For pure amusement, I tuned in to a podcast. The format is simple—callers pitch their questions on any subject, the host responds, and the world is a happier place. One caller had a mess on her hands. She was estranged from her alcoholic father and was worried that he would die from drink before they could reconcile. My ears perked up. Wow, I thought, this caller could use some good advice. Alas! What she got was garbage.
My dad was an alcoholic. Like this caller, I had worries of my own about his impending death. He was 51, I was 22. I was leaving for Taiwan to make some easy money teaching English. (The money never happened—but that’s not part of the story.)
My dad didn’t look so good. His body was so saturated with liquor, he would wake up still drunk. He was frighteningly thin, unable to keep food down. He did, however, manage to keep drinking. The family carried on as if everything was normal. But my eyes told me that he was on the verge of dying. I had only one thought: if he dies while I’m in Taiwan, that’s going to put a real damper on my trip. I left for Taiwan but decided to keep my whereabouts unknown for two weeks. I didn’t want to be called back home for his funeral. He passed away about five days later. By the time I heard, the funeral was over, so I stayed in Taiwan.
You may think, That’s one cold-hearted 22-year-old. It gets even colder. When I was 13 and my sister was 12, we made a little bet. I predicted my dad’s drinking would kill him at age 52. She predicted 50. You may think, What good-for-nothing children! I don’t think so. We were children doing our best to cope with a father who got drunk every day.
I didn’t necessarily want to win the bet, and I softened as I got older. I thought, Die or sober up—I’ll take either one. I carried this seemingly heartless thought everywhere I went and never shared it with anyone prior to his death. After his death, when I did start to share, people were horrified. They thought, You good-for-nothing kid! I still don’t think so. I was, after all, doing my best to cope with having spent 22 years living with an alcoholic.
Back to our caller. The advice she received didn’t make me feel better, so I reasoned—how could it have made her feel better? She needed advice, or a listening ear, from someone who could relate to her situation—preferably someone who achieved a state of happiness despite a rough childhood. I happen to think that I qualify. (Despite coming home broke from Taiwan—but that’s not part of the story.)
Living with an alcoholic father just didn’t seem right. The older I got, the more I could feel the emotional damage compounding, and I had no idea how to stop it. But the damage did stop, and eventually I found my way to a good life. Years into this good life, I started wondering about the sober adults who occupied my past. Why were they so silent? Aunts, uncles, teachers, friend’s parents—they all knew what I was going home to. No one ever said a comforting word to me. When I heard that caller, I suddenly realized that I had become one of those quiet adults. I, too, kept myself at arm’s length from people who were caught in my same childhood experience. A correction is warranted. It’s time I open up a little—once a month here at intothecomfortzone.com. Maybe I’ll say something that will make someone out there feel a little bit better. Because that’s all I wanted for this caller—a few words that would help her feel just a little bit better.
Into the Comfort Zone 