Alcohol

Alcohol can be many things to many people.  To me, it's something evil.  Something to be avoided and feared.  In my house when the words "s/he's drinking" are spoken, it means that it's time to start worrying.  Praying.  Calling.  Searching.  And occasionally taking a trip to the hospital. 

I've grown up understanding that my uncles were alcoholics and they cycled from sober to not sober every few years or so.  That was okay and far away from me until my mom and my Uncle Mark got closer and I was nominated to move in and care for his 17 year old daughter while he was in rehab...again.  That wasn't so bad.  Movies on the sofa and take out every night was actually kinda cool.  Till it surfaced that my lovely little Rachel who used to look up to me when she was a child also drinks.  Most 17 year olds do these days.  But when your father is an alcoholic and in rehab, you don't need to be going to a party, getting smashed, busted by the cops, then turning up in the middle of the night banging on the windows because you left your purse behind in your rush to not get arrested.  But that's just my opinion.

My Uncle Tim was kinda always on the fringes of the family.  Going months or years without speaking to anyone because of some trite thing like books that went missing or the fact that he was ashamed that he, yet again, fell off the wagon and was pouring liquor down his throat as fast as he could swallow it.  So his drinking still hasn't really affected me too much.  I doubt it will.

But there is one person...one man...who's drinking affects me every day of my life.  My step-dad.  I call him dad, predominantly because he's been around since I was 4 or 5.  He's raised me as his own, and he's a good man.  Until he drinks.  When he does, his demeanor changes from a laughing, loving, and silly individual to a cold, bitter man looking to pick a fight.  Usually with me.  Not sure why.  I suppose because my temper won't allow me to be called a selfish bitch and a waste of space without screaming back.  Until I get so mad that I start crying.  Then he's one and he can scream and holler and call me anything he likes and make fun of me for crying, or whatever else he thinks of, and I let it go because I can't speak when I'm having hysterics.  I don't actually know anyone who can. 

So, with every insult that flies, I take it in.  Take it to heart.  So I've grown up believing that I was everything from a fat, ugly, selfish bitch to a waste of space.  You may be wondering at this point where my mom is in all of this.  The answer is, it varies.  Sometimes she's working, thought not anymore because she's disabled, but that was usually the case when the really bad fights would happen.  Lately, she's either sitting and saying nothing, or also shouting at me.  It depends on what the argument is about.  If it's about money then she's on his side.  Always.  No matter how intoxicated he is, if the fight is over how much money I do or don't give them, she is ALWAYS on his side.  That's just the way things are.  In all honesty, I'd rather her be shouting at me right along with him then just sitting and letting it happen.  Cause when she sits and lets it happen, I later get a "stern talking to" about my tone or my attitude or what I said or what I did.  It's always my fault.  That's just the way things are.

Back when mom was working evenings, things started out okay.  Me and my step-dad have a similar taste in movies and TV and we would occasionally sneak some Chinese take out into the mix.  But then something changed.  I'm really not sure what.  But he started drinking more.  Then the fights started.  It was always my fault.  I said something wrong or did something wrong or didn't do something the right way or at the right time or some kind of trite thing that really didn't matter to anyone but an intoxicated man.  But there is one fight that sticks out in my mind more than all the rest.

It was winter.  I was 16.  We had this old piece of crap dinosaur for a computer in our spare bedroom.  I was in on it working on a paper for school.  Now, this old piece of crap dinosaur computer has a very odd system quirk.  When you were typing a document and wanted to print, sometime Microsoft Word would close automatically when you hit the print button.  About half the time your paper wouldn't print, you wouldn't be able to retrieve the document, and you'd have to start all over.  Particularly annoying when you have to fight the Civil War in ten pages due the next morning and it's 11:30 at night.  But anyways, the system quirked that night.  Just as my step-dad was walking in the spare bedroom door.  Very, very drunk.  Microsoft Word closed, the document didn't print, and I couldn't retrieve it.  That was all the "proof" he needed that I was doing something wrong. 

He started shouting.  I ignored him and started typing my paper all over again.  Bad idea.  He grabbed the back of the chair I was sitting in and pulled it down until the chair tipped backwards.  I stood up and asked him if he was insane, that he could have seriously hurt me.  For the very first time, he raised his hand.  I distinctly remember saying "Do it.  Hit me.  See how fast I call the police."  More than anything I remember this: He smiled.  He smiled a big grin at me and said "Ooooohhhh.  So you're going to call the police on me now?  Well, here.  Let me get the phone for you."  Then he walked out of the room.  He said that in a very calm and evil tone.

As soon as he was out of the room, I slammed the door so hard I knocked pictures off the wall.  I locked the door and grabbed my cell phone.  To this day I still really don't know if I was calling my mom or the police.  Either way, I never made the call.  He kicked the door in and swung.  I ducked and took off down the hall to my room.  I slammed the door.  Locked it.  Pushed my dresser in front of it.  Grabbed my backpack.  Packed.  I didn't even think about clothes or a toothbrush.  I shoved all my schoolbooks and papers, minus the report I was typing that I don't think ever got finished, into my backpack, moved the dresser aside, and walked to the living room where he was waiting.  

He asked me where the hell I thought I was going.  I said I was leaving.  He grabbed my backpack and tried to snatch it off me, or snatch me backwards.  I'm really not sure which.  He told me I wasn't going anywhere.  My response still astounds me.  I looked him dead in the eye and said "Watch me".  Then I opened the front door and left.  I didn't go home until the next day when I had to get my mom to come pick me up from school because I kept having panic attacks.

The really fun thing about that night was... I was blamed.  Everything was my fault.  I was grounded for a while.  Not really sure how long.  The spare bedroom door still has a long crack in it where my step-dad kicked it in.  In my fit of door slamming I at some point knocked a clock off the wall.  One corner of it still remains damaged and the glass missing a chunk.  The scars I carved into my arm with a razor blade in a friends bathroom that night have faded to almost nothing.  But  the damage was done.  I don't trust many people.  I don't trust men at all, except 3.  Jack, Cody, and my dad.  My real dad.  Not my step-dad.  I won't trust him as far as I can throw him.  

As a result of a great many incidents like this, I am terrified of drunk people.  And I mean terrified.  I'm not sure if there is a name for the phobia of drunk people.  But if there is, then that's the word that describes me.  I've also had a therapist or two tell me that he's most likely the reason why I'm attracted to women.  I'm not really sure about that.  True or false, it's there.

So what is alcohol?  Is it good?  Bad?  Something to be enjoyed?  Feared?  Embraced?  Avoided?  It all depends on the person.  As for me, yea.  I drink.  Rarely.  I have never been drunk.  I don't plan on ever letting myself go that far.  I have a very tight control on that aspect of my life.  I refuse to be like the man who has made me fear people so.

What is alcohol to you?

Scooter Out.