We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.
Anais Nin
Loud, pulsating music filled the high school gym for our last senior dance just days before graduation. The smell of perfume and hairspray mixed with sweat and cologne as my girlfriends and I waited with nervous anticipation for the cute boys from the soccer team to ask us to dance.
We had practiced the latest dance steps for so many hours that we paired off onto the dance floor like one body. As my partner spun me around I laughed, feeling silly and losing myself in the moment. It felt wonderful but uncomfortable at the same time.
Suddenly, above the noise of the band, my best friend’s voice brought me back to reality. “Your father’s here!” she said urgently, pointing to a large figure in the doorway silhouetted by the bright lights of the corridor. The head turned back and forth, searching.
I quickly ducked down into the crowd and made my way to a dark corner behind the stage next to the powerful speakers. My heart was pounding from anxiety and fear, not from the beat of the drummer. If he comes in every¬one will see him - they’ll know.
I frantically rubbed my lipstick off with the back of my hand and rushed toward the doorway where the imposing figure scanning the crowd still stood. As I made my way through flailing arms and stomping feet I said good-bye, not stopping to answer the questions such as: “Why is he here so early?” “Do you have to leave now?” “Where are you going? The dance isn’t over ’til eleven.”
“Hi, Daddy! I’m ready to go,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant and happy to see him. I gently guided him away from the doorway and down the corridor to avoid the inevitable humiliation I would have felt if he had set foot on the dance floor or spoken to someone. The smell of his breath, his slurred words and the confusion in his eyes would be a dead giveaway - they’d know.
In September I spent the ride to college remembering the friendships that had grown over the last four years. I always tried to focus on the good and forget the bad. I recalled the time spent at friends’ homes, watching mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers laughing and eating together as a family. They could never understand how lucky they were to have their father sitting at the dinner table passing the potatoes, not beers to his buddies at the bar. When their dads went to the store at eleven o’clock in the morning, they didn’t stagger in hours later carrying sour milk.
Moving into the dorm went smoothly - no arguments, no accidents. My mother, father and sister set up my room to be comfortable, my new home. After an exhausting day of emptying suitcases and boxes, my family left and I lay on the dumpy dorm mattress and looked around the room. Roommate asleep, nice view of the moon from our window - just like my room at home. It even had that special touch - loud snoring accompanied by the smell of stale beer and cigarettes.
This was my fresh start, a new life.
My classes went well until I found myself sitting in a lecture hall hearing about the latest clinical techniques for dealing with alcoholics. I already knew how to deal with them and didn’t want to spend another day, let alone the rest of a lifetime, dealing with those people.
There’s always an excuse, always a fight, always a scene. Pouring their booze down the sink doesn’t help. Forget that family vacation at the beach because promises are made to be broken. And there’s no point in saying a word as your mother wakes you up in the middle of the night. You don’t complain while standing on the dark street corner in your pajamas and winter coat watching and waiting for your uncle’s blue Chevy to come into sight. But you pray with all your heart that no one you know will drive by and see you. You’re on the run again, hiding your secret like you hide your face from the headlights of the approaching Chevy.
The other college freshmen talked about their reasons for enrolling in the class. They wanted to understand the causes, the prevention, the treatment plans for alcoholic clients. They strived to be professionals in the substance abuse field. They wanted to learn more about AA.
Daddy, maybe you should go.
“Hey, I’d go to AA if I was an alcoholic, but you see, I’m not an alcoholic.”
Okay, Daddy - whatever you say.
As the discussion continued, someone mentions “AlAnon” and it caught my attention. That was a new one on me, a program for spouses and families of alcoholics. No harm in checking it out. No one will have to know what I left behind.
Not one face at the meeting looked familiar, but they all looked hopeful. As I looked for a seat way in the back I began having second thoughts. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea; I can leave now with my secret still intact.
Someone touched my arm. “Please join us.”
As this woman swept her arm across the room, the faces blended into one another, looked at me and smiled. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I belonged there. I felt their eyes searching my face, looking for clues as to what was in my head, trying to read my mind, uncover my secrets, my memory, the essence of who I am.
In a single moment, one of true clarity, as I tried desperately to come up with an excuse for leaving, the woman simply said, “It’s okay - we know.”
Patricia Holdsworth