Watching from the Window
A raw look into my father’s life
One day of terror with my father, then the next day of emotional chaos with my mother.
Love for Music and Maps
“He loved Pink Floyd, Deep Purple – and maps.”
My father was actually a nice person when he wasn’t drunk. He was in an okay mood and had many different interests, like reading books and newspapers or listening to music attentively. He loved Pink Floyd and Deep Purple. Another passion of his was sitting in the kitchen and exploring the world map, looking for places he had heard about in the news. He loved maps. That’s probably why I also enjoy playing with Google Maps and have a fascination with all kinds of maps.
A Town That Doesn’t Talk
“In our family, it wasn’t common to talk about the past.”
My father had a tough childhood, but I don’t know much about it. In our family, it wasn’t common to talk about the past. Actually, not just in our family, in that small town in general. People tried to hide the darker sides of their lives. It was easier for them. But I know that this kind of behavior can lead to problems later in life. Suppressing haunting thoughts and inner demons doesn’t make them disappear.
Inherited Pain
“No surprise he picked up the only strategy he had learned: drinking.”
My father did that very well. He never talked about his parents or his sister. His father had already passed, but my mother once told me he was an aggressive drinker and that my father didn’t have a nice childhood. No surprise he picked up the only strategy he had learned to deal with bad feelings: drinking. He was already an alcoholic when he married my mother. They fought a lot because of it. He was very jealous, and whenever he drank too much, he would threaten my mother, saying he’d hurt her if he ever saw her talking to another man.
Unpredictable Home
“I never knew if he’d come home drunk and cause a scene.”
We never had friends over. I could never invite anyone to our home or have a birthday party because the situation was too unpredictable. I never knew if my father would come home drunk and cause an embarrassing scene in front of my school friends. It was easier to lie to everyone about why I didn’t throw birthday parties.
My father became a hairdresser, and he also did some kind of chemical-related training I never fully understood, something that qualified him to work with dangerous substances. He only worked as a hairdresser in his early years. Later, he took a job at a factory where he could use his chemical skills. It paid better than cutting hair. He always gave most of his salary to my mother but kept some for booze and cigarettes.
A Strange Kind of Harmony
“They sat together in the cellar, hating their jobs, smoking, and drinking coffee.”
When I picture my father, I see a few typical steps of his day. He woke up early and started with black coffee, no milk or sugar, out on the terrace where he smoked his first cigarette. Then he went to the bathroom to get ready. He was a bit of a princess, always paying attention to his looks and using different creams on his face. Then he went to the bus stop to get to the factory. After work, he came home. By that time, my mother had already bought him a beer and put it in the fridge. But first, he showered. Then he took the beer and went to the cellar, sitting in the dark, drinking and smoking. My mother often joined him with coffee and cigarettes. She never drank because of her trauma with her own father. What an irony. They sat together, talking about how much they hated their jobs and coworkers, how hard life was. It was their ritual. Those were the good days. They had found a strange kind of harmony in their hard life.
On other days, we had terror.
When my mother had a company event on Saturday, we all knew the weekend would be a disaster. She didn’t want to go; she knew he would drink and then attack her. But she also wanted to keep the “good family” act alive, so she had no choice. On those days, he drank even more, fueled by jealousy. He burned her clothes, sold her cheap jewelry, and waited for her to come home so he could scream at her, accuse her, and ask stupid, jealous questions.
But it wasn’t only on those days. The worst phase began when he quit his factory job and lost his routine. That’s when things escalated. He drank almost daily. He only had temporary jobs in Austria, a common thing in our border town. After two or three days on a construction site, he got his money and came home extremely drunk. Sometimes he passed out with his bag still in his hand. Those days were actually the good ones. But they were rare.
The Emergency Ceremony
From the way he walked, we could already tell if he was drunk or sober.
It became routine for me to sit by the window, watching for him to come home. My mother often joined me, our little emergency ceremony. From the way he walked, we could already tell if he was drunk or sober. Most days, he was drunk. Then we started our internal drill: pretending not to expect anything, pretending to read, doing something innocent. But our success rate was low. Minutes after arriving, he would start provoking my mother. A million ways to start: complaining about the food, accusing her of things, blaming her. Sometimes, he hit her. I remember once jumping on my bike, rushing to my cousin to ask for help. He was also just a kid. We asked his mother what we could do, and she said, “Unless there’s blood, there’s nothing anyone can do.” So I went home and tried to survive in the war zone.
