It’s a strange thing, having a father who’s still alive,
but not really there.

Not that i mean that he’s dead.
Not that he would be physically gone.

Just gone because of his own life choices.
Bad choices, if we’re being honest.

Alcohol.
Drugs.
Both have the same ending.

The person who’s supposed to be safety suddenly becomes unpredictable.
Or even worse, completely indifferent.

He doesn’t call.
Doesn’t ask.
Doesn’t even remember.
And if he does remember, it never shows in actions.
Or the contact lasts for a small moment, and then disappears again.

As a kid, you know how to wait.
And you want to.

You wait for the damn message.
You wait for the one promise that maybe, one day, will be kept.
You wait for the perfect version of your father,
the version that in reality, never actually really existed.

And when you finally grow older, you realize this might never even change.

People usually talk about alcoholic or addicted parents in two ways.
With anger.
Or with pity.

But almost never from the place where the innocent child is standing.

That place where it’s embarrassing to answer the question,
“what does your dad do?”

Where you learn to explain things away.
Or lie.
Or just stay quiet, because it’s easy.

Where you learn to survive on your own,
because there isn’t really another option.

It’s not just that your father isn’t there.
It’s that you start doubting yourself.

Why wasn’t I enough?
Why were other things more important?
Why did the bottle and the needle win over me? His own child?

And even though logic tells you it’s not the child’s fault,
feelings don’t usually listen to logic.

Alongside the anger, there’s always emptiness.
Grief for something that never truly existed,
no matter how badly you wanted it to.

Missing someone you don’t really know,
even though you wish you did.

And on top of that, the shame,
shame for missing a person who doesn’t deserve it at all, not even a bit.

The worst part is how it follows you.

Trust.
Safety.
Attachment.

Those things don’t just magically build themselves
when your foundation was broken.

Some of the worst memories come from the good moments.
The ones that lasted only for a while.
You get used to them way too fast, too easily.

And when you’re used to them,
it’s easy to forget all the disappointments,
until reality comes back and reminds you again.

You learn to always stay alert.
You learn not to need anyone.
You learn to say you’re fine,
even when you’re actually not.

And still, people look at you and say:
“But hey! He’s your father.”

Yeah.
He is.

And that’s EXACTLY why it hurts this much.

I’m not writing this to get sympathy.
I’m writing it because this isn’t talked about enough.

Because the child of an alcoholic or an addict doesn’t just carry someone else’s problem.
They carry the consequences.

Constantly.
For life, really.
Quietly.
And mostly alone.

This made me someone who had to grow up wayyyy too early in this way.

And it fucking sucks.
It’s really fucking awful.

But it’s true.