Promoted to the front page from the user blogs. There is some profanity so this is fair warning. Thanks to reysone for sharing his story, these recollections can be cathartic and therapeutic for all involved but they should also remind us that the journey never ends. If we stop moving forward in recovery, our addiction will catch up. ~ TDA
I guess it all began when I came to this country. All I can remember is my tricycle and the fire department right behind my house. I remember sitting on the truck with the firemen- it was cool when I was 3 or 4 years old. We were poor, I can’t remember if my mother was working at the time pretty much all I remember from that age is being alive in America, I can’t say that I can remember farther back,
I guess my father was a drunk back then too, because one of the few other memories I have is about my parents fighting and the cockroaches that used to scatter when the lights came on. Then we moved to a new place, across the street from where my father worked, he walked out his door and into the shop across the street can’t remember much about him at that time I don’t think I saw much of him he was either working or at the bar. There was a Portuguese bar down the street and he spoke Spanish Portuguese it’s pretty close once you learn the dialects.
I guess you have to know a little about my father I will try to tell you all I know which is not much. From what I understand he won a visa lottery in Spain to come to work in the United States. I guess this was right after I was born. He came to America and didn’t speak a lick of English. He got a job he told me once he painted the coca cola trucks. He eventually became a body man, from what I understand he was pretty good at what he did. He did not wear masks often when sanding and painting and he smoked about 3 packs a day. I think this contributed to his emphysema. I cannot remember my father ever being very lucid, when we went to parties he got hammered and one time we were banished from the Spanish American club. He liked to yell at my mother in front of everyone and sing loudly like a drunk although they say he had a good voice. Mostly I remember hiding in my room when he was beating or screaming at my mother. He drank probably 3 or 4 bottles of Seagram’s 7 a day who knows how many other things he drank we always had a bottle of wine under the table the gallon jug that my mother used to fill with water to dilute it a bit. I remember sending him into detox once I think he got sober for about 3 months once but he was still miserable.
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