u/LeastElk2076

My dad has had a drinking problem for as long as I (29F) can remember. He started drinking after I was born, and aside from a few very brief stretches of sobriety, he was glued to the bottle pretty much constantly.

I left home at 19, and I still fight with the trauma to this day. Our house was always filled with screaming and slamming doors. You never knew what state or mood the house would be in when you walked through the door. He was a high-functioning alcoholic for most of it - he managed to keep his job for the majority of my life - but everything took a darker turn about five years ago. His drinking got worse, and his moods became so unstable that living with him was unbearable.

Despite all of this, he had his good moments. He was extremely funny, exceptionally smart, loved nature, and was wonderful with gardening and home projects. That's why, even though most of life with him was absolute hell, we still tried to support him until the very end.

Around five years ago, his health started failing. His liver was at constant war with him, he developed alcohol-induced diabetes, and he had occasional epileptic episodes whenever he tried to quit cold turkey. Then he lost his job. For the last three years he was unemployed - just drinking, sleeping, or fighting with my mother.

Last year it got so bad that, even though I lived two hours away, I had to travel home almost every week. I'd find him in different states of blackout - lying on the floor, vomit, piss, and feces everywhere. After those encounters and a very hard few months, I finally managed to get him into rehab at the end of last autumn.

We agreed on it together. Rehab was supposed to last three months. He promised to try, to stay, to fight. Instead, he kept that promise for two weeks before asking to come home. I begged, I promised, I cried, I fought. Nothing helped. He left. Before he even made it home from the bus, he already had a bottle of rum in his backpack - and went straight back to drinking like nothing had ever happened.

My mom left him after Christmas. She couldn't bear it anymore. I don't blame her. It wasn't a life anymore - it was constant struggle and fear.

From the new year, everything got worse: the confused episodes, the drinking, the gut problems, the blackouts. When he called, it was only to ask for money (he was still unemployed). I'd usually at least buy him food and cover his electricity and phone bills.

Then he fell. He broke and slashed his arm, but didn't go to the ER until it was already infected. He was given antibiotics but never bothered to actually pick them up from the pharmacy - he just kept drinking.

Then he fell again. My sister went to check on him on Monday because he wasn't picking up his phone. He was responsive, on the floor - but we had found him like that so many times that she wasn't alarmed. They had a brief conversation; he was naked and obviously drunk, so she left.

On Wednesday morning, I found him. Still on the floor. In a state I wouldn't wish on anyone to see. I was expecting this to happen - but in a few years. Not this fast. Not like this.

I feel so much sadness and guilt, but also anger. For the past two years I tried so hard to help. I got him into rehab. I took care of him as much as I could. I was so tired.

I never got the apology I was hoping for. I always hoped he'd be able to fight it - to at least somehow function like a human being again.

I'm worried I'll never get over this.

Alcohol is poison. My heart is with all of you still fighting. If you can, and if there's still hope, push them toward help. I truly wish no other child ever has to go through this.

Best of luck out there, friends.