It was a normal school day towards the end of my junior year in high school. I was working on my physics final. I was furiously typing and researching my topics to try and insure I get a good grade. That is all my child-like mind was worried about, a petty physics final that I could finish any other time. All my care and attention was going into something so trivial and insignificant. Suddenly, my older sister called me. I answered not expecting the whirlwind I was about to be thrown into. She said our dad was in the hospital. It was an overdose.
I rushed into the emergency room breathing heavy from running across the huge parking lot. The receptionist bit out, “You can’t see him, he is getting a procedure done”, as if she had said that everyday since she was born. I slowly sank into one of the rickety and perplexingly uncomfortable chairs. My mom nervously asked, “How bad is it? Will he be okay?”. The snotty receptionist had no answer for her. At this time of the situation I was still numb and reluctant to admit to myself that this is actually happening.
Standing in front of him, vomit crusted to his cheek and a breathing tube shoved down his throat, I could no longer lie to myself. His skin was a sickly shade of pale yellow and stretched tight across his body. It felt as if a 100 pound weight had been dropped unceremoniously onto my back. It was crushing me; slowly compressing my lungs so that air was harder and harder to breathe. I could hardly even think properly. This was happening and I needed to prepare myself for the worst and act like an adult. I can’t breakdown and cry like I would have before. Some precious part of my brain had started to crumble and all I could do was watch and mourn the loss. This was happening and I needed to prepare myself for the worst and act like an adult. I can’t breakdown and cry like I would have before.
His brain had been deprived of oxygen for several minutes. “He could have brain injury or even be brain dead”, the doctor steadily explained. The wheels in my head suddenly clanked together in a violent motion that made my ears ring. My father had thrown a grenade into the center of my family and it ruthlessly exploded, shattering not only his life but all those around him. Questions rapidly started popping into my head. Who will take care of my little sister? How will this change our family? How will this change me?
  I was no longer thinking of physics. Even after the bright prognosis, I was still stuck in the same state of mind. I was looking at him and myself differently. I knew in that moment that my childhood was officially over. The haze that hangs over a child’s eyes shading them from the unforgivable truth was promptly lifted from my vision. I could see the situation clearly, no ignorance left. I felt the responsibility and need to succeed fill my body. This tragic even triggered my oncoming adulthood.
Although he ended up healthy, the realizations of what could have been still stuck with me. I started to set goals in my life to become more like an adult. I started interviewing for jobs, going to every college meeting I could, and getting my full drivers license. I vowed from that moment to never make anyone question me like that as an adult. Because of his mistakes I want to be a role model. I want young children to say “I want to be like her”, with awe of my success and responsibility shining in their eyes. Each day since that dreadful situation, I add a little more onto myself to make me a finer adult.