Content warning: This article is about addiction and the effects it has on families, youth, and young adults.
Disclaimer: To protect the anonymity of the recovery community, the author has changed people’s names. The author is an employee at the Bruce Oake Recovery Centre.
Listen to the story:
I felt trapped. There was nowhere to go. I sat with my back against our stained beige couch. A dim lamp lit half the living room while the TV lit up the rest. MythBusters was playing, but I remember drowning out the noise with the story I was reading on Wattpad.
The story transported me into the fictional world of the main character Addison, once a nobody, now the most popular girl in school. I turned the virtual pages on my iPod Touch, picturing myself walking the halls of my middle school — all eyes on me. As I got deeper into the story, I forgot about the problem that was just ten feet away.
The sound of a loud snore snapped me back to reality. Was this the moment that it would end? My father was passed out on the couch. Bedside him were six empty beer cans and half a rye and Coke.
I whispered to my dad’s seemingly lifeless body, asking if he was alright.
Silence echoed through the room, sending chills down my arms. I turned off my iPod Touch and placed it on the cushion next to me to tiptoe over to my dad.
I asked him a little louder this time, offering to get him water. There was still no reaction, but I could see his chest moving up and down. I knew he was still alive. I poked his cheek to wake him from his drunken nap.
I remember him waking up abruptly. It took me by surprise. I apologized for waking him, but I was worried he stopped breathing. My dad grudgingly sat up on the love seat. I walked back to my place on the sofa and opened my story to travel back to the fictional world of Addison.
My father grabbed his drink. Then, still holding his glass, he fell back into his drunken slumber.
This was a typical evening for us. I would get home from school, and my dad would get home from work. He would spend the night drinking and sleeping off the alcohol. I would spend the night watching over him.
I put down my iPod Touch for what felt like the millionth time and grabbed the drink out of his hand. He didn’t even flinch. I wanted to dump it out, but I didn’t want to cause a fight. Was I contributing to his addiction? Sitting back down on the couch, I brought my focus to the horror taking place on our dated TV.
It’s interesting recalling the things that stick with you decades after they happen. I remember the newest episode of How It’s Made playing on the TV that night. They were showing how to make bacon. The sound of the British narrator describing in detail the way they kill, slice, and package the meat sent shivers down my spine. Suddenly, I felt sick.
At the time, I had normalized being the 13-year-old caregiver to my alcoholic father. It didn’t compare to what was happening to those pigs on the screen. But to this day, the thought of bacon makes me want to puke.
addiction. / CHLOE GERRARD
I pull into the parking lot of the new Bruce Oake Recovery Centre, early as usual. I park my car and take out my phone to drown my nerves. I sit still watching the construction team show new staff around the building.
The pounding in my chest is all I can hear when I step out of my car. I ring the bell at the front door. My dim lock screen reassures me I have the correct date and time. I stand here remembering the times I would prepare myself for what was behind my dad’s front door. At least I know a drunk man won’t greet me on the other side today.
My shaking hands reach for the bell once more. A few moments later, a man in a high-vis vest greets me. Walking through the shining glass doors, I hold my breath.
I walk into my boss Byron’s office and place my backpack on the floor. The office is almost empty. It looks like it has been robbed. I sit back in my chair as my nerves subside.
I’m proud I can still put up a front to hide my emotions. But, on the other hand, I worry about how much I usually overshare. Most of the time, when I tell my story, people look at me with disbelief. But that’s not the response I get here.
Researchers at the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration report that more than one in eight youth live with an alcoholic parent. Having an alcoholic father wasn’t easy. I tried to do everything right. I didn’t speak up. I didn’t go out. I wanted to keep the peace.
I was what addiction specialists call “the lost child.” The lost child hides out, physically and emotionally, never rocking the boat. They avoid conflict and suppress their emotions.
When I was a senior in high school, my dad had been sober for a few months. But I knew he was drinking again. Little did I know at the time, but 85 per cent of people relapse within the first year of sobriety. So every time I asked him if he was drinking again, he lied. Addicts hide their addictions for many reasons. Some hide it because they’re in self-denial. Others hide it because of the severity of the addiction.
I stopped living at his house and moved in with my mom full-time. Yet, every time I visited, things felt off. I sensed he wanted to tell me he relapsed, but after I had countlessly threatened to never speak to him again, I knew he wouldn’t. It pained me to know he was scared to lose me for good.
