From a young age, I was aware of my father’s absence; not the one who adopted me, but the one whose blood I carry. It started while living in the care of my aunt, watching my oldest cousin, Walker, pack for weekends at his dad’s house.
At barely three years old, I watched teenage Walker pack up our gaming consoles, his favorite clothes, books, and most of his life into bags for a world I knew nothing about. The concept blew my mind. He had been going every weekend since I was born, but one day object permanence kicked in, and with it, a simple, burning question: why did he keep leaving?
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to my dad’s house. I’ll see you after school on Monday. You know how it goes.”
Except I didn’t. I didn’t know how “it” went. I didn’t know what “it” was. I didn’t know a damn thing. I was still fresh out of the oven, really.
When your earliest memories are shaped by the absence of a father without any clear explanation, it distorts your perception of the world. My uncle, the father of my younger two cousins, became the closest thing I had to a male figure. But once I understood that Walker had a different dad, I started to question where my own father fit into this puzzle. As the youngest of all four of us, it felt like a mystery that everyone else somehow knew the answer to. I turned to my mom and aunt for clarity, asking questions that had silently burdened them for a long time: “Do I have a dad? What does he look like? Where does he live?” In response, they gave the bare minimum:
“Yes, you do. Everybody has a dad.”
“He has blonde hair and blue eyes.”
“He lives in Florida.”
I had no idea they sought therapy after I asked those questions. They did not know how to explain my father’s situation, and I do not blame them for that. What stuck with me was hearing the word “Florida” and thinking, “Why is he in Florida? I’m not in Florida. Where is Florida?”
I was too scared to ask why he was not here. I was too young to admit that, deep down, I feared his absence might somehow be my fault.
My uncle, being in the army, spent much of my early years deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan, and when home split his time between North Carolina and Texas, leaving me in a strange space: missing him while also thinking about another person I only knew from other peoples’ descriptions and my dreams.
As I grew older, my mom and aunt became more prepared to talk to me about my father. It was during this time, just before my mother met my adoptive father, whom I’ll call “David” for simplicity, that I got my first real answers. David, as life would have it, prohibited any talk about my biological father once he came into our lives, making the earlier conversation with my mom and aunt a special gift. So, by the age of five, I understood something most kids could not fathom: the PG version of alcoholism. My father was sick, drinking to the point where his actions became dangerous. Because of this, my mom never felt it was safe to leave me with him. She, along with my aunt and their closest friends, went before a judge who decided it was best for my mom and aunt to raise me.
Everybody, from my mother to my aunts and even my cousins tried to reassure me that my father loved me. Yet, from the very beginning, I dismissed that notion. It was a flawed coping mechanism, but children often internalize blame. I tuned out the comforting words my family offered and replaced them with a single mantra: “If he loved me, he would be here.” This belief felt straightforward, and in a way, I took pride in arriving at that conclusion so early; I thought I had conquered the most formidable enemy in my life thus far: confusion. Although it was damaging, my mantra left no room for doubt, and I clung to it for years.
Dealing with David only added to my challenges. Without a safe space to share my feelings, I became a very secretive person when I reached middle school. To cope with mistreatment from David, I nurtured a growing desire to better understand why my biological father was not around. So, I began reading more about alcoholism and piecing together the facts. I then knew deep down that alcoholism was a disease, one that could engulf a person, yet I continued to shift the blame onto my father.
In high school, my behavior began to spiral out of control. The last two years became a blur of reckless behaviors that included excessive use of alcohol, the same substance that had destroyed my father. Yet, the first time I sipped alcohol and hit a blunt, I thought I had finally discovered what had been missing from my life. The things David put me through did not feel nearly as painful anymore, and when I came home messed up and he was not able to tell, it provided a gratifying sense of control over him.
Deep down, I understood that I was floundering. I was unable to bring myself to be honest with my mother about my choices, especially in the wake of my aunt’s recent passing. That loss still weighed heavily on us and I did not want to add to her burden. So, I navigated this tumultuous time alone. My recklessness surged after my mom and I finally moved out of David’s house and I severed ties with him completely. With his shadow no longer looming over me, sinning wove its way into the fabric of my daily life, becoming something I no longer questioned or felt guilt over.
I had just turned twenty when I met a girl at a mutual friend’s party, both of us a bit tipsy. We had a fantastic time, and a few days later my friend called to say that the girl from the party wanted to see me again.
It felt ironic how we crossed paths in such a chaotic environment, especially considering how our relationship ended. What began as an attempt to navigate my troubles and alleviate social anxiety (especially around girls) transformed into a strain on a connection where it felt like our souls briefly intertwined each night, mine yearning to escape my body and hers determined to anchor me to the earth. I turned to drinking and smoking to help manage my nerves with girls because I found interacting with boys to be much simpler. Girls brought a whirlwind of emotions I struggled to handle.
