We had been shopping for my prom dress the day that it happened. It was spring, and my mom and I were getting one of our rare times alone, driving to Klamath Falls to buy me a dress for my Senior Prom. We were returning home when we saw my grandpa's truck in the middle of the alfalfa field. The sun was going down, and we could see someone outside the truck, so we turned off and drove towards it. Coming closer, we could see what was going on, and our blood ran cold. The truck was stuck in the mud, the tires spinning endlessly. My brother was standing outside the truck, tears streaming down his face, holding a gun pointed at the ground. My dad was slumped behind the wheel of the truck, his forehead leanding against the steering wheel, not moving. As we jumped out of the car and ran to my brother and my dad, my dad lifted his head from the wheel and gave my brother an angry look. My brother shot him a look of pure hatred and dissolved into hysterical crying in my mom's arms. I have never hated anyone so much as I hated my father at that very moment. I have never hated my life so much as I did in that moment.
I don't remember what happened for the rest of that night. I'm sure it was one of many fights, split ups, and eventual reconciliations surrounding my dad's drinking. But that scene in the field has stuck with me for all these years. Apparently my dad had come home drunk, which wasn't an unusual thing, and wanted to take my brother squirrel hunting. In his drunken state, my dad didn't avoid a soft spot in the field, and got the truck stuck. I'm not sure why he was driving my grandpa's truck, but he gunned the motor again and again, building himself into a rage because the truck was stuck. My brother got out of the truck and was holding the gun on my father, I'm not quite sure why. If we hadn't come along when we did, would my brother have shot my father? I don't know. He was upset enough to have done anything.
The scene itself is bad enough. I remember it vividly, but what sticks with me the most are the emotions I felt as we pulled up to that truck. Part of me hoped my dad was dead. My father's drinking had made my family life such hell by that time, that his death would have been a sort of relief. I also was filled with a deep deep sense of shame. This whole scene was being played out within clear view of a highway that many of my friends' parents would be taking. My grandparents' house looked out over that field. I was deeply ashamed that this family crisis was in full view of other people. I think the desire for no one to see was stronger than anything at that time. I wanted so badly to maintain the illusion that things were ok with my family that that need overrode almost everything else. The thought that someone would see my drunken father in the field was more devastating to me than the fact that my father may be dead.
That was the day that I admitted to myself that my family was broken, and that no amount of pretending could make us 'normal' and happy. That was the worst day of my life.