My mother is the greatest nurturer I’ve ever known. There are few family members, friends, or neighbors that she has ever turned away. She accepts people as part of her family, and anyone who has met my mother knows that her door is always open. As her children, we never had to question if we’d get what we needed for school, or if we’d get money for the book fair, or if we could go on a field trip. I still have no idea how she managed to work the entire time we were growing up and still raise us. And I mean, really raise us. She was at every choir concert, every basketball game, every parent-teacher conference. My mother never let us down. To this day, I don’t know how she managed to give us all that we ever needed, or how she still does. In the center of all she was, she was also a warrior. She fought a daily battle as the wife of an alcoholic.
When I was a child, I didn’t understand that this wasn’t normal. Didn’t every father lose his temper? Didn’t every father have ‘that vein’ that pops out of his neck when his face turned red with rage over the toys on the floor? Didn’t every teenager who had their license understand that meant picking dad up from the bar he got kicked out of when they called the house?
I was about six years old when I first recall my mother’s strength in these moments. In the basement, I watched as my mother changed out of her work clothes haphazardly. She was rushing from one end of the laundry room to the other, then back again in a matter of seconds, trying desperately to find the clothes she was going to wear. She grabbed the handful of bills she kept in her work jacket and stuffed them into her pocket. All the while, I stood in the doorway observing and begging her through my tears, yet again, to divorce my father.
I don’t remember a time when I didn’t understand the meaning of divorce. As young as I was, I can’t recall a time where I didn’t have memories of my father angry and drunk, where I didn’t want to run from it all. As far back as my memory serves me, this had always been a reoccurring instance. My mother always told us that she had married our father for better or worse, and divorce was not an option. In that basement, she simply told me to stop asking such questions and to get my things. We were going to Aunt Karen’s.
My mother had gone to her sister Karen’s house many times to reach solace in these times. My brother and I also frequently had sleepovers with Aunt Karen. She never married, had no kids, and had what we referred to as a ‘zoo’ of animals. She always had 2 or 3 dogs, multiple cats, and even fish on occasion. She was like a big kid to us. We could relate to her in ways we just couldn’t with other adults. She let us eat candy for hours, have mac and cheese for breakfast, and watch cartoons until we fell asleep on the floor in front of the television. For us, going to Aunt Karen’s was a luxury. For my mom, it was an escape.
My mother and her sister are the best of friends. I cannot relate. Maybe because my sister and I have a great distance of time between us at 7 years. Or, maybe it’s because we grew up love-hating each other. I was born on her birthday, and we shared a room from the time I was old enough to be in school until she moved out at around 18. Growing up, I could see her perspective- I stole her birthday and her clothes. For me, I hated being compared to her by my entire family (parents included), as if two girls would ever make the same mistakes or have the same interests.
As we are getting ready to leave, he is yelling at my mother, and some words I didn’t fully understand. But I knew what “fucking stupid” meant. As he kept screaming profanities at my mother and I, often this phrase kept escaping his lips. I also knew when the vein started protruding from the right side of his neck, it meant bad things. As we walked out of the door into the garage, I looked back at my father, now hunched over sitting upright at the table with a spoon in his hand, the bowl of cereal on the table, and corn flakes fell from his parted mouth onto the floor as he snored.
I remember this moment in particular, because it’s the memory that pushes into my head whenever someone asks me my stance on marriage or divorce. Inevitably, at 28, the question comes up with anyone you’ve allowed to even get somewhat close to you.
Friends who are complaining about their wedding plans will often say, “Oh, you’ll find out how stressful this is when YOU get married.” Or that incredibly awkward three-months-into-dating-someone-new-talk starts, usually with “Where do you see this going?”
There is no question that, at some point, you’re going to be looked at as a stranger in a bizarre dreamland if you’re not the type of girl who planned her whole wedding by the age of nine. I didn’t know how normal it was for little girls to dream of wedding dresses, flowers, their first song, and who their husband would be at the end of the aisle. I knew enough of weddings and marriage to know that it was not for me. I didn’t understand that marriage was a legal binding contract, or even what legally really even meant. All I knew, was that when things got bad, I wanted to leave, and I wanted my mother to leave, but we couldn’t simply because they were married. I knew enough to know that this marriage thing sounded awful, and I needed to avoid it. Even today, when the topic arises, this is the moment that pushes in the front of my mind. I never wanted to feel like I couldn’t leave if I wanted to.
