A nauseating sweet smell crept up my nose as I opened my eyes to the darkness that surrounded me. What the HELL just happened? My mind raced to come to grips with the direction of the road to the right side of the Bronco II. How did I come to be facing this direction? A moment ago the road was on my left; driving in the right lane to return to college. Smoke billowed from the crumbed primer gray hood through the shattered and missing parts of the windshield. That sweet smell again hits me and brings my focus back to the steering wheel; gripped tightly in my hands. What just happened? Slowly I release my grip and shift focus to removing my long brown hair from my eyes; covered in small granulies of tempered glass I pull away with a handful of glistening chips reflecting in the overhead light. Staring for a moment in disbelief as I hear from the cargo area, “Congratulations Honey, you just rolled your first vehicle… Now… let’s get the HELL out of here… Move over!”

It was Fall; cool enought for the sweatshirt I was wearing; that evening it rained steadily for hours. Basketball season was in full swing and I had to come home that weekend to get some supplies for school. Living in the on campus apartments; we were required to provide for ourselves… no food court or fastfood at my College. The concept of “Business School” was that you dressed professional daily, attended during business hours, lived in on campus apartments with kitchens and were expected to practice living the life you would have AFTER College. At the time; I wasn’t very appreciative of this fact as my friends bragged of rolling into their classes; late, unpreppared and in baggy grey sweatpants. Years later I am now begging for the educational system to set more standards on etiquette, independence and home economics. With goodies in tow; I loaded that Grey primer partially painted Bronco II and woke my Dad from his nap on the couch. “Time to go Dad; you have to run me back to College.” I said patiently as he rose from the Couch, grabbed his cigaretts, beer, laid his novel back on the couch and headed towards the door.

You didn’t dare wake Dad unless it was time to go; he did not like to wait on you to load the vehicle. I watched my mother for many years; prepparing for our Island weekend trips down to Ole’ Muddy. Carefully she would pack coolers, overnight bags, grocery store bags, beer (if any was left on the porch), us kids and the dogs into whatever station wagon or beater we had at the time. She would have all this ready for when my Dad got off work and home on Friday afternoons. He would jump in and off we went to the Island cabin. On Sundays; Dad would need a nap to sleep off some of the consumption. My sweet mother would pack the bags, tell my brother and I to load the boat, get the dogs and have EVERYTHING ready to go before we woke DAD. Regardless of how carefully she prepared; something wasn’t right or was missing and we would all have to hear about it. The constant shame, guilt and expectations to cater to Dad was overwhelming at times. Eggshells always were walked on; avoidance and practing “out of sight, out of mind” were the norm not the exception.

The frame was bent; I leaned hard into the drivers side door shoving my left shoulder hard against it but no movement came. “Get out on the passenger side… that door is open and won’t stay shut, you will have to hold it as we drive out of here and get home.” Dad said as he climed over the rear bench seat; blood ran crimson in color, thick in form from the top of his head down the right side of his face and jaw. “Dad, your bleeding… are you okay? I’m sorry Dad.” I whimpered out as I slid over to the passenger seat and reached for the door. “Yes.. Now lets get out of here! Hold that door and put on your seat belt so you don’t fall out.” If the cops come, they won’t believe it was you driving this vehicle.”

At first, I wondered why cops wouldn’t believe me. I had been driving. As the rain poured; the headlights bounced all around with the reflection from the road. The Bronco II had this funny issue; apparently a fairly common issue that you had to keep one foot on the brakes and one on the gas when it was pouring rain or it would stall out at an intersection or stop sign. Oh course; Dad had been meaning to fix this issue for the last few… years? But atlas as intelligent and capable as that man was… his demons occupied the free time and energy it would take to accomplish the task. It was just a known flaw and because he could operate the vehicle with no issue in his mind; then it was safe as long as you followed his rules of operation.

I held onto the door with my right hand and the center console with my left arm tightly; as Dad manuvered the Primer colored grey Bronoco II out of the field we landed in up back onto the road. We were within five miles of our home; it is true most accidents occur within five miles of your residence! Smoke rolling; that once sweet smell began to turn to a metal burning aroma as the gages on the dash lit up the dark interior of the Bronco. “Come on… ” Dad willed this grey, twisted, shit box of a vehicle down the road and into the driveway of our house; it was 15 minutes from when we had departed orginally.

