My father was an alcoholic. He passed away 3 years ago.

It would’ve been good to have him around more, and fully present.

At one point towards the end, whenever I went to visit him and my stepmom, it was just me laying on the couch, watching movies.

He was hiding somewhere around the house, drinking, and his wife was at work.

And that’s how the years passed.

I’ve tried to help, but you can’t, not if the person isn’t ready to be helped.

For you, that Christmas was the last drop (maybe). For him, the last drop was a bit before he was hospitalized with liver failure.

Literally.

I am honestly proud of the way I handled my father’s death. I gave myself time to mourn, I let myself cry, I talked to a therapist and at long last, I accepted it.

But what I’m most proud of is that I never blamed myself for his drinking, and never allowed myself to think I could’ve saved him.

Because I couldn’t have.

And it’s not my job, anyway.

This is not me blaming my father for how he chose to live his life. This is me acknowledging that this was his choice, that these were his mistakes, that it was his responsibility to ask for help.

Acknowledging that his life had given him plenty of opportunities, and he’s missed them all.

And acknowledging that, despite all that, when he was around, he was a wonderful father.

A father who built me up so that I can handle anything.

Maybe he knew I’d need to.