I was standing outside my senior biology class talking with some friends. My phone started to ring on top of my binder. I picked it up, swiping to answer as I walked down the hall.
It was my sister, Gillian. I remember I warned her I didn’t have much time to talk as I was about to head into class. She told me our dad had relapsed. Her voice was flat as she told me not to make any rash decisions.
My heart sank. I always told Gillian I would cut our father off for good if he started drinking again. I walked back to my group of clueless friends. No one knew about my dad’s addiction. I wanted to keep it that way.
I walked into class and took my seat in the front row. My teacher went on and on about God knows what. I pretended to take notes, but I couldn’t hear a word. All that was on my mind was what the hell am I going to do?
We sit six feet apart in the Bruce Oake Recovery Centre’s North Room. Even though we’re physically separated, I’ve never felt closer to those around me. The first group of participants move in next week. I have no idea what to expect.
We finish the day with a check-in. This is an opportunity to connect with our emotions, outline our progress, and relate with the people around us. Research suggests that recovery check-ins improve the likelihood of sustaining sobriety and engagement with the recovery community.
My new coworkers take their turns speaking. Each person has a story. The person to speak before me is Marcus. He talks about how his addiction led him to be homeless.
I twiddle my thumbs on my lap as he talks. I resented my father for his addiction for so long that I blamed him for everything. I should feel lucky, though. Unlike many people who have lost a loved one to addiction, I still have my father.
Marcus talks about losing everything. Yet, I recalled threatening to cut off my father for his addiction almost daily. People in recovery surround me. The blood rushes to my head as I’m washed over with guilt.
I play with the hem of my dress and make a promise to myself. I will walk into the recovery community with an open mind and take everything this community offers. Then, I snap out of my thoughts to be fully present in this meeting. We all have such different stories.
So why am I still so scared to share mine?
My father’s addiction was hidden. He didn’t talk about it, and neither did I. I remember my biggest fear was losing my dad if I told someone about his drinking. What if I was the reason, he drank himself to death? It was easier to take care of him and keep my mouth shut than it was to tell the truth. But the truth was hurting me, even if people didn’t know.
Gillian and I were good at not telling our mother about our dad’s addiction. After watching over my father, I would come home to my mom’s and keep my biggest secret. His addiction was out of sight and somewhat out of mind when I was at my mom’s.
I remember sitting on the couch watching Netflix with my mom and sister. My sister’s phone started to ping rapidly. She had always been the social butterfly, so it didn’t seem like anything was wrong. Her face said otherwise.
My dad’s girlfriend Claire was in the hospital, and Megan, her daughter, couldn’t get a hold of him. I felt crushed knowing his addiction was affecting people other than me. I felt like I needed to take the brunt of his addiction.
Gillian called our dad until he picked up. It felt like hours had passed by the time he answered. But, in reality, it was closer to ten minutes.
I could hear him slurring his words on the other side of the phone. My sister told him not to drive. She assured him she would tell Megan he would be at the hospital in the morning.
I remember this moment vividly. It was time for the truth to come out. We spent the night telling our mom everything about our dad’s addiction.
The truth will set you free.
I’m working in my office when my coworker, Luke, tells me that we’re meeting in the dining room to celebrate Byron’s recovery birthday. A recovery birthday, or sobriety birthday, is typically celebrated on the anniversary when you stopped using drugs or alcohol.
We sit around the dining room and listen to Bryon talk about his recovery. The room feels light. In moments like these, you can see how well the recovery community works together. I look around the room to take everything in.
As Bryon finishes his speech, one of the chefs rolls out a cart of cake. They walk around the room, passing out plates of the chocolate dessert. The room fills with laughter and chatter as everyone mingles.
The sound of a loud clap draws our attention to Byron. He suggests we do a check-in to share what we are grateful for. Then, one by one, we take turns speaking.
“Hey, everybody. I’m grateful to come to Bruce Oake and work on my recovery. I know I’m not there yet, but May 23, 2022, count my words, will be my recovery birthday,” says one participant.
Listening is the best thing we can do. We’re building our own little recovery community as we speak.
As a child of an addict, I’m eight times more likely to develop an addiction. However, I’m trying my hardest not to become a statistic.
Anytime I consumed alcohol, I felt like I had a point to prove. I tried to convince myself I was nothing like my father. I could drink, and it wouldn’t affect me. Although every morning after, I couldn’t remember the night.
