The Alcoholic's Daughter

By Hope

The families we are born into differ vastly. To say that I wish I had been born to a different father would be an understatement. Have I begged God a million times to give me a time machine so that I could go back and try again? Yes! I have finally realized and accepted that God is not giving me a 'do-over' in this life. I have no choice but to live with the consequences of my actions. The pain is unrelenting.

My story is documented in this book to alert readers to the mistakes that I have made, leading to excruciating pain, sorrow and regret. I have learned the hard way that it is impossible to live a life to be proud of without putting God first and at the center of every area of my life. We must put our trust and hope in Him.

I am inspired by Proverbs 3:5-6 (KJV) Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him and He shall direct thy paths.

I am convinced that if we stay under the protection of God's unfailing love, we will not have to live with the sorrow that comes from making choices without first seeking God's wisdom and guidance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798885402903

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The Alcoholic's Daughter

Hope

ISBN 979-8-88540-289-7 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88540-290-3 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Hope

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the Author

Chapter 1

I am alone. I am starving. I am walking through the worst possible place at the worst possible time. I am completely and utterly lost. I am twenty-one and already a mother. How in the world did I get here? I feel that I must tell you my story from the very beginning, eighteen years earlier, with my first memory.

I heard screaming and horrific sounds. When I found my mother, she was sobbing, the blood running down her face mixing with her tears. As my drunk father rushed out the door, my mother whispered, Hope, please call the police. I was three years old and had no idea how to use the big, black rotary phone. I remember picking the receiver up, looking at the numbers, and crying because I did not know how to make it work.

I finally put the phone down and ran over to my mom, sobbing as I told her how sorry I was that I couldn't help her. She hadn't meant to ask her three-year-old for help. It was a plea I would never hear again. For the rest of her life, she suffered in silence. This brutal scene would become much too familiar in the years to come.

My next memory was when I turned five years old and had my first birthday party. All my friends from school were invited. We were in the backyard, I was blindfolded, happily trying to pin the tail on the donkey, when suddenly everyone began to scream!

I took my blindfold off and watched in horror as my drunk father stood in the middle of the children, dressed in my mother's checkered, polyester skirt ensemble; complete with blazer, frilly blouse, purse, matching heels, and a surplus of red lipstick smeared around his lips, highlighting his stupefied grin.

I watched through tears as my crying classmates grabbed their gifts and walked in a line behind my mother down the street and out of sight toward their homes. I cannot imagine what my mother would have said to the parents of these traumatized children; she must have been completely mortified.

I sat crying next to my birthday cake for a very long time. I admired the frosted animal cookies with sprinkles adorning the tops and sides. My mother had made me the most beautiful carousel cake! It was cheerfully revolving on a musical Happy Birthday cake plate.

I don't remember what happened when my mom finally returned home. I don't remember eating the cake. I do remember that we loaded a U-Haul and moved thirty miles south a few months later.

The first thing I noticed about our new house was that it was always cold. My father said the heater was broken and he would fix it. He never did. My father said he would also have to fix the water heater. He never did. We grew up taking baths in cold water in a cold house.

It was about ten years later that I realized he had disconnected our heating system and turned the water heater to the lowest setting, allowing just enough water for himself to shower and possibly allowing my mother a very fast, slightly warm shower.

The days we spent at church were heavenly compared to what we experienced at home. We went to a small Christian school at our church where my mother directed the choirs.

My sisters and I sang as a trio in church and sang in our mom's choir. We loved spending time with her more than anything and were especially happy when we made her laugh or smile.

Returning home at the end of the school or church day was the beginning of all things horrible; there was nothing we could do but wait for it.

Every single night for the next ten years was absolute hell. We watched helplessly as our drunk father attacked our mother physically and verbally. At the sound of our father stomping up the backstairs every night, usually around one in the morning, we ran from our beds and stood in front of our mother to protect her as she lay trapped in her bed.

We sang hymns, prayed, and begged our father to leave her alone. We constantly pleaded with him to just go downstairs and go to sleep. After an hour or so of abuse, he would relent and agree to leave our mom alone. He would casually kiss us good night and then stomp back down the stairs.

Round 2 would usually happen on the nights preceding his days off. We were allowed just enough time to get back in our beds and begin to fall asleep, then he came back in full fury, stomping up the stairs, muttering and swearing all the way down the hallway. He forcefully slammed our mother's bedroom door open and resumed his attack; of course, he was always the victor and the only one in our house who slept soundly.

Years later, as teenagers, we tried to lock him out one night when he was being particularly evil. This was a huge mistake. He broke through the window with his fist, unlocked the door by reaching in through the broken glass with his bloody hand. He searched for us with a vengeance. We ran out the front door and up the hill in the dark to my mother's only neighborhood friend. It was three in the morning. We were mortified as she woke her boys and made them give us their beds. Of course, we went to high school with them, and they hated us after that. I simply cannot express the shame we lived with.

My mother called the police that time. When they arrived, they mentioned seeing my father's speeding Porsche heading down the hill. That was it. That was all that happened. They did nothing. My mother never bothered to call the police again.

The years passed, and my father never changed. We all relived the same nightmare, over and over, every night.

In third grade, while we were playing dodgeball, my friend Lori got hit and fell back on me, causing me to fall back on my arm, breaking it in two places. I spent a month with my arm elevated in a hospital an hour from our home. I felt sad, alone, and forgotten. I didn't enjoy the break from our harsh lives. I just remember worrying about my mother and my sisters more than anything.

When I finally got home, my arm began to swell and needed to be elevated. The doctor insisted my mother bring me back to the hospital. I remember lying on the kitchen floor sobbing, begging her to let me stay home. She came up with a genius plan. She tied my cast to a tall television stand next to my bed, and the swelling subsided. I spent the next five months tethered to the stand.

In sixth grade, a new girl named Jenna joined our class. Then suddenly longtime best friends were split up, girls were gossiping; there were tears.

Jenna came from a very wealthy, very troubled family. She was jealous of all the girls and went about hurting them one by one. Jenna invited a different girl to spend the night at her massive estate every Friday. Some girls had a good time; others never spoke to her again.

She moved on to a new best friend every week because in our small school, it didn't take long to ruin all the friendships and run out of friends. My best friend, Janet, and I were the first girls she divided and conquered.

She managed to convince Janet to take her on their family ski trip instead of me. It wasn't hard to do. I was poor and didn't own skis or the proper clothing to go to the snow, so Jenna convinced Janet that it would be too hard for me to go and that I would be embarrassed, not to mention freezing without the proper gear.

I remember how shocked and crushed I was as Jenna told me the new plan Friday at school, just hours before we were supposed to leave on our trip. I had saved up my babysitting money all year so I could go on the trip, but without remorse, I was out.

I struggled to act normal at school on Monday, as Jenna and Janet walked arm in arm telling everyone about their fantastic weekend trip. Sadly, after years of being