01/26/2020
Crumbled bits of paper, imperfect thoughts, and an endless amount of burdens...
This is what my father left me, literally.
I was always an afterthought. From the time I was born, until the day he died.
The drugs came first. His people came first. His meetings came first. Those same meetings that never worked for him. The ones that claimed to be 12 steps. The ones that took 4 tiers to climb before success. My father took those steps and climbed those tiers thousands of times in the last forty years. He still came out 12 steps behind. Maybe he didn’t take any steps at all, and just showed up to show face. I don’t know. I’ll never know because he’s gone now.
I never got an explanation, I never got an apology. I never got the time of day. The drugs got it all. The needle in his arm knew more about him then his only daughter did.
What a cold, dark and lonely life he lived.
I’m sick of secrets, I’m sick of dark alleys and dead end roads.
Every child that is the product of an addict knows from a very early age what’s going on. STOP babying us. STOP lying, STOP hiding the truth. You’re only lying to yourself and destroying your children and families lives because of your selfishness. Reality saves lives. The truth may hurt, but it hurts less and is a hell of a lot better than sugarcoated bu****it.
I’ll never forget the year I made the trip to NY with my two small children in tow. I worked 40 plus hours a week at a FT job, waitressed on the weekends, and put myself through community college.
It was a Friday night, I worked till 5pm. I packed the truck, and loaded my babies in the back. We made the trip without incident, and arrived around 11pm. I walked up the stairs to my fathers apartment carrying children and bags. I knocked on the door waiting for him to answer.
Not a footstep could be heard. I knocked again. No answer. I banged and banged on that door so loud that I woke up his landlord in the house below. No answer.
Still carrying two babies on my hips and bags on my shoulders, the landlord walked out with a surprised look on his face. He said your dad is up there. His car is out on the street.
I immediately knew something was up. I walked back out and put my babies back in the truck and unloaded my bags. We were parked in the driveway to his house.
I walked back up those steps and knocked again. I heard his voice say, give me just a minute. That minute came and went. At least 30 of them did. I knocked again. The same response was given. “Give me just a minute”
It was 1:20AM till my father answered and opened that door. His only daughter, and his two grandchildren sat waiting for nearly 3 hours. We drove up from PA that night to attend my cousins confirmation that weekend.
I’ll never forget the look on his face when that door opened. He had lost weight. A substantial amount of weight. He was skin and bones. His face sucked in. His jawline protruding. His nose to big for face. He wasn’t clean shaved. His hair was a mess, and needed a trim. The white tshirt he was wearing looked like he wore it for the last month. The blue jeans he had on, were so disgusting, covered in stains, blood, old food, and holes. Something was up.
The stench coming from the apartment was far worse than his appearance. I pushed my way through the door, no babies in tow. His cute little apartment was no longer a home. It was filled with trash, dirty dishes, old food, and disarray.
It’s now 2AM. No explanation was given for his condition, why it took him hours to open the door, or why he was living in shambles. But I already knew.
At 2AM, after an 8 work day, a 4 hour trip and a 3 hour wait, I cleaned his apartment. Made it livable again. Cut his hair and told him to clean himself up before I brought the kids in.
Thank god I pack heavy. I had blankets in the truck, and pillows of our own. That night I slept in a chair, that sat beside the loveseat I laid my children on to rest.
The next morning, my son went to the fridge to grab his sippy cup filled with milk. Somehow, someway, he picked up his cup, and the pill bottle written out to Vinny Canuso. He was 3 years old.
Thank god, THANK GOD, I was standing right near him. That pill bottle could have killed him. It was addressed to my fathers dealer and it was filled with crack -co***ne.
We got dressed as fast as we could packed up our things and headed to the church for cousins confirmation. I kept my mouth shut, pretended like this didn’t happen, because now wasn’t the time or the place for Dads bu****it. Dad instructed me to go buy the twins gifts, and cake for the party afterwards and write his name on the packages. I did without question. I just wanted to get the hell out of there as fast as I could. We stayed for some family time after the church, and celebrated with my cousins.
I left that night to make the trip back to PA. But not before my Dads girlfriend Karen, said goodbye. She had the nerve to kiss me on the cheek, and tell me everything is going to be ok. She dodged every single question I asked her about his state. I flat out said is he on drugs, does he have AIDS, what’s going on? She said NO! He’s just been sick the last couple weeks. Sick with what?? The flu doesn’t do that to anyone. I’m not stupid. I’m his only daughter for god sakes. You’re just a girl, a few years older than me. How dare you kiss my cheek. How dare you lie to my face. Shame on you both.
I pulled away, with tears streaming down my face. I thought it would be the last time I would see my Dad. Not that he cared. We were just an afterthought.
That day, that night, that trip still haunts me today. I never got an explanation, I never got an apology. My Dad almost killed my son that day. It didn’t matter though, were just an afterthought.
- The Daughter of an Addict -
