Dear annihilator of my family,
Does this ring a bell: “You witch! Where did you hide those bottles? Tell me now!”
You might have forgotten these words, ‘father’, but they have not escaped my memory. This happened that fateful night when you walked out the door, and never returned.
Was it fateful? No. Was it good? I cannot decide.
One night, 20 years ago, when I was 7, you came storming into the house with an empty bottle in your hand, shouting and hurling curses, I could see you rummaging through the cupboard, desperately looking for some more bottles to empty. When you could not find them, you screamed at my mother and thrashed her for hiding alcohol, abusing her and hitting her with anything that you could find. Finally, you left and we never heard from you.
I was very young, Dad, when alcoholism had enveloped you fully. My brother was hardly 4.
Even now, I remember those nights, when you came home, dead drunk, after partying with your colleagues. I used to peek and see you punching, strangling, kicking and pushing my mother. Yet, she could do nothing. Even if she dared to say something, you would slap her hard.
After mom put us to sleep, your shouting and screaming would wake me up. She would cry to herself all night, and you would snore away. My brother and I would tiptoe down the stairs, afraid to wake you up, and sleep on mom’s lap hoping she would someday take us away from all the pain. My brother was not entirely blind to your behaviour either.
Do you remember what happened when he begged for a toy? You pushed him with your feet and slapped me when I tried to protect him.
What exactly was his fault? That he chose a wrong day to ask for a toy, when you were, as usual, in your drunken state? What was mother’s mistake? That she tried to stop you from drinking? She tried hard to mask her agony and even bruises from everyone in the community.
Whenever someone asked her, “How come you have a black eye?” she would respond with, “Oh! I fell off the stairs yesterday” or, “I accidentally burnt my hand on the stove.” She never spoke out about the happenings at home every single day and every single night, for years, trying to project the image of a happy family.
And my brother and I? We were always so scared of you that we could never talk to anyone about it. We felt so ashamed of you that we hated going to school.
Because we felt hurt comparing you to other fathers. They were ever so polite and nice and loved their families. All the other kids in school were intelligent, confident and smart. And me, Dad? I was scared. I never believed in myself or trusted anyone.
After you left, everything changed. No, it did not get better. It only got worse.
Mom tried to start earning to give us a better life. However, her pain and trauma always got in the way. Because of you, she was left scarred and traumatised to even concentrate on taking care of us. I watched her sit by the window, gazing off into the distance only to see her suddenly get up and start screaming, “Go hide! Your dad is home! He will kill us!” Then, she would start crying and would clamour for help.
After a few days, some people came and took her away to a hospital. “It’s for her own good,” they said. My brother and I were taken to an orphanage and given schooling.
Life was not easy even then. The other kids thought we were ‘different’ because we never spoke much or because we always looked frightened. We had terrible nightmares. We would often wake up screaming and crying. We never trusted anyone for fear that they might hurt us.
20 years later, life has changed. Not so much for my brother, though. One day, when I came back from school, he was missing. Even after days of searching, we had no clue as to where he was. After many years, I received news that he went into depression.
He blamed himself for what our mother went through and he took to drinking as a way out. Lo and behold, he followed suit. I tried to reach out to him, to help him and to support him battle his way out of alcoholism. But I lost him too, Dad, like I lost you and mom. I lost the only family you left me.
Today, when I visit your grave, to pay respects to my dear brother, I promise myself this: I will not let alcoholism be a reason for anyone’s pain.
I will not let my husband, my children and my friends follow what you did. For all these years, the pain you inflicted on my soul is still fresh. It haunts me.
I have decided to get over it; to move on and to not let it affect me any more. For what has happened, has happened. From this point onwards, it will be my responsibility to make sure that it does not affect my future family. For what destroyed my family, should not happen to anyone else.
Yours only,
A disturbed daughter.
