Daddy Issues

“The fear of abandonment forced me to comply as a child, but I’m not forced to comply anymore. The key people in my life did reject me for telling the truth about my abuse, but I’m not alone. Even if the consequence for telling the truth is rejection from everyone I know, that’s not the same death threat that it was when I was a child. I’m a self-sufficient adult and abandonment no longer means the end of my life.” 

~Christina Enevoldsen~

I rarely dream about my Dad. If I do dream of him he is sad and sitting in his chair; I can see his eyes. They are my eyes.

My father had two sisters and one brother. They were all born one year apart and they were very-very close. One soul divided into four bodies. Carrie was the oldest, followed by John, then my dad, and then Kristie. Kristie lived with us when I was young and I had a strong deep love for her. She loved me and made me laugh and showed me kindness every day. All four of them followed the same path of drugs and alcohol. Kristie was the first to die at the age of 41. She had gotten AIDS from heroine use and suffered a serious decline in health for years. Her boyfriend, Joe, also had AIDS and they decided they didn’t want to suffer anymore. They wanted to go out with a bang and took off for New York for one last big high and to deliberately overdose on heroine.  It worked for my aunt but Joe woke up the next morning. I was 17 when she died and she was my first real death experience. The first deep cut on my already wrecked heart. My parents didn't talk to me about it, at all. They didn't allow me to go to the funeral even though all of my cousins were there. I just mourned alone. If I mourned at all, honestly I think I was far too confused. It took me four years to cry over her death and when I did it was monumental. I was on the floor of the garage for hours just heaving with tears. I loved Kristie so much and had been so close to her and now she was gone. Six months prior to her death I had driven to Boise where she lived to see my best friend. I had wanted to stop in and say Hi to my Aunt but I failed to plan enough time and didn't see her. Thirty years later and that regret still weighs heavily on me.

John was the next to die. He went out for a big birthday celebration to ring in being 50 years old. Then he came back to the home that he shared with his mother - laid down in bed - threw up in his mouth - and choked to death on it. My grandma had just checked on him 30 minutes prior to finding him dead. She later said that she had had a really bad feeling. My grandma screamed while she performed CPR until the ambulance showed up. I wasn’t there but I can see it in my mind nonetheless. It haunts me. I stayed in that house after he died while my Grandma was in the hospital. Her dog would wake me up by literally screaming in the middle of the night and I could see a green light floating down the hallway by his bedroom. My parents didn't talk to me about his death either. They told me that there was not going to be a funeral even though there was. My Uncle had lived with us when I was little; it was before Kristie did. I was between the ages of three and five. He used to put me on his back and give me rides around the house; whooting and hollering. I called him Uncle Horsie. 

A few months after John’s death, Carrie died. My 18 year old cousin came home from college for the weekend to visit her mom and found her dead from an overdose on the floor; and she had been dead for days. She had suffered from breast cancer for many years but at her most recent doctor's appointment the prognosis had been very hopeful. They said that she would live to see her daughter graduate from college. She was only 52 years old. I don't have a lot of memories of her from when I was a child. I feel like I "met" her when I was 15. We were in Boise visiting John and she had moved there and was working as a nurse. She came over to visit and she looked so much like my aunt Kristie. I just kept moving myself closer and closer to her. Finally she patted the couch right next to her and I moved in for the cuddle. I placed my head on her lap and she played with my hair. Then, quite suddenly, she gave me a wet-willy. I laughed so hard. We stayed close after that and wrote penpal letters to each other. I still have several of them. Again I was told that there was not going to be a funeral, I don't know if there was. My cousin disappeared after that. No one took care of her or was there for her. I wish that I had been.

Shortly after her death both of my grandparents, who had been divorced since my Dad’s childhood, suffered breakdowns. Technically you could say that they both died from dementia but I know that they died from broken hearts that broke their minds. Some losses are too big. Some hurts tear the fabric of your soul into pieces. Some things you just cannot recover from. My Dad, being only in his 50’s, didn’t physically die like his parents did but I believe he lost his will to live. And the drugs that he had continued to use most of his life, in moderation, became his world. His doctor is his drug dealer: oxycodone, methadone, morphine, prozac, valium, neurontin, should I continue? But I can’t pretend that he only takes what his doctor gives him. And if given the chance he still uses needles to inject his pain meds, I know this because he told me once years ago; in 2015 he took a “fishing” trip to Arizona, that he had dreamt of going on for years, funny thing is that he was gone for a month but didn’t actually go fishing. He did go to Mexico and get meds and needles and shoot up in a hotel room. He has a "cute" story he likes to tell about a pimp that he gave some money to, but he didn’t have sex with the prostitute because he has a big heart and just wanted her to have some money. Which of course is a totally believable story? He spent his nights in cheap casinos. I’m not sure he would have ever come home but really you have no choice when you get busted with a trunk full of narcotics.