This is an anonymized, risk-screened, and linguistically refined account; all identifying details about the original author, location, or recognizable specifics have been removed.
Since childhood, I knew my father couldn't live without alcohol
For as long as I can remember, my father was never sober. He carried rice wine everywhere—in crates or large bottles. Whether thirsty from work or craving a drink, he'd gulp straight from the bottle, needing no dishes to accompany it until thoroughly drunk. Villagers called him "the wine vat," and my four siblings and I were mocked at school as "the wine vat's kids." Frail as I was, I could only walk away silently when teased. Once I fought back, they tried to beat me, but I still lunged forward to defend my dignity—my eyes swollen shut, my shins bleeding from thrown stones. This is how pitiful children become without a father's protection.
The hardest part is never knowing when the next incident will happen
The consequences of his drinking escalated. Drunk, he'd collapse in fields or roadside ditches after cycling, prompting neighbors to alert us, thinking he'd been in an accident. In summer, he'd stagger into rivers to bathe—a drunk man in water, imagine that. Sometimes he'd return home bloodied. I can only thank fate for keeping him alive these years. Doctors warned him to quit after alcohol-induced lipomas on his thyroid required surgery, with recurrence guaranteed if he kept drinking. He quit smoking successfully, but alcohol remained his master.
Recent years brought irreversible damage
Past injuries healed, but chronic alcoholism now gives him severe alcoholic liver disease, requiring annual IV treatments. Post-discharge, we monitor him constantly to prevent relapse. Without alcohol, his hands shake violently; he catches colds easily, vomits meals, and aches all over. Our hearts break watching this, but we dare not relent. My mother locks the gate to stop him from buying liquor, so he ransacks the house for hidden rice wine. When she's out, he bribes neighborhood kids to fetch alcohol—or climbs walls using ladders. After we confiscated the ladder, he broke locks and doors to binge.
We sent him to a psychiatric hospital, but confinement alone can't cure addiction
Out of options, we hospitalized him. After three months, staff discharged him for not meeting criteria. Sober, he improved briefly, but lacking willpower, he soon relapsed. Two years ago, drunk, he fell into a ditch behind our house, smashing his head on rocks. Found early, he was incoherent, face darkened, convulsing. County hospitals refused him; city doctors diagnosed cerebral hemorrhage. We faced two choices: an 80,000-yuan craniotomy risking dementia, or anti-inflammatory treatment leaving permanent blood clots. Given his age over sixty, we chose the latter at 40,000 yuan. Post-recovery, he resumed drinking mid-treatment. My mother wept in fury. I realized: he'll never quit. Now she gives him small amounts at meals to curb binges, though he complains it's never enough.
Now we fear cirrhosis most—and our financial inability to cope
Lipomas cover his neck and back. We'd remove them, but without sobriety, they'd regrow—a waste of scarce thousands. Doctors say they're benign unless they obstruct breathing. But his liver is the real crisis: alcoholic hepatitis progressing to cirrhosis, his belly distending. I'll take him for liver care during my next vacation. Growing up poor, my siblings left school early for factory work. Now, with families to feed and no other skills, they couldn't afford another emergency. As the only college graduate, I've struggled too—five years post-graduation, still renting in Guangzhou's urban villages on meager wages. I tried designing clothes to sell online, but sold none in a year. I keep striving, but will my father live to see my success? The thought brings tears.
When supporting an alcoholic long-term, prioritize protecting your own boundaries.