This is my story of how I broke out of having a drug addict as a father and how it ultimately made me a better person. I hope you listen, and I certainly hope you walk away learning something about my experience of how I believed all of my life that my father didn’t love me.

My father was a drug addict for many years. It was what I knew. And although he was addicted to drugs, he was my father, and I respected him. He tried to be the father I needed, and even though he failed miserably, he tried. I think that definitely counts for something. I never had the perfect family, but I always imagined what it would be like to have one. As I write this, I remember the father I grew up with, and I also reminisce on the memories I shared with him for 10 years. He was in and out of my life a lot because of the drugs and the alcohol, but I don’t blame him for his mistakes as a normal child would. He couldn’t help himself, and he most certainly could not escape his demons. I was unfortunate to not have an immaculate childhood, but I was blessed to have a family that deeply loved me. You see, my father did love me. He just couldn’t better himself, and it’s unfair to say he didn’t get help because he didn’t want it. I think there comes a point in your life when you give up, and you think nothing will fix me because well, nothing has for the past 10 or 20 or however many years. And so for my father, he accepted it the way that it was. Addicts don’t want to believe in resurrection or miracles. I don’t know why they feel that way, but they do. I loved my father very much, and I like to believe he knows that. He died a few months ago because of an overdose. And I cried. I cried for days, and I couldn’t possibly come to terms with it. My father was never stable in my life, but I didn’t want to believe that there would be a day that he died from drugs.

The day I found out my father was a drug addict was when I was nine years old, and I came home from school to find his belongings scattered on the dining room table. The house was a mess, and I knew somebody had been in there. I called my mom, and she told me he had been arrested. I didn’t ask why because I already knew the answer to that question. He was a drug addict and a raging alcoholic. To deal with that as a nine year old was extremely heart breaking, and I have tried for many years to forget my past. It’s hard, and I have finally understood that there is no escaping it.

So why am I writing this? I’m writing this to let you know I’ve become extremely strong for the experiences I had to deal with at such a young age. It’s sculpted me into the person I am, and I’ve learned a hell of a lot of things down the road I like to call life. I’m glad I learned what it’s like to deal with real life problems. It’s also made me come to the realization that addiction is a horrible thing, and most people don’t find the strength to get help. I know first hand that it takes an influx of will power to fight it, and sometimes you need other’s strength to get better. My father was a drug addict, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t love me.