The Bad Heart

I recently realized what the "bad heart" my father's family suffered from meant.

I'd worried I'd inherit their cardiology issues - my N Grandma, SG aunt, and NF all had "bad hearts."

Except that my N Grandma spent several decades trying to fill the black hole in her heart with junk food, alcohol, and cigarettes and died of a fourth heart attack, after she had used her "bad heart" to manipulate her husband and children into quivering obedience.

Except that my aunt never had heart issues - when she claimed she did, she was just blind drunk. When she claimed she couldn't have kids because of her "bad heart," she just meant that her evil mother had forbidden her to have any other children to care for but her and that she had made her abort the child she'd conceived with the man she loved but wasn't allowed to marry. She died of cirrhosis of the liver after several decades of trying to fill the black hole in her heart with alcohol and cigarettes on an empty stomach.

Except that my NF just suffers from manageable high blood pressure after several decades of trying to fill the black hole in his heart with junk food, alcohol, and cigarettes. He's actually surprisingly healthy for his age, activity level, and diet.

The bad heart transmitted in my family is a metaphor. It's the heartlessness of the parents and the broken hearts of the children. None acknowledged, none made conscious, none properly mourned.  


 

Alcohol

The only thing my mother seems to have been concerned with in my father's behavior was his alcoholism. She wanted him to get help with that, he refused and said he'd sooner divorce her. She let it go.

The funny thing is, I was grateful for my father's drinking. He always drank slowly and barely seemed intoxicated at all, but his disposition became a bit milder and more cheerful. And that was it. It was a hobby that kept him busy and happy.

I understand the drinking. It was the one "freedom" allowed in his parents' home. He and his sister could drink all they wanted as long as they made no waves. She eventually committed what can only be referred to as suicide by alcohol. This was concealed, of course. I only found medical reports on cirrhosis of the liver a couple of years ago. I only know that when I was staying with her, I was sent to buy two bottles of vodka every day. And that there were times when people had to go help her because she was "out" owing to her "heart condition", but she smelled of alcohol.

I understand this. Alcohol has a special significance for me too. I was also allowed to drink as a teen, together, with the family, and separately, with my friends. It seemed like a fun thing to do, but now that I look back, I realize that no one drinks on a whim. When I grew up, I no longer drank like a maniacal teen. I went for years never having more than a drink or two. I went for weeks, sometimes months, never having a single drink. But it was always there. This special meaning behind alcohol. And there were times I actually got intoxicated in my adulthood, I have to admit.

Now I get it. What alcohol does is provide me with the illusion of connectedness in a universe I was otherwise disconnected from. It was when I realized who my father was and what my upbringing was like that alcohol lost this special significance for me. Because, see, the disconnectedness is really the illusion. The illusion my father fed me. I can indeed be connected to the people I love. I have unblocked that. My father never has. Nor did his sister.