It'll All Be Better In the Morning
Cherie Burbach
July 14, 2006
My father was an alcoholic.
I say this not with malice or anger but as truth. I say it also because our family would never say it. I was brought up to believe that if we just didn’t think about it, or worse, talk about it, then it would, as my mother would say, “all be better in the morning.”
However, when one morning eased into another, and my father’s drinking continued to escalate, I began to have concerns that we should be doing something. But I was just a kid, and challenging adults or even asking questions was not something that was encouraged in my family.
Eventually the effects of my fathers alcoholism focused on me. As I entered my pre-teen years every look, every question, and every noise I made became a focus for my father’s alcohol-induced anger. I kept waiting for my mother or grandparents to tell my dad to stop, that enough was enough. I wanted someone to come to my defense, and help me battle this beast that started the day as my father and ended it with cold stares, violent hands, and an abusive tongue.
But not only did these people I love not say anything to my father, they acted as if nothing was wrong or unusual. My mother would clear the supper table with a nervous hum as my dad would lay into me about the things he hated about me that day.
And even though my mother kept telling me “everything was fine,” I knew better. I decided that if my mom didn’t see it, I had to show her. My ten year old mind knew I had to talk to my mom about what I’d felt but I didn’t know how to start. I couldn’t just walk up to her and say, “Mom, I think Dad is drinking too much,” so I tried to show her the only way I knew how. I wrote a poem, entitled “The Ice,” about how the sounds of ice clinking the bottom of an empty glass were the most frightening to me, because it meant my father was finished with his drink and would now turn his attention to me.
I ceremoniously handed the poem to my mother one day when my father was at the store.
What’s this?” she asked. I said, “Just read it,” and went to my room to wait. I felt lighter, the burden of this silence lifted off of me. I also felt taller, that somehow my mother would see the light and together she and I would tackle my father’s drinking head on.
But when she came in my room, she was angry. “What is this?” she hissed.
I blinked. My heart sank. She didn’t get it. “It’s a poem,” I started.
I can see that,” she said, anger waiting to erupt.
It’s – it’s the way I feel___” I stammered.
What the hell is the matter with you,” she spat. “Your father loves you. Do you know how hurt he would be to see this?”
I didn’t want to hurt my father, so I joined her that day in pretending there was not problem in our house. And our silence allowed the alcoholism to slip by and take control of my father’s life. And of ours.
Eventually, this addiction that caused our family so much heartache would take my father away from us for good.
When my father died, I became a proponent of the truth. I broke with this family tradition we had of never talking about the truth unless it was pleasant. I could no longer deal with secrecy in any form. And for the first time, I began to tell people about my family’s situation.
The more I talked with others, the more I realized that in this desensitized world the stigma of alcoholism still exists. And discussing it openly, without shame, is still a very hard thing to do.
Alcoholism is a disease and not a behavioral problem. But many families dealing with this disease still feel guilty or embarrassed, and as a result, they keep quiet. Without meaning to, they actually assist the alcoholic by ignoring the problem. The alcoholic believes there will always be someone there to “protect him.” In the end, the well-meaning loved ones, like my own family, actually keep the alcoholic from confronting the problem himself.
According to Alcoholics Anonymous, the first in their twelve step program is to admit “we were powerless over alcohol – that our lives had become unmanageable.”
But if we, as a family couldn’t bring ourselves to admit there was a problem, how could we possibly expect my father to?
I say this not with malice or anger but as truth. I say it also because our family would never say it. I was brought up to believe that if we just didn’t think about it, or worse, talk about it, then it would, as my mother would say, “all be better in the morning.”
However, when one morning eased into another, and my father’s drinking continued to escalate, I began to have concerns that we should be doing something. But I was just a kid, and challenging adults or even asking questions was not something that was encouraged in my family.
Eventually the effects of my fathers alcoholism focused on me. As I entered my pre-teen years every look, every question, and every noise I made became a focus for my father’s alcohol-induced anger. I kept waiting for my mother or grandparents to tell my dad to stop, that enough was enough. I wanted someone to come to my defense, and help me battle this beast that started the day as my father and ended it with cold stares, violent hands, and an abusive tongue.
But not only did these people I love not say anything to my father, they acted as if nothing was wrong or unusual. My mother would clear the supper table with a nervous hum as my dad would lay into me about the things he hated about me that day.
And even though my mother kept telling me “everything was fine,” I knew better. I decided that if my mom didn’t see it, I had to show her. My ten year old mind knew I had to talk to my mom about what I’d felt but I didn’t know how to start. I couldn’t just walk up to her and say, “Mom, I think Dad is drinking too much,” so I tried to show her the only way I knew how. I wrote a poem, entitled “The Ice,” about how the sounds of ice clinking the bottom of an empty glass were the most frightening to me, because it meant my father was finished with his drink and would now turn his attention to me.
I ceremoniously handed the poem to my mother one day when my father was at the store.
What’s this?” she asked. I said, “Just read it,” and went to my room to wait. I felt lighter, the burden of this silence lifted off of me. I also felt taller, that somehow my mother would see the light and together she and I would tackle my father’s drinking head on.
But when she came in my room, she was angry. “What is this?” she hissed.
I blinked. My heart sank. She didn’t get it. “It’s a poem,” I started.
I can see that,” she said, anger waiting to erupt.
It’s – it’s the way I feel___” I stammered.
What the hell is the matter with you,” she spat. “Your father loves you. Do you know how hurt he would be to see this?”
I didn’t want to hurt my father, so I joined her that day in pretending there was not problem in our house. And our silence allowed the alcoholism to slip by and take control of my father’s life. And of ours.
Eventually, this addiction that caused our family so much heartache would take my father away from us for good.
When my father died, I became a proponent of the truth. I broke with this family tradition we had of never talking about the truth unless it was pleasant. I could no longer deal with secrecy in any form. And for the first time, I began to tell people about my family’s situation.
The more I talked with others, the more I realized that in this desensitized world the stigma of alcoholism still exists. And discussing it openly, without shame, is still a very hard thing to do.
Alcoholism is a disease and not a behavioral problem. But many families dealing with this disease still feel guilty or embarrassed, and as a result, they keep quiet. Without meaning to, they actually assist the alcoholic by ignoring the problem. The alcoholic believes there will always be someone there to “protect him.” In the end, the well-meaning loved ones, like my own family, actually keep the alcoholic from confronting the problem himself.
According to Alcoholics Anonymous, the first in their twelve step program is to admit “we were powerless over alcohol – that our lives had become unmanageable.”
But if we, as a family couldn’t bring ourselves to admit there was a problem, how could we possibly expect my father to?
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