And So It Goes

Her father was an alcoholic. She spent days and nights watching him forget himself and turn himself into something she didn't know. She was young and pretended it wasn't a big problem. But it was. The school guidance counselor was ignorant, and even her mother dragging them all off to Grandma's for weekends here and weekends there didn't erase it. They still always had to go back. And it was always waiting for them.

She grew up quickly. That's what happens when you have no other option. You learn the little notes on the fridge saying no time to cook dinner, leftovers in fridge, meant something more along the lines of no time to deal with anything except the fact that your father is tearing this family apart.

She liked to take hikes in the woods. She picked up beer can after beer can, threw them out and took care of them; took care of her father. Mom hated him then. He was a liar. But Mom never found the beer cans in the woods, so he rarely got yelled at. After all, he was never really around. The girl was more terrified of losing her father from her family than losing him to the alcohol. Whether puking repeatedly in the toilet or sitting down to a nice family dinner, he was still there, and that's all that matters. Right? That's all that matters...

Her dad died before he hit fifty. And time doesn't heal anything, only gives you more time to look back and reflect and cry and that isn't always the best thing.

Her father was an alcoholic.