The sweet smell returned. Only this time I knew the smell all too well. Clarity came rushing in; the cops would have smelled that sweet smell. They wouldn’t have believed an 18 year old was driving this shit box and tapped the breaks for four deer jumping onto the roadway. The engine stalling; losing control of the steering and rolling it twice landing on the wheels facing the opposite direction as we were traveling. My Dad climing from the rear cargo area; his shoulder looking detached from his torso; thick blood running down his head and smelling sweet.

What I didn’t mention earlier; when I awoke my Dad to have him travel with me back to college; he had his small cooler with us in that shit box; filled with Old Milwaukee. Except for the empty can already on the floor and the one that had been in his hand as he rode in the passenger seat. To this day; if I see one of those cans of Old Milwaukee I want to vomitt. That sweet smell of spilled beer all over that Bronco II is exactly why we high tailed it out of that field; even with Dad’s torn roter cuff and head requiring stitches.

Even though I didn’t make it to College that evening; I got plenty of an education on how to stitch a head wound, create a sling, hide a wrecked vehicle and to avoid a possible DUI when the Cops wouldn’t believe your sober Daughter was driving the shit box.

It’s been an eternity since I posted in this blog. I could think of many excuses; validation of reasons why I haven’t dedicated a few moments to creating in this space. It would all be complete bullshit. As my Alcoholic Father used to say; “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter!” I won’t attempt to either. As I reflect on 2022; the first seven months spent in a on again off again cycle of abuse, codependency and fake love for the drug addicted, narcissistic ex boyfriend… I finally feel safe now. Finally free in some ways of codependency, unhealthy relationships with an ex boyfriend crack addict or the ex husband alcoholic. I’ve limited my energy greatly on social media, with certain people, things and places that cause the feelings of dread to rise from the depths of my soul. If someone would have told me that I would be spending New Years Eve with a safe man, hearing that I’m beautiful, amazing and loved… I wouldn’t have believed it. My brain still can’t comprehend feeling worthy to have that type of relationship with a man. My body still suffers from the trauma of being on edge with my words, thoughts, actions, body language and expressions. Worried that the next action will trigger a series of events that would lead to this relationship ending as the others have; crash, burn, codependency and feeling insignificant and unworthy of love. As I sit here, on his couch this New Years Day and look back to when I started this blog in 2020; I feel slightly healed. Not because some magic man appeared and healed me… No… I have worked to help myself. I have worked to set healthy boundaries.

Feeling safe has to do with my boundaries. I will never allow someone again in my life or around my son who has dependency on drugs or alcohol. I will never allow myself to make excuses for someone’s behavior. I will have my safe space at my home. I will not allow a man to move in and take over my life, living off of me, having me pay his bills, wash his clothes, care for his kids, buy his groceries, pack his lunches, call his attorney to help him, work with his ex girlfriend to “coparent” his kids, provide vehicles and transportation so he can get a job and work to pay his child support all the while not even offering me a dime towards expenses. I will never allow a man or anyone to guilt or manipulate me with their narcissistic behavior.

Feeling safe has to do with knowing WHAT you want in a partner. I told my partner that I want to be talked to in a certain way, I want to be held, I want to be treated as a lady, I want to be taken out to dinner, introduced openly to family and friends, respected and have complete communication to be able to build trust. I provided this honesty and direct communication as I refuse to “guess” or pretend to be happy just to go along and get along.

I finally feel safe friends and it’s the warmest, kindest and gentle love I’ve had in this lifetime so far. I pray you get to experience that as well.

As I lay waste to this day; I wonder will I ever feel “good enough”?

I’m sure people that know me would question my sanity when they read that first sentence.

I work as a Project Manager in the Construction industry. I work long days, consume myself with every detail of the project, create scenarios in my head for possible issues that may arise and how to solve those problems quickly and efficeiently. Most would agree I’m very good at what I do. Except me.

