My Father’s Addiction and It’s Wake.

My whole life with my dad was up and down, awesome and terrible, love and hurt. He battled addiction issues and other demons his whole life. And he fought himself hard, trying to turn his life around and then succumbing to the demons over and over and over. And over.

They eventually took his life in 2013. I am still coming to terms with it. With it all. His battle was a vicious cycle not only to watch but to be a part of. Because when someone is addicted they are not the only ones who suffer. Their loved ones are equally tortured. We went through a lot as kids and as a result I developed a lot of anger toward him. As I got older I realized that I had a CHOICE and it was incredibly liberating. I began to realize for the first time that my life. Was actually mine. It wasn’t his. And I exercised those choices to create healthy boundaries when my dad was in particularly unhealthy states of mind. Unhealthy being a pea to a mountain. When I was younger, we all worked very hard to maintain outwardly that all was well. Very hard to be “perfect”. But it often wasn’t. By the time we got out, I will just tell you that there was no choice. I don’t often share the details. Mostly because I almost feel like it’s not only my story to share. But we left. And we were the only ones providing shelter for dad from reality – we were the fragile egg shell to an egg – and when we left for our own health and safety, he dove off the deep end head first. There was no effort to try for us. He now was ready for the world to see how much he was hurting.

It was honestly some of the saddest and scariest times of my life. I got used to laying in bed at night in total terror and fear for him. And for us. I often wondered if he would kill us all. I went to bed every single night of my life wondering if he would be alive when I woke or what damage he may have done to people who cared about him. This went on for long long long years. Then he began to want to try again, to try to be the him we all knew he could and should be. He deserved to be. But the cycles continued and failures were low and deep. As you can imagine I couldn’t stand to watch him fall time and time again – and fall so incredibly hard. And the worst part was watching the damage he left in his wake. To be with him when he was winning the battle and see the tides turn so deeply right in front of your eyes one hundred times over became an unhealthy cycle. Something I ultimately had to maintain space from even when he was doing “good”. Dad and I didn’t talk much. Not for his lack of trying but because I couldn’t be a healthy person and have him a constant in my life. As you can imagine, having a father like this created a lot of vicious cycles in my own head. I knew I was going to get away from the cycle he created if it was the last thing I did. I wanted better for my family, and for my future family. I was determined to succeed and get space from this sickness. This pain. I did succeed in that. 

I did try to re-establish a relationship many times over the years. The one that I thought we could have. I yearned for nothing more than a hug from my dad so many times in my life  I wanted to celebrate victories and cry into his shoulder when I was hurting. He wasn’t there for my high school graduation, my college graduation, my wedding or the birth of my daughter. He would tell you it was my fault – but the truth is it was his. He had a hard time accepting responsibility for things because I think the reality was too painful. I get it. I think it would have been for me too if I had done what he had done and lost what he had lost. But having your father tell anyone who would listen lies about you and your family was Often unbearable. Honestly, I  wouldn’t ever rebuff because as weird as it was, I wanted him to save face. And my family and I loved him too much to talk bad about him – and in these cases truth was that bad. I’ll spare you the stories. To this day I have family members who, even with my dad’s obvious and constant behaviors, blame me… and my mom and sisters. It was our fault. The whole demise. It is something that still eats at me when I’m laying in bed at night. It’s something I will have to find a way to get over some day. 

My dad went through many health scares because of his behavior over the years. One included a medically induced coma and life support in Texas due to pancreatitis when I was in college. I dropped out and went to sit by his bedside for months. I held his hand and talked to him like I had always wanted … and he listened. I told him to come back and change his life and we would all live happily ever after even as doctors were telling me that it was time to consider removing him from life support. I talked to him about the things he loved, cared for his nails and hair (which were very important to him) and made tapes with my voice for when I wasn’t there. I talked about coffee, and newspapers, and baseball, and the Bible, and waterfalls, and us. Long story short he came back. And long story shorter, even with such an amazing second chance at life, he didn’t change. He didn’t. There is not a word in the English language to encompass the shock and loss of that. The loss of all hope. The loss of dreams of having a dad that we all deserve. The loss of so many dreams. I thought I had given up on him then. For good. 

But then I became pregnant. I wanted so much for him to be the grandpa he could be. I just knew he could! We tried. But ultimately he fell off the wagon again. I will never forget our deep conversations over those few months when I was pregnant. We had the relationship I saw other kids have growing up. I still remember the feeling of happiness being able to say “when I talked to my dad the other day..” or “I’m gonna go call my dad”. Just like kids do. I was so exited for the relationship with my dad that I yearned for so deeply in my soul. It still puts a lump in my throat and tears that burn my eyes. It was a beautiful time and I will cherish it forever. 

Right before my daughter was born. He became erratic and threatening and mean. Yet again, unrecognizable from the man he really was. And I couldn’t have him at the hospital during that time. I really didn’t trust the him that he was like this. Not for one second. I knew better. During this special time in my life, I had a pit of fear in my stomach that he would walk through the door. And be a threatening and hateful stranger of my father. My daughter was so pure and good and magical, I needed to protect her from him. From that terrifying mean energy. That was really just pain. I know. But he held that with him til the day he died. I “kept her from him”. This was why he failed. Right!? 

