For the next couple of days, he enjoyed his role as patriarch and host. On the preceding Saturday, my father picked my family of six up at the airport with a warm greeting and lots of big, welcoming hugs. Our family meeting was planned for Monday night after dinner. The unasked and unanswered questions – the hurt and misunderstanding – it all festered and grew like and infected wound. They bit their tongues because they thought it was helping. My parents and sister had agreed, more or less, to let me write and to stay out of it because it seemed to be a key to my sobriety. I wasn’t drinking anymore, and that was universally considered to be a good thing. Without conversation – painful, truthful conversation – there is no moving forward. I’ve learned so much about alcoholism and recovery in the 18 months of my sobriety, so I was eager to have the family discussion my sister suggested. In the weeks leading up to our vacation, my sister, Joey, had sparked the idea for a meeting of the adults to discuss my resentment for our father that I displayed in my writing. Nothing.Īt the beginning of July, my family of six joined my sister’s family of five and my parents for our annual week spent together. I told vivid and disgusting stories of my debauchery when drunk. I wrote about my grandfather’s drinking asking questions about my dad’s dad. I drew direct lines that connected my alcoholism to his daily drinking habits. He asked me how my blog was going, but we never talked about the content of my writing. We talked about my work, my kids, his travel and his golf game. We talked once every three or four weeks. As I published my writing, friends and family commented, called, texted and emailed, but I didn’t hear from my father. I had no idea how the disconnected approach my father suggested would further strain our wounded relationship. At the time, I was terrified about my parents’ response to my writing, so I was relieved with his initial feedback. He told me he would read every word I write with great interest, but he wouldn’t discuss it with me because he didn’t want to argue with me about details. My father made clear that he didn’t agree with everything he read, but he didn’t want to stand in my way of doing what I needed to do. I’m sure it felt like an accusation about their parenting, and I’m sure it was painful to read. The drafts I sent them shared the culpability for my addiction with my parents. I shared a couple of drafts with them before I published. They didn’t fully understand why I felt compelled to reveal my horrors to the world. They were as supportive as they could be. I warned my parents that my writing would be raw and honest and expose terrors from my past that would surprise and sadden them. I started writing about my alcoholism in November of last year. It just takes away the cover we are hiding behind and leaves exposed our pain and imperfection.
When I got sober, that relationship got worse. My relationship with my father has been strained and distant for many years.
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