Attica's Beacon

My father’s suicide prompted my mother to diagnose me as an alcoholic at age 12, before I’d even thought about a drink. “John, you must never drink,” she’d say. “You’re allergic to alcohol.” Understandably, she lied to me and told me my father died of a heart attack. Months later I learned the truth. Whipped by alcoholism, he’d blown his head off. The vision I had created of him—a vision of strength, love, hope and happiness—was false. He was flawed, which meant I was too.