The most stark yet realistic picture of addiction that exists in my mind, is the moment my dad was pulled over in broad daylight while we were leaving town for a day at the water park. I was probably 8 at the time, and my sister would have been 6. As the lights and sirens flashed, while my dad cursed and pulled over, he reached forward in the rusty indigo pick up truck, across our laps and quickly opened the glovebox. He dug around swiftly and removed a plastic, unmarked baggy full of multicolored pills. He said, “Sydnie. Put these in your shoe.”
And she did. My sister, with her tiny six-year-old, neon green crocs, shoved the mysterious baggy to the tip of her shoe and crammed her toes in after. Because we were little, and our dad was the one giving the instruction, we never thought to question the morality of his decision. Dad said so. It must be right.
But it wasn’t, and my dad was very sick. As an adult who now has had experience working in prevention and ministering to addicts of all kinds, to me that is the most honest image of addiction that I’ve found: a tiny croc with a plastic baggy poking out its tiny top holes. My dad’s addiction had such a hold on his life, that he allowed the innocence of my sister, his baby who he claimed to love more than anything in the world, to hide his drugs from the police. He hid his problem behind childhood ignorance. He made the choice to take advantage of the trust we had in his authority. And it worked. At least that day. He couldn’t drive us home. We had to be picked up by a relative, but they never found the pills. Well, not in the shoe, but they found them in his system.
My dad tumbled down the dark stairway of addiction long enough that it eventually took his life. For years, he just kept taking steps downward. A few years after this incident, darkness swallowed him whole. He left us too young. He left us restless, without peace. My dad was an addict, and that created some of the deepest trauma I know.
There’s so much truth in the saying, “hurt people hurt people,” because as my dad struggled, he bled all over the people who loved him. None of us ever stopped loving him, but there were times when it felt like pieces of me fell away with him as he declined.
None of this is to say that my pain somehow outweighs the war my dad was fighting. My dad was a broken human being just like I am, but the stories I can communicate best are the ones that happened to me. I have no way of knowing what really was going on in my dad’s heart and mind. I wish more than anything, that he could have lived long enough to give me the chance. I know the battles he fought weren’t easy ones.
Eventually my dad developed epilepsy, and he was found unconscious, alone for many hours. They stabilized him, he went into a coma, but he was taken off life support a month later. He died at age 45. The last memory I have of my dad is laying next to him in his hospital bed at age 13, my sister on his other side at age 11. His breathing would settle as he heard our voices, and he could frantically move his eyes, but that’s the only movement he had control of. It was as though addiction carved out the insides of my father bit by bit until my last moments with him were quite literally an empty, unmoving shell.
I know that’s all dark and heavy stuff, but if you or someone you love is struggling with addiction of any kind, please know that this doesn’t have to to be your story. My dad was checked into rehab twice. My dad made the choice to let the drugs become the most powerful entity in his life. Addiction is a sickness, but not one that’s incurable. It takes REALLY HARD work to overcome, and I know I could never truly know that struggle because I’m not an addict in recovery. But I do know I’ve struggled with my own addictive habits and idols throughout my life. I also know it’s my responsibility to look those things in the eye and call them what they are. It’s my responsibility to become the healthiest version of myself so that I am able to love everyone around me to the best of my ability.
Please don't read into what I am not saying here. I loved my dad. I still do. I know that somewhere inside of him, he had love for me as well. I don't deny myself that knowledge when I think about any of this. I just want to talk about what's real. The truth is that while all of that love did and still does exist, my dad made some bad choices over his lifetime that deeply affected me and my family. That's just the truth.
If you’re an addict, I believe your addiction bares deep pain and scars. I believe it has to be one of the hardest things you’ve ever fought. Please keep fighting. Please fight for sobriety because I believe you have a divine purpose to fulfill on this Earth. I know you aren’t a mistake. I would give anything to tell my dad that right now. I wish there had been more people telling him that in his circle, so I’m telling you that now. You are so strong.
I also believe your family really does love you, even if they aren’t great at showing it. Please keep fighting for sobriety for them. Just like you need grace, they do too. Even though they love you, they are going to mess up. They will say things they regret and act in ways they wish they hadn't. This is all new for them too. We are all just trying to figure this out.
If you’ve been fighting for your sobriety for a long time, thank you. Thank you on behalf of all the people who have loved you. Thank you from a girl who lost her dad to the fight way before she should have ever had to. Please keep fighting. You are so strong.
If you love someone who is an addict, please just keep loving them, in whatever way serves them best. Give them grace where they aren’t giving it to themselves. Set healthy, appropriate boundaries for yourself and your family, but please don’t give up on them. Keep showing them you love them consistently. From someone who wishes she still had the chance to show up for her dad, even if it had to be through deep pain, keep showing up for your loved ones. Remind them that addiction doesn’t have to be their author. You are so strong.
If you’re struggling personally with an addiction, please know that you are seen. Please reach out for help. Please know you are loved and not alone. Please gift yourself with some grace. If you feel like there is no one routing for you, let it be me! I’m on your team, and I believe you have happy, peaceful, loved life yet to live. Let’s chase that life together. You are so strong.
I want this to be a space where we can talk openly and honestly about really hard things. Pain can’t heal in the dark. Wounds heal when they are brought into the light, washed clean where they are visible, and given space and air to breathe new life. Let this be your space of air and light, and consider, even if for a moment, that you were created wonderfully. Consider opening a conversation with the God who created you, maybe for the first time. If you don’t know how, send me a message, and we’ll keep the conversation going.
You are loved, my friend. So deeply loved.
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