For most of my childhood, I watched as addiction ruined my dad’s life.  He drank and he used drugs; it was obvious to me even as a small child. My mom did her best to hold the family together, trying to appear as the typical family next door.  However, when it started to turn violent, mom said either he checked himself into a Florida drug rehab center or he could leave.  He left, just like that, and for years we didn’t see him. 

Then he came back and said he had been through Florida drug treatment as was a new man but there was nothing new about him, and soon he admitted that actually never looked into any Florida drug treatment centers, deciding instead to cure himself. But he wasn’t cured.  The violence continued and when I was 12, mom packed us all up in the dead of night and we fled to the west coast.  I’m 28 now, and I remember this like it was yesterday.  I don’t know where he is, I don’t even know he is alive.  I do know that addictions kill people; they destroy families and take away self-esteem.  I learned that when I was young:  I wonder if dad ever learned it at all.

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