Chapter 24. Tough Victory
At the same time as the events described above, storms like never before were raging in our family. The long and exhausting struggle with my father's alcoholism had entered a decisive phase.
As I have already said, my mother stubbornly refused to involve the police in the case, considering it absolutely inadmissible. I could not influence him with the same methods as my mother, because he did not care about my hunger strikes. He simply did not take seriously grandmother's admonitions and her attempts to shame him. Therefore, he felt unpunished and free to do whatever he wanted. His behaviour became absolutely unbearable.
In addition, his health began to fail. My father was a donor with a huge experience, donating blood from a young age, quite often. For each donation he was given a badge in the form of a tiny drop of blood. We had these badges lying all over the flat and were taken out with the rubbish. As a result of this activity, my father was awarded the badge "Honoured Donor of the USSR". But when the drunkenness went too far, they stopped taking blood from him, saying that it was spoilt and no longer suitable. His kidneys began to ache.
By the time we're talking about, his drinking had been going on for years. Mum and I were exhausted by the constant nervousness. I used to dream of repaying him a hundredfold. I thought that one day I would hire people who would mutilate him and turn him into a disabled person like me, so that he could experience all the delights of my situation. Only the Teaching had helped me to give up that thought. Now I wanted only one thing: never to see my father again, never to hear his voice, to forget his existence. With his attitude he disgusted me to such an extent that it is impossible to convey. And his antics at the time only added to my dislike. He continued to scandalise me, constantly threatening to report me and Hantur as sectarians, and shouting that he would throw him out and never let him in again. When we bought me a computer jointly — my parents hadn't invested a penny, and didn't even know we were buying it — my father scandalised for days, threatening to smash the purchase because he hadn't been asked for permission. As if someone needed such permission... And then these threats were repeated many, many times. There was a lot of other stuff too.
Demanding money from my mother for drinks and getting nothing, my father cursed her and wished that the money would go to her medicine. He used the most foul language, no longer shy, right in front of occasional relatives who were shocked. That was the last straw. One day she said to me, "We should report him to the police." I said, "It's about time. I will confirm everything and add a statement from myself." She picked up the phone and started calling our local police station to call a district police officer. My father asked where she was calling. She answered. He panicked, ran, started shouting and waving his fists. He was a coward, and he was shaking. Mum dialled the number again and again, but no one picked up. Father ran to their room, locked himself in there, and shouted mockingly through the door: "Well, where are your police? Why aren't they coming? Go on, call! Tell them to come quickly!" His voice trembled and broke off. After several attempts, Mum gave up calling. Father was triumphant. All evening he cursed her and asked her mockingly: "Where are the police? Why didn't they come? I've been waiting for them!"
The next day she called when he was at work. She spoke to the district police officer, who said he would call later and invite father for a conversation. When he arrived — drunk, of course — she told him, "Don't go anywhere. You're about to get a phone call." He asked, "Who?" She replied, "You'll find out there." The policeman called and told him to come to the police station immediately. My father could not believe that this had happened. When he hung up the phone, he stood with a dumbfounded look and repeated: "Did you report it after all?.." I couldn't believe what had happened either. Had this important step been taken? Finally! The wall of prejudice had crumbled, and now there was a chance to achieve something.
Father left. He came back about forty minutes later, undressed in silence and went to bed. Soon the neighbourhood policeman called and asked whether he was coming or not. My mother was surprised: "He was at your place, he came back recently, he is sleeping now." The policeman replied: "He didn't come. I'm sitting here, waiting. All right: if that's the case, I'll come myself." The station was close, across the road, and in a few minutes he was ringing the doorbell. He was irritated and very determined. He got father out of bed and took him with him. Father came back depressed and was quiet for a few days.
But he recovered quickly, and soon he was scandalising and shouting again: "Come on, call the police again! I'm not afraid of them! They haven't done anything to me, and they wont!" Now it was my turn. I called the police, invited the police officer and, as I could hardly write myself, I dictated a statement to him, in which I described my father's behaviour and asked him to take action. The policeman took him away again. He tried to refuse to go, but the policeman threatened that he would call the police squad, father's hands would be twisted, and he would be taken to the car in public. He obeyed.
