By Whitney
I suppose we are at the point where I should tell you the main reason I was estranged from my Dad when he died. The thing is, so many emotions are attached to this story that I am not even certain I can tell it correctly. It is imperative that it is understood how much I truly loved this man, even during the horrible times. I had lived through a life time of both mental and physical abuse from him, a constant rollercoaster of emotions and pain, and yet I always forgave him and allowed him back into my life. But, this last time was different because it directly involved my child.
Daddy had lived with us many times over the years, particularly when he was just completing another stay in in a rehabilitation facility. I always wanted him with me when he got out of rehab because I thought that I could somehow keep him sober. I believed that at the time; I know now that he was the only one who could've made that happen. My husband is a saint and never once told me that Daddy couldn't come back, even though he was always the one who had to pack up Daddy's things and make him leave when the situation got bad. And italways got bad, sometimes sooner rather than later. Daddy had a violent temper when he was drunk and there was no way to reason with him or communicate effectively at all. He felt persecuted by everyone and he was never, ever to be blamed for his actions. Most often, when he was in a drunken rage, he placed the blame for his drinking squarely on my shoulders, or my mother's. There was absolutely nothing rational about my Daddy when he was drinking and the smallest things would set him off.
Daddy had been living with us for a few months by the end of 2007. He was coming off of the longest period of sobriety he had ever experienced and had left the H.O.W. Foundation once again. He said he couldn't stand the rules there anymore and he was going to find a way to make a great deal of money very quickly. I will say, that had my daddy ever stayed sober, we would've been wealthy. The man was a genius with money making ideas and could sell anything to anyone. Unfortunately, the alcohol addiction always came first and although he was able to keep a job, he was never able to follow through on any of his ideas. And sadly, that is what happened this time too. The longer he lived with us, the more reclusive he became. Before long, he was staying in his bedroom most of the time and drinking his hidden whiskey. He honestly thought that we didn't know he was drinking, but it was always very clear. As the weeks passsed, he got worse and worse and I was having to remind him to take a shower and to eat. I spoke to him about that fact that I was aware that he was drinking and he adamantly denied it and became very angry with me. I had enough experience with him to walk away from the conversation and he retreated to his room and closed the door.
A few nights later, the stench from his room was unbearable. He hadn't showered in days and reeked of stale whiskey and the fried chicken he would go pick up while we were at work and school. I was beyond sad and frustrated with him and my family was, too. I was beginning to realize that my sons were being exposed to a life that I didn't want them to ever know. My boys adored my daddy and lovingly called him "Pawjerr". I desperately wanted to perserve only good memories for them, but I failed miserably. That particular December night was cold and rainy. Only my youngest son and I were home with Daddy. As my dad staggered out of his room, smelling horrible, bleary eyed, totally drunk, he confronted my son at the top of the stairs. I do not recall the exact conversation, however, my dad started it and was immediately belligerent and hateful to my not quite 15 year old. My son responded by telling him he was drunk and needed to go to bed. And those few words from a child were enough to send my father into a drunken rage. He put his hands on my boy and, while stading at the top of the staircase, proceeded to shove him. That was my breaking point. That moment was when I became strong enough to say "NO MORE". I was done. Finished. The things he had done to me my entire life didn't matter, but the moment he put his hands on my child in an effort to harm him, was the moment I felt the most rage I have ever experienced. I had a choice to make that night and I made it. No matter how much I loved my father, I loved my child so very much more.
I called my husband who was on his way home from work and between sobs, told him what happened. He was all too familiar with what came next and said he would take care of it, but for us to get out of the house. My son and I left our home, with Daddy still raging, and went to a restaurant with a neighbor until we were certain he was gone. My husband packed Daddy's clothes, took him to a local hotel, paid for one night and told him he was not welcome in our home again. Ever. It was over. And although I would talk to my dad many more times and send him cards and pictures, that night was the last night I ever saw him alive. And sadly, that is my son's last memory of the grandfather he loved.
