I was around 8 or 9 when a girl with fiery red hair came to stay with us. I can’t recall if it was just a few days or a couple of weeks, but I do remember she wet the bed—a curious thing for someone older than me. I learned, either through conversation or eavesdropping, that her father did some truly awful things, like hurling baby kittens against the wall during drunken rages. She often cried herself to sleep.
Overall, I had a pretty normal childhood, but I was always acutely aware that things could have been different. My mom grew up in a loving, stable home, but my dad’s upbringing resembled that of our red-headed guest. Dysfunction lurked in the corners of our household.
My dad’s grandfather was a corrupt cop who once chased his sons down an alley with a police gun—thankfully, he was too drunk to hit anything. My dad’s mother, despite her Catholic guilt, had six children with six different fathers and frequently lashed out in blind rage fueled by her alcoholism.
My dad could have easily followed in his family’s troubled footsteps. Many of his siblings did to varying degrees. I still remember the day my mom answered the phone and crumpled to the floor at the news that my uncle Doug—my charming, funny uncle—had taken his own life. I was just 10; he was 24 and newly married. The scars left on my dad and his siblings from their chaotic childhood were deep, and the demons they inherited waged a nearly constant war within them.
But at some point, my dad made a choice: he would not let those demons pass on to his kids. With a mix of self-awareness, prayer, my mom’s support, sheer willpower, and who knows what else, he bravely confronted those monsters in his mind.
We were aware of the demons. We witnessed flashes of anger now and then. Sure, all parents get angry, but it felt different when there were demons lurking behind it. There was a palpable energy in the room when those monsters threatened to break free—an unsettling danger that everyone could sense. My dad did his best to shield us from the fallout of his internal warfare, but it wasn’t always possible.
Yet, he opened up about it. He shared his background, what his childhood was like, and the challenges of parenting from a dysfunctional foundation. Whenever he struggled, he would apologize. Even as a child, I grasped that growing up in an abusive and erratic environment would make it tough to parent differently. I knew my dad was actively working to overcome his instincts, and that the battle was far from over, even between skirmishes.
Though my dad often fought alone, he wasn’t without allies. I’ve met many parents who have risen above their painful pasts to forge healthier paths for their children—true cycle-breakers whose strength is nothing short of inspiring.
Parenting is tough, even for those with stable backgrounds. I can’t imagine having to counter everything I’ve experienced, everything I was taught, and everything my subconscious pushes on me just to raise my own kids. It takes immense courage to break the cycle of abuse.
To all the parents out there battling their own demons, hear me: your struggles matter. Your children will benefit from your efforts more than you can imagine. You may lose some battles, but if you’re honest with your kids, they’ll come to understand that’s the cost of this war. They will see that you’re fighting for their freedom, and as they grow and recognize their own humanity, they will thank you for it.
I often wonder what became of that girl with the red hair whose name I can’t recall. I like to think she’s out there now, perhaps with her own kids, valiantly fighting the good fight. Maybe she’s become a cycle-breaker like my dad, determined to raise children with minimal scars. I can picture her, hair ablaze, courageously fending off the beasts threatening her children’s future.
Her kids will thank her too.
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In summary, my dad’s battle with dysfunction shaped not only his life but also mine, providing me with a stable foundation. His efforts to break the cycle of abuse and addiction have inspired me, and I’m grateful for his courage. We all have the power to change our narratives and create healthier futures for our children.