Demons and Regret
He was the nicest man on earth when he was sober, full of regret.
My father was a very weak man. He had his demons but never took responsibility for them. He tried to numb himself with alcohol. A lot. I can’t imagine how awful he must have felt on the days he didn’t drink. Or maybe I can, because I’ve had similar feelings. It’s terrible to feel weak and worthless all the time, to be convinced that you’re not good enough and that everyone around you is a threat to your dignity.
There was no way out for him. Therapy was not an option back then. People were raised to hide, not to talk, not to show vulnerability, because that could be dangerous too. So they kept everything inside and drowned it in alcohol, trying to escape their personal hell for a few hours.
The next day, when he was sober, he felt terrible. He was the nicest man on earth, full of regret. But then he had to listen to my mother all day telling him she would kill herself, that she was a victim in this life. One day of terror with my father, then the next day of emotional chaos with my mother. My father apologized hundreds of times and promised he’d never drink again. I heard it thousands of times. And as a kid, I believed it. That was a mistake. It led to disappointment again and again. But my need for a normal life was so loud that I had no choice but to hope.
My father never had friends. He didn’t like anyone. I think that’s because he didn’t like himself. He never had goals or dreams. Just the rat race. Work, drink, function.
I don’t have any photo of him, but I tried to generate a picture of him in his 30s, and surprisingly, the picture is quite accurate.
Closets and Vulnerability
He never liked if someone looked into his closet, as if he always had something to hide.
My father also had problems with trust, obviously. He had this thing, which I also have, that he never liked if someone looked into his closet. As if he always had something to hide. Of course, I was a child, so I always looked into his closet when he was working. I didn’t really find anything except his medicine to calm down, which he usually took with alcohol, and some documents I believe nobody was interested in. The funny thing is, I also hate it when someone starts digging into my closet or bedside table, even if I know I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of. But there is this reflex that it could be a problem. It makes me feel naked and vulnerable.
The Drunk Father Act
When he was drunk, he tried to be the cool, strong father who bonds with his children.
He also had this very annoying behavior when he was drunk. He tried to be the cool, strong father who bonds with his children. He came to me and said that we could move out together, that he would be rich, and we’d drive a Mercedes. He started to talk about his difficult life, that he had moments when he couldn’t even buy cigarettes but survived. As a child, I believed all these things he said. But as I got older, he became more and more embarrassing to me. When I became a teenager, I could see through him more and more, and he became weaker in my eyes.
Stuck Together
My mother never dared to leave him, and he never dared to leave her either.
The most interesting thing is that they stuck together. My mother never dared to leave him, and he never dared to leave her either. People who didn’t know them could say they were a wonderful couple, still together after so many years. But the only thing I wished for during my childhood was that they separate. That could have ended this weekly, often daily terror at home, and I could have started living like other kids in school. I don’t mean that everyone else had an easier life. I know for a fact that the other kids also had crazy families, problems with or without alcohol, financial struggles, whatever. Still, I was invited to many birthday parties. Or I went over to my friends, their parents said hello, asked about girls or school, we laughed together, and we could simply play some video games without feeling any threat in the environment.
I always feel obligated to mention that I’m not playing the victim here. I just want to give context for everyone who will read my upcoming articles about the steps I took toward healing and how I managed to break the chains of my family’s legacy. I could have ended up like my parents: alcoholic, anxious, and unhappy. As a matter of fact, I’m still surprised that I can have a regular life now. But it took a long time to reflect on everything in my life and to start changing old, burned-in behavioral patterns.
Why I Keep Running
I believe I can be the one who starts new behavioral patterns and ends the dark legacy.
Today, I'm running, living healthy, reading a lot, traveling and I know exactly what I’m looking for and which identities I want to embrace. These are things my parents never had. Except the reading, my father did read a lot. I truly believe I can be the one who starts new behavioral patterns and leaves behind the dark legacy of my family.
Keep running.
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