Content Warning: parental addiction and loss; emotional abuse; family separation
Growing up, my father’s presence felt like a flickering light - bright one moment and gone the next. Sometimes, I would see him only once or twice a year, and our interactions were always short-lived, or interrupted by generational pain. In a way, it felt like I lost him twice: once through his addiction, and again when he physically left this world. Piece by piece, his addiction took him from me until there was almost nothing left.
One of my last memories of my father is bittersweet. He brought me a huge dollhouse for my birthday, along with a stack of birthday cards signed by people he knew. It should have been a moment of pure joy. But because I lived with my grandmother - his mother - I wasn’t allowed to let him in. I took the gift, said goodbye, and closed the door on him. As soon as I walked inside, my grandmother insisted that I open the box immediately. She was paranoid that he might have filled it with snakes. In that moment, the excitement for my present shattered. Instead, I felt sadness and guilt, both for my father and for the pain of living in such an untrusting environment.
Living with my grandmother from age three to fourteen - my entire childhood - was incredibly difficult. My grandmother never missed an opportunity to tell my siblings and I that our parents were “failures,” often saying that she would be better off throwing us into an orphanage. It took me years to realize that her words were just empty threats, but they still left a mark. It makes me wonder what it must have been like for my father to grow up like that, to have faced the same struggles and pain that I did while living under her roof.
It's obvious now that my father’s alcoholism was like looking into a mirror that reflected generations of pain, trauma, and struggle. For him, alcohol was a way of coping with his broken childhood, a childhood that in some ways resembled my own.
Towards the end of his life, I saw a change in him that I couldn’t ignore. He had started to look smaller, thinner, and worn down, as if life was draining from him. His alcoholism was consuming him. Each time we met, he was full of regret for how things turned out. He wanted to be stronger, to fight against the pull of alcohol, but he couldn’t. And so, I watched as he drowned himself - slowly and painfully - in the poison that ruled his life.
Looking back, I understand that for many people struggling with alcoholism, like my father, excessive drinking can be a form of escape. It’s like using alcohol as a way to numb life’s pain and dull the hurt that feels impossible to bear. With each drink, it was as if my father sank deeper underwater, making it harder to breathe, to see clearly, or to find his way back to solid ground. I remember feeling helpless, standing on the shore as I watched the tide carry him further and further away, lost in the depths of his addiction.
But my father’s battle with alcohol wasn’t just his own fight - it was a part of my story too. His struggle, what felt like a slow death, forced me to pick up my own pen, and write a different ending for myself. Just as my father’s light barely flickered, I found the strength to ignite my own.
Watching a loved one, like parent, struggle with addiction is heartbreaking, and it can feel like you’re alone, like you are being pulled underwater with them, unsure of how to save them or yourself. But here’s the hopeful part: you are not alone and you are not defined by their struggle nor are you bound by their behaviours.
I share this story because I believe I can break that cycle, and so can you. For me, that is through writing about my experiences with the stress and the stigma, and being a voice for others who are dealing with the same pain and challenges but who can’t share right now. Writing might not be for everyone, but it is a way to get our thoughts and feelings out, even if it is just for ourselves.
What helps me write is having a safe, comfortable environment with minimal distractions. I love creating the perfect playlist with my favorite artists to set a calming background while I work. It's also essential to give yourself grace if the words don't come right away. If you hit a writer’s block, take a break and come back later—there’s no need to force creativity. Let it flow naturally. I also keep a Google Doc open, so I can jot down ideas whenever inspiration strikes, no matter where I am.
As you navigate this journey of healing, it’s important to remember that you don’t have to go through it alone. Storytelling and peer support can play a vital role in your healing by fostering a sense of belonging and understanding. Through the shared experiences of others, you can feel less isolated and more hopeful. Starling’s Peer Support Library offers a space where you can connect with stories crafted for peers, by peers, who have lived through the stress and stigma of a parent’s substance use. Our stories and the stories of our peers can offer comfort and reassurance, reminding us that there is a path forward, even through the toughest times.
Check out these sections of the peer library:
So, if you’re reading this and feeling a similar pain, I want you to know that you are not alone, and your story doesn’t have to end the way theirs did. Remember, it’s okay to feel lost, but know that there is always a way forward. Sometimes, just taking that one step toward hope can change everything. We can find hope, strength, and healing together - one step, one word, one breath at a time.
If you are feeling overwhelmed after reading this story, please pause and take a few deep breaths. Then please reach out to one of your safe people or spaces or community crisis response.
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