"Dad"

   Life with father was ready for phase two.
   Number two dad was a much better bread winner. He actually worked at a full-time job. He actually brought home a reasonably-good income. He actually joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints after he married Mom. He actually took care of us.
   He seemed to be the tall, dark and handsome knight in shining armour sent by the sovereign to save us from the world.
   Unfortunately, he hid a very dark side. He is an alcoholic.
   Alcoholic. A word that brings images of hobos staggering with breath that could clean tarnish off silver. A word that brings images of depressed men in a bar bemoaning their lives of unsuccessfull attempts to make their life better. A word that brings images of people who have no hope of a healthy liver. A word that solicites images of brain cells dieing with each ounce of liquor.
   My new dad blew all these stereotypes out of the water.
   He took us under his wing and kept us safe from the world.
   For a while.
   After the "honeymoon" was over, the reality burst onto the scene. His actions seemed a bit stunning at first. He didn't do the drinking at home, so he was usually okay a couple of hours after he was home, but then he got comfortable. He started to bring home the beer.
   One late afternoon, he got angry with me. I am sure I wasn't the only one he was angry with. My brothers, of course, were much more difficult with me, but this is MY blog.
   That is when he broke. He took off his rivetted black belt and whipped me on the bare bottom after he told me to lay down on my bed.
   Oh, it stung.
   I was four or five years old.
   But that night's nightmare would soon come.
   Dad had been drinking more and came into my bedroom sloshing drunk. He woke me up and with a voice reminiscent of the drunk hobo falling in the gutter in an alley, told me how sorry he was he hit me.
   I was so scared I wet myself.
   I wet the bed almost every night until I was 12.