How to Love an Alcoholic
I was trapped in the movie Groundhog Day—and no, I don’t mean literally.
I wasn’t a weatherman reliving the same day until I learned the importance of connection and genuine kindness. I was a grieving, anguished son, stuck in a spearmint-colored house on the street corner, trying day in and day out to free my dad from his alcohol addiction.
For the main character Phil Connors, breaking the cycle took an hour and thirty-six minutes of runtime. For me, the insanity lasted a year.
I want to share with you the story of how I finally broke my cycle.
It was early June of 2023.
The air was warm and dreary clouds hung low in the midday sky. I pulled into the driveway and sat inside of my Jeep—steeling myself. My body felt as heavy as stone, and my mouth was like cotton. The only thing between me and the invisible, negatively-charged fog of despair seeping out from beneath the door of my childhood home was the four-ton shell of metal, glass, and plastic I was sitting in. I took my sweet time getting out of my car, feeling like a soldier about to enter the breach.
On the surface, the house I saw through my windshield was still my home; it just didn’t feel like one anymore. I’d sit in the driveway and imagine walking in to find the same happy family I used to know when I was a boy, but it was just a hopeful memory I often brought up to soothe my nerves. My brother moved out of the house after his engagement the summer before, and Mom followed suit about nine months later. I knew the only thing waiting for me inside was the stifling odor of stinky feet and vodka—and a distressing, uncanny man who looked like Dad, but acted nothing like him.
For this reason, I’d come to dread living at home, but I didn’t have to anymore. This time, I came with one intention: collect my things and never look back. The thought made me squirm with uncertainty, but I knew it was the best choice for me. I took one last deep breath before opening my car door and then moved briskly into the house.
Inside, stale air started filling my chest; it sunk to the bottom of my lungs like lead. I knew if I hesitated to move for just one second, I’d find it all too easy to flop onto my bed and succumb to the weight of inaction—an outcome I couldn’t afford.
As I stood in the front foyer, I heard Dad talking on the phone. His voice came from the same place as usual: the black recliner in the family den at the far end of the house. The scope of his world had been narrowing to this one chair more and more with each passing day.
Good, I thought. He’s preoccupied.
I ran up the staircase by the front entrance and shut myself in my bedroom. I hastily filled up large bags with everything I thought I couldn’t live without: clothes, toiletries, and personal appliances mostly. After about half an hour of double-checking, I hauled my things down the stairs, out the front door, and into my Jeep; the pile of junk filled up my entire rear-view mirror.
My heart was racing. Don’t get caught, don’t get caught, don’t get caught. But then, as soon as I was down to my last few items…
There was Dad, standing in the kitchen.
He looked haggard and listless, a dwindling light of the man I once knew; I imagined a strong gust of wind blowing him out like a birthday candle. His skin was puffy and yellow—a few shades shy of a mustard bottle.
“Where are you going?” he asked me. “What’s with all this noise up and down the stairs?”
I kept acting like he wasn’t there. I couldn’t stop now. “I called the people at the church this morning,” I said. “They have a room ready for me.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Dad, we talked about this. You knew this was a possibility for months now.”
“I know, but I thought it wouldn’t happen until August. You have a nice bed here, and free reign of the house…” He trailed off. “Did I do something wrong?”
I looked in his eyes. Staring back at me was one man—a liar and a cheat who refused to address his demons. A man who’d bankrupted the faith and trust of his wife and sons with poor decision after poor decision. A man deep enough in his own alcoholic denial for two plus two to equal eighty-proof, and for his own castle to still be seen as a place of rest and relaxation. What good is a nice, soft bed when it sits squarely in the graveyard of my happiest memories?
“No,” I said flatly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Dad stood there, dumbfounded. A pregnant pause hung between us. “I don’t really know what else to say,” he said at last. “I guess I’ll see you.” He withdrew into the garage with sorrowful eyes.
In our parting glance, however, I saw an entirely different man—the one who used to read me bedtime stories when I was a boy. The man I used to sing songs with in the car, and share my dreams with by the lakefront. The man who—whenever I approached him sad, hurt, or confused—would drop everything to hug me and talk with me because he knew there was no job more significant or beautiful in his life than being a father to his children.
This uncanny duality gave me pause, and I felt terrible. I wanted to unpack the car immediately. I wanted to chase Dad out to the garage, throw my arms around him, and tell him I’d stay ‘til the end of the summer. But, as badly as it hurt, I was steadfast with my intentions. I stood there like a statue and swallowed my emotions.
“Yeah. See you,” I said.
Then, I got in my car and left.
This was the day I learned the secret to loving an alcoholic:
Detach.
I know it may sound callous and counterintuitive, but understand: I tried everything to free Dad from the bottle.
I tried appealing to his logic. I tried appealing to his emotion. I tried being a friend, a coach, and a caretaker. I tried playing the role of the aggressor a few times too. But I couldn’t get him to stop drinking. No amount of pleading, sobbing, or screaming will push an alcoholic to change if they don’t accept the need for it in the first place—and Dad didn’t accept the need. Had he genuinely reached out for help, then my family would’ve coalesced at a moment’s notice.
If you’re here because you’re in a similar situation to the one I was in, my heart is with you. Watching a loved one slowly lose to an addiction is a helpless, torturous, soul-rending experience. It sucks, I know.
But I’d like you to ask yourself a question: for whom are you in this?
Looking back, I had options available to me. I could’ve moved out of the house with Mom, but I didn’t. I also didn’t chose to stay because, “all my stuff was there,” or because, “it was closer to school,” like I’d fooled myself into believing. I stayed because I was too self-important to understand I wouldn’t be the hero who finally lifted Dad out of the pit; it was his role alone, and sadly, he failed to put on the cape. I stayed because I was too terrified to imagine life as a twenty-something without him in the picture, and because of my fear of losing his presence, I only enabled him to perpepuate our suffering.
I thought I was helping Dad, but I was actually serving my own interest. Neither of us won.
If mine is the path you choose to walk, then I won’t stop you. Sometimes you need to know firsthand you’ve truly exhausted every rescue option before throwing in the towel on a person you love more than life itself. However, unless the alcoholic finds the audacious courage from within to give up their vice and put in the work to heal, you will reach at point at which bitterness trumps optimism. You will be trapped in an endless cycle of loving the person, hating the disease, and unable to discern where one ends and the other begins.
The truth of the illusion? There is no line—it’s all one package. An entrenched alcholic is incapable of loving anyone but themself. The sooner you escape the notion of duality, the better off you’ll be.
If you love an alcoholic, you must be bold enough to tell them, “I love you, but until you make a genuine effort to get better, I won’t allow you access to my life.” True love sets firm boundaries and meets self-destruction with honest compassion. It’s not detachment from a place of hatred or apathy; it’s detachment because you deserve peace of mind.
The key to ending Groundhod Day wasn’t fixing Dad. It was accepting I couldn’t.
I hope this helps.