I do not hold a grudge against my mother for not leaving. She honestly loved this man. They did things the ‘right’ way. They met. They dated. They fell in love. They married. They celebrated marriage for a while. They had kids. They worked. They paid off their house and cars and never had much debt. Our family never went without. We lived in the same house they bought when my sister was the only child, the house that my brother and I grew up in from the start. We went to great schools, and we all had the opportunity to go to college, even if we all didn’t obtain a degree.
My parents still live in that same house, and have improved it greatly. My mother never wanted us to wonder whose house we would be at for the holidays, or where our father was, or where our mother was.
We tried everything growing up to stop the ‘bad’ days. Talking to him did nothing, drunk or sober. Trying to talk to my dad while he was drunk was as impossible as trying to explain colors to someone who is blind. He just couldn’t see what you meant. Trying to talk to my dad sober was like trying to convince a suspect that they murdered someone when there are no witnesses, no evidence, and a solid alibi. We tried leaving the room, and he’d follow us. We tried simply not speaking, but then he’d get angrier and dig deeper. Our mother sometimes would jump in and fight our battles for us, picking an argument with him so he’d forget what he was yelling at us about. I don’t think hearing her and him in a screaming match was any better than being yelled at directly. She tried saving us, but in the end, we’d feel guilty for not being able to save her.
“You worthless piece of shit! I am so disappointed. Who the fuck do you think you are? WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!”
He’s screaming.
“I know what you’re doing. You piece of fucking shit. You’re a disa-fucking-pointment. Who the fuck raised you, you disrepectful shit-bag?”
We’re trying to stay quiet. But after so many years, those words hit home. We all started to think that we were worthless.
“You’re a fucking failure, Krystal. How the fuck did I raise such a worthless excuse for a person?”
“I know what you’re doing, Johnny. You think I don’t know? I know. I know everything, you fucking prick. You think you’re so fucking smart. Yeah, Einstein. I can’t wait for the day where you fall on your fucking face. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Fuck you, Jennifer! Fuck you! You can’t even understand. You’re so fucking stupid. I can’t even explain to a stupid fucking child like you how fucking worthless you are.”
“You always take their side, Kathy. Your fucking kids run your goddamn life, and you can’t see that. You’re a fucking kid yourself, Kath. Grow the fuck up.”
I must express that the point of this book, though, is not to say how much I hate my dad. It is more about the complications that come from loving him. Alcoholism comes in many different forms. I also much say this is in no way an irrefutable description of what it is like to grow up with an alcoholic. My mother didn’t want us to grow up without a father, no matter what kind of father that it was we were growing up with. It’s hard to say if this was the right decision.
My siblings and I would have turned out differently, that’s for sure. But, would I be any less afraid of commitment? Would my sister be any less afraid of being alone? Would my brother have any less self-esteem issues? It’s hard to say what exactly would have happened. And while I can attach certain memories to the way I think now, I must reiterate I do not hold a grudge against my mother for choosing what she did. Anything she did, or didn’t do, she always tried to do her best, and that knowledge enough is a comfort.
Spoiler alert: We all turned out pretty okay. As I’m introducing my family, I think it’s important to spell that out. I often hear, “life is what you make of it.” Unless it is on an informercial for the next diet fad or exercise craze, that statement is ludicrous to me. One day is made up of a thousand moments you did not create, and you are lucky if you have made even a few of them yourself.
I’m not talking about fate, or God, or destiny. I just mean that we do not always have a choice. It’s as if life is a race, and we can train for it. We can practice running as fast as we can. We can heighten our endurance and do everything to prepare for the marathon. But we still can’t choose the weather. And it seems like the starting location is at random. We are all running forward, choosing our paths as we go. But we are only choosing where we go, not where we came from.
My sister, Krystal, followed the path of being a mother early on. She has a successful career as well, having worked in banking for over a decade before switching to a profession in social services, specifically involving senior citizens and retirement communities. My sister, being the oldest, was the first to be married. She met her husband when she was just beginning adulthood. They had a mutual group of friends that brought them together. Interestingly, she originally dated one of his friends before dating Donnie. They have now been married over ten years and are raising two incredible children, have a beautiful home, and are each other’s best friends.
In the heated moments, however, that any couple faces, the struggles we dealt with as the children of an alcoholic surfaced. I’ve never talked to my sister about the emotional depth of our past, but I have seen moments that strike me to my core in sympathy. The arguments that most couples would brush off, she sometimes holds as possible excuses Donnie may have to leave her. None of us know what truly happens behind closed doors, but I feel extraordinarily confident that he never would leave her. I truly feel he loves her, and not just because she is the mother of his children, though that certainly has to have an added respect and adoration.