This girl was no exception. She was older and, for whatever reason, actively sought me out. I genuinely wanted to treat her well— it was my sincere desire— but I continued to stumble along the way.
To be loved by a girl is to be seen in a way that strips you bare, revealing parts of yourself you may have never dared to confront. It is unlike any heterosexual relationship. They say a girl is a gun, and with her, I felt completely disarmed. I had not fully realized how out of control my life had become until this time. Quarantine had been suffocating, and my partying had skyrocketed, which meant I drank more and more.
One late afternoon, she showed up at my door earlier than planned. We were kissing when she suddenly pulled back and stared at me with an unreadable expression. When she finally spoke, my heart sank:
“You taste like alcohol.”
“What?”
“It’s 3 in the afternoon.”
She was right. I had just been caught day drinking for the first time.
She walked past me into my townhouse and shut the door behind her. I felt so awful. What was I doing drinking liquor so early in the afternoon? I knew the answer: I was anxious about her visit. But if I admitted that, would she understand that I drank to calm not just the nerves she stirred but all the other burdens weighing me down?
The answer was a resounding yes. But she did not enable my destructive behaviors like others I had previously surrounded myself with. I felt like I could only be myself when using substances, while she urged me not to. It was as if, just when I felt like I had found myself, she felt like she was losing me. Each time I reached for a drink, it served as a painful reminder of how my desire to escape jeopardized our connection. This heartbreaking cycle pushed her further away, even as we both yearned for support and understanding.
But my world was unraveling, and I felt resigned to go down with it, like a captain sinking with her ship in a sea of liquor.
There was one pivotal day where I had pushed my body to its limits, where she said something that led me to make one of the greatest realizations of my life:
“You wouldn’t do this if you loved me.”
Those words cut through everything— through the alcohol, through the haze, straight to my heart, because I did love her. And in that moment, everything clicked for me, and the most painful truth struck me like a freight train:
This must have been how my father felt about me. I had spent my whole life telling myself that if he really loved me, he would be here. But now I understood that the depth of love did not always equate to the strength to overcome addiction. My father had probably loved me as much as I loved my partner, and yet, he was trapped, just as I was. For the first time I saw him not as somone who abandoned me but as someone who, like me, did not have the resources to better themselves.
So, what do you do when your own chaos threatens the well-being of others, when you know staying will only cause more harm? Besides stepping back and letting them find peace, what choice is left? As I would learn later, that was what my father chose to do. He removed himself, believing it was the only way to shield me from the damage he could not control. My grandfather went with him to Florida, hoping he could get the help he so desperately needed—hoping that I could have stability and, maybe one day, he could return to my life. But six months after they arrived in Florida, my grandfather passed away, and my father’s behavior became so erratic and unsettling that my mother went back to court to have his parental rights terminated completely.
Now I found myself walking the same path my father had, straight toward ruin. So I followed one more of his choices: I made the painful decision to end a relationship I held dear.
This is where my view of recovery diverges from others: I believe we do owe the people we have hurt an unpayable debt for the pain we have inflicted. They owe us nothing in return, not their forgiveness, not their loyalty, and certainly not the sacrifice of their own well-being. And despite the depth of our own pain as addicts, we can never fully comprehend how it felt to be on their side. The heartbreak, the fear, and the helplessness they endured; these are burdens we can never truly understand.
She was angry at me, and I do not blame her. To think her effort fell short must have been deeply upsetting. But that was never my intention, because she never fell short. My choice came from a place of deeper understanding. There was never a lack of love, there was a need to protect her from the pain I could no longer keep from spilling over. I could live with being hated for that.
I knew that she would meet someone who would give her what she needed. It was me I needed to focus on, because my future was far less certain. I had to get real with myself and work toward healing, understanding that only by focusing on my own growth could I ever become the kind of person worthy of love, both for myself and for someone else down the line.
The timing of my realization about my father felt almost like fate. Just as I was truly on my own again, he sent me a Facebook message, as if the universe was offering me a chance to face the very shadows I had struggled with for so long. The message brought with it a chance to finally understand the man who had remained a silent specter throughout my life.
I took a few days to gather my thoughts before responding. When I did, he expressed his gratitude for the chance I was giving him, and we arranged a time to talk on the phone. When I finally heard his voice on the phone, it felt unreal. His absence had made me notice little things I had never expected: his Northern accent (my family is deeply southern), and the soft rasp in his voice that reminded me of a Looney Tunes character.
Over the next few months, we spent time getting to know each other, navigating both highs and lows. When my father was sober, he was one of the coolest people I had ever spoken to, with an endless trove of stories full of humor and insight. He talked about his time as an armorer in the Marine Corps and how he struggled to find stability after his discharge. He was part of the last group offered the military as an alternative to incarceration, with a long record to show for it. To try and stay clean once he was on his own, he traveled frequently, sharing stories about his childhood home in Cleveland and his time spent in cities on the West Coast before attempting to settle back down again in Florida.
