Personal Narrative: My Father's Addiction

It was 3 a.m., and I could hear the argument downstairs. My parents had to do this at 3 a.m.? I got up, walked around for a minute, and went back to bed- I had school the next day. This became an increasingly common occurrence, almost every other day the fall and winter of junior year. The argument had been more or less the same for the last month, centering around my dad's alcoholism and family's money troubles.
As a child, I didn't always understand the depth of my dad's addiction, or what it exactly meant. I didn't even view it as an addiction, rather just how things were. Living in a small house, there was no option to completely ignore it. The more he drank the more bellicose he became, and the more verbally abusive he became. Freshman year I wrote a letter to my dad because I'd decided that my passivity of the issue was no better than an endorsement of his behavior. I was angry with how he acted, and with myself for not knowing what to do about it. With my letter came empty promises: a promise to limit drinking, and a promise to

I remained next to him in silence, listening to his incoherent mumbling and staring at his eye that was almost swollen-shut from falling. This is not how I had intended to start my spring break. I was angry more than anything. Angry at my dad for his actions, angry at myself for failing to stop things before they got this bad. Anger initially overrode the realization that my dad almost died from alcohol poisoning. The following morning my mom and I made it clear that he would no longer be accepted in the family if he didn't go to rehab. My dad had no way out of this. That morning was the best opportunity I had to change things, but combating addiction ultimately comes down to the person with the addiction changing. Seeing him in the hospital was my way of showing him that I still loved him, but at the same time would no longer put up with his