• Dear Dad

    by  • July 1, 2015 • To You • 0 Comments


    I don’t even know where to begin.
    I guess you’ve always had issues, and we’ve had ups and downs.
    After the first couple years that I watched you abuse amphetamines for your “ADHD” I knew I couldn’t talk to you, it hurt me mentally and physically to see you waste away and have people thinking you were anorexic. You were getting Adderall from multiple doctors.
    Eventually, I remember this clearly, mom set up a meeting with all of your doctors, with your parents and us. And we blew your cover.
    Mom said that when she married you you were addicted to painkillers. But we knew that you wouldn’t get into that again,
    It seemed so unlikely.
    Shortly after the doctors stopped giving you Adderall, you got one of them to give it to you again.
    And for awhile, you seemed okay.
    I still kept my distance during that time.
    Then, you messed around with pain pills again.
    I remember it clearly, we had a family intervention, drug test and all. You treated us like we were stupid, using your brilliant charisma to try to convince us different.
    I remember crying.
    I remember pain.
    After this, you seemed to be better.
    Everything calmed down.
    Then, as you know, I got sick. And no one knew what was wrong. This is a whole other topic, but you studied it to no end and figured out what was wrong with me, and you were on my side when no one else was. Everyone was against me, and I guess that’s when I stopped hating you. You were my hero.
    And after that, from the time I got better up until a week and a half ago, you still were. A good three years, a new record.
    But I wouldn’t give up those years for the world.
    I know that you’ve been diagnosed with this condition, this rare pain condition CRPS or RSD or RND or whatever it is.
    I know you were trying to get money for us, anyway you could.
    But trying to lower your “life expectancy” to screw with an insurance company to get tons of money? Taking pills to mess with your heart is not okay, I don’t care how much money was involved.
    This is your life, and you have your family.
    Ever since you’ve started this job, you’ve been distant from me, and we’ve gotten so close.
    You are not just my Dad, you were my closest, bestest friend.
    I noticed something was wrong.
    I just didn’t want to notice, I didn’t want to know.
    Then it all happened like explosions, one after the other, no break in between.
    Mom came running into my room early in the morning saying you didn’t come home and had left two messages on the phone from Home Depot and Sheetz just saying “Hello? Hello?” During the night while we were sleeping.
    I was alert the second I saw how frantic she was.
    The second I stepped out of my room there was a knock on the door.
    I felt a surge of adrenaline and fear, my first thought was that it was a cop, coming to tell us some thing tragic had happened.
    And something tragic did happen, but it wasn’t a cop.
    It was the FedEx man, delivering a letter that mom had to sign for. It was from your company.
    She opened it next to me and I couldn’t believe what was happening.
    It was informing you that they were firing you.
    Mom then hopped into the car to try and find you.
    Grandma called and said she had picked you up off of the parkway, that you had run out of gas.
    I was so worried about you.
    I had to talk to you, and she put you on the phone.
    You sounded off, but I was just so happy that you were okay.
    You said that you had fallen on the side of the parkway onto your injured shoulder and that you were scared for your life.
    I was just so relieved to know that you were okay.
    You hadn’t been talking to me lately.
    Each night I hoped that I would hear your footsteps on the stairs to come see me. We would talk about some TV show or eat chips and salsa or we would laugh about something stupid someone said.
    We agreed on everything, all the time.
    I loved and still do love you, and always will.
    But what you have done, is inexcusable.
    I guess it makes sense.
    You’ve taken off all of this work and got this surgery so you could be prescribed painkillers these couple of months.
    You’ve abused them too much, mixing it with your Adderall.
    I remember two weeks ago when I was going to the store with mom you asked her for miralax and stool softeners and we even joked about that.
    I didn’t know what was coming.
    You knew.

    Two days ago, we came home to this foul smell in our home.
    Mom called for you, and your voice came from the bathroom.
    We didn’t think much of it.
    Eventually, the rest of us had to go to the bathroom and you were still in there, so we ran to Target to use the bathroom.
    We came back and you were frantic telling my mom that you had called an ambulance.
    I took my younger sisters outside to the end of the dead-end street.
    I watched the ambulance pull up and you limply walk out to get in.
    I watched it drive away with you inside.
    I went inside to your crap everywhere.
    Mom was crying and in shock and overwhelmed at what was happening.
    What was happening?
    I had never felt so in the dark.

    You didn’t want to go to a specific hospital where all of your doctors were.
    Mom said to take you there.
    You didn’t want to go there.
    You didn’t want your parents to come.
    We couldn’t go with you.
    Mom called your parents and they came there with you.
    When you came home four hours later mom had just finished cleaning up your mess, you came rushing in the door out of it and smelling worse then anything.
    You ran downstairs acting delusional.
    You threw poop covered clothes on to the dining room floor.

    Grandpa told us what they said and what was documented, you were in painkiller withdrawal.
    You had taken so much for so long that your stomach just shut down. I was crying. How could this be happening? What was this?
    I passed out in bed that night, not restful sleep.

    Mom came running in my room again that morning saying that you had peed and pooped all over the room you were sleeping in.
    And it was really bad.
    The whole floor was covered in it.
    Your clothes, the furniture.
    You were sleeping in it.
    It looked like you were an alcoholic.
    Mom was crying. She had to clean up your shit and piss everywhere. And you were sleeping in it!

    Grandma came over.
    She called your insurance, your doctors, everyone who has ever given you anything.
    And told them the truth about your addiction.
    And thank The Lord she could do that.

    You’ve been out of it and everything is finally cleaned up.
    But the stench, the mess you made, will never be cleansed from this house.

    You’ve tried to talk to me in your out-of-it state of mind.
    I just walk right by you as you’re passed out on your couch that’s going to have to be thrown out.
    It’s that simple, you’re downstairs, I don’t have to see you.
    You call me, I ignore you.

    I’m not being mean,
    I just don’t know what to say to you.
    I’m not sure what is going on or how I’m going to act from now on.
    You haven’t apologized or been humble or acted nice at all.
    These last couple days have been hell, and it really is your fault. You’ve done this to yourself.

    I know when you are completely back to “normal,” you’re going to try to convince us we’re all wrong, that this wasn’t a big deal, that what we think isn’t true.
    And you’ll probably sound pretty convincing.
    But it isn’t just what we “think” anymore.
    It’s documented.

    Documented that you have an addiction, and was officially in withdrawal.

    Don’t try to talk to us right now.
    We’re all disappointed, angry, but most of all sad and hurt.
    How could you do this to us?
    Really honestly, who does this?
    I tried not to look, but I saw you lying on your poop covered couch,
    In your poop covered self and clothes,
    In your poop covered room,
    All of your clothes and the furniture and the floor destroyed,
    As you lay there sleeping,
    All I could think was
    God bless you
    How sorry I felt for you
    How sorry we feel for you
    But that’s all we feel, bad for you
    God bless you

    This is an opportunity for you to shape up and humble yourself.
    This can never, ever happen again.
    You don’t have any sympathy from us.
    This has been the strangest, most painful unbelievable surreal thing ever. It feels blurry.
    It feels so out of place and just wrong and so unlike you.
    I still can’t believe it.
    You need to shape up,
    Hit “rock-bottom” somehow.
    I can’t handle this anymore.

    But one things for sure, if anyone’s been trying to get me to stop joking about “poop” or “butts” they’ve way outdone themselves.

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