My Boss asked me, “Do you know how to fail?”

I was taken back by the question… My response, “I’m not sure what you mean?”.

He said, “Do you know how to fail, how to fall down, how to accept defeat, how to grow from bad experiences?”

Wow… I really had to pause and ponder before I could generate the response.

Yes. I know how to fail. I’ve had plenty of failures. Two failed marriages. Failed experiences professionally in different fields that for obvious reasons were not a good fit for me. I feel like I fail daily as an ONLY parent. Failed diets. Failed exercise programs. Failed friendships and relationships. Failed financially at different times in my life; extending credit and being late on payments. Failed and flawed would definitely describe me in many circumstances over the past 30 years.

My Boss I know was speaking to the fact that I am EXTREMELY hard on myself, set unrealistic schedules, goals and demands and constantly feel like a failure when in his own words, “You are the best Project Manager I have ever had the pleasure to work with in this business.”

So why is it that I never feel “good enough”? Why do I demand such high expectations? What prevents me from shutting down the computer, not answering the work phone after the day is done and overall except some failure?

As I look back my desire to overachieve did NOT happen overnight.

I was not a scholar in High School. In fact I was a B/C student at best in basic math and accounting type of business curriculum.

I remember going into the guidance counselor’s office the first week of senior year for my “what are you going to do with the rest of your life” meeting with her in a claustrophobic office, her nose turned up and lips pursed as she told me, “I don’t think you are college material.”.

I left that office; tears in my eyes and went to my accounting class with Mrs. Baker. She must have been able to sense my discontentment as she requested I stay after class. I shared with her what the guidance counselor had said to me. She was appalled to say the least and pulled out a folder for a business college. She showed me true compassion and empathy. Up until that moment I felt incapable of making any type of decision regarding my future.

I took that folder home and discussed the Business College with my parents that evening; both had never went to college, had high school diplomas and my father had served five years in the US Navy as a Gunner’s Mate. My parents being a one income household, renting an apartment and my father supporting his alcohol addiction did not have funds to contribute to my college education. I could feel the hopelessness they expressed with their words that if I wanted to pursue a college education they would not be able to help me.

I was a standout basketball player; having schooled myself with men on the courts of the nearby towns and the community center open gyms. My hopes were tied to HOOPS. Alas being in a small farming town and the coaches niece playing the same position as me along with a knee injury prevented recruiters from reaching me. I attended many recruiting camps and showcases, received some division two offers but didn’t have the grades to get in academically to those college or the additional funds to help offset any potential scholarships athletically.

I was at a loss.

I decided at that point; what more did I have to lose? I applied; got accepted to the Business College and the icing on the cake was they had a basketball team; albeit a MENS basketball team. A few phone calls to the athletic director and the conference I was allowed to try out and play in a College program on a Men’s basketball team!

I started college early for summer semester; my apartment had the perfect view of the basketball court. I studied hard and hit the courts, the gym and played my heart out.

I made Dean’s List that first semester. My father who actually worked at the School District I had graduated from; returned to that Guidance Counselor’s office. He laid on her desk a copy of my Dean’s List letter. As she raised her head, he told her, “You told my daughter she wasn’t college material” and then walked out of her office.

Looking back; my perception of how I became this overachiever stems from my childhood. I constantly would seek my father’s love, approval and support. However the most I would find was him after his workday on the couch, with his cigarettes, beer and a book. You didn’t dare interrupt his evening routine or attempt to change the dial on the TV. You didn’t dare ask him not to go to the Legion and drink before attending your basketball game. You didn’t dare ask him to play with you outside, read a book to you, engage in conversation after he’s been home from work and drinking.

I learned avoidance at an early age. I learned how if I wanted any satisfaction for my achievements I would need to create that “Atta girl” somehow for myself. I learned that my mother as amazing of a woman that she is; would not be able to relate to me when it came to sports, academic achievements and career aspirations. I began to cherry pick what I could learn from my parents. I realized recognition and validation for any achievements would be hard found from my Father; a hard nosed, beer drinking, realist, conservative and at times absolutely stubbornly negative man. I set the bar so high thinking that one day he would soften his approach with me; hug me and tell me he sees me. That he would say he was proud of all I had overcome and achieved.

