THE SHAME OF NOT APOLOGIZING SOONER


I owe my parents a huge apology.  Funny but tragic how it took 50 years to realize that I did something horrible and never felt ashamed of myself until now.

 

I was an alcoholic. I used alcohol to numb myself from depression and feeling unloved and ugly from age 16 to my early 20s.  It was difficult for anyone to love me because of my utter disdain for myself.  I had no room to let love dwell inside me.  While living in my ultra-religious, tea-totaling parents' house, I got plastered almost every weekend and often during the weeknights.  I was a holy, rather unholy mess.

 

My parents allowed me to drive their second car, a 1962 Volkswagen Beetle, that my Mother drove to work.  I had a Dairy Queen job in the nearby town to save money for college tuition and needed a car to commute to work in the evenings and weekends.  One evening, there was a party in the boonies outside town. A fellow-partying female friend agreed to ride with me.  Dirt roads wove past ranchlands and around huge oil tanks that dotted the Panhandle landscape.  We thought it would be a grand idea to race on those roads, although a '62 Volkswagen Beetle is different than a '64 Pontiac GTO. Oh, I tried my best to beat the GTO but didn't make it around one of the curves and promptly rolled the car several times, landing next to a barbed-wire fence.

 

The GTO's male occupants included my boss.  They dumped us at the nearby ER because my friend complained about her ribs hurting.  When my father arrived at the hospital, he was furious. The smell of beer on my breath made the situation even direr.  The following day, he called the Sheriff, hoping for an arrest.  However, no property was damaged besides my father's, so nothing happened.  I continued driving that car for a couple of years after my father separated the caved-in roof enough for me to gingerly open the door that never entirely closed and painted the car a putrid turquoise. My punishment was driving what looked like a smashed tin can in the dead of winter.  When the vehicle ultimately died, I begged them for another car. I was only making a couple of dollars an hour, working 40 hours a week in a psychiatric hospital while taking a full caseload in college.  My father bought an old "company" automobile that looked more like a narc car used to stake out unsuspecting drug dealers.  I was grateful for reliable transportation and a heater that worked, but I didn’t realize his gifts' full impact until I heard recent stories from others about drinking and driving when they were young. 

 

I wasn't thankful enough to stop drinking and driving during that time, though.  I continued to party every chance I got on god-awful Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill Wine and Cold Duck and had two more car wrecks while driving intoxicated.  Lucky for me, I never received a DUI or acquired any injuries to myself or others due to my horrible behavior, and insurance paid for the repairs on the car.  Drinking lost its allure after a few years, or maybe I had finally exorcised enough demons.  I continued to drive the narc car until I finished a master's degree and had a job that paid enough to afford a better car.  I still enjoy a nice glass of wine or a delicious margarita, but one drink usually quenches my thirst.

 

My parents could have thrown me out of the house, as I was 18 when the first car wreck occurred. As far as I know, they never knew about my love affair with alcohol. There's no telling what would have become of me had they banished me from the family home during that turbulent time.  I never thought they loved me, but I was obviously wrong. My father is now gone, but I wish I had told him how sorry I was to have wrecked the cars he gave me and how much having a car helped me achieve my dream of a good education. I didn't deserve those cars, and he didn't deserve how I treated his gifts.  I hope my Dad hears my plea for forgiveness. I'm pretty sure he does.

 

I called my 92-year-old Mother today to apologize for my behavior and ungratefulness.  I asked why they didn't kick me out of the house.  Mother replied, "Oh no, we would never do that because we loved you.  I knew you were having a hard time and suspected you were an alcoholic." Her words mean everything to me.  Apologies and forgiveness come in many forms and are never too late. 

 

Wouldn't it be great if all our goodbyes included everything we want to say before it's too late?  



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