My father...let me tell you about my father, what I knew of him through experience, not what I was told (there is a difference)

This man, short of stature, like some kind of deranged hobbit, would almost certainly be drunk, not quite stumbling drunk but in a stupor. He would tell me about the evils of the world, and would threaten me with beatings for not paying attention closely enough to his ramblings. He would accuse me of lying when I had not, mostly about my feelings. He would accuse me of not taking him seriously, or disbelieving him when I had not done either. He would smell strongly of cigarettes. For years I would deeply inhale any fabrics I encountered which smelled of smoke (if they weren't obviously filthy), I very rarely saw my father and so the smell was a comfort. Until my attitude toward my father changed from one of fearful awe, to fearful hatred. I think it was the lies that eroded my sense of trust, he would not show up, or not deliver on a promise, or not even feed me. I never really talked so honestly about this before. No one would really let me, in person. They always want to interrupt and try to give advice. But there is no advice for this. I just have to live with it.