My brother, John, journeyed through life alone for the majority of his early life. At the risk of sounding like his biggest fan, he is absolutely brilliant. He literally is trained in a trifecta of trades: he is certified in auto repair and small engine repair and knows enough about pesticides, lawn care, and gardening to fill the Bible. He has sought certifications and educated himself on all of these professions for years.
Growing up, I remember him taking apart toasters, computers, and radios while in elementary school. While most kids our age watched Nickelodeon, he watched the Discovery and History Channels. When I think of how often my dad discouraged my brother’s intelligence through the years, sarcastically calling him Einstein, it infuriates me. I honestly feel that, if given the proper education and resources, he could’ve been (still could be) an actual rocket scientist.
I wonder how much sharing my father’s, and my grandfather’s, name affected my brother. I can only imagine the weight that is put on one’s shoulders to carry on the namesake that solidifies the entire Dziak family. A birthright, he was not simply elected, but chosen in a divine manner to uphold the honor of the John Dziak name.
My brother did not date much growing up. Although plenty of women, including friends of mine, found him attractive, he never could believe it. He struggled with his weight constantly. From about the time he was 10 years old until he reached his late 20s, he slowly continued to gain weight, staying consistently obese. At any weight, he was still a hardworking, funny, caring individual that women were drawn to. But he never noticed. It wasn’t until he focused on diet and exercise and lost all, and I mean all, of his weight that he started to feel worthy of love. He ended up not just getting healthy, but getting quite fit. Once his confidence soared, he started dating more often.
He met and fell in love with a woman who, I truly believe, would’ve loved him before his weight loss. For some people with this struggle, it’s common to fall quickly when someone corroborates your confidence. This was not Brittney. She did not confirm that he was somehow now more attractive than he was when he was heavier. In fact, I’m not sure if anything like this even occurred to her. Which, I feel, made him all the more self-assured.
My brother had seemingly shared my views on marriage growing up. He also had expressed that he never wanted children, often citing the state of the world we live in as the reason. He’d say, “I don’t want to bring a child into this world, it’s too dangerous and sad.” I think about all those moments now, and wonder if these statements were defenses against his debilitating self-esteem. Perhaps it is easier to tell yourself you do not want something instead of admitting you don’t feel that you deserve it. Within one year of meeting each other, Brittney and John were married, had purchased a house together, and were expecting their first child together.
This must be the part where I explain who I am today, right? But that wouldn’t be enough. I’d love to end this book right here (or short story as it would be), and say that there isn’t much more to tell. For one thing, it’d be a lot less painful, for both myself and my loved ones. But, I did not start putting pen to paper (or fingers to keys) to simply purge my memories out of my mind in the hopes it would provide me some clarity or relief.
My desire and my hope is that these pages will be read by others that are looking for a connection with another person who understands the complexities of an alcoholic. I speak of him as my dad because that is who he was to me, but I also try my best to explain who he was as a son, a husband, a friend, and a brother. In this way, perhaps parents who have felt guilty for staying as my mother did will find validation. Or, as children who have grown into adults, perhaps we can stop feeling ashamed and start feeling vindicated for choosing to forgive.
There were more drunk nights than sober ones. There were more disappointing surprises than pleasant ones, but there were pleasant ones. It is why this story needs to be told. My mother didn’t fall in love with a monster. And I call him ‘dad’ because he has earned that title. He did not blanket me with love and affection, and I actually often wonder if he ever should’ve had children simply because he was not the playful, energetic, or patient type. He did, however, go to work every single day where he made a good living at the same company for over 30 years.
This is not a story of a man who hit, beat, or abused his family. That was not my father. Occasionally, physical fights happened, but it was not habitual. This is also not a story one should use to justify reasons they decided to stay in an abusive relationship with an alcoholic. I would urge anyone to leave if your safety, or your children’s safety, is at all at risk.
In fact, although it is not always typical, my father actual slowed his ways as he got older. This is another way it became so very difficult to accept. It is almost as if we had to become acquainted with an entirely new person.
I am writing to validate the feelings of those of us who consistently heard, “walk away,” in screams of others and the whispers inside our own head. It is often assumed that those who stay are weak while those who leave are strong. We are members of a sort of secret club, secret only because we have been made to feel embarrassed for staying. I am trying to illuminate the idea that my mother was trying to explain to me when I was in that basement with her in 1996.