I suppose we are at the point where I should tell you the main reason I was estranged from my Dad when he died. The thing is, so many emotions are attached to this story that I am not even certain I can tell it correctly. It is imperative that it is understood how much I truly loved this man, even during the horrible times. I had lived through a life time of both mental and physical abuse from him, a constant rollercoaster of emotions and pain, and yet I always forgave him and allowed him back into my life. But, this last time was different because it directly involved my child.
Daddy had lived with us many times over the years, particularly when he was just completing another stay in in a rehabilitation facility. I always wanted him with me when he got out of rehab because I thought that I could somehow keep him sober. I believed that at the time; I know now that he was the only one who could've made that happen. My husband is a saint and never once told me that Daddy couldn't come back, even though he was always the one who had to pack up Daddy's things and make him leave when the situation got bad. And italways got bad, sometimes sooner rather than later. Daddy had a violent temper when he was drunk and there was no way to reason with him or communicate effectively at all. He felt persecuted by everyone and he was never, ever to be blamed for his actions. Most often, when he was in a drunken rage, he placed the blame for his drinking squarely on my shoulders, or my mother's. There was absolutely nothing rational about my Daddy when he was drinking and the smallest things would set him off.
Daddy had been living with us for a few months by the end of 2007. He was coming off of the longest period of sobriety he had ever experienced and had left the H.O.W. Foundation once again. He said he couldn't stand the rules there anymore and he was going to find a way to make a great deal of money very quickly. I will say, that had my daddy ever stayed sober, we would've been wealthy. The man was a genius with money making ideas and could sell anything to anyone. Unfortunately, the alcohol addiction always came first and although he was able to keep a job, he was never able to follow through on any of his ideas. And sadly, that is what happened this time too. The longer he lived with us, the more reclusive he became. Before long, he was staying in his bedroom most of the time and drinking his hidden whiskey. He honestly thought that we didn't know he was drinking, but it was always very clear. As the weeks passsed, he got worse and worse and I was having to remind him to take a shower and to eat. I spoke to him about that fact that I was aware that he was drinking and he adamantly denied it and became very angry with me. I had enough experience with him to walk away from the conversation and he retreated to his room and closed the door.
A few nights later, the stench from his room was unbearable. He hadn't showered in days and reeked of stale whiskey and the fried chicken he would go pick up while we were at work and school. I was beyond sad and frustrated with him and my family was, too. I was beginning to realize that my sons were being exposed to a life that I didn't want them to ever know. My boys adored my daddy and lovingly called him "Pawjerr". I desperately wanted to perserve only good memories for them, but I failed miserably. That particular December night was cold and rainy. Only my youngest son and I were home with Daddy. As my dad staggered out of his room, smelling horrible, bleary eyed, totally drunk, he confronted my son at the top of the stairs. I do not recall the exact conversation, however, my dad started it and was immediately belligerent and hateful to my not quite 15 year old. My son responded by telling him he was drunk and needed to go to bed. And those few words from a child were enough to send my father into a drunken rage. He put his hands on my boy and, while stading at the top of the staircase, proceeded to shove him. That was my breaking point. That moment was when I became strong enough to say "NO MORE". I was done. Finished. The things he had done to me my entire life didn't matter, but the moment he put his hands on my child in an effort to harm him, was the moment I felt the most rage I have ever experienced. I had a choice to make that night and I made it. No matter how much I loved my father, I loved my child so very much more.
I called my husband who was on his way home from work and between sobs, told him what happened. He was all too familiar with what came next and said he would take care of it, but for us to get out of the house. My son and I left our home, with Daddy still raging, and went to a restaurant with a neighbor until we were certain he was gone. My husband packed Daddy's clothes, took him to a local hotel, paid for one night and told him he was not welcome in our home again. Ever. It was over. And although I would talk to my dad many more times and send him cards and pictures, that night was the last night I ever saw him alive. And sadly, that is my son's last memory of the grandfather he loved.