If I had been a different child, I think his reality would have become mine. But it didn’t. Even from a very young age when he was at his lowest and told stories of blame about everyone but himself. I knew that wasn’t normal. Thank god I knew that. Because even with knowing that, I have had so much to overcome in my mind. I still do. Before my dad passed away, he began drinking and wouldn’t eat. It seemed that he had literally chosen to kill himself by drinking himself to death. And he had. 

Our last two conversations, one on the phone and one in person, will stay with me forever. The one on the phone was after he got out of the hospital for not eating and for drinking. I tried talking to him in a casual tone, he was friendly and sounded happy but very distant, almost other worldly – he was kind but he wasn’t recognizing that his behavior hurts people. It hurts us all. I ended up yelling into the phone that he wasn’t the only person affected when he hurt himself, we all suffer. I was angry with love. I hoped he felt it. And I knew he did. But it was angry all the same. I remember that. No one has ever made me more angry or more sad than my dad. No one. There is a depth of sadness I carry with me everyday. Beneath the surface. It’s him. If people have always wondered, now they know. It’s my dad. I guess Ill always have him with me in that way. His sadness. 

The next time I saw him I was in town and instead of rushing home my husband suggested I take my time and go see dad. He knew. I was happy to have someone else nudge me and my hurt and stubborn heart. I stopped by. And my dad, a formerly strong marathon runner of almost 200 lbs, was probably only about 110 lbs. his lips were dry and craving water. His neck veins protruding, gasping for air. He looked like a skeleton with skin on. I’ve honestly never seen anything like it. And it was my dad. Although I could hardly look at him, we had great conversation. And I got to hear his beautiful laugh. And tell him to drink water. And eat food. And that we loved him. When we walked he showed me a little twig thing planted in the middle of a dirt pile in the middle of the yard – a butterfly bush he called it. It was straggly and sad and looked so incredibly lonely. But it had such promise. If all went well, it would bring butterflies. He was so proud.

And I’ll never forget when I left, he hugged me like it was the last time he would ever see me. He held me so tight and shook. His desperation for control wasn’t there. It was there but it wasn’t too. It was a resignation that I was strong. And he couldn’t control the things he loved. It was the most beautiful gift I have ever been given. To hold him that last time and to feel a mutual understanding for the first time in… I don’t know. I didn’t want to leave but had a baby at home I was eager to see before nap and this had gone on for so many years and been so dire so often. I was a bit immune I think. So I prioritized seeing my daughter before nap in the moment and left. So I left. I see him standing there today. Waving. 

A few weeks later I was at the airport early in the morning, leaving for a work meeting. The airport was where dad worked growing up. His presence was still there. I could see his face everywhere I looked. It felt like the old him was just around the corner. A reminder of everything that was. And wasn’t. It was haunting. And then my phone rang.

He was gone. 

It was my grandma crying and telling me “baby, he’s gone. He’s gone.” I asked where he went. But she said in a calm monotone voice that rings in my head “He’s sitting right here baby. But he’s gone.” I left the airport like a zombie filled with sand and drove to her house. No one else had yet arrived because of how close the airport was to her house. But dad was there. In a chair. A skeleton of himself in every way. His person was there but his presence was gone. It was like a vacuum of intense absence. everything was gone. It was a vacuum of time. Seeing my father dead is the worst thing that ever happened to me. And in a weird way it is a gift. A sick twisted gift. I got to see him just one more time. I’m no fool to know not everyone gets that. But he was not there. I cant tell you with words what the emptiness and quiet in that room felt like. When there is a person in the room you feel it. There was a person in the room. But you could not feel it. 

He was gone. And with him…

Hope

Dreams

Faith 

Fairness

And the world lost.

Hope for me died that day. 

Hope for happy endings. 

For “everything happens for a reason”

The last tiny specks of it all finally left. And life has become something scarier than it already was. Because I know the truth about things now. And it’s not fair. 

The first year was the hardest. The void of his loss and the loss of everything that could and should have been was so massive it felt like it was going to swallow me whole. I couldn’t eat or sleep. His voice was a constant in my head saying “it’s your fault. You should have given up everything for me.” And that voice became scary and too vast. There were times my heart physically hurt so bad I thought I was having a heart attack. There were times it hurt so bad I literally felt like I could die. I can feel it now again even thinking about it and it sacred me. Very very much. I thought I would die of a heart attack my heart physically hurt so bad. I felt so incredibly and completely responsible. I felt that I let him die. I should have been able to save him. But I never could. I failed. 

That year passed and I’m over the hump… In the space where you recognize grief, like an old friend, and although it hurts the same, you are more comfortable with it. Like an old sad friend. And it comes in waves. Mostly giant crashing waves that knock the wind out of you. 

To this day I wish I could talk to him. People say you can. But he can’t hear me. He is gone. Trust me. I felt that in that room. He. Is. Not. Here. I would give anything to talk to him. To tell him I loved him all along. And hear him acknowledge that he knew. And that it was not anyone else’s fault but his. And That he was the dad and I was the kid. He was the dad. I was the kid. And that all of everything was not okay. It was wrong. And then we would hug and cry and laugh and everything would be okay. And we would be a family that we both deserved. We both deserved that. And we were robbed. 

I love to close my eyes and picture him laugh, the twinkle in his eye and his smile. Everyone who loved him knows the vastness of the loss of what he should have been. But no one feels it like we do. 

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