Thus began a long series of our appeals to the police. After each time my father calmed down, drank less for a while and behaved more or less decently. Then the trouble was forgotten, and everything started again. I invited the district police officer (they changed several times during this time), dictated another statement. My father was invited to the police station and given an earful. Sometimes he behaved with the police without complaint, sometimes he tried to rebel - "I'm not going anywhere! And you won't do anything to me!" He had to go anyway. And his antics only turned every new policeman against him.
By the way, it seems that it did not occur to him to fulfil his old threat and report me as a dangerous sectarian. Which was a telling testimony to the quality of his determination.
All this went on for a long time. Mum started saying, "It's not going to work. Just another nerve-wracking experience with the police." I replied, "It will work. You can't stop halfway. We have to push harder." And indeed — at some point my father was told by the police that if there was another report, the question of forcing him to undergo treatment would be raised.
He was frightened, but quickly calmed himself with the thought that my mother and I would not go for it, as we would not be able to do without him. And Mum was indeed discouraged, as she herself thought so. This did not go unnoticed, and gave him so much confidence that he reverted back to his previous aggressive behaviour, from which he had somewhat withdrawn in the meantime. It seemed as if we were going to lose the fight, and all efforts were in vain.
I wasn't ready to accept defeat, so I decided to go all the way. If my father was really going to be sent for treatment and I was going to be without his help, so be it. I'll lie in bed all day, I'll accept other problems, but I'll get him. Because I can't go on living like this.
I demanded that my father get coded against alcoholism. He, as I expected, responded with mocking laughter and swearing. Mum was sure that nothing could be achieved. I gave him an ultimatum. I promised that if he didn't get coded, I would do anything and send him to a hospital. I gave him ten days and started the countdown. Every day I said, "Ten days left," "Nine days left," "Eight days left," and so on. Every time he would shudder, he would lose his temper, swear, shout that he would never do it in his life. The next day the counting continued, and everything was repeated again. At the same time, it was obvious that he was bravado and that the situation was actually depressing him. No matter how badly my father treated me, he knew that I never broke my promises and that I was a man of my word. Sometimes when someone wanted something from me and I didn't agree, my father would say, "It's no use. If this one says no, that's it. No sense to go any further." And he realised that my threat wasn't just a threat. So he decided to go another way.
When the countdown was four days away, my grandmother came in. My father began to complain to her that I wasn't giving him a life, that I was torturing him with my complaints, and now I was giving him ultimatums and was going to put him away somewhere. But my grandmother knew what he was doing, she herself regularly observed his ugly behaviour, so she approved of my actions and said that he really needed to get coded. Then my father repeated again that there was no life for him now, and then added: "The only thing left for me to do is to hang myself." These words made a striking change in my grandmother. She immediately transferred her indignation to me, demanded that I rescind the ultimatum, — and anyway, what right have I to demand anything from my father? Who am I to make conditions on him? I replied, "I will do what I think is right." She turned to shouting: "You rascal! Don't torture your father! Stop flouting at him!" Mum remained silent, dumbfounded by the scene. She knew the value of such threats from father. And it was obvious that she was unpleasantly struck by such an instantaneous reversal of grandmother. When she stopped talking to catch her breath, I calmly repeated, "I'll do what I think is right." Father stood beside with the look of an innocent victim and murmured, "See? You see? Hang myself, that's all I can do." Grandma finally lost her temper. She pounded her fist on the table and shouted at me: "Scoundrel! Stop it! Stop it, I said!" I listened until the end, and then once again reiterated that I would do things my way. The scandal continued. She once again stopped to catch her breath and I told her that if she had shifted like that and I was now a scoundrel who was bullying my father, then I refused to communicate with her. I never responded to her scolding again. When she left home, my mum went to walk her to the bus stop and on the way tried to explain to her that she was wrong. But in response, she only heard that I had completely lost all sense of decency and needed to be put in my place.
The next day I continued the countdown, which made my father almost hysterical. I guess he was hoping for something. And with two days left, he gave up and went to make an appointment for coding.
