I won’t bore you with my childhood, except to let you know that my dad’s dad was a drunken asshole, and my mom’s dad killed himself at 41, because he felt the party was over, and the responsibility of raising a family was pressing.
My dad is a loaded gun while growing up. He is essentially in a “dry drunk”, meaning he had the symptoms of an Alcoholic without drinking. He wanted to create a perfect family, a far cry from what he grew up in.
My sister missed the rage by producing straight A’s in school and being silent unless spoken to. I became the center target when I struck the first beat on my drumset, drank the first sip of alcohol, and took the first puff of smoke.
Long hours at the job, then coming home to work on his hobbies, then listening to me, is enough to start my father’s time bomb. Television can only babysit a family for so long. There’s a silence that looms over the dinner table, there is a silent dread that falls with night upon the household.
I begin to rock myself while watching the Muppets. I sat Indian style on the floor and pushed myself forward then back. The motion created a sense of freedom, the motion of moving from one place to another. Eventually, this motion matured into driving away in my car from one place to another. The grass is greener on the other side of silent suffering and domestic hell.
There’s a backdrop to this motion. It’s called Rock music, audible rebellion, notes that tingled the spine and created visions of defiance. I am whoever I wanted to be, with just my head encased between headphones.
My ears rang at night, from my lengthy escape into my imagination, from after dinner until bed. Listening to dark heavy Metal and dreaming of destroying the bullies at school is a far cry from the days when Dad wanted to dance with me in his arms to the Beegees.
Yes, in a way this is normal rebellion. But, the seed of Alcoholism is planted on both sides of the pot. My mother’s dad was like Jack Kerouac, a Pinocchio unwilling to grow up, with the effervescent buzz of the first sip of Alcohol, to the last drop in the morning shaking and filled with dread of impending work; and, my dad’s dad, angry, demented, sitting in a dark corner of the house, terrifying the family with a shotgun. It’s a legacy, this demon Alcohol that destroys families while hiding behind slick advertisements. America’s first lover, Alcohol.
Copyright 2012. Erik Christian Please visit my ebook page: http://www.amazon.com/Erik-Christian/e/B008C2WKNI/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1