Are you angry, Dad? Or just drunk?

*Ring* I check my phone and see it's my Dad. I was just about to order dinner.

"Where are you? You better be home in 30 minutes!" 

"Okay," I say and hang up.

I groan in frustration and find my way home, still hungry.

When I get home, I notice his eyes are unfocused, eyelids drooping and his face red.

Ahh, I knew I didn't do anything wrong.

"You always go out! You better be here all-day tomorrow," he says, adding insensitive and hurtful remarks after. I simply walk past him and head straight to my room.

No amount of reasoning will change his point-of-view tonight.

When I see him the next morning, he looks like himself again, the Dad I can talk to. The one who doesn't mind me going out and listens to rational arguments. I stare at him and can't help but form an entire monologue in my head.

Do you remember the things you said last night, Dad? Do you realize you don't mind when I'm not home since I'm not doing anything wrong? Do you think I've forgiven the words you've said? Do you think I could forget how you made me feel?

Now that your state-of-mind is as it should be, do you realize you would have never been angry, had you only been sober?

But most of all, do you regret any of it?

Sometimes I feel like you do, but then, one night a couple of days after, I come home to the same tune. If you felt bad like you used to say, why do you let it happen again? You're a smart guy, why don't you know when you've had enough?

The next time when you're yelling at me, can you stop and ask yourself if you're angry, or just drunk?

I can't find the courage to say all these words to you, Dad. I keep them locked in my thoughts, knowing they won't change a thing. I've told you enough the past few years. I know it won't change you.

I'll always love you, Dad. 

But I can't wait to leave this house and be as far away as possible. 

Maybe then you'll realize your good days can't make up for all the bad. 

Maybe you'll figure out that overcompensating when you're sober won't erase the pain you've caused. 

Lastly, sorry we stole your youth, Dad. But you should at least choose better moments to regain it. 

We didn't ask to be born before you were ready to live your life. 

"Come on and eat your breakfast," he says to me. 

I take a seat and start slicing my food, all the while thinking, "I love you, Dad, but I despise you when you're not sober."