#lapeda

August 29, 2016

I didn’t have a choice. Alcoholism runs through my veins.

Growing up I remember being scolded by my father quite often. He hated when I told on him, but I knew damn well that he wasn’t supposed to be drinking because my mom got really mad when he did. And I knew my grandma didn’t like it either. So if they asked, I told them the truth. “Yes my dad is drinking. I can smell the alcohol in his breath from across the room- that plastic cup with Mickey Mouse on it isn’t fooling anyone.” 

He’d run after me telling me to hang up the phone and that I was una mentirosa. A liar.

My mom would get home late from work. My dad would be on the bed half drunk, no- fully drunk.

My brother and I would lock ourselves in our room, pretending not to hear the yelling and the things being tossed around in anger and desperation. The yelling would get so loud I had to cover my ears to tune them out.

 When I first started drinking it seemed so innocent. Taking sips from the bottles stashed around the house and filling them back up with water so nobody would notice. The buzz of tequila/wine/other-alcoholic-beverage-in-miniature-bottle was priceless. I didn’t even feel my tolerance build up.

Soon I wasn’t only drinking at home but drinking with friends whenever we got together- including lunchtime at school. Water bottles filled with Vodka. Middle school was a combination of tipsy with straight-A’s.

Stealing alcohol bottles from Safeway after 11pm. I must have looked so innocent then- 12 years old; the cashiers didn’t look at me twice. Runaway car ready to go waiting for me outside the store. Sky Vodka bottle hidden in my oversized sweatshirt.

Alcohol poisoning at age 14- emergency trip by ambulance to the nearest hospital after mom finds me passed out outside in the middle of the night.

Multiple blackouts ever since. My dad and I agreed - we drink to pass out, nothing less.

I drink less now. But I still crave a drink after a long day of work and it’s hard for me to turn away a drink with someone, even when I know I’m bad at stopping once I get started.

I know my drink limit, but I can’t always stick to it. That next drink is always way too tempting. And once I’ve passed my limit, there is little rescue from the drinks to follow.

But I know better now. I can recognize alcoholism runs in my family and that una peda doesn’t alleviate the problems I’m going through. Earlier this year for the first time I refused to get fucked up with my dad. I drank up to my limit and went to bed. I used to love proving myself to my dad by drinking too much. I used to look up to him for being able to drink so much. It is no longer exciting to share our love for drinking too much. Maybe because I’ve fallen out of love with drinking too much.

Alcoholism has brought a lot of pain to my family, particularly to my mom before the divorce. It also brought my dad and I closer when thousands of miles separated us and drunk phone calls paved the way to our reconciliation. I am still coming to terms with alcohol. I have gone periods of time without it. And there are still times I drink in excess. My dad is still drinking a lot.