My story is not just about me; it includes my parents and my siblings who also bore the hurt and sorrow inflicted. Sadly, the grief and disappointments that festered in our home were the products of alcoholism; a disease, an illness that isn’t caught like the flu only inherited. But an inheritance that can be denied, if desired.
Some might think my stories lean more toward fiction or that I embellished for the sake of entertainment. I wish they were fiction or stories embellished. I envy the individuals who have lived the so-called normal lives that were filled with peace and unselfish love that did not hold conditions to its occasion.
I am telling my story because my children asked me to. They have struggled over the years trying to understand my logic, my reasons for being like I am. Of course, much has mellowed with age; or I should say, much has been disabled with age. I am still the warrior inside, the man who compromised after the fight, the person who agreed to disagree after we settled the disagreement.
The hurt has healed and been forgiven; but the sorrow continues with the memories. Tears still fall when an old familiar song resurrects a day’s heartache, a wrenching goodbye, or the parting of a beloved pet. The joys and laughter of the few good times I cherish as the brush of angels wings while in the presence of God. They arrived so infrequently that when they did, I held them ever so tightly so not to forget any detail of the happiness enjoyed if only for a few moments.