With my father; he didn’t provide participation validation. Even major success barely got response; sometimes he would lift his nose out of the book and make eye contact while lighting another cigarette and picking up his beer.

I know this may sound like I blame him for my inability to accept and appreaciate my achievements. I don’t blame him.

I blame the alcohol. The depression. The constant feelings he had of his own failures that clearly made him inadequate to express his emotions in a healthy, loving and appreciative manner. A once vibrant man, so intelligent and full of life, sheltered himself in his home or at the cabin, didn’t socialize or attend any events outside of the family birthdays my mother demanded his presence. His abilities to have conversation, debate and communicate with others became stunted at some point along the way. Only able to express negative thoughts and opinions due to his alcoholism and the effects on his personality.

I’m constantly seeking validation that I will NEVER be able to receive. My father succumbed to his Alcoholism with End Stage Liver Disease and Liver Cancer in August 2017.

It’s a failure that is impossible most days to accept but I have too. I have to be better, do better and keep grinding until the wheels fall off and I find myself in a puddle of tears; I collapse from the weight of never feeling “good enough”.

Children of alcoholics/addicts often are people pleasers and we judge our success on the ability to keep the peace, please everyone and achieve results that make others happy to receive validation.

As an ex-wife of an Alcoholic; I based my happiness and validation on the actions of my husband. I felt like a failure when I couldn’t get him to stop drinking and see the damage being done. I couldn’t cheer him up with a job promotion, more money, a campsite near his favorite lake, a new boat and a truck. None of my achievements for him were good enough.

Of course I realize those failures are not mine. They belong to others. I have to let them own that and cannot bear that weight anymore.

“Your success does not depend on the failure of others.”

~Omar suleiman~

As my mind had drifted from my Boss’s question to memories of past years and experiences; I pulled myself out of the foggy haze of pain and regret and was able to process my reply to him.

“I’m learning to accept failure in small doses.”

“If you allow people to make more withdrawals than deposits in your life, you will be out of balance and in the negative! Know when to close the account.

~Christie williams~

Definition: “One that gives.”

Okay, that makes sense, right?

How about the definition of “Give”… yep… this is more like it.

Merriam Webster is on fire with this:

“to make present of”… “to grant or bestow by formal action”… “to accord or yield to another”… “to put into possession of another for his or her use”… “to commit to another as a trust or responsibility and usually for a expressed reason”… “to transfer from one’s authority or custody”… “to execute or deliver”… “to convey to another”…”to offer to the action of another”… “to provide by way of entertainment”… “to care to the extent of”…. and the list goes on and on.

Give. How much do we “give” on a daily basis?

Or better yet… how much do you ALLOW someone to take that you offer?

Yes I said it… WHAT YOU OFFER!

I’m so guilty of this. Someone will bring me a problem and I offer to fix it. I overextend myself constantly; financially, emotionally, physically and mentally.

Yes it brings me joy to help fix, give, solve and make everything right with the world for someone else. Those feelings are short lived to “give” if you aren’t able to “receive” in return.

Children and partners of alcoholics & addicts are so used to giving. We give in as a child because choice isn’t really given; we don’t even have the ability to comprehend that their is a choice in the first place. I wasn’t given a choice to say “NO” when riding in a big green pickle of a station wagon while my father drank beer; wondering if we would make it home safely; watching intently as my mother gripped the door and seeing the overall dismay painted on her face.

As an adult I do have the choice… to give or not to give. Why do children and partners of alcoholics/addicts not understand that we have a choice? Because of what we learned in our young development years; go along to get along, always smile, be respectful, don’t talk back, follow orders and fall in line.

Or perhaps what we learned was the easy way to cope with the trauma of being a partner to an alcoholic/addict. How to keep the peace, diffuse situations before they escalate, make constant sacrifices, buy the beer or drugs for them so they stop throwing an abusive and narcissistic fit, give them the money to go away so you can have just a few moments of peace or my favorite… bargaining.