It was my mother’s 50th birthday. She was throwing a massive party with her closest friends. We spent the day getting ready to look our best. My sister and I each popped a bottle of wine.
When we finished, we gathered all the boxes of decorations to take to the venue. I remember coming up from the basement with a box when I walked into the kitchen. I noticed my mom pointing disapprovingly at the empty bottle of wine beside the sink.
My bottle of wine.
At the time, I didn’t realize that I had finished the bottle to myself. I tried to convince myself that Gillian had some, but she was much classier with her bottle of pinot grigio. I brushed it off. I didn’t have an issue with alcohol. I wasn’t my father.
I spent most of the night in the bathroom of the venue. I was too intoxicated to have any type of fun. I was in denial. I sat in the bathroom chair, trying to convince everyone I felt sick because of the poutine.
I stopped drinking when I was 19. Many of my peers were spending their weekends partying and making drunk memories. I chose a different path. This path involved surrounding myself with people who understood why I stopped drinking.
on myself. / CHLOE GERRARD
Today we celebrate the centre’s grand opening. We spend the morning running around, making sure the centre is pristine. Who knew that newspaper could clean windows better than a paper towel?
After the ceremony, I stand in the reception office chatting with a few resident support workers. A middle-aged woman walks over to us on the other side of the desk, plopping her purse on the counter.
“Excuse me, I have a bone to pick with all of you,” says the woman. I look at my coworkers in shock.
“I live across the creek from the centre. So, when I sit on my deck, I can hear everything that is being said,” says the woman. “There is one gentleman that I hear all the time. He is always laughing. Once he gets going, the others join in.”
The woman’s smile grows as she recalls these moments.
“I just wanted to let you all know that when I sit on my deck and can hear all of your participants having a good time, it makes my day a whole lot better,” she says.
Many people don’t put humour and recovery in the same box, but humour can help us escape the darkness of addiction-related thoughts.
Laughter is therapeutic, or at least that has been the case for me.
be there. / CHLOE GERRARD
The recovery community saved my relationship with my dad. I resented my father for his addiction and what it did to me. I will live forever with the damages of his addiction. I will be unsure about how to make friends. I will hold my breath walking through closed doors. I will cringe at the slightest smell of beer.
Even though my dad is six years into long-term recovery, there is still a possibility he could relapse. As each year passes, the probability of a relapse lowers. Still, the 7.2 per cent chance that he could lingers in the back of my head.
The difference between when he first started drinking and now is that I have the recovery community on my side. The recovery community welcomed me with open arms. And I know they will support me till the end. For years, I was afraid to tell my story. While I wasn’t the addict, I‘m the daughter of one. So many family members of addicts fear shame.
Shame will not hold me back.
I walked up the stairs to my dad and Claire’s new home. They had been married for a couple of years now. I continued to hold my breath as I walked through the front door. I knew he was safe, but old habits die hard. He had been sober for two years now, and as time passes, each day gets easier. According to a study by the Canadian Centre on Substance Use and Addiction, 64 per cent of respondents reported they maintained sobriety because of a family member. Every day with my father, I am reminded I am part of the reason he is sober.
I kicked off my shoes and placed them by the door. I remember walking into their open-concept kitchen. I noticed the smell right away. Claire was cooking scrambled eggs on the stove. The oven’s timer started to beep. Claire grabbed oven mitts and took the tray out of the oven.
She plopped the tray on the counter. The now crispy, long strips of bacon were placed in front of me. I felt like I wanted to throw up. I looked at Claire, then at my dad, and politely asked if they had anything else. No matter how long my dad stays sober, I will always be a number on a report. I am a statistic.
My dad started to chuckle. Claire told me she had it covered. She pulled out a tray of cooked breakfast sausages and placed it beside the bacon. Our family breakfasts do not include bottomless mimosas, but we try to enjoy the time we have together because we don’t know what tomorrow will bring.
If you or a loved one is struggling with addiction, please check out these resources.
Bruce Oake Recovery Centre
www.bruceoakerecoverycentre.ca
431-996-6253
Wellness Together Canada
http://www.wellnesstogether.ca/
Adults: Text WELLNESS to 741741
Youth: Text WELLNESS to 686868
Hope For Wellness Help Line
https://hopeforwellness.ca/home.html
1-855-242-3310
Suicide Prevention Service
1-833-456-4566