Lost Innocence

As an adult child of an alcoholic parent I realize now how dysfunctional my upbringing was. Normal for me was something I experienced every day, but it was actually very far from that. We often shelter ourselves from reality because we really don't want to face the truth. Sure, there were happy and fun times, but there was always an impending doom lurking around the corner. It wouldn't take long before the innocence I possessed would be broken by my father returning home. He wasn't a bad man, he was just sick from the drink he craved. He couldn't see that what he was doing was affecting his children. Nevertheless, he continued on his course of self destruction, but he took all of us along for the ride.

The effect that alcohol has on children is not often a subject written in abundance, because it is more interesting to write about someone with a lampshade on their head. The alcoholic's life sells more books than does the repercussions of the alcoholic's behavior. My father put himself through a living hell, but when he died from this disease, he left a burden for us to bear for the rest of our lives. When people refer to children of alcoholics, they are not referring just to a small child, but to the children who have grown to adulthood as well. I will always be the child of an alcoholic. Alcohol often wreaks havoc the most upon innocent bystanders. Spouses and children suffer immeasurably. In my Irish Catholic family, our private lives were kept a secret. No one knew what went on behind closed doors. As a young boy I grew up feeling afraid and constantly seeking validation. I never felt like I was good enough. My self-esteem was in the gutter, and I grew into adulthood without ever addressing the issues that would plague me for many years. My fate was determined by my father.

I couldn't understand how such a great man could suffer so badly from a beverage he drank. My father was a genius. He was a WW II Naval war hero. He had an extremely high level of intelligence. He was funny, smart, good looking, and charismatic. All the women loved him. He should have had a better life than what he did. His intelligence could not remove the greatest obstacle to his happiness. He drank for affect, yet he did not suffer alone. My siblings and I all suffered through his illness. Because of the insecurities this family disease presented, we too embarked on the long hard journey of alcoholism. We also suffered from the qualities our father instilled in us through his behavior.

Alcohol made me feel important, smart, more social, and most of all....more accepted by my peers. Today, I suffer two fold. I am an alcoholic, and I am the child of an alcoholic. Although I am an adult, deep down inside is a child that never truly developed because of the exposure to such a dysfunctional household. All of my brothers and sisters suffered the same fate. What we learned first, we learned best, and we retained forever. The home is meant to be a safe haven. Growing up as I did made my home a living hell. The people who are the closest to the alcoholic suffer the most. My father was a violent and abusive drunk. When we could no longer support my father's behavior by making excuses all the time, we accepted this lifestyle that would last our lifetime. We were merely willing participants in his world, accepting the consequences that came with it.

Alcoholism is a cunning and baffling disease. Yes, it is a disease! Unfortunately, it doesn't just affect the alcoholic. A child needs a parent that is warm and who treats them with respect. Without these attributes, the home as we know it is lost forever. My father was affected by the drink, but we were affected by our reaction to his behavior. I remember biting my nails and being afraid all the time. I had a low opinion of myself. We used to hide when my father came home. He would stomp, or should I say stagger, into the house. His hands were cold and his whiskers could slice your skin open if he got close to you. He smelled of alcohol and his speech was slurred. He was a big man and very intimidating. His voice was deep and his behavior was scary.

My mother tried her best to support us by loving us with all her heart. She was the person that enabled him to continue his path of destruction. His escapades went on without being addressed, yet she could not see what it was doing to us. When he came home, it was like Godzilla entered the house. We would run to the attic and huddle together. If he was yelling we would cover our ears with our hands. If that wasn't enough, we would hum loudly until the screaming stopped. We were like soldiers in a bunker waiting for the artillery attack to end. We prayed for it to stop. The security one feels with a loving home was something we never truly felt. My mother tried her best, but she wouldn't dare consider holding my father accountable by demanding he seek help. My father drank himself to death. The damage was done, but we could not see the wreckage of my father's past. Who we were going to be was already deeply rooted in our lives. My father's disease, like the devil, now took on a whole new dynamic. It was in each of us. We grew up with the fears we had as children. Intellectually, we knew we weren't responsible for the way our father was, but deep down inside all of us was a child who accepted full responsibility.

We all gravitated to alcohol as well. I now know what alcoholism is. It isn't a disease caused by the consumption of alcohol. The alcohol is merely a symptom of the disease. The disease is a far more ambiguous entity. The disease lies deep in our soul. I consider it a sickness of our soul. It is born out of fear and low self-esteem. Aside from being alcoholics, we were also still suffering from being children of an alcoholic. This made us drink even more. We escaped our fears. We became more socially capable. We had arrived at a better understanding with which to address life. We put the drink in us and everything was o.k. The affects of growing up in an alcoholic household would change who we were forever.

We didn't know what normal behavior is. How could we? We were never exposed to it. Many of my friends had a father who was just like mine. It seemed pretty normal. The lasting effect of this exposure to insanity plays a role even today. I am now 44 years old, yet there is a boy inside of me dying to get out; a boy that wants to be loved and accepted. The qualities I possess today are derived from my formative years. I judge myself with complete abandon and without mercy. I can never do enough. I always feel that I am a failure. I have a difficult time enjoying myself. I am compulsive and impulsive. I am always seeking validation. When I do get the validation, I don't accept it. I have a lot of trouble with relationships. This is because I am afraid to love someone because I think that I will lose them, or they won't love me back. We loved our father and he didn't seem to love us back. We gave our love and got misery in return. I run from love because it scares me. I don't want to lose it so I sabotage it. I don't conform well to drastic changes in my life. I am an isolator. I never ask for help, but I will do anything for anyone. I am a loyal person, and would give you the shirt off of my back. This comes from my feelings of wanting to be accepted.

We had nothing when I was a kid. My father made sure of that. He would get paid and never come home. If he did, he had spent his paycheck, lost it, or hid it somewhere. To this day I can't understand how such an intelligent and powerful man could bow to the drink. It was his first priority. Everything else had to wait. Alcohol removed most of his material possessions. It removed his car, house, numerous jobs, his health, and eventually, his life.

I am now 15 years without a drink. There were nail marks on the bar floor when they dragged me out. Despite putting down the drink, I still suffer from what my father did. Everything I have learned about alcohol has not changed me all that much. It is easy to put down a drink. The hard part is changing the person that picked it up. There is a monkey on my back that can become a gorilla if I let it. I know what my problems are, yet I am powerless over the consequences. Knowing the disease is half the battle. Accepting it allows you to recover. Addressing the child in me is where the true battle lies. This disease doesn't want me to get better.

I always reflect back on a time when life was simple. I was a gentle boy. I remember always running home with a stray kitten, or playing with a tub full of frogs. I remember fondly playing in the street on those long hot summers. Somewhere this was lost. My goal is to find that boy. That boy needs to live again so that I may move forward. I can see him; therefore I think I can heal the wounds of my past. There is no other way to address this dilemma. My future was once dark. I couldn't see past my own nose. Today, my vision is as distant as my mind’s eye. I close my eyes and see true love, happiness, and self-actualization. I am going to let myself off the hook, after all, what did I do wrong? I didn’t want to grow up and be like my father. Although it is too late for that, my dream today is to not die like my father. It is time to right the wrongs of my past and to learn to love myself.