“I am not an alcoholic!” he exclaims loudly as he slurps back the last of a 70cl whiskey bottle. The alcohol doesn’t scare me, it never has. What scares me is the angry result of a bottle down, which would generally lead to me taking the brunt of a father’s frustration after a long day. “I am not an alcoholic!” he shouts again as I wonder which of us he is trying to convince: himself or the 13-year-old girl before him.
I am who I am not because of him but in spite of him.