I have been guilty of bargaining what I give. “I’ll give you this is you stop doing this.” How did that work for you? I know it never worked for me!

It didn’t stop me from trying to create a “giver” reward based system for the alcoholic/addict in my life. I can tell you personally… that deal with the devil… you will not win.

No amount of giving or bargaining will change what that person CHOOSES to do when they can continue to get all they want from you.

I’m recently divorced from an alcoholic. It took me the last three years of the marriage to come to the conclusion that no amount of love given, empathy, money, time, compassion, trips to rehab, hospitalizations, begging, bargaining and non stop giving would get my husband to stop drinking.

I had nothing left to give. I was completely broken; financially, emotionally, mentally and physically. It was time to stop giving. It was time to save myself; abandon ship, run as far and as fast as I could in the other direction, remove my son completely from this man’s life and his abusive behavior.

As I look back on the events of September 2020; the day plays in my mind like a movie. A woman gets a call from her husband, he is out of control, yelling and slurring his words, threatening to end his own life and others, he’s hallucinating, creating false narratives of text messages and conversations that NEVER happened, hanging up the phone, calling back, yelling some more, more threats, he needs help and she cannot give him the help he needs.

What I did give him that day… did save his life but ended our marriage. I contacted crisis intervention, relayed his medical diagnosis of end stage liver disease and cancer, explained his bouts of losing consciousness when he drinks, his inability for his body and liver to tolerate alcohol of any amount due to his disease and the threats he was making.

He was picked up and taken to inpatient mental health care. I received a call that evening from the nurse stating his BAC was .295 and had I not made the decision to have my husband committed against his will then I would have been planning a funeral. Of course I was already planning a funeral, a death of our marriage and planning for the day when he would drink his last drop.

I stopped giving that day.

https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/21220-hepatic-encephalopathy

Click to access alcoholic_liver_disease.pdf

“The Angel’s Share” https://www.merriam-webster.com/words-at-play/the-finest-words-for-drinking/angels-share

Definition:

: an amount of an alcoholic drink (such as cognac, brandy, or whiskey) that is lost to evaporation when the liquid is being aged in porous oak barrels.

As I pondered over the idea of writing this blog; I debated what I would call it. For some reason the liquor commercial for Jim Bean (I think) came in my head. I thought about the verbiage of that advertisement. Declaring the Angel’s Share is lost forever through evaporation and the Devil’s Cut is the loss which is absorbed into the wood of the casks. A metaphor of sorts began to speak to me. During my lifetime I have experienced both of those terms in my life; repeatedly. It was so relatable; I almost couldn’t read my writing as the ideas flowed onto paper.

MY definition of the “Angel’s share” began that night, when I was called “The Island Whore” and beaten in a cornfield by my father.

The amount of innocence I lost, the feeling of being aged beyond my years and it was truly lost forever. It was the first time I began to understand what my father was; an alcoholic. The innocence of being a tomboy, just starting to feel some interest in boys was forever lost as my father called me a whore. The irony of being so young but feeling aged from the experience. This truly was the Angel’s Share; unfortunately it would not be my last experience with the amount of life, love and innocence that was truly “lost” to alcohol.

Equivocally; the definition of the “Devil’s Cut” was learned at the young age of 13.

In that cornfield that night something was absorbed; like the liquor in a barrel into the wood casks. It was forever with me; mocking the embarrassment I felt. That friend that had a front row seat to the abuse I experienced at the hands of my alcoholic father; never spoke to me again; her eyes never smiled at me in the halls of school and all I sensed from her was pity.

I absorbed the words “Island Whore”, and decided that was all I would be in my father’s eyes; therefore that is what I became in my mind; unimportant, disposable, used, worthless and dirty.

The next morning I heard my mother as I crept down the hall to peak to see if my father was awake. She told him she would take my brother and I and leave him if he ever hurt one of her children again. He told her he didn’t remember what had happened; which is very possible considering the amount of liquor he consumed that night; having had an extremely difficult week at work with a coworker.

