This is an experience record that has been de-identified, risk-screened, and language-edited; the original author's identity, geographic location, or identifiable details are not retained in the text.
When the house is quiet, I actually feel something is wrong
When I was a child, I never thought my father's drinking was a problem. When he came home from work, he would occasionally have a sip or two, his face would turn slightly red, he would talk more than usual, and he would pat my head. At that time, alcohol was just an inconspicuous ornament in his life.
But at some point, that ornament became the main character. He started drinking every day, and drinking more and more. The most obvious change was that the sounds in the house changed. Before, there were the sounds of the TV, people talking, and pots and pans clattering. Later, they were all covered by one sound—the sound of his glass hitting the table when he drank, the slurred muttering after he finished, and my mother's increasingly loud questioning voice.
I gradually realized that when the house was quiet, it actually made me feel uneasy. That meant he hadn't come home yet, or he had drunk too much and gone to sleep. That kind of quiet held no relief, only the tension of waiting for the next storm.
The hardest part is not knowing when the next time will happen
After my father drank, his mood changed quickly. Sometimes when he was tipsy, he would pull me aside and talk a lot, going over and over stories from his youth. I had heard those stories dozens of times, but I didn't dare interrupt, because once I did, his tone would change. He would suddenly get agitated, saying we didn't understand him, that no one in this family understood him.
My mother went from earnest persuasion at first, to arguments later, and finally to silence. She no longer tried to talk him out of it; she just put away the dishes, closed the door tightly, and locked herself in another room. I was caught in the middle, not knowing whose side to take. If I tried to reason with my father, he would feel I was on my mother's side; if I tried to comfort my mother, she would feel I didn't understand her suffering.
The hardest part isn't any single outburst—it's that you never know when the next one will happen. It could be after dinner, on a weekend afternoon, or late at night. You're going about your own business, and suddenly you hear an unusual sound from the living room, and your heart leaps into your throat.
I tried many methods, but they all felt like punching cotton
I tried looking up information online, wanting to know why some people become addicted to alcohol. I saw some studies saying that alcohol changes the balance of certain chemicals in the brain, giving people a brief feeling of relaxation and pleasure after drinking. But if someone drinks heavily over a long period, the brain gradually adapts to that stimulation, and when they don't drink, they instead feel irritable, restless, and desperately craving it.
I tried explaining this knowledge to my father. After listening, he nodded and said, "I understand," then drank the same as usual the next day. I also tried hiding the alcohol at home, but he would go out and buy his own. I tried making an agreement with him about how much he could drink each day, but he always found a way to break the agreement. I even tried arguing with him until both of us had red eyes, but the next day he still picked up his glass.
That feeling was like punching cotton—you use all your strength, but the other person shows no reaction. You start to wonder if you're being too sensitive, if you're asking for too much. But seeing my mother's increasingly haggard face and my father's increasingly unstable state, I knew it wasn't my problem.
I began to realize this wasn't a matter of willpower
For a long time, I felt my father simply "didn't want to quit." I thought that as long as he was willing, he could completely control himself. But later I slowly came to understand that things weren't that simple.
I saw some materials saying that alcohol dependence is related to genetics, psychological state, and living environment. My father himself said he started drinking when he was young—at first for social occasions, then to relieve fatigue, and later, he said, "if I don't drink, I feel awful." He described that feeling as if there were an ant crawling in his heart, making him restless and unable to sit still, and only after taking that sip could he calm down.
I began to realize this wasn't simply "weak willpower." His body and brain had already developed a dependence on alcohol, and this wasn't something that could be solved by "thinking positively" or "drinking less." It's like telling someone with a cold to "stop coughing"—what he needs is help, not blame.
This realization made me feel a bit better, but it also made me see more clearly that this road was much longer than I had imagined.
The atmosphere at home changed, and I changed too
My father's alcohol addiction changed not just him, but the entire atmosphere of the family. Before, we would eat together and watch TV on weekends; later, it became everyone staying in their own room. My mother stopped inviting friends over, because she never knew when my father would drink too much. I also rarely brought friends home, because I didn't know what scene I might encounter.
I changed too. I became especially sensitive to sounds—hearing the clink of a glass would make me tense. I became unwilling to talk about things at home with others, because I didn't know how to explain it. I became cautious, afraid that one wrong word might trigger an argument.
But I also learned one thing: I don't need to take responsibility for my father's addiction. It's not my fault, and it's not my mother's fault either. What we can do is take care of ourselves, and stand by his side when he is willing to accept help.
Later, we began to try different paths
My mother and I discussed many times what we should do. We tried talking to him seriously, tried asking relatives to persuade him, and tried seeking help from community workers. Some methods worked for a while, and some were completely useless. But at least, we were no longer just passively enduring.
Once, my father himself said that he actually wanted to quit too, but every time he stopped, he felt so uncomfortable he couldn't bear it. He said he was afraid of that feeling. That was the first time I heard him admit he was afraid. At that moment, I suddenly felt that it wasn't that he didn't want to get better—it was that he didn't know how.
We began to learn about alcohol dependence, understanding that this wasn't something that could be solved by "toughing it out." Some people need professional help, some need family support, and some need to change their living environment. Everyone's path is different, but at least, we started walking.
Now, I no longer expect things to get better overnight
Now, I no longer expect my father to quit completely overnight. I know that's unrealistic. What I hope for more is that he can gradually cut down, and one day realize that besides drinking, there are other ways to relax.
The atmosphere at home is still good sometimes and bad other times, but at least we no longer feel as desperate as before. My mother has started reconnecting with friends, and I've learned to go do my own things when my father is drinking, instead of staying nearby waiting for something to go wrong.
This road is long, but I know we're not walking it alone. Many other families are like ours, trying hard to find a way out. If you're going through something similar, what I want to say is: take care of yourself, and don't carry all the responsibility on your own shoulders. You don't need to be responsible for other people's choices, but you can be responsible for your own.
If you need more information about alcohol dependence, you can refer to the Family Support Guide, or get more help through the Contact Information.
Alcohol addiction is not just one person's problem—it changes the warmth of the entire family.