Being the child of an addict might be the most confusing experience in existence. You’re loved, but not tolerated. Wanted, but not pursued. You may be the subject of stories, tattoos, and drawings, but you’re basically strangers.
I’ve struggled an entire lifetime with the unanswered questions. Not just why my dad left, but who he was— beyond the trauma, the mess he made.
One of the reasons I became a writer was because my dad was a writer, before addiction took his life. I wanted to be like him, desperate for the identity he denied me through interaction. Otherwise, I wasn’t entirely sure who I was, who I was meant to be, or how I was supposed to enter adulthood with this haze of uncertainty consuming my life like a fog. I worked hard to get my act together. Working hard was the only way I knew to rectify the mess I felt had been made. I’d show him — I’d show everyone —I don’t need them.
That’s when I learned I had a brother.
In the wilder years of my dad’s existence, he found a girlfriend, impregnated her, and walked away. Twenty-six years later, I met Jonathon.
Neither of us knew our dad. He died when I was 18 and Jon was 12, and closure became impossible. I was still clamoring for something concrete that would tell me who I was, and although Jon couldn’t do that for me 100%, coming face to face with a portion of my DNA in another human being was more restorative than I ever thought possible.