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My father drank himself half to death.
I tried to understand why.
But I became stumped and hurt every time I thought about it.
He became drunk and argumentative but always assured us he never meant it.

I became my mother’s best friend more than a daughter.
She would ask for advice and I would give my honest opinion.
Whether it was offensive or complete profanity.
She took it in and thought yet never took any suggestions.

My parents fought like siblings with a huge age gap.
Neither ever understood the other.
Late nights at work and early afternoons at the bar.
I was born in the middle of a fiery war.

My older sister is lucky she isn’t related to my father.
Her father may be a deadbeat but mine, in a few years, may actually be dead.
My brother has enough of his own problems, why distract him with our fathers’.
All of us aren’t full siblings, may be that’s a good thing.

I’m talking to the younger me when I write down my memories of my dad. 
But I’m giving my future self more reading material for cringing.
Reliving the memories I never understood as a child.
And once I’m older I’ll relive the memories again, but this time understand them the way 16 year old me did.

Having an alcoholic father taught me that I’m not the only one with trust issues.
Seeing another empty bottle but only seeing another broken promise.
Having an alcoholic father taught me that sometimes you can find closer family in strangers.
My friends are my non-biological family that grew closer to me than my father and I since I was 7.

Having an alcoholic father has taught me that my heart has been broken so many times.
It’s hard for me to love and become close to people anymore.
Having an alcoholic father has taught me to open up my eyes to others problems.
That’s why I can now see I have a sister who’s addicted to pain meds and a brother who’s handicapped.
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