First off, I hate this, and I’m no good at faking the things I hate.

However, I refuse to edit my age-old claim of “updating my bio soon” for the sixth year running. So, let’s get on with it.

For three decades and some change, a pair of absurdly long legs (yes, with my body attached) have insisted upon stretching ever-skyward, primarily calling the Florida Panhandle home but also living in Oxford, Mississippi, and Dublin, Ireland, for a time. Beyond trivial gripes, such as my abnormal height and a ruddy nose, and some bleeding-heart concerns, like depleting whale populations and thirsty elephants across the world, I’ve had little reason to complain. Like anyone else, I had some difficulties growing up, but nothing I deemed worthy enough for rooftop shouting.

I always had quality food in my belly and a solid roof over my head. (Two roofs, in fact.) I went back-to-school shopping once a year for new clothes. I attended a private high school. My dad paid for my four-year undergraduate degree in journalism, so I have no college debts. After graduating, I went to work for my mom, who let me keep a flexible schedule so I could follow my dreams of one day becoming a full-time writer.

By 28 years old, I felt like a total failure.

I spent most of my 20s in despair, which seems ridiculous to me now, considering all you know so far. Sure, I had a major depressive disorder, like Daddy, but I was on all kinds of medication for it. What did I really have to be so sad about? I didn’t bother trying to figure it out—I didn’t think I could—until, that is, Daddy drank himself to death. Abruptly, I felt detached from the world, as though I might drift off into the cosmos at any moment.

For anyone with an alcoholic parent, I don’t need to explain the deep feelings of regret, remorse, and guilt that ebb and flow through the years of that relationship. For me, those feelings only intensified after he was gone. The what-ifs quadrupled in my head. All the things I could have done better tortured me. I was inconsolable.

On top of all this overwhelming grief, my sister and I were dealing with his estate, which became more complicated when we found out he was married 12 days before his death. We took legal action and discovered mounds of evidence about our dad and how he was living that broke us to pieces all over again. It took us years to settle, and once we did, my little sister was ready to put this painful chapter behind her. I, however, couldn’t move forward.

I needed to understand how this could have happened to my dad.

So, I started doing research on alcoholism and toxic relationships. I picked up my first Mary Karr memoir, The Liars’ Club, and consumed it in a few days. Cherry and Lit followed soon after. I was online buying one of her poetry books, Abacus, when I discovered The Art of Memoir, and of course I bought myself a copy.

I cannot overstate how much this one “how-to” book changed my life. With this book, Ms. Karr gave me the tools I needed to figure out precisely what I was so damn sad about. I realized that to better understand my dad, I needed to truly understand myself. What I really needed to do was write my own memoir, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Since I started writing this memoir, I’ve made several “mini-revelations,” as I like to call them, and each one changes the way I see myself and others. I know I’ll continue to make more because I’m just getting started. But I’m already a much happier, more alive person than I ever was in my twenties. I’m excited to see where this journey takes me, and I’m hopeful I’ll make many more discoveries about myself and my dad as I go along.