he will realise he needs help and goes wherever he needs to go, and that they can help. I can’t, we can’t as a family. I, we, are part of the problem. I/we facilitate. As I say, I/we can’t do tough love.
This has not been an easy, or eloquent post. However I hope that in some way there may be someone, somewhere like I was 10 years ago, who can see beyond the “shame” of an alcoholic father and realise that not only are you not him, but that you should never fear being defined as your parent. My Mother is the finest, most upstanding and honourable person I know and yet I see myself as my Dad – or as the potential to be him. All things said, I’d never deny him, he’s in all forms a good man, but he is defined by his weakness. He allows himself to be.
I can only hope, yet may fail, that I remain the person I was in my adolescence that saw the negative role model I had and chose to lead a different life. Time will tell. That’s not to say I am not thankful for the role he’s played in my life, there have been numerous kindnesses and a lot of love. I’m just now at the point I feel desperately sad for I feel this is now an illness that I can reconcile myself with in terms of how he is, but sadly, he never will. If I’m right, well this will be his eulogy.
I pray, still, that I am wrong.
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