December 3rd 2023

Today marks what would have been my dad, Steve's 53rd birthday. Instead, I find myself reflecting on the past two years, navigating life without him. Our relationship was complex, and those who know me now and knew him in the years leading up to his death wouldn’t recognize the man I grew up with. When I was born, my mom had to stay in the hospital for some time. Barely 21, my dad was sent home with just me, overwhelmed and terrified. But from day one, he showed up for me. He never forgot to pick me up from school and he never missed a soccer game. 

In 1997, a car wreck left my dad hospitalized for months. So many bones broken, he returned home confined to a hospital bed. As he worked through physical therapy and aimed to reclaim normalcy, he started to feel really sick. The doctor diagnosed him with opioid withdrawal, a result of a nifty new treatment he had been prescribed, Oxycontin.

Have you heard of a Jewel Wasp? It stings a cockroach precisely, injecting a mind-controlling venom, guiding it to serve as food for its young so they can eat the cockroach alive from the inside out. Addiction in someone you love can look a lot like this. They become someone unrecognizable, their actions aren’t matching who they are, they’re controlled by forces that many can’t understand. The doctors had injected the venom, and he was left to fend for himself. Once your chemistry is altered, it’s almost impossible to set it back. 

The medical system repeatedly failed my dad. Detox programs proved futile. Medications meant to help ended up ruining his life, leading him to a methadone clinic. The label "addict" in our world is harsh, often without understanding what got that person there in the first place. Eight years ago, my dad found my mom on the day died. People grieve differently. That day, I lost both parents, but he lost his entire world. He blamed himself, attempting to erase the haunting image of that day with a drink, one after another, until he couldn’t keep count. 

Addiction, when evident, can be hard to reconcile. If I told you all the details, a sane person could never understand how I continued to love someone who treated me and behaved the way my dad had in those years. His own family, his friends, my partners over the years, continually questioning why I was letting myself go through this. It’s so easy to think it’s black and white when it isn’t someone you love. I knew my dad was still in there somewhere, he was just injected with the venom. In May 2021, he became homeless. A month later, he overdosed in a hotel room. His death, anticipated by many, somehow still shocked me. Despite years of preparing for it, I held onto hope that the man who raised me would return. He taught me to never give up, and that’s what he had done, he had quit fighting, and the more I understand his pain, the harder it is to blame him. 

People are swift to judge without understanding addiction's complexities. My dad, once a good man with a good job, who bought his own house at 24, someone who would help complete strangers and cared for his family, now eternally labeled by a single word, "addict." I loved him more than anyone. He doesn't deserve to be remembered that way. No one battling addiction deserves such a defining label. Addiction varies and doesn't define the entirety of a person. If you’re disagreeing with this, you might not understand it either. 

Though the latter years were painful, they didn't define who he truly was. Understanding this took time (and a whole lot of therapy), releasing the burden of fault from my shoulders. Someone else's addiction cannot be cured by your attempt to help them. I want others to understand this too, to know they aren't alone, that our actions have repercussions, and just because something is normalized doesn't make it right. Countless individuals share similar stories of loss and love, unable to speak for themselves anymore. Everyone has their own inner demons, and we shouldn’t all be so quick to judge. My dad fought those demons on a regular basis, until it wore him down to a point where he couldn’t handle the fight any longer. My dad was a man who needed help and wasn’t able to afford it. He wasn’t raised in an era where it was important to reach out to the people we love about their mental health. My dad needed help and never learned how to admit or ask for it. So I’m out here, trying to change those habits I grew up with and I’m trying to make friends with those demons he passed on to me. They won’t ever go away, but I’ve got to learn to co-exist. 

I’m trying to learn from him and change the direction my life should have gone. I’m trying, we’re all out here just trying our best. There are so many people who I love deeply that this would somehow resonate with, and my heart aches from the commonality. Whether you’re the one battling with the demons, or you’re the one who is helping someone fight them. If you’re here with me and still trying, despite your slip ups or set backs, or if you’ve ever had to defend your love for someone, I’m rooting for you no matter which side of this story you’re on. 

My dads death was not only difficult to process and come to terms with, but it has taken a lot of work for me to be able to open up and talk about this. I’m beginning to see how important it is, as I get older and see more and more people I love affected by addiction, the lives that have been lost, and how many people are still trying. I think if we were able to create a safe space for people to open up, ask for help, or relate to each other, it may make the grip of life feel a little looser.