In my opinion, the option he chose was not a good one. It was called "psychological coding". Some person explained and suggested something to the clients, then issued a certificate of the procedure with a guarantee for a year, but explained that the coding would be reliable only if the client himself wants to stop drinking. My father put the paper in front of me and said that he didn't care about the coding and would start drinking again whenever he wanted. I responded by reminding him what he'd face if he did.
He lasted six months. Yeah, not a year. But six months of absolute sobriety after years of daily drinking was a huge, simply incredible achievement.
Mum was pleased. Grandma was crossing herself and repeating: "Thank God! Thank God!" I knew about this from Mum's words, as I did not speak to her myself, and she avoided coming into my room. Long before that, she entrusted me with my great-grandmother's order, the gold star, as she was afraid to leave it with anyone else. Now I returned the order to her. It was a symbol of the final breakup. We never spoke to each other again until her death a year and a half later.
Well, in those days, everyone was happy — except for my father, of course. For us it was a long-awaited rest from the constant nervousness. Father began to feel better in a few months. But the main thing was that it became clear to everyone, including him, that he could stop drinking. In a way, it was a turning point. Now the struggle no longer seemed futile to anyone, father's alcoholism did not look invincible.
Just as I had said, six months later my father snapped and drank again. I again demanded that he stop. He again responded with profanity. Then, intending to put my threat into action, I called a district police officer, dictated another statement and asked him to send my father to treatment. The policeman was new again and, unlike his predecessors, worked without passion. He approached the case sluggishly. He talked to my father a couple of times, urging him to settle down, and then informed me that he could do nothing more. And he was unlikely to get treatment because of his age. So I found myself once again facing a blank wall. What to do now? After some reflection, I made a new application, which I sent to higher authorities, to the level of the regional prosecutor's office. In it I described the whole situation, noted that the local police were not trying to help, and asked them to intervene. It worked. Father was once again called to the police station, and he came back with a changed face. When my mother asked him what had happened, he preferred to keep silent. And soon I received a paper informing me that action had been taken on my application. My father was officially warned that if he continued such behaviour and received new complaints, he would be evicted from the occupied living space.
I spoke to my father and assured him that if he continued to drink, I would get him evicted from the flat. Yes, it would make my life harder, but it wouldn't stop me. So either he'll wise up or will start packing his bags. Of course, there was a scandal and a scream. But now he had nowhere to go. As for Mum, she certainly didn't support the idea of eviction, but at the same time she didn't support dad either, and she kept silent, letting me handle things my own way. My father began to drink less and less, and soon he drank only on holidays. Sober he was not a gift either, and he still didn't want to do anything around the house or for me, except transferring me from the bed to the wheelchair and back again. Still, he wasn't as aggressive as he was when drunk, and our lives were much more peaceful than before. It was a different reality altogether, one we hadn't seen in a long time. He only fell into a brief sort of drunkenness when guests from Kazakhstan came to visit. We'll talk about that later.
That was the end of this hard, long war. For me, it was a war, no doubt. Because the stake in the end were survival, both my own and my mother's, who was psychologically and morally exhausted by my father's antics, and my father's own survival, whose health began to collapse. I regarded my struggle as a struggle for the life of the family. And all this time I was struck by the ability of those around me to accept a catastrophic situation without doing anything to resolve it. It was as if they hoped that everything would sort itself out in time. After all, it was clear that it would not, but would only get worse.
It is a property of human beings worthy of sorrowful surprise — to put up with worsening problems, to tolerate day after day, month after month, and sometimes even year after year, not wanting to waste nerves on any active steps to change the situation. I have observed this many times — in my family and not only. But the nerves are still being spent, aren’t they? And the situation, quite possibly, is heading for the final catastrophe. It's like enduring constant ever-increasing pain out of fear of surgery. Yes, if you go to the operation, for a short time it will be more painful, but then it will be easier. And so it is not long to ruin yourself. It happens a lot. Trying to keep something less, we lose more. Wishing to suffer less, we end up suffering much more overall. What's missing to realise that? Intelligence? Well, no: very intelligent people suffer the same thing. Common sense? Courage? Willpower? All together? Maybe.
A difficult question. A rich field of observation. A great subject for reflection. It's been on my mind for a long time. And I don't think this mystery of human nature will be solved for me any time soon. If it ever does.
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