Over hearing that conversation made me understand another way an alcoholic will deflect the damage of the chaos they have caused; blame. He blamed his coworker for being such an asshole to him all week, he blamed my mother for not making sure she told him when I would be back from that tractor ride, he blamed me for being with boys on a tractor wagon driving through mud puddles and being a kid, he blamed the liquor for the blackout and accepted responsibility for nothing.

When I returned to the cabin after the cornfield incident; my friend and I barred the sliding door with the end of the bunk beds; we were so scared he would “attack” me again. My mother and our family friend had followed my Dad on foot behind his riding tractor and much to my surprise witnessed some of the abuse. My mother asked me if I was okay as I stood from the dirt; I said, “he beat me”. Her response was simple, “Let’s go and be quiet.”

I didn’t know it at the time; it was weeks later I heard that my Dad had jumped back on his tractor and rode to the lot where the owners were that had the tractor and wagon. He assaulted the owner and threatened his family members; assuming they had “messed” with me. No one even touched me; he had created this horrible scenario in his head of me giving blowjobs on the back of a tractor wagon or spreading my legs at 13 as we rode down the Island trail. I learned alcoholics have “quite” the imagination.

My father’s apology was later in the day; when the fogginess cleared his brain and he had time to convince himself he was reacting to danger and saving me. My response to his gibberish, “If you ever hit me again, I will kill you.”

It was the LAST time he ever laid a hand on me; by the time I was 13 my father had taught me to shoot a gun quite well; I’m pretty sure he knew I was dead set on my promise.

Sometimes it creeps up on me when I least expect it; an overwhelming rage, anger, fear, resentment and sadness. The memory of that night; a scar that will never heal; the “Devil’s Cut”.

The coarse corn stalks digging in my back; the smell of moist dirt and dampness of the night air. I look up at the stars in the sky completely unaware how I ended up flat on my back so quickly. Just a moment ago I was walking the path with my friend; headed home after taking a tractor ride with friends around the Island trail.

I was 13; a free spirit, barefoot without a care on Shelly Island; a community of over 270 lots on an Island in the Susquehanna River. Out of those 270 lots lots; I knew most of residents. Friends and family gatherings on the Island consisted of Chili cookoff’s, seafood fests, Christmas in July tractor parades and clean out the refrigerator parties for Labor day weekend. Of course every lot you visited; you were offered a beer, a warm seat, friendly smile and conversation.

By 13 I started to figure out that I liked boys. I was very much a tomboy; never missed an island football game, could throw a tomahawk with the best of the men during tomahawk poker games my Dad would host. By 13 I knew I liked alcohol too; the warm feeling I would get on my cheeks, the happiness that would flow, the feeling of freedom to strip and jump naked in the river at any spot with my best girlfriends; giggling ecstatically. My hair had grown quite long, brown and wavy with sun-kissed blonde streaks. I was definitely filling out the old swimsuit too and my mother had to get me a new one that year because certain areas didn’t fit quite right. We argued as I decided on a black cloth knit bikini. The neighbors would say things to my Dad, “You need to be careful with this one.” “She’s a heart breaker.” “She looks like a young Brooke Shields.” “Denny, you better keep a big stick.” I guess looking back I didn’t quite understand all the teasing and comments; I was still me, loved sports, swimming and water skiing. I didn’t see what was different; but they all did and harped my Dad constantly.

I could feel the spit hit my cheeks, the smell of cigarettes and beer wafting, but I kept my eyes closed; played possum I suppose. A blow landed to the right side of my head as I lay on my back; at that moment I realized it wasn’t just a blow. My father had buried his hand in my hair close to my scalp and began to shake my head violently from side to side. I reached up to grab his hands; one on either side of my head; I felt my scalp tug and pull. “You want to be the Island Whore!” “That’s all I’ve been hearing that you are running around this Island fucking messing around!” The hands released but I didn’t dare move; in the distance I could hear my friend crying; embarrassment creased over me, folded me in positions I never bent to before. I heard two thuds but didn’t feel pain as my father kicked me in the right ribs twice; shock spread over me, I opened my eyes and stared at the night sky. I didn’t say a word.