Sometime between 1993-1995 my parents bought into a timeshare with RCI. From that point on, our family took two week vacations almost every summer. One of our regular spots was Orlando, Florida.
We always drove too. All 14 hours. I remember the exhilarating feeling of seeing palm trees. It meant our long journey was coming to its point of completion.
The resorts we stayed at were like a nice 2 bedroom apartment. Usually the grounds were well manicured and the pools—the pool was the favorite spot. In between pool days, we usually did fun activities. If it was Orlando, we went to Universal Studios and Seaworld for sure. As a kid, I think we went to Disney twice.
I have a memory of staying until it was dark at Universal Studios at Fievels Playland. Our whole family rode the water slide over and over again. Even my mom, who has always been particular about her hair, surrendered herself to getting soaking wet.
We are on our way back from a vacation in Orlando. My mom still owns with RCI. Any time we stay at a resort, I have this weird cluster of emotions that hit me. It’s like when a smell reminds you of your grandmothers perfume or a song reminds you of your teen years.
The palm trees, the pool, the drive—it all reminds me of some of my best memories from childhood. But the joy is mixed with grief.
Unraveled
In 2003, I remember my mom picking me up from soccer practice and telling me she had news to share with me and my sister. I didn’t understand the whole situation back then, but we were told that dads foundry where he worked (Indianapolis Daimler Chrysler Foundry) was going to be closing.
We were told that dad would possibly be transferred and we would have to move. For me, that was world shaking. I had gone to the same Christian school for 9 years with a class size of about 20 kids. I had friends who had been an integrated part of my life for almost 10 years. The concept of moving had never been a part of my reality. At the time, I was devastated.
For dad, it was also earth shattering. It would be another year before my dad would get laid off, but that was when our lives would slowly unravel. Our private school education, our nice Dodge Cummins diesel, our horses, our family vacations, the roof over our heads and the food on our plates—all of this was a life he had worked very hard to build and most of which was for us.
I think being laid off and collecting unemployment did something to send him into a spiral of depression. The uncertainty of the future likely induced a side of anxiety to accompany the despair. He coped by drinking.
My high school years were characterized by nights coming home from basketball practice to dad being who knows where or passed out on the couch. My understanding of morality at the time as well as most of my Christian school friends considered alcohol a sin. You couldn’t drink and be a Christian. Period. I no longer hold to that conviction—I believe scripture condemns drunkenness but alcohol is amoral. However, back then, I felt ashamed of the reality our family was walking through. I hid it from most of my friends so I could maintain my self righteous veneer of a life.
Trapped
The alcohol stole my dad from us. He was drowning in depression and reaching for alcohol to be his life preserver. I had a much more simple and binary view of addiction than I do now. I was angry. I laced my anger with enough self-righteous Christian judgment to make someone already depressed feel demoralized.
I knew I had to forgive my dad. I believe I did as best I could, but the rest of our story together would be characterized by him disappointing me and me processing my disappointment by barely tolerating him.
Except, there were good moments. He had sober moments and I had moments of genuine love and compassion. There were times where I truly felt I was able to walk in forgiveness. There were times when he was truly himself.
One of the constants through the chaos was our family vacations. We still took them. For a week or two, our family would revert back to the way things were before.
I Never Said Thank You For That
In April of 2022, dad succumbed to the effects of over a decade of drinking heavily. He had been diagnosed with cirrhosis back in 2019, so it wasn’t a surprise. In fact, I had a conversation with him four months earlier where he told me the doctor gave him 3-6 months to live.
By the time I knew his days on earth were limited, I was tired. Tired of getting my hopes let down. Tired of trying to cultivate a relationship with someone who just wasn’t always emotionally and mentally healthy enough to do so. Tired of the person who was inhabiting my dad’s body but keeping the real him in a dungeon.
About six months before he died, I felt prompted to write him a letter. I shared good memories and good lessons he taught me. I wanted him to know his addiction hadn’t eclipsed his efforts to be a dad completely. I told him I loved him and forgave him. I am so glad I wrote that letter.
As I walked around the resort one night, memories rushed in. My dad used to play video games with me and shoot baskets at our neighbors court. He fueled my interest in motorcycles and became a Pacers fan for a time. Actually, we were Pacers fans in the golden era of the Reggie Miller and Michael Jordan rivalry. He worked hard for us to go to the school we went to and enjoy the vacations we enjoyed.
As these memories soaked my mind, I started to feel regret. Which, is not a good place to live if it doesn’t move you forward towards healing. I realized my dad’s addiction had become the all consuming narrative of his story and mine. My story became about my alcoholic dad who wounded me because of his addiction.
Which, is a part of the story. He was a broken mess. The tragedy is that our broken messes do hurt others. But, it’s not fair or accurate for his whole story as a dad to be consumed by his addiction. I started thinking about all the ways he did try. He tried to show interests in things that interested me. He told me he loved me and he was proud of me often. He tried and he deserved more appreciation from me for that.
While listening to some throwback songs on our road trip, "Hear You Me” by Jimmy Eat World came on Spotify. These lyrics struck a chord:
I never said thank you for that
I thought I might get one more chance
What would you think of me now?
So lucky, so strong, so proud?
I never said thank you for that
Now I'll never have a chance
I hope my letter and my efforts to heal our relationship let him know I loved him and forgave him. But there was a lot I never said thank you for. There’s a lot that hurt can do to injure the stories we tell ourselves about other people.
I’m thankful that I believe hurt can be healed and so can the stories that contain the wounds. I have hope that one day, all things will be made new. One day, there will be no more crying or hurting. One day, wholeness will eclipse brokenness.
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