Loving an alcoholic is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad thing.
Loving an alcoholic is living in secrecy--because when people ask you how he's doing, what can you really say? Anything but the truth. The truth is shameful to him. To you. The truth is a secret that no one really wants to hear.
Loving an alcoholic is grasping at straws. Deluding yourself. Willing it to be so, only to watch him fail, and fail, and fall again.
Loving an alcoholic is trying to clean up the aftermath left in its wake. The sickness. The anger. The horror.
Loving an alcoholic is shit. And piss. And vomit. On your floor. On your walls. On his pants.
Loving an alcoholic is listening to the same stories. Telling him the same stories. Because he doesn't remember.
Loving an alcoholic is learning to live with excuses, because you just don't have the strength to do anything else anymore.
Loving an alcoholic is violent tremors and bodily fluids. And wine. And scotch. And vodka.
Loving an alcoholic is watching him lose himself. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. Drink by drink.
Loving an alcoholic is learning to lose him. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. Drink by drink.
Loving an alcoholic is sorrow. And grief. And despair.
Hi, I'm Andy. And my father is an alcoholic.
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