“My dad sank into a deep depression, quickly. In his eyes, it was the man’s duty to provide for his family, and he wasn’t providing for us at all in that sense. I can get it; he felt like a failure, like he was letting his family down. That’s when the drugs started. I can’t pinpoint an exact time when he started using, because he wasn’t always a wreck. He functioned normally for months.”
Reaching over, I take his hand in mine. This has to be hard for him, and my heart aches for whatever it is he had to endure.
“One morning after my mom had already left, I woke up to a silent house. It was weird because he was usually always up before me, watching TV or working on stuff around the house. I left my room in search of him. I didn’t have to look very far, since he was in the living room, in his recliner.
“There was a baggie beside him and a needle sticking out of his left arm. I was horrified. I had never seen anything like that before, and I didn’t know what to do. I took the needle out. I remember my hands shaking badly, putting my face in front of his, wanting to see if he was breathing.”
He leans his head down, so it’s resting on my shoulder.
“He was,” he finally says, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Looking back now, I think he took more that morning than he usually did, whether by accident or not, so it hit him harder. I assume that he had been doing this regularly, before I woke up in the mornings, up until then. He was always awake for hours after my mom left, before I would wake up, so he had plenty of opportunity.
“I didn’t know what else to do. I was only eight and didn’t know how to reach my mom at work. I sat on the couch, staring at him, for about an hour, until he finally woke up. He looked confused at first, then angry. I’d never seen him get so mad, so fast. He was off the couch and in my face in the blink of an eye.
“He gripped my arms tight and told me if I told my mom about any of this, he’d make me wish I hadn’t. Prior to this, he had never laid a hand on me. I hadn’t ever even been spanked, so this scared the shit out of me. I remember nodding my head and running to my room, climbing under the covers, and crying. I sobbed and then stayed in my room the rest of the day. I didn’t leave the room, except to use the bathroom once, until my mom came home later that night.”
Tears are threatening my eyes, but I need to get it together. He needs me, and I can’t fall apart. I simply rest my head atop his and squeeze his hand a few times.
“I pretended like everything was fine when she got home. She made dinner and I ate so much it felt like my stomach was going to explode, but I was starving. Mom chalked it up to a growing boy, but she had no idea I hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink since the night before.
“That day seemed to be the beginning of the end. He started using in front of me often, leaving drugs all over the house. I’m surprised my mom didn’t catch him. He would occasionally be in a good mood, and I would feel okay to roam the house, eat throughout the day, but other days, he was furious for seemingly no reason, and I would hide in my room the whole day with no food.”
The subtle shake of his shoulders alerts me that he’s crying, but he clearly doesn’t want me to know, so I let him continue with his story.
“Friends of his started coming over frequently, to do drugs, I assume. Women too. There was one time, and one time only, where I snuck out when he had someone over. I saw a strange woman on his lap, naked. I ran back to my room so fast. Now that I’m older, I know the sounds I heard were of them having sex.
“Things were quickly progressing; instead of leaving me alone to hide in my room when he was the angry type of high, he would start seeking me out. He told me several times that he was in the position he was in because of me. That if he didn’t need to take care of a child, he would still have a job, that he’d still be happy.”
His last word is broken up, the tears really flowing now. I set my beer down beside me and pull him onto my lap, similar to what he did for me when I was telling my story. Wrapping my arms tight around his waist, he lays his head on my shoulder. I rub his back while he tries to calm down.
“He started hitting me sometimes. Never enough to leave a mark because he knew my mom would see. His words hurt more than his fists ever could, though. The damage was done. The worst of it was one night the summer before fourth grade when Mom had to work a double, so she wasn’t going to be home until late. It was an angry day, so I spent the day in my room. After a while, I figured Dad would be asleep by then, so I went out of my room with plans to make some food.
“I was right. He was passed out in his recliner, but he had the needle sticking out of his arm again. At this point, I had witnessed this more times than I could count. I took the needle out and made sure he was breathing before setting the needle down. I don’t know how it happened, but it somehow fell off the side table onto the floor, and when I went to back up, I stepped on it.”
Shit. My stomach is in knots, thinking about where this story is going.
“It was mostly empty, all shot into his veins already, but a little bit still seeped into the bottom of my foot. Not enough to kill me, obviously, but I did pass out. He had no idea, because he was out cold too.
“Mom came home sometime later and found us both and called the ambulance. I was okay. Nothing major had happened, thankfully, but I did have to stay in the hospital for a few days and Child Protective Services got involved. Mom took the next few weeks off to figure some things out. She kicked him out as soon as we got home.
“I don’t know where he went. A friend's house, I’m guessing. He came home about a week later, while we were both sleeping. I’m assuming he wasn’t able to stay with his friend anymore and had nowhere to go. He overdosed that night, and it was me who found him cold and dead the next morning.”