I’m in tears, but I am lucky because I have only been with my alcoholic boyfriend for a year, and I have no kids. He does the worst thing I never thought anyone would do to me: he leaves our bed in the middle of the night to go drinking, sometimes not returning. Where he sleeps, if he's dead or alive- I have no relief until I see him, where upon he will cry and promise to get better, attend AA, etc. I am ashamed I’ve become a person who would stand for that, even once. The worst thing about breaking up with an alcoholic is that you may not be ready or even want to leave. You love him still. It’s unlike any other breakup. The secret desire is that he will get better and take good, consistent care for you and your home and your children, like you deserve. (Unless he broke you to the point where you feel you don’t even deserve respect and love). In “normal” breakups, the secret desire is to escape, or that you will meet a new awesome person, or have your freedom to be single. This is the saddest, worst part of everything, when you have to leave the man you love more then anyone in the world –your man, baby, husband, boyfriend, fiancé, love of your life- because he’s an alcoholic, and he will always be.

After finally leaving an alcoholic partner for more than 7 years, I am free! I have my own place no yelling or screaming

no coming home to a disaster. Its so sad that I left and he blames me and refuses to have any contact with me because "I got what I wanted" No what I wanted was a sober man and he was not willing to do that so I had to leave for my safety and sanity. I miss him sometimes badly. I never got to say what I felt. Leaving was a lot of drama. Just think I should feeel better but I don't. I guess time will have to heal this one.

My father was an alcoholic much like Phoenix describes. My mother did not leave him. My only sibling moved out when I was 12, leaving me alone with the two of them.

Decades later, my mom got cancer, and my dad, who'd been sober (ish -- with all the lying and deceit, who knows?) for a few years, cracked open the booze. The moment I learned this, I knew, to my core, what to do. Every fiber in my being responded: "OUT," get ouf of my house, away from me, call me if you get sober again. I knew to simply close the door on this now. Every fiber in me except one, that is, which restrained me because of my frail, ill, uncomprehending mom. She would not separate from him; if I cut myself off from him, I would be cutting myself off from her in the last year of her life, and I had no beef with her. Yet I was furious with myself for not shutting the door on my dad. Never fully could when I was young unless I wanted to run away from home, which I didn't, and now that I was an adult, I could have literally closed my door to him.

Mom died and dad stayed drunk. He isolated himself and dramatically complained about it. Went once to detox, refused to return. Issued double-binds to me and my sister. Asked to move in with me, but said he was kidding, but wasn't, etc. Said if only we would do X and Y and Z then all would be well. Years of experience taught us this was not the case.

And finally he died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

I went to a support group for suicide survivors and most people there were devastated that they didn't see the signs.

I saw the signs. I held back. After my mom died, I shut the door between me and my dad, though I knew he was self-destructing on the other side.

Now I'm haunted by a lack of closure because my dad didn't get it. It leaves me feeling like I shut the door but not quite. If you send someone a clear message ("I can't interact with you when you're drinking") and they don't get it, does it still count? He would call, leave messages, or come to my sister's house when I was there -- I couldn't completely avoid him. So: Did I do my part? Did I try hard enough? This is a man's life we're talking about, and he was my father, not a spouse. Early in the game, I would have felt that his not getting the message was his choice -- that he understood but chose to pretend he couldn't hear me. But because I didn't cleanly shut the door at the very start, because there were interactions between us for a few years there -- my mom's funeral, not to mention her death, and his packing and moving, sorting her things, and the ever-present answering machine messages -- I wound up (as predicted!) sucked in at least a little, feeling like I owed him an explanation of why I was cutting myself off from him. He had opportunities to say to me: "Why are you doing this? It hurts!" and "But I'm not drinking!" (laughable) and "I know I'm not perfect" and "I just sit and cry and cry" and so on. And so I feel like I needed to say "I know you are in pain. Here is why I am cutting myself off from you, and please know that if you are ever truly sober again I would be open to re-connecting." And I think I tried to say that, though my efforts grew weaker as time passed. It was clear he wasn't hearing me (of course) -- but half of me feels like that was not his fault -- he was too inebriated, too sad, too emotional, something.

And so I think perhaps he died truly believing that I ditched him for no good reason, that I was cold, that he was unloved and unlovable. Truly.

Cary said the alcoholic has no capacity for remorse, but I know my dad did. And plenty of shame too.

This is the closure I will never get -- to hear my dad say it's OK, he would've done the same in my shoes, he knows I did love him. There was a time when I felt confident that my real dad, the guy deep down, the good part of him, would say exactly that. But now...

I think he really believed I didn't love him. That no one did. The day he died, I think he felt that. It isn't true, but does that matter?

My lack of a nice way to wrap up this letter reflects my lack of emotional closure on the matter.

In any case I thank everyone for writing. I have printed out a copy of the original letter and Cary's response and they will go in my box of memorabilia re: my dad. Perhaps it will help when I have to explain all this to my son one day.

I know my question -- what do I owe my dad? -- is moot, because he's gone now. But I keep wondering: did I do everything I should have for/with him? Or did I fail or fall short?