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| Photo courtesy David Hamilton http://www.wintersixfour.co.uk/ |
For a period of time when I was growing up
my dad had to spend the night at his job. For who knows how long, he
never came home. He was living at the Bonham VA. He was a
housekeeper. I'm guessing that this was during a large chunk of one
summer because my mom would bring my older sister, younger brother,
and me to visit him during his lunch break.
This was about when I was ten
or eleven years old. I remember that during one of these lunches we
were in the outdoor recreation area and my dad did a full sprint
toward our car. My brother, who would have been three or four years
old, had snuck off into the car. It got knocked out of park and
began rolling with him at the helm. He was making a break for it!
Actually, that phrase is appropriate I
suppose. Only recently have I realized that my dad wasn't required
to sleep at his work. Most likely he was on work release and spending
nights in jail. It was probably a DUI. I don't really know how many
DUI's my dad had, just that it's at least three.
I couldn't say when I realized my dad
was an alcoholic, twelve? Thirteen? It just became part of my
reality one day. It was always there I guess, just it was out of
focus. There was no big blow up or Eureka! Just a slow reveal,
like a long rack focus in a movie. Unnoticeable but just
right there in the periphery. I'd seen him with beers my whole life.
I was practically raised in a bar. From the age of eleven or twelve
I'd crush empty beer cans to sell to recyclers. There would be
dozens several times a week. I have no grasp as to how much he'd
drink. Easily more than a six-pack a day.
Every day.
Growing up I'd never want friends to
come over. My mom usually wasn't home. She worked nights as a
bartender at an American Legion. If my dad happened to be home any
given evening, he was throwing back cans of Natural Light. Can after
can after can. If he wasn't home, he'd be at my mom's work.
Eventually he'd call for my sister to pick up him. And when she was
gone and I was older, it would be my burden. Even if it was just the
kids at home, the house would reek. Mom and Dad were also heavy
smokers. Living in that stench you don't notice it. God I must have
smelled really bad. Nobody at school ever mentioned it, but it had
to have been in my clothes. In my hair.
In my 8th grade social
studies class there was a student, John M, who had a big mouth. The
guy liked to talk a lot. Gossip, rumors, lies, whatever. Talking
was his hobby. One time in class we were talking about some
bullshit. He asked me my middle name and I told him, “Paul.” He
said that he had read in the newspaper that a DePaul Jones had
recently been arrested for DUI. He asked me if I knew a DePaul
Jones. I answered no. He asked who my dad was and I told him Joe
Paul Jones. “Oh, that's it.”
I hadn't heard about this, but
immediately I knew it was true. He asked if my dad had been pulled
over for driving drunk and I said, “No.” I told him, “My dad
doesn't ever drink.” Then it got awkward. How small of a town did
I grow up in that the newspaper publishes DUI arrests? And what kind
of 14-year-old-boy reads the crime report? I was so embarrassed, and
ashamed, and pissed, and confused. I was blindsided. I hated John.
I hated dad.
Several years before that I
experienced horror absolute. The kind of pain where you cry and your
eyes get puffy and swell up and your vision is a wet blur. You only see
like three or four shades of color it's so blurry. Like looking through a stained glass window at dawn. I was so hurt and
scared. My eyes stung. My dad and I were home alone one night, or maybe my brother
was asleep in his bed . I was in his room watching TV on the floor.
At this time in this house we had a living room TV and a TV in my
parents' room. And my black and white TV. My dad was probably watching some old western on an
independent Dallas TV station. I may have been watching Friday the
13th the Series or something. Dad came into the room and
was crying. He knelt down and asked for a hug. I obliged and asked,
“What's wrong daddy?” I was crying now. Last time he was like
this, my grandfather had died. Oh God, what was going on? He asked
me if I'd be better off if he was dead. If the whole family would be
better off. “No!” I cried out. He sobbed some more.
