Amends without ThinkingYears of hatred melt away as a
son forgives his alcoholic father
I didn't think that I could
ever find a way to forgive
my father for what he had
done to me. Even my sponsor didn't see a solution,
except to learn to let it go and,
in time, find peace in spite of the
memories.
My father died four years before I came to AA. He was living in
a $25-a-week room and pumping
gas for a few dollars, just
barely enough to live on.
He had two degrees from
an Ivy League college
and had slid all the way
down to rock bottom. His
tolerance for booze had
also declined to where
he could only force down
one ounce every few
hours. His right arm was
paralyzed and almost all
of his teeth were gone.
He had a distended belly
and a beard that hid the
pallor of his skin. The
last time I saw him was
three months before he
died and I remember
drinking enough to stay
numb just so I could
tolerate his presence. I
think I was seeing a picture of my own future.
My brother, sister
and I grew up on a farm
on the eastern shore of
Maryland. We actually
had two farms, a 300-plus-acre farm that was
a working farm and a
smaller 50-acre farm
where we lived. Farm life
wasn't easy, and we had
lots of chores to do. Even
with all the work, there
was still time to explore
the fields, woods, marshes and river. I spent a
lot of time creating my
own fantasy world. The
farm was a great place
for a kid living in a dream
world. I would run away
and hide in one of my
secret places, just to get
away from the violence
that could erupt in our
house.
My father was a
hardworking person.
He would leave every
morning before sunup
to go to our other farm
and wouldn't return until
supper. He would come
home, pour himself a
stiff one and set it on
the piano. He would also
have his newspaper and
ashtray there as well.
He would play "Joshua
Fit the Battle of Jericho"
with one hand and drink,
smoke and turn the
pages of the newspa-
per with the other. I
remember being very
impressed that he could
do all that, and secretly
I wanted to be like him.
Every once in a while
something would make
him angry and he would
come after me. I would
try to escape to one of
my hiding places, but I
didn't always make it.
His method of teach-
ing table manners was
to kick your shins with
his steel-toed work boot
or hit your knuckles with
the broad side of the
carving knife. I learned
much later that there
is a period between not
enough booze and too
much booze where a
person can become overwhelmed with anger. My
father was angry most of
the time, and his anger
would usually rain down
on the nearest person.
Of the three kids, I was
his favorite target. Most
of the time the punishment was just a quick
strike, but there were
times when it was more
severe.
One summer morning,
when I was 10 or 11, my
brother, sister and I were
arguing over something
when a rock arrived at
my feet. I was reaching
down for the rock, but
before I could pick it up,
a big hand grabbed my
wrist and dragged me
behind the garage. My
father stripped off my
shorts and spread me
out against the wall. He
then took off his leather
belt, doubled it, and
hit my backside hard. I
began to cry. The next
thing he said, which were
the last words that I
heard that day, was:
"Men don't cry," and he
continued the beating
until I passed out. The
next thing I remember
was waking up in my own
bed, covered with bloody
cotton batting that had
been soaked in witch
hazel. My lower back and
butt felt like they were
on fire. I managed to get
dressed and went down
stairs to find my family
at the dinner table. I sat
down in my seat and
even though the pain
was killing me, I wasn't
about to let anyone know
that I was in agony. No
one said anything then
or since about that day.
That beating left me with
some welts under the
skin that were constant
reminders and fueled my
hatred. That wasn't the
last violence I experienced, but it was the one
that started the hatred
that lasted well past my
father's death and into
the first few years of my
recovery. When he died,
I felt cheated because I
hadn't killed him myself.
In late summer of
1978, alcohol brought
me to my knees and
almost cost me my life.
I had become the same
as the person I hated
the most. He was 61
when he died, and I was
dying in my late 30s.
Fortunately for me, I
accepted the help that
AA offered and have
been sober ever since.
My father turned it down
because there was too
much God in it for him.
I was introduced to the
Twelve Steps within the
first couple of weeks and
did what was suggested.
By following a few simple
suggestions, I have been
spared the final agony
of active alcoholism that
several other members
of my family have experienced.
When I reached the
Eighth Step, I discussed
the list with my sponsor.
He first asked whom
I had left off, and we
added two names. Then
he reviewed the names
on my list with me and
discussed whether they
should or shouldn't be
there. When we got to
my father's name, we
discussed the reasons
for and against and admittedly there were not a
lot of reasons to put him
on the list. But there was
something nagging me
inside. I wasn't going to
experience peace unless
I did something. Neither
one of us knew what to
do, but we decided to
leave his name on the
list. We left it up to God
to direct me. All I asked
was that I remain willing
to do as directed.
A year or two later I
was in the back of our
church guiding the junior
ushers in their jobs when
a member of the vestry
approached me and
asked if I would like to
make a donation to the
organ fund. I said yes,
wrote out a check and
handed it to her. Before
she turned away, she
asked if I would like to
make the donation in
anyone's name. Without
any thought at all, I said,
"Yes, please accept it in
my father's name." Before alcohol had become
part of my father's life,
he had sung in an all-boys choir. He sang lead
soprano even through
his voice change, and his
favorite instrument was
the organ. I continued
working with the kids
and didn't think anything
about what had just
transpired.
It wasn't until a week
later, while leading a
meeting on the Ninth
Step, when I suddenly
realized what had happened. I had forgiven my
father for all the things
he had done to me and
made amends to him just
as I had prayed for. I had
done it without thinking.
I was unable to continue with the lead and had
to pass it off to someone
else. After the meeting
I went home to absorb
what had just happened.
I stayed up quite late
that night reflecting on
all the past miseries
that both my father and
I had experienced. All
those terrible events just
seemed to melt away.
They weren't that important anymore. All the hatred disappeared. I could
see quite clearly what
had happened to both
of us. Active alcoholism had robbed from us
any chance of a healthy
relationship. It robbed us
from ourselves.
As the bad memories
were peeled away, one
pleasant memory was
revealed. On a hot summer evening when I was
about 7 years old, my
father and I were rolling
around on the ground
laughing and having a
wonderful time together,
because there were 13
English setter puppies
crawling all over both of
us. I can still hear and
feel it today. It is the one
happy memory I have
left of my father and me
together, and I wouldn't
trade it for anything.
As the emotions began
to subside I reached
down my back to feel
the welts, and they were
gone as well. I no longer
had the physical scars
from the terrible past.
Whether they left as a
result of actions taken
by me, or as a result of
time healing old wounds,
I'll never know. All I know
is that as a result of
becoming willing, I no
longer carry the scars of
hatred.
In the years following
this experience, I have
on occasion felt my father's presence and have
even pointed out things
as though he were there
with me. I have come to
believe that he is traveling this road with me.
Sobriety was something
that he couldn't experience while he was alive,
but he is experiencing it
now. Neither one of us is
alone or angry any more.
Morgan J.
Crofton, Md.
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