How I Lost my Dad Before he Died

I remember being as young as 4. He dropped me off for my first day of school, he hugged me tightly, and told me when I got back home he wouldn’t be there. I didn’t know why. But I fell back into routine, going back home to my grandfather and step-grandmother. It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear for weeks on end, children of addiction know that feeling. But this time was longer, he was gone almost a year.

My grandfather insisted he was just in college, which wasn’t entirely a lie, the state of Massachusetts put him through business school while he was in jail. I didn’t understand at that age, no one does. I didn’t know why the police were always at my house, or why they pulled my dad over so much, or why he always slouched and slept when he was home. I didn’t understand why my dad would go from the big, 6'8" sturdy wall he was, to a frail vomiting twig in a few weeks. I didn’t understand the truth until much later on.

My father wasn’t there when I was born, instead he was in a jail cell for robbing a subway at gun point for 700$. He wasn’t there for my schools annual Halloween parade, he was across the street where all my friends saw him pinned to the roof of a car by a cop. He wasn’t there when I got the solo in the winter concert, he left halfway through and we found him passed out in a snowbank. But I loved him.

He was an amazing father sober, that was the problem. As I grew up he taught me self defense, he put me in karate and took hundreds of videos. He bragged about me to his friends, he took me with him to the gym, he taught me how to shoot his guns. I didn’t know he had to teach me to fight because he was constantly snitching on his gang to get out of higher charges. I didn’t know that he wasn’t supposed to have guns, or he wasn’t supposed to teach me to hate cops and lie to them. I was a little girl bonding with her daddy who she idolized.

But then when I was 8 my Grandfather died, terminal cancer. My father didn’t comfort me, he left and didn’t come back home till late at night. He became angrier, the frequent spanking and slaps turned into steel toed boots hurled at my head and standing on my back till I screamed. But I still loved my dad. I still loved when he brought me to the beach, and weekend long fishing trips on his boat, and when he let me sit in his lap and steer the truck.

So how exactly did I separate the abusive fentanyl addict and the loving sober father? It needed outside help. When I was 10 years old my father threatened to shoot a police officer and assaulted another one. I was promptly removed from my house with a police escort and sent to live in Vermont. It was then with access to therapy and court officials that I learned who my Dad really was.

The problem was my father was a very smart man. I wasn’t allowed to have friends, they were either not good enough or had to wrong skin color in my fathers eyes. I wasn’t able to ever learn how it is in other homes, I thought our home was normal. Even after learning he was a dealer for the bloods, bipolar, addicted to fentanyl, and a compulsive liar, I still loved him.

It’s always hard to let a family member go. Even when that family member broke your bones, traumatized you, and trafficked you for drug money. A parent trapped in the cycle of addiction is one of the worst things a young child can manage. You love your parent so much, they did so much for you, everyone around you begs you to just forgive and forget. I continued to talk to him on and off until I was 17.

The first time I cut my father off was when I was 11. He found ways to talk to me, he’d have my aunt text me, he’d find my friends phone numbers and call them, he’d make lawyers reach out. He’d tell me he was dying and then the second I gave in and called he would be better. He sent my caregiver at the time photos of children claiming one was my sister. He did everything to wedge himself into my life. Eventually I stopped giving in.

I was angry at first. I was one of the most angry 11 year old’s you’d ever meet. I wanted to kill him, I hated every fiber of his being at times and saw him as a threat to my life. I sat in the school cafeteria watching the doors, convinced he’d show up with a gun at any second. That anger slowly turned into what felt like a never ending sadness. I wondered if my father ever felt suicidal over what he did to me, I knew I certainly had. I started smoking weed, nicotine, and drinking. I took any substance my “friends” put in my hands because I wanted to feel closer to him. I wanted to understand why he’d give up me in exchange for drugs.

I went through every stage of grief over those 8 years. When I was 16 my aunt died suddenly of brain cancer, I wasn’t allowed at the funeral. Suddenly all of that anger was back. I texted paragraphs of pure rage, I practically harassed the man on Facebook. I had so many questions that I never knew I needed the answer to. I spent almost a year spiraling, trying desperately to get him to respond how I wanted. I wanted an apology, I wanted him to admit that what he did ruined my life.

I had to go back to inpatient, my spiral led me to relapse. That’s when I realized it wasn’t him ruining my life anymore. I’d told him everything I wanted to say and more, and yet nothing got through that thick narcissistic skull. It was the last stage of grief, my father was officially dead to me. That’s what I had to tell myself. The man that was living was no longer my father, the sober father that I loved so much had died years ago. I hit block, I stopped looking at his Facebook at 2 am, I stopped receiving rants about how I was a horrible daughter, I stopped grieving him.

He didn’t get a funeral, he got a lot of tears, he took years of my life. I had to end that cycle of loving him because he was no longer himself. The person with the addiction will rarely end contact, they will rarely admit they are even addicted. It leaves behind family members to pick up broken pieces that they just can’t make sense of. Yes, sometimes they achieve sobriety, sometimes the old person they were even comes back. But to me my father has to remain dead, he isn’t coming back.

If you or someone you love is battling addiction there is help available. It’s not shameful to need help, and someone out there may be worried about you.

NH Detox Center — Your New Life Can Start Tod

Valley Vista Recovery — Inpatient Rehab in Vermont

National Helpline for Mental Health, Drug, Alcohol Issues

We’ve Been Where You Are — We Promise, You’re Not Broken

Fly to Rehab in California — Fly to LA for Recovery

Inpatient Treatment Center — PTSD & Trauma Treatment

Magnolia Meadows

MedStar National Rehabilitation Hospital | 20010