I sat alone in my living room, the TV blaring in the background as I stared blankly at my phone. My father had been trying to reach out to me, but every time I tried to pick up the phone, I found myself reaching for a bottle instead. Alcohol had remained my crutch, my way of numbing the pain and avoiding the difficult conversations that needed to be had. The allure of a bar was ever-present, but I managed to make my home the sanctuary where I’d meet intoxication on a daily basis. I was angry, so angry at my father for letting his addiction consume him. But as I stared at my own reflection in the empty beer bottle, I couldn’t help but feel like I was looking at my own future. Would I end up like him, lost in a sea of regret? Was I cursed to follow in his footsteps, never able to escape the demons that haunted us both? I took another swig of my drink, the bitter taste barely registering on my tongue. It was all I could do to keep the thoughts at bay, to drown out the fear and uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm me. But the more I drank, the more I realized how much of myself I was losing to this addiction. I was being selfish, putting my own needs and desires ahead of everything else. But was that so different from what my father had done? Was I really any better than him, or was I just too blinded by my own pain to see the truth? I needed to do something, anything to break free from this cycle of addiction and self-destruction. I couldn’t keep hiding behind the bottle, pretending like everything was okay. When the cameras were on, I was on top of the world, but the ugly reality that my family faced would feel like water drops on my forehead, an unexplainable torture that I couldn’t escape. And so, I kept drowning.
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