If this memoir were a TV show, Part III would’ve been cancelled by now. Too bleak. Too repetitive.
Same plot every episode: I tell my dad the truth, and nothing changes. Actually, things get worse. Next episode: I try again. Same result.
Then I finally risk saying something huge, and he dies.
Each chapter’s “Lie/Truth” in Part III are almost identical. That’s the maddening part. I keep thinking, this time the confession will matter, and then I watch the same silence spool out again.
Writing it down feels just as redundant, like I’m the fool who hasn’t learned her own lesson yet. Which is probably why this part is taking me so long to finish. Because right after I finally stopped swallowing everything and started telling my daddy the truth, he went and died.
It makes confession feel like a mistake.
Like I failed at the one thing I’d been saving all that honesty for. That’s the weight I carry every time I sit down to outline with my trusty set of pencils (#2, 2.5, 3), and it’s hard to translate that into a neat chapter arc.
Every time I open these scenes, I’m not just reliving what happened. I’m reliving the question of whether speaking up did more harm than good. The dumb hope that kept going anyway. Writing about absence feels like being ghosted by your own memories; you sit down to write and discover you’re rehearsing the waiting all over again.
What I’m realizing (at glacial speed, and only through writing it down) is that the telling was never meant to fix him. It was meant to save me. To stop me from carrying the silence alone.
And maybe, if I’d started the telling part sooner—if I hadn’t wasted years placating Dad—he might’ve had more time to realize that too. I’ll never know.
What I do know (technically, still in the process of knowing) is that silence was only an illusion of safety, and confession wasn’t failure. It just didn’t come with a reward or a ribbon.
And that’s why this part of the book takes forever. Because I’m still teaching myself that lesson as I write it.
It takes time to write about a love you couldn’t save without accidentally casting yourself as either villain or hero. The truth is, I’m neither. I’m somewhere in between, like most people.
The good news: the words are still flowing. They’re just arriving in the same rhythm the story did: halting, hopeful, and sometimes ghosted.
inspo: memoir musings // the incredibly difficult emotional arc of part iii // confession that doesn’t repair // rewriting the same scenes because reliving through them takes longer than typing them // the slowness of grief // silence that still wounds // reliving the years where hope dangled and then finally collapsed for good
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As always, your writing is both beautiful and brutal – describing the process of working through grief and doubt and guilt – so powerful and so difficult. I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am that you are sharing your story of this process – and letting us journey with you.
Thank you, Ms Darlene. As always, you are far too kind. But you’ll never hear me complain about it 🩷
Your story is an inspiration, beautifully deep and poetic. I can relate on several levels with an alcoholic mother, abandonment, and failing to rescue her when she cried wolf yet again and died. The guilt is real and your story is cathartic for me too, reading how it evolves and knowing we do not walk alone as children of addictive parents is such a blessing. Thank you for sharing your journey and gift of story.
Thank you for reading. I thought I was writing this book for my dad or people like him, and of course I do want to help people with addictions too, but I’ve come to realize it’s people like us I’d really like to help. So it means a lot to read comments like yours, knowing I’m helping in some small way.
I’m sorry for your pain, and yes I know what you mean by that guilt. It’s multi-layered with so many other conflicting emotions—very frustrating to untangle. It’s like, we know it’s not our fault our parent was addicted and eventually succumbed to it, no matter the circumstances, but try telling that to the gushy organ pumping blood through our veins.
I’m glad to know what I’m feeling is really coming through clearly. Hopefully I manage to capture all that raw emotion in the memoir too and all of this will make a difference for someone.