This is a record of personal experience that has been de-identified, risk-screened, and linguistically organized; no identifying details about the original author, their location, or other recognizable information are retained.
When Did Things Start to Change at Home
I can't remember exactly which year my father started drinking more and more heavily. At first, it was just a drink or two when he came home at night. Then it became drinking at noon as well, and eventually he even needed alcohol with breakfast. My mother tried to persuade him, argued with him, smashed his liquor bottles—but nothing worked. After he drank, he became like a completely different person—his voice got louder, his emotions became very unstable, sometimes he would fly into a rage for no reason, and other times he would sink into deep depression.
During that period, the thing I feared most when I came home from school was hearing the sound of a bottle being opened in the kitchen. The moment I heard that sound, I knew the night would not be peaceful. My mother's eyes would immediately darken, and the air in the house felt like it had been sucked dry. The three of us would sit at the dinner table, no one speaking, with only my father pouring himself glass after glass.
I began to be afraid of going home. Not because I feared he would hit me, but because I feared that suffocating atmosphere. Once, I hid in my room pretending to do homework and heard my mother say in a lowered voice in the living room: "If you keep going like this, this family will fall apart." My father didn't answer—there was only the sound of his glass clinking against the coffee table.
The Hardest Part Was Not Knowing When It Would Happen Next
My father's drinking had no fixed pattern. Sometimes he would go several days drinking only a little, and the atmosphere at home would improve slightly, and my mother would even smile again. I would even secretly think: maybe this time it's really gotten better? But every time that thought just started to form, my father would suddenly get dead drunk, and everything would return to square one.
This unpredictability was more tormenting than the drinking itself. I couldn't plan anything. I didn't dare make weekend plans with classmates, because I didn't know whether my father would kick up a fuss that day. I didn't dare tell my mother that I wanted to apply to a university in another city, because I knew she couldn't hold things together alone. I was like a tightly stretched string, not knowing when it would snap.
Once, my father drank for three days straight and became completely dazed. My mother asked me to call relatives. When they arrived, my father sat on the sofa with vacant eyes, mumbling words that couldn't be made out. A relative pulled my mother aside and said quietly: "This can't go on. You need to figure something out." My mother lowered her head, tears falling onto the back of her hand. I stood at the doorway, feeling like there was nothing I could do.
The Words "Psychiatric Hospital" Circled in My Mind for a Long Time
A relative later told me that we should send my father to a psychiatric hospital to get him to stop drinking, or else he would drag the whole family down. The first time I heard this suggestion, I felt very resistant. A psychiatric hospital? What kind of place was that? Would my father get worse if he went there? Would he feel like we had abandoned him?
But my mother began to seriously consider it. She went to ask around and came back saying that public psychiatric hospitals could accept medical insurance, so the cost would be somewhat manageable. She also said that doctors and nurses would be watching over him there, and my father wouldn't be able to get alcohol, which would at least give his body a chance to recover. After I heard her out, my mind was in turmoil. On one hand, I felt this might be the only way to bring peace to the household; on the other hand, sending my father to that kind of place felt like admitting that we truly had no other options left.
I secretly looked up a lot of information online. I saw people say that alcohol dependence is a brain disease that cannot be overcome by willpower alone. Others said that hospitalization only controls drinking behavior and doesn't guarantee he won't drink again afterward. This information only made me more confused. I didn't know who to believe, and I didn't know how to help my father.
My Mother's Changes Made Me Rethink This
During that period, my mother aged quickly. She used to be a very cheerful person, but ever since my father's drinking got worse, the smile on her face appeared less and less often. She started having insomnia and would often get up in the middle of the night to sit blankly in the living room. Once, when I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, I saw her sitting alone in the dark and was startled. I asked her what was wrong, and she said: "Nothing, I just can't sleep. Go back to bed."
Her health also began to deteriorate. Her blood pressure fluctuated wildly, and the doctor said it was due to excessive stress. She told me several times: "I can't hold on much longer." Every time I heard that, I felt deeply guilty. I was still in school and couldn't help much—instead, she still had to worry about me.
Once, my mother was crying on the phone to a relative, and I was listening nearby. The relative said: "You can't let him drag you down. You still have a child to take care of. Sending him to the hospital isn't abandoning him—it's letting professionals take over." My mother hung up and was silent for a long time, then said to me: "If your dad goes to the hospital, would you blame Mom?" I said no. But I knew that when she asked that question, she was hurting more than anyone.
I Gradually Came to Understand: This Isn't Giving Up, It's a Different Approach
Later, my mother and I went together to the psychiatry department of a public hospital. The doctor asked many questions, including how long my father had been drinking, how much he drank each day, and what he was like when drunk. My mother cried as she spoke, and the doctor listened patiently without interrupting her. Finally, the doctor said that alcohol dependence is indeed a disease that requires long-term management, and that hospitalization could help my father temporarily break away from the drinking environment, reduce physical risks, and also give family members a chance to catch their breath.
Coming out of the hospital, my mother seemed a bit more relaxed. She said: "At least now we know which direction to go." I nodded. Although there were still many uncertainties in my heart, at least we were no longer carrying this burden alone. If hospitalization could stabilize my father's health, let my mother get a good night's sleep, and keep me from living in fear every day, then perhaps this was the best choice for now.
I know this road won't be easy. My father may not understand, and he may even hate us. But I also know that if we do nothing, things will only get worse. Sending him to the hospital isn't about abandoning him—it's about giving him a chance to keep living, and giving this family a chance to start over.
If you are going through something similar, I want to say: you are not alone. You can look into the psychiatry department at a hospital or family support services, and hear what the professionals have to say. Sometimes, seeking help is not weakness—it is true courage.
Alcohol dependence affects the entire family, and seeking professional support is an important step in protecting yourself and your loved ones.