How Much Do I Say?

My biological father sent me a lovely card just a few weeks ago, after I hadn't written in a year and had sent him a typed letter, matter-of-factly stating I was on my way to entering rehab. His response was heartfelt, unexpectedly sincere and concerned. he wrote, "as he was a non-recovering alcoholic himself, he was not one to set an example or even worthy of dishing out the advice he was about to give, but...because he loved me, he needed to share these thoughts and antidotes" (to paraphrase). I cried when I read his words. His words, also unexpectedly, stamped out the impeccably sly relapse I was planning that very day. I was grateful. I cried some more. He said he wanted to be closer, to know me, to understand how and why my life had pickled and soured and saddened so much that I was now in such destructive, vulnerable state.
He wants me to share with him. But how can I? Where do I even start? Do I bombard him with it all at once, or slip in a few despairing pieces at a time so as not to irritate his current heart condition? Do I say, okay, daddy, this how it started, this is the progression? You wanted to know me; please, don't despise me once you know, okay?
Sit down in a soft chair while you read this, light some candles, drink some chamomile tea, have an ashtray and at least two packs of cigarettes handy and here we go: You left when I was two. You know this. But I didn't know why. Mommy wouldn't tell me, just that is was best that you were gone. You moved an hour away, but I rarely saw you, heard from you. Who was going to bake my Winnie the Pooh birthday cakes; who was going to lull me to sleep with smooth whistlings of a flute; whose large arms were I going to run into when I woke groggy-eyed, and call me his sweet-pea?
Mom remarried when I was five. A younger man. Charming, attractive, large, warming arms. He molested my sister and I for five years. Mom claimed she didn't know. We didn't tell. She divorced him shortly after, due to secret affair with her best friend.
One year later, mom married again. We moved to Hawaii. I didn't hear from you for years. Step-father three was a decent man, kind but quiet. Closed arms and distant eyes. We called him by his first name, never dad, never father, unless we wanted money, a ride somewhere, permission to have a slumber party with shnappps, pot, and maybe a few boys. he made our mother happy and we kept our distance.
I started drinking at thirteen. Mom gave it to me. Said she'd rather have me drinking at home, under her watchful eye, than off somewhere doing god knows what. She didn't want to worry. Didn't want to be left in the dark. She had a strange aversion to secrets. So, I drank openly, smoked cigarettes, dabbled in a few other recreational drugs, and luckily found them distasteful. I became promiscuous, wore brighter lipstick and shorter skirts. My sister shaved her head into a dyed black mohawk and wore pentagrams. I became the town slut; she, the town witch.
As a teenager, I found out why you left. Overheard mom and a childhood girlfriend yaking away over bloody marys one morning. She said you beat her. For five years, you drank, became enraged, and beat her. Sober, you were sweet, creative, astoundingly intelligent. It took everything she had to leave you. I had never seen you angry, or even what I would consider "drunk." But I also didn't realize mom was a drunk, as well, so go figure. Call it naivete, or suppression if you will.
At sixteen, I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder and a social phobia. I would stick my head in the freezer, refuse to leave the house, bite my nails to a fleshy, bloody pulp. My friends teased me, unmercifully. I drank more. It calmed me, stuck a smile to my face like duct tape, gave me permission to find warm arms wherever I wanted. To find love wherever I needed.
I dropped out of highschool, was barely ever home, slept in unfamiliar beds, woke with splitting headaches and dry heaves every other morning. Mother gave up. She didn't want to worry anymore, refused to cry anymore over her morning coffee laced with 100 percent proof kaluha. She let me do as I pleased, laughed at the hickeys I came home with, mended the slashes on knees from drunken falls on lava rocks, rocked me in her arms when yet another boy broke my heart. She told me "everything would be okay." And I believed her. I had to believe her.
I left home at eighteen, followed what I had deemed love from state to state, fell into an abusive relationship myself at nineteen. One hit and I was gone. For a month or two. Another hit, gone again. This went on for two years and then mother died. Healthy one day, seizure the next, died 3000 miles away from a brain tumor three months later. I didn't get to say goodbye.
I drank more, dropped out of the college I had just started. Found a lover in a man I hated and got pregnant just a few months after she died. I felt like an orphan. I was alone, uneducated, unemployed, and knocked up. My godmother took me in. You might remember her; she was there when I was baptized, when I asked if I was an angel now. My son was born, named after mom. I started college again. Anxiety and alcoholic throughout, but functioning. Graduated five years later with an A average and a stubborn streak of knowing I would write. If i would do anything in my life, I would write.
A year after graduation and I still couldn't find a job. I became diagnosed with acute depression, slept all day, gained a profound amount of weight. I almost married a man I didn't love, a habitual liar, just to escape the eight-year- run in my new "mommy's" house. I shaved my head right to the roots; beat you to it Britney...Ha!
met another fellow, ran off to Reno. Lived in a half a million dollar home I helped design. Got a puppy, learned to drive. Drank everyday with a man who didn't love me, thought my anxiety was a form of schizophrenia. All in all, he was a good, solid, stable man. All in all, I screamed that I wasn't his god-damned maid. He kicked us out; I found what a knife could be used for. An unsuccessful attempt at another way of numbing my consistent failures.
Moved back in with "mommy." Got a bit more plump. Became agoraphobic. Reluctantly agreed to try meds. Had a six-month run at age 31 at what I'd call a good life. Found a job, stopped drinking, squished into a tiny studio with my son and I that was all mine. Finally, something that was all mine. I made my own decisions. I even made some good ones. I worked hard, exercised, ate healthy, lost fifty pounds of flesh. My son missed my soft tummy to lay on night over sitcoms.
And then I was cute, tiny. Men noticed me. Women, too. They wanted me again. I fell into arms, young, old, muscled, thin. As long as they were warm. Yet they wouldn't love me. They kept leaving again and again. And I drank again. And again.
I met a man in the midst of this. My soul mate, I told myself. He loved me. Didn't "need" my body, but took it softly if offered. And I loved him, love him still. Even though I drank, cut myself, took an overdose of pills, slunk into other mens' beds after high-vocaled fights and then pleaded for forgiveness.
So, here I am, dad. Now you know me. Now you know why I am where I am in this life I have self-sabatoged for myself. Nice, little package, isn't it? Do you truly want to know all of this? Is it necessary to understand? Do I want your sympathy? Your forgiveness? Do I want to blame you? Do I want you to feel defeated? Feel remorse?
I still don't know what I need from you. In your eyes now, I may be seen a victim. But I do not want to be known as that. That is not "all" I am. And that is not "all" you are either.
So, dad, where do we go from here? How much are you truly willing to hear? Your heart is already weak; my intention is not to shatter.