Even Families That Look Good Can Struggle With Addiction

My dad was a functioning alcoholic. My cousin was in and out of prison.

When I was nine, I remember learning about suffixes. Not because suffixes were particularly interesting but because of what happened with my pop.

My class had learned that if you add -ic to the end of a word, then it meant “of, or relating to.” My teacher made it fun and taught us several words — including fanatic. Somehow my brain decided that if you added -ic to the ends of words it meant you were a fan. By the time I got home, I was ready to share my new knowledge with my family.

“Pop’s an alcoholic!” I burst out — completely unaware that alcoholic meant more than someone who is a fan of alcohol. I didn’t know the word carried shame.

My pop’s reaction was so swift and shocking that I never said the word again in his presence. I learned the lesson my teacher failed to teach.

Not all words that end in -ic are fun words.

Unbeknownst to me, I had touched a nerve in my pop. One he wouldn’t address until almost thirty years later. Pop drank a six-pack of beer by himself every day throughout my childhood. More if it was a bad day at work or the weekend.

I remember going to the store with my mom when she would pick up beer for my pop. I could always tell if he had drunk “too much” by Mom’s reaction to having to buy more so soon after the previous purchase.

Pop was a functioning alcoholic. His drinking was part of the fabric of our family, but we didn’t talk about it. To do so risked incurring wrath, as I had learned at 9.

Pop never went to bars, never partied. The only time you could tell he was drunk was if he was happier than usual. The first time I learned about the term “wasted” was when he had imbibed too much during a trip to Germany.

My brother and I were supposed to be asleep, but I wasn’t. I remember hearing loud singing as the adults came back up to the apartment. It was Pop. Mom was livid and embarrassed by his behavior in front of her family. “He’s wasted,” I heard her say angrily as they brought him in.

The next time I remember him being drunk was about ten years ago. He drank too much whiskey and had gotten sentimental. My drunk pop was almost preferable to the functioning alcoholic pop who was nearly always mean.

While I was growing up, my pop never drank hard liquor. He switched to that sometime between retirement and moving to a new state. I can’t even begin to know what kind of inner turmoil he went through once he moved away from all his friends, but having done this myself, I can guess it wasn’t easy on him.

Switching to hard liquor meant Pop was visibly drunk more often, but because I was grown and had my own family, I hardly ever saw him in this state. I’m sure I will never know the true depth of what my mom experienced with him. All she says is, “It wasn’t good.”

I’m sure he was mean, as once my mom told me that she’d gotten mean too. She said, “Sometimes, I can’t even stand him, but I need to be nicer. He’s not well. I just wish he would drink less.”

It was the first time I’d ever heard my mom admit that perhaps my pop’s drinking was a problem.

“Are you worried he’s an alcoholic?” I asked.

“Yes, and I’m worried he’ll kill himself if he doesn’t quit.” My mom was compassionate even if annoyed by my pop’s behavior.

Shortly after the New Year in January 2021, my pop decided he’d had enough of drinking. He quit “cold turkey” and sent himself to the hospital because of how bad that decision was for his body.

He had a seizure and his liver and kidneys nearly shut down completely. He was in the hospital for weeks, and we wondered if he was going to survive. My mom was so proud of him for quitting and so mad at him for doing it without medical intervention.

But that’s Pop. He refuses interventions of any kind. He knew he needed help, but his demons would not allow him to ask anyone.

My pop has taken a long time to recover since his decision to quit drinking. He’s had many health scares and for a while remained as cantankerous as ever. I was resigned to keeping him at arm’s length because I decided long ago I wouldn’t let his mood affect me anymore.

Growing up with him was very hard. He was often unkind, but kind enough sometimes, that his moods and reactions were unpredictable. I walked on eggshells around him my entire childhood and well into my adulthood. I have many scars from the things he’s said to me and painful memories of being spanked with his leather belt — never enough to cause injury but enough to leave a lifetime impression.

I’m not sure I will ever be close to my pop. We will not ever share a deep emotional connection, but since he’s gotten sober, I’ve been able to find forgiveness and compassion for him. As someone who is also recovering from a substance use disorder, I can relate to my pop. The man he was while I was growing up is not the same man I see now.

I often wonder when my pop admitted to himself he had a problem with drinking. By the time I was in high school and knew about addiction, I knew he was a functioning alcoholic. My pop’s drinking wasn’t the only substance use disorder in our family, but it was more tolerated.

Pop’s drinking wasn’t seen as a big deal compared to my cousin Bobby, who was in and out of prison for his use of hard drugs like methamphetamine. After all, Pop held down a job and had a family.

In my family, if someone struggled with a substance, it was ignored or judged harshly. I remember once asking my mom why Bobby wasn’t in rehab. I don’t remember her answer. I remember all of the adults talking about how “bad” Bobby was. No one seemed to understand or care that he was sick.

Every time my cousin got out of prison, my grandparents gave him money as though it would fix his addiction. Everyone just expected him to do better — without any support that actually would have helped him do better. He always fell back into old crowds and habits. He always ended up back in prison. Eventually, he died because of meth.

I grew up in a family where problems were not talked about. We kept them tightly bound within the folds of our family fabric. It meant there was a lot of blame and shame that got passed around. If you had a problem, it was yours to handle.

My parents didn’t want the unseemly aspects of our lives to be broadcast outside of our family, so I grew up thinking that asking for help was a sign of weakness. Admitting you had problems meant you were defective.

My pop had nothing but disdain for Bobby. I now can’t help but wonder if part of his disdain was a projection of how he felt about his own struggles with alcohol — his own interactions with the law (before he married and had kids). I wonder if this played into why it took him over 30 years to get help.

Any family can be affected by substance use disorders. The family can appear to be living the ideal life, as mine did while I was growing up. But the sad reality is that when there is stigma around substance use disorders, families are torn apart by them. Mine almost was because of my cousin — who wreaked havoc on my grandparents’ lives — and because of my pop. His drinking was a pervasive strain on our family for decades. But no one would talk about how serious these problems were.

I think my pop’s brush with death has helped my parents recognize that asking for help is necessary at times. I think they understand the disease of addiction more because they’ve spent so much time with doctors. I hope they have let go of any shame surrounding my pop’s illness.

I can never know for sure because, really, it’s their private business. All I know is that both my parents have changed by acknowledging my pop’s substance use disorder. They seem to be lighter and freer because my pop got help, and they finally let go of the stigma behind substance use disorders.

Thank you for reading my story.