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Addiction

The Loss of a Loved One

By Juliaa &&kiddsPublished 6 years ago 5 min read
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Sometimes I wonder if it was suicide, a way out of misery. A life left alone, old and frail, a life where if no friends were available for fun then life wasn't worth anything. He seemed so confused about what was the right thing that the bad things were hidden in the obvious. We all knew he had a problem but we couldn't talk about it. It hurt too much.

I loved him, as I was his only baby girl. I cared for him as I was growing into a woman, feeling sorry for his actions. I wanted him to change. I thought he would change.

Drugs took my father at a late age. He graduated college, had a postgraduate degree, cooked as a chef, traveled Canada, had two kids, had two failed marriages. He was always looking for love, for friends; he was a giver and if no one was there to give to, he automatically felt lonely.

Watching him kill himself for 10 years was the hardest thing I have ever witnessed; it was the hardest thing to deal with as a young mother trying to find herself in life while my father was sticking himself with needles, homelessness, partying, losing his vehicle, his morals, and, slowly, himself.

To all those people, young teens, young women dealing with a parent who is addicted, I can't even begin to say what you should do because in the end there is nothing right you can do; what you feel in your heart is right, even if that's being there. I regret not being there. I regret not being able to say goodbye.

After he passed, no one wanted me to go see him in the morgue on that table. It took everything to not go. I still think I needed that: I needed to let it go. Everyone always has to have an input. "Don't do it, he probably looks so bad," "You'll never get it out of your head," and so on, but I didn't care. He couldn't have looked as bad as the last day I saw him.

The last day I saw him was a day after my 24th birthday. I had my son with me in the car. He had asked me to drive him to his "needle exchange." I was so mad to even bring him, but I knew he was sad and alone so, because I have a huge heart for my dad, I went and picked him up. I remember pulling up and feeling so angry. At a distance I could already tell how bad he had gotten in the two weeks I hadn't spoke to him. My eyes started watering and my heart was going a million miles an hour. I always felt so nervous. I just wanted to yell and shout, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" I just didn't understand. I still don't understand. He said happy birthday, gave me a hug, and we drove off. He did not even notice my son. I had no words, I was so mad. He got out and tried to kiss me on the cheek, said "I love you," and I'll never forget how I pulled away in an angry fashion and said, "I love you, too," and then I looked at him and said, "why are you doing this? Why are you doing this, Dad?" And he wittingly said, "What do you mean? I'm fine" (he was always "fine"), grabbed my leg, squeezed it with a pause, and looked at me as if this was it.

Ironically, my dad and I spent every summer together since I was eight. My parents separated when I was seven and I traveled to see him every summer and holiday. I got a call on July 2nd around 1 o'clock; I had gone out the night before to a friend's house who was a block away from my dad's apartment. My husband answered and had this weird deepness in his voice. He looked at me with the most unemotional look that I knew it wasn't a good call. When he said the words, "Is Michael Swanson your father?" I just started crying and said, "Yes, why?" pretending as if I had no idea what was about to be said. As he went on on how everything went down I just cried. I just sat there for the rest of the day and cried.

I personally believe in fate, things that happen for reasons. My sister was raised by my father since she was four. She said that on July 1 at 11:30 at night, she had a sharp pain in her heart, as if someone was stabbing her and her first thought was my dad. At 11:30 at night, my two-year-old daughter woke up in her sleep yelling, crying as if someone hurt her in her dream. That is when we left our friends house to go home.

I was down the street. I was right by him while he died, and we didn't even know it. As you know in Canada, we celebrate Canada's birthday on July 1, and this day was special to him and to me, but I was just so mad I didn't call, or bother. I was so sick and tired of being that enabler, the one who gave in. Since I was 12 years old, this all became a reality, and slowly became more and more so; I just didn't know he would end up like this, so far gone there was no return.

grief
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