My father was an alcoholic

His skin scarred like Bukowski’s

A spot remains on the kitchen floor worn smooth by

A path to the bottle of ET

Every evening 

He would pour a shot glass

Again 

and 

Again

and 

Again.

On June 8th 2021 I received a call from an unknown number in the middle of the day. I usually don’t pick up, but for some reason I did. It was the call I had feared would happen for many years and now it was a reality.

I sat by my brother’s side for hours in the ER room. I spoke with the doctors. I held my brother’s hand and prayed he would make it. I told him I loved him and he squeezed my hand. “I love you too” he whispered. His blood and body poisoned by the bottle. 

I called my father, but he couldn’t make it. He said he needed to take care of my mom, but thanked me for being there and for being such a good sister. I knew dad had already by that time of day walked many times to the worn spot in the kitchen. I knew why he could not make it.

My husband was visiting his family in California. I called him and he said he would fly back home if I wanted him to.  I said no, I’m okay. 

I felt deeply alone. I felt deep waves of anger toward my father and my brother. I felt the dark reality of the underbelly of alcohol addiction rise once again to the surface.

My brother almost died that day. 

That evening I sat at home alone at the round oak table. I remember rain was pouring hard outside. I read the Al-Anon pamphlet a counselor from the hospital handed me that looked like it was printed in the 80s. I was exhausted. I was angry with the world and the situation. I was angry that the “help” for me was some silly group. I was deeply skeptical, but that night I joined an online Al-Anon forum and…I was no longer alone. Tears of relief poured down my cheeks as I read through other people’s posts and the information contained within the site.

I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, I can’t cure it.

The first time I read Charles Bukowski I was in college. I loved how raw and rough and vulgar his writing was. I really loved how he was not fearful or afraid to expose the hellish side of addiction, abuse, and human”kind”, to poke fun the hypocrisy of the world, and the notion of what poetry should be. I knew most women hated his portrayal and treatment of women and I understood and respected the reasons why, but I couldn’t allow it to keep me from his genius and craft as an artist. 

I watch the bluebirds in our yard often. They bring me much joy and peace. I am deeply content with my life. Over the past four years I have done a great amount of work to enter into a place of happiness and strength and healing. I am thankful for Al-Anon, counseling, self reflection, writing, walking, meditation, mindfulness, forgiveness, and grace. I still have bad days and weeks, but I am resilient and have the tools to cope. I am not afraid to let the bluebird in my heart sing brightly into this world. 

I still think of Bukowski’s poetry often – especially “The Bluebird”. I am thankful for his words, not his personal actions or personal decisions in life, but the art he created. People are complex, we are complicated, we are darkness and beauty at the same time. My father, my brother, Bukowski, you, and me. 

The Bluebird – by Charles Bukowski

There’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.

then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?