This is an anonymized experience record that has undergone risk screening and language refinement; it does not retain the original author's identity, location, or identifiable details.
Every Friday was nerve-wracking, knowing he'd come knocking when drunk
For as long as I can remember, my father drank every weekend. Fridays were the most stressful—he'd knock on the door when drunk, pulling people into conversation. Later it escalated to all-night drinking sessions, followed by morning knocks and arguments with my mother. Only after endless coaxing could my mother get him into his own room.
In middle school I went to a boarding school, but still had to come home on weekends. From Friday afternoon onward, I'd be on edge. It wasn't exactly fear—more like an indescribable exhaustion. You know what's coming, but you can't change it. Holidays were worse—while others looked forward to celebrations, I counted down until work resumed.
Later when studying abroad, I never felt excitement about summer homecomings. There was always that first drunken weekend to endure. The anticipation sat like a stone on my chest from the moment the plane landed.
A few years ago he died alone at home from sudden illness
During a National Day holiday years later, my father was home alone. He had hypertension and hyperlipidemia, and drank heavily that day. Perhaps a drunken heart attack or cerebral thrombosis—he passed away naked, slumped against the coffee table.
I'd just started graduate school. By the time I rushed back, he was already in the funeral hall. I didn't know how to feel. I barely cried there, and still feel somewhat lost. Not from lack of grief, but because decades of tension and exhaustion had encased that sorrow, leaving no outlet.
During the pandemic years, I started drinking too
In those two pandemic years, I met a good friend and established weekend drinking routines. I drank heavily—never blackout drunk, but enough to foster an "abandon responsibilities" mindset. Weekends became write-offs: drinking all night, recovering all day. Poor rest, neglected career.
I didn't realize I was retracing my father's path. I thought as long as I didn't get drunk or cause scenes, it was fine. But the quantity crept upward, and the "must drink on weekends" compulsion grew stronger.
A medical red flag became my stopping point
This year during an eye exam, the doctor suspected glaucoma and referred me to a specialist. High ocular pressure, possibly linked to blood pressure. It terrified me. Moving to a new place with teetotaler landlords—though they never commented—made me self-conscious.
So I quit completely. Two months sober now. It's good—saves money. When stressed, I endure gradually, resolving or accepting issues. Alcohol helps escape, but you can't escape forever. What needs handling must be handled.
Drinkers won't quit unless they want to—no one can persuade them
Looking back, I think drinkers won't quit unless they choose to. But choosing requires a catalyst. I'm ashamed I didn't learn from my father, but fortunate I ultimately frightened myself enough.
Of course, light drinking may not require intervention. But if quantities creep up, offer more care and conversation. Emotional relief reduces alcohol's appeal.
I still think of my father sometimes. Not in the funeral hall, but those Friday nights—the sound of his drunken knocking. That sound once filled me with dread, but now reminds me: when some paths lead nowhere, you can stop walking.
If you're in a similar situation, consider these: How Families Can Communicate with Drinkers, or Self-Assess Your Drinking.
Alcohol helps escape, but you can't escape forever. What needs handling must be handled.