My father was a mentally ill alcoholic. He once beat a woman nearly to death with a framing hammer as I watched in horror. I was three. When he got out of prison for that, he nearly killed me and my sisters several times in a series of drunken car wrecks. He stabbed me through the hand with a fork once because I somehow annoyed him when I reached for a biscuit at dinner. He spent most of his life going in and out of jails and mental hospitals. In spite of all of that, we became close during the last year of his life. I came to understand him and was able to forgive him. But still, for some reason I don't worry too much about what he would think of me.