by Robert Gillis
Published in The Foxboro Reporter February 2002 and the Boston City Paper March 2007

Recently I bumped into a guy I hadn’t seen in a while. He told me that he needed to stay away for some time, and had been regularly attending several Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meetings. It was really nice to see him again, and I told him so. As he talked about being an alcoholic, he seemed a little uncertain as he said to me, “You have to respect me that I’m at least getting help.”

In response, I told him something that I wasn’t so free with before, but something that I hoped would help him see that I understood.

“My dad was an alcoholic,” I told him. “I wished he had the sense to go to AA like you – It would have made my life better.”

Revealing such a deep dark family secret, especially now, in a newspaper with a circulation well over 5000, might seem unusual. After all, my family often kids me that they have to be careful because what they say and do might work its way into one of my columns.

But sometimes, for me, writing this piece is about more than telling a story, or making you laugh or think, or reflecting on an event. Sometimes the writing is positively cathartic. Sometimes, it’s necessary that the story be told to other people so they can see that they are not alone. If just one person is helped by something I say, then I have made a difference.

This is a column my mother would probably not approve of – after all, even though Dad has been dead almost 18 years, she is obviously very protective of his legacy. I am too, except that as I grow older, I realize that one needs to make peace with the past, and not ignore the bad times and dark secrets.

What’s hard for me is that my Dad was a paradox. While he didn’t graduate from college, Dad was one of the wisest people I have ever met.

He was a voracious reader. He discussed history, current events, and sports and other subjects with great interest and knowledge. He was generous. He could fix anything. He did his best to teach me many skills.

He was a sports fanatic. I vividly remember him shouting, “SCORE!” as the Bruins scored a goal, or jumping up as the Sox scored a homer. He LOVED his sports, and for me it wasn’t officially summer until I saw Dad in the living room on a warm summer night, watching his beloved Red Sox.

Growing up in the old Dorchester neighborhood, he was a tough kid and no one messed with him. Despite that, he was extremely well liked and respected, and had literally over one hundred friends. He couldn’t walk anywhere without people stopping him to say hello and catch up with him. Everyone liked him.

He was a sensitive, passionate and kind-hearted man. He was a gentleman and good person. He was a storyteller.

His dreams all revolved around making his family as comfortable and happy as possible. He would often create little hand-written signs when we had birthdays or graduations. I still have one of the signs he made for me: “You have given such pride to us all.” Sure, it’s a dad talking, but many fathers don’t vocalize their feelings for their children. I’m lucky mine did.

However, Dad was an alcoholic. In the last few years I’ve learned much about the disease – and it is a disease – of alcoholism.

I hated it when Dad went out on weekends to the bars because I know the nice guy was leaving and the drunk would be coming home. I hated who and what he became when he drank.

I remember one summer Saturday. Dad had not gone to the bar, and was home all day, watching the game, doing house repairs, and just being there. At the end of the day, I thanked him for being around, that I had enjoyed his company. What I didn’t say was, “Thank you for not drinking today, I like you when you’re sober.”

This is why to this day it’s rare that I drink very much, and why I’m still struggling so much with the paradox.

Every boy wants to be like his father, but every man also struggles to understand his father.

It could be argued that writing this way in so pubic a forum is easy — after all, Dad is dead and can’t defend himself. But it is not my intention to trash my father’s memory, for there are so many of his qualities and habits that I try to emulate. Much of his philosophy has rubbed off on me. I’m like him in many ways.

I wish Dad had recognized the misery his drinking brought to his family. I so wish he’d gotten help. AA existed back then, and while alcoholism wasn’t recognized as the disease we now know it to be, there was so much he could have done to help himself.

I had no problem with him having a couple of beers, it was the next couple of beers, and the ones after that, or the harder liquor, that turned him into something ugly.

There is no shame in admitting a problem with alcohol. My friend who asked me to respect him for going to AA has no idea how much I wanted to give a bear hug that morning and tell him how proud I was that he was taking steps to rid himself of this burden, this disease.

If my dad were still alive, I would like to think that things would be different and he would have gotten help — but I’ll never know. All I have is memories of two Dad’s – the great father and provider, and the alcoholic.

Perhaps someday I will resolve this paradox and come to an understanding. In the meantime, all I can do is honor his memory by saying to anyone out there going to AA and trying to stop drinking, please keep trying. If you fall, get up and try again, and again, and again. And again. If your family doesn’t have the courage to say it, let me tell you for them — they don’t like it when you’re drunk. They don’t like the person you become. But they love you so much when you are sober, and they want to keep you that way.

Get help. If not for your sake but your family. For your kids.

Since I can’t change the past, I can at least reflect on what I can do now. Part of that is to say to anyone battling the bottle – I understand, more than you can know, the struggle you face, and I pray you will have the strength to stay sober.

Trust me, I really understand.