Vanishing Point

I have some really good memories of us, just us two hanging out. Remember when my shins hurt really bad? You sat beside me and made a blanket fort at the foot of my bed. Just growing pains, you said, then you put on the Little Mermaid and we watched it together. You sat with me all night, well, at least until the pain stopped and I fell asleep.

Most of these times are from when I was little, when you were the dad who’d put his kids first. You would always make sure our plates were filled before you made your own dinner. That was just so you, caring about your children and neglecting your own needs.

Last summer when I went to your place, you tried to hide your drinking from me but I knew. When I stepped into the house and left you by the patio, I heard a sharp crack and the tell-tale hiss of air escaping a can. You tried playing it cool when I came back but I knew you’d lodged a beer snugly in that tall plastic cup. You obviously knew it’d hurt me if I found out. I don’t expect you to tell me your secrets but this whole charade doesn’t do me any favors. Maybe I’m supposed to appreciate the fact that you don’t want your daughter to know her dad’s still on the drink but then your sleight-of-hand just hurts me anyway.

I guess that’s just how you are these days. Sometimes late at night I think about those jokes we had and I wonder why you’ve changed. But then again I don’t recall a single day of my childhood when I didn’t see you popping those pills you loved so much. We used to laugh at these “just being Dad” moments and think Mom was being a worrywart.

Sometimes I think of nights when you’d wake up hurting from your back. The closest thing I had were these toothaches I’d get every month, and if that was bad then I couldn’t possibly imagine what it must’ve been like for you. A body can only take so much. I used to figure your addiction was a way of coping with your chronic pain. Then I got older and I didn’t think you were just coping with pain anymore. Not physical pain at least and not with the way you were using those substances.

Of course, I still stood by you. I screamed when you, a 63-year-old man, collapsed in front of his teenage daughter. You were drunk, I picked you up off the floor, and we staggered together back to your room. All those times, I felt so alone because I was your biggest and only supporter. You would apologize to me the next day and admit that you were wrong. Then you would apologize to me again the next time it happened. I still believed you in those days.

Anyway, that’s all in the past. With your second marriage, you have a new life now, a new family, and a new home. When you came to pick me up before your wedding, I honestly didn’t know what to feel. You showed up at the airport, and started acting up when we were in your car. I knew something was wrong because you weren’t your usual self. When I confronted you about the drugs, you got defensive and started shouting at me, your grown-up daughter visiting you from college who used to think you were so cool and funny. After you pulled over in front of your house, I got out and walked to the Italian restaurant next door without looking back. I sat in a booth and cried. I knew this was nothing new, but that’s the thing about cycles. You think someone is better, though you never know for sure. You’re supposed to, you have to believe in them, but then it’s just a state of limbo before the inevitable happens.

Some things don’t change. I know your life is still full of pain but I don’t understand how you can continue to let those substances enter your body, the same ones which cost you your wife, your sons, your home. You’re going to lose me, too. I don’t think you care about us too much. I’m really tired. I don’t know when it’s my dad that I’m talking to, where your disorder stops or where your personality begins. It’s silly of me, I guess, but I don’t think you’ve actually changed from when I was little. I just see more clearly now. You taught me the ups and downs of substance abuse, the tears and the pain of loved ones who care. You made me think things are fine and then you relapse, and everything falls apart again. I can’t change you, but I can change myself and be stronger. I still love you and I hope you find peace. Sometimes I admire your sleight-of-hand but you should be careful what you make disappear.

#facingmentalhealth