That bastard
And I am honestly tired of people feeling sorry for my dad, for addicted people.
Holy shit, I understand every fucking trauma. I have some too.
But I always chose healing.
I ALWAYS chose—and will always choose—to face my shit. Even when it is hard.
It was not my choice to have a dad who chose alcohol over me. I didn’t want that. This is not what I deserved, and I didn’t deserve all the traumas, all the pain, all the patterns I carried on my shoulders for decades.
But I chose to change.
I went to therapy even when it didn’t work. I chose talking about it over and over again. I started a spiritual journey. I went so extremely deep that sometimes I wasn’t able to do anything else but cry in the darkness.
And then... my "poor" dad.
No.
He chose that fucking alcohol over his daughter.
Yes.
CHOSE.
I don’t care if addiction is an illness.
There is treatment. There is therapy. He could have asked for help. I, his fucking teenage daughter, begged him through tears to go to therapy. Go to support groups. Do whatever it took.
But he CHOSE not to.
He ruined all his relationships, pushed away everybody who loved him, everybody who wanted to help him.
I was the only one there. That teenage girl at her most vulnerable age, watching him die.
No one will ever convince me it wasn’t his choice.
He had a support system. He had a choice.
Others decided to change their lives. Others decided to face their shit, and even if it didn’t work, they tried over and over again.
But this bastard didn’t.
He chose to tell his 12-year-old daughter that he would hang himself from the roof. Or jump in front of a train. Or jump into the Danube so no one would ever find him.
I don’t care about depression. I don’t care about his wounds. I don’t care about his addiction.
Yes, we don’t choose our fucking trauma. I didn’t choose mine either.
But trying to get better is our fucking choice. No one else’s.
He chose his addiction, his pain, his trauma over me.
And worse: he chose to put all his pain on me.
His teenage daughter.