My
grandfather would have died within the last few years so this is the
early 90s. The two things that stood out to me that he had left
behind was an old banjo and a rifle. My dad asked me if I wanted him
to take Papa's gun and shoot himself. I told him “no”. He asked
me why. All I could say was, “because I love you dad!” This was
the most crippling thing I had ever experienced in my life. I was so
damn helpless. He never mentioned that night to me. I never spoke of
it to anyone until I told my wife over 20 years later. I had wanted to but it stays in my head. My lips never
even could form to let out an audible syllable. A part of me always
hated him for that night. No idea what brought it on, or how and why
it was resolved. I'm not sure where the banjo and rifle are now. I
don't care to know.
Not every Monday morning, but more
often than not, I'd awaken to my mom yelling at my dad. “One of
these days they are going to fire you!” After the fighting
subsided and there was a moment of peace, my dad would call into work
sick with a hangover. This probably happened at least 30 times a
year. Must be great to work for the US government. I wonder what
his reputation at work was. I was always fearful that he would lose
his job and we would be screwed. But he hung around and never got
fired. He worked there until his premature death at age 52.
My dad never told me about the birds
and the bees. Our version of the talk was pretty sad. Pretty quick.
I was early in my relationship with my girlfriend. My dad was sitting in the kitchen
watching TV. At this point, we were moved into a different house,
with TV's in every room but the bathrooms. I went in probably to get
a soda or something. Dad called me over. He was struggling to stay
awake, let alone keep from falling out of the bar stool. “Hey, you
know if you get a girl pregnant, you have to marry her, right?”
“Yeah.” And that was it. I was a
sophomore at this point. I was armed with late night
Showtime and Cinemax. It's basically like snapping and unsnapping two Lego pieces together over and and , nine months later you get a kid. What else did I need
to know?
My junior year of high school I was
sick and left work at Burger King early one night. I had never
called in or went home sick or anything before. Turns out that I had
appendicitis. And after that I ended up getting a bowel recession
due to some complications. I lost over sixty pounds in about a month
and a half. One night I was laying on the couch in the living room
and the phone rang. It was my dad needing me to pick him up from the
American Legion. I didn't feel like it and I was tired. I fell
asleep. When my mom came home she woke me up and yelled a me. My
dad had been popped for a DUI and it was my fault. I should have
picked him up. He was an drunk and couldn't help it. He was
impatient and didn't get a cab. Normally people are accountable for
their own actions but with addiction it is really hard. The need to
fill the void left by whatever the substance of your choice is is so
damn strong. There is almost no rationale. He gambled that he could
make it home and the river came up flashing lights. My mom didn't
really mean it, she was just pissed and let her emotions take over.
And her own sense of guilt.
For years I blamed my mom for my dad's
drinking problem. She time and time again would yell at him about
being a drunk, and yet more often than not she was the one serving
him. But at least she could keep an eye on him. Had he gone all the
way to the VFW to feed his addiction, it would have been much worse
for sure. The VFW was like 15 miles outside of town, and it was a
well known fact that sheriff deputies would hide and bust speeders
and suspected drunk drivers. Yet, they did pretty well. This was no
secret, but the desire to numb your feelings is strong enough to lure
you out there. In danger of getting arrested, killing somebody else,
or yourself.
After that DUI, my dad never got his
license back. Other than a few emergencies, he stayed away from
behind the wheel. My parents adjusted and made it work. No more
arrests, just monthly payments on however much those fines and court
fees ended up totaling.
I don't know if I am an alcoholic or
not. I know I do have an addictive tendency. When I get the
dopamine pumping in my body I become obsessive. Over the years I've
had addictions to many things. Not drugs or alcohol. Mainly things
like collecting stuff, or playing stupid games. It's not even fun,
but there's still a reward attached to whatever it has been. After a
while it diminishes and I move on to something else.
After leaving college, I never really
drank that much. My first full time job, once or twice a week I'd
socially drink with coworkers. Most of them were from out of town and
we were all roughly the same age, so we kind of naturally drew to
each other. Since then I rarely drank. Thankfully, my wife's family
is alcohol free so that never comes up at gatherings. At my current
job, when I first started working there I was invited to go out quite
a bit. I'd go occasionally, but those times became more and more
rare. Eventually the invites dried up completely, they got the
message that I don't hang out at bars. Not that I relate to many people any way.
If I had to pick a song to be the soundtrack to this post it would be...
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