This is an experience record that has been de-identified, risk-screened, and language-edited; no identifying information about the original author, location, or recognizable details is retained.
I knew those people in the village who changed after drinking all too well
In the villages around where I grew up, almost every village had one or more people dependent on alcohol. In their normal state, they usually appeared no different from anyone else—sometimes even gentler and more affable than the average person—but once drunk, they became a completely different person.
I saw people lying on the only main road in the village, crouched over their own vomit, crying about their misfortunes—fathers who didn't love them, mothers who didn't care, domineering wives, disappointing children. In short, they would do whatever it took to make their miserable lives seem as tragic as possible, determined to move the onlookers to sympathy and resonance.
They were usually surrounded by a crowd of onlookers. Some people would kindly try to persuade them, saying every family has its own troubles and that everything would get better. But for some reason, the more others tried to comfort them, the harder they cried and cursed. Later I realized it was probably because they had found their audience, so they had to perform even harder. Like actors on a stage—the louder the audience's applause, the more vigorously the performer acts.
When they tired themselves out from cursing, they would lie slumped in a pile of filth, sobbing quietly, their cries resembling the howls of a wild animal, without tears. At this point, the onlookers would not intervene—first, because they hadn't had their fill of the spectacle yet, and second, because the drunk person was too unpredictable and reckless. In the end, it was usually the wife or children who, enduring everyone's cold stares, would carefully coax and persuade them, waiting for them to curse a bit more and then calm down, before finding a familiar face among the onlookers to help carry the dead-weight person home.
You ask how I know this so well? Because my father was one of the alcohol-dependent people in our village. When I was a child, there were two such people in the village—one whose wife divorced him and who then lay in bed drinking until he showed warning signs that required immediate help, and the other was my father.
I thought I married someone different, but I fell into the same trap again
When I grew up, I swore I would leave that village, leave those midnight wails and the slaps of shoe soles. I married someone from another place and thought I could finally live a stable life. But in the third year of marriage, I discovered my husband had also started drinking frequently.
At first it was just a few extra drinks at gatherings with friends, but it later became a daily habit. When sober, he was still that gentle person who would help with housework and make the kids laugh. But once he reached a certain level of intoxication, it was like he became a different person.
The scenes of berating his wife and children always felt eerily familiar, and the rhetoric was always the same old tune. Late at night, on the earthen bed in the countryside, the wife and children would lie in a row like sardines in a can, holding their breath to make themselves less noticeable, terrified of drawing his attention. But no matter what we did, he would never let us off the hook—he would always find an excuse to start his performance.
Specifically, it went like this: he would sit on the small stool in front of the bed and count up, one by one, all the money spent on the child from birth to now. If the child did poorly in school, then trouble was coming—the usual line was: "I spent all this money on you, so why are you studying like this!" If the child did well in school, he still had something to say: "You think you're doing well in school all on your own? It's because I spent money to support you."
When the mood struck him, he would glare with eyes like a rabid bull, yank off his smelly shoe, and swing it at the child's head. If you dared to dodge, he would take off his belt and whip you with it.
At times like this, I always stayed silent, because once I stepped in to mediate, he would turn his fire on me: "The child isn't turning out well because you spoil them. I'm trying to discipline the child now, and you still come and interfere." Sometimes, when I really couldn't bear it and defended the child with a few words, that would inevitably lead to another storm.
The hardest part was not knowing when it would happen next
The small, weak children would lie on the earthen bed, craning their necks, bracing for the shoe soles falling like rain. They would take the beating in a daze while tears streamed down their faces. Having been beaten since childhood, they didn't even know how to resist. Like a cow that has been tied to a tree since it was young—even if the rope is removed, it won't run.
How could we hide? Once it got dark, every household in the village closed their doors. During the busy farming season, everyone went to bed early after a day of fieldwork, and during holidays and festivals, everyone had guests over. It was such a small village—where could we run to in the middle of the night? We always had to go home to sleep, and home had only three main rooms: one living room for eating, one for storage, and one bedroom. We could only lie on the earthen bed, trembling, waiting for the blade to fall on our necks.
The hardest part wasn't the night he got drunk—it was not knowing when it would happen next. During the day when he went to work, I would always be guessing: Will he drink today? How much? What state will he be in when he comes back? This agonizing uncertainty was more tormenting than actually facing his drunken rages. I found myself becoming neurotic—my heart would race at the sound of keys turning in the lock, and I would read his expression to judge whether we would make it through the night safely.
I even started avoiding communicating with him. Because when he was sober, he would always say "I'll change," but the next day it was the same as before. I tried hiding his liquor bottles, tried arguing with him, tried staying at my parents' house for a few days, but it only made things worse. When sober, he would apologize and make promises, but those promises were like words written in the sand—gone with the first gust of wind.
The first thing I learned: steady yourself first
The turning point came one winter. That day he was drunk again and venting his anger at the child. Out of habit, I wanted to rush forward and shield the child. But at that moment, I suddenly saw myself—I was repeating what my mother had done. She had been the same way back then, protecting me on one side while being cursed out by my father. She endured her whole life, and in the end, her body broke down, and her spirit broke too.
I didn't want to become her. In that moment, I realized that if I couldn't even stand steady myself, I couldn't protect anyone. I needed to steady myself first before I could see clearly what my next step should be.
I started doing very small things: setting aside half an hour for myself every day, even if it was just sitting in the yard staring into space; learning to take the child to a neighbor's house when he was drinking instead of toughing it out; I started keeping a record of his drinking patterns and found that he drank more when he was under stress or in a bad mood. These records later became the basis for communicating with him, rather than confronting him with emotion.
I also started learning how to talk to him about it. I no longer reasoned with him when he was drunk, but instead, when he was sober, I would say in a calm tone: "You drank too much yesterday, and the child was very scared. I'm exhausted too. We need to figure something out." At first, he still gave the same old "I'll change," but I no longer pressed him for promises. Instead, I said: "Then let's see what we can do together."
This path took a long time, with no overnight changes. But he eventually became willing to drink a little less and to control himself in front of the child. Although he still relapsed occasionally, at least I was no longer that little girl lying on the earthen bed, trembling and waiting to be hit. I learned to find a balance between protecting myself and protecting my child, and I also learned that some problems can't be solved by endurance alone.
If you are going through something similar, I want to tell you: steady yourself first, and then you can see clearly what your next step should be. You don't have to carry it all alone—you can talk to someone you trust, or look into support resources. You deserve a more stable life.
Caregivers must steady themselves first before they can see clearly what their next step should be.