I found out that he was the first person to hold me after I was born, and he shared his feelings during those first quiet moments while I slept. He recalled how surprised everyone was when I opened my eyes and they were clear, not the murky blue/brown eye color everyone expects to see in newborn babies. I had already heard this story a million times from my mother, but I guess I never thought about the fact that he would have been there, too. I know that sounds crazy.
Genetics have a way of revealing connections that run deep, even between people who have never met. We shared the same taste in music, movies, TV shows, food, and even the same favorite clothing brands when he was my age. We both loved to read, and we talked about how as children we would both be grounded for getting caught staying up late to read. Our sense of humor matched perfectly, as if we were always connected in ways we could not see. He was, is, truly a brilliant guy. And in the months we were in contact, I was told how loved I was, how deserving of happiness and stability I am, more than at any other point in my life.
I also saw photos of him for the first time. The physical resemblance was striking. Dirty blonde hair and the same blue eyes he was so surprised to see that day at the hospital. I realized then that the eyes my mom cherishes in me, the ones she gushes over, are simultaneously a constant reminder of what she lost. I began to understand how painful it must have been for her to lose not only the father of her child, but her lover.
When I shared this with her, she told me everything. From the way I scratched my head to how I walked, from the way I liked my coffee to my major Napoleon complex that required taming as a child, all were things I had seemingly inherited from him. It all made sense now. Every glance at me must have been like seeing him again. And in that moment, she confessed what I had never known: if my father had gotten sober, they would still be married today. It was truly a tragedy of the times.
Now for the more major downside: I was still drinking, and so was my father. In the beginning, he had managed to stay sober for the first time in years, feeling successful and finally ready to reach out to me. It was the furthest he had gotten since I was born. He confided that he had relapsed every year around the same time. Things took a turn for the worse when, after trying to get back in contact my mom while I was in elementary school, he learned from a family friend that I had been adopted and had a different last name. This revelation caused him immense pain, but he was in no shape to be in contact with me at that time.
He shared these things not to make me feel guilty but because he was brutally honest, even when it reflected terribly on him. Regarding it all, he said “life doesn’t stop for shit. It’s not an airport or a train station. If you miss your ride, you will be left behind.” I thought a lot about these words from him while I was in rehab, and I still carry them with me today.
But then he relapsed again, and he said things to me while impaired that hurt me profoundly, providing a stark glimpse into the pain I had discussed earlier: the pain our loved ones endure during our active addiction. The way he treated me during that time is the closest I have come to experiencing it. But he was a person navigating his own healing journey, and his pain pulled him back to his vices. I cannot imagine the intensity of emotion he battled during the time we were in contact. He is very strong for saying sober as long as he did. I wish he could have hung on a bit longer, but I am still so proud of him.
As someone in recovery, I understand his struggle all too well. Many people say that drunk words are sober thoughts, but that is not always the case. Instead, drunk words emerge from sober hurt. What we say does not necessarily reflect our true feelings toward others; it is a manifestation of the inner turmoil we carry. In my most difficult moments, I felt like a wounded child backed into a corner. I lashed out with hurtful words, driven by fear and an intense need to shield myself from perceived threats. This does not justify my past actions or my father’s, but it does allow me a better understanding of our struggles, and I forgive him.
I stopped communicating with him regularly because I was literally dying. After my overdose and entry into treatment, I began to understand the generational weight of my journey. If I could get sober, I would achieve what my father and grandfather never could. This was not just about my own recovery; it was about breaking the cycle for all of us. My grandfather could not save my father, and I couldn’t save him either, but I could save myself and finally end this painful inheritance. The burden of alcoholism and addiction loomed over several members of our family, and many legacies depended on my choice to get sober.
The last time I reached out to my father, I left him a voicemail to let him know I had just completed rehab. After that, I blocked his number, changed mine, and began the process of rebuilding my life from the ground up. I cut ties with most of my then-friends, deleted my social media, and went off the map for awhile, but not before having a conversation that I never expected but am eternally grateful for.
The day before I changed my phone number, I was in the park smoking a cigarette and feeling thoroughly sorry for myself when my phone rang. I answered without checking who the caller was. I still remember my “Hello” and how unwelcoming it sounded.
“Hi, Skyler.”
I nearly dropped my phone when I heard this. It was my former partner. I had deleted her number, but never blocked it, and she was calling because our friends had told her I had gone to rehab. I immediately apologized, telling her I never wanted her to hear about it, that I was not looking for sympathy and did not want any trouble. But when she cut me off, her voice was very calm. She was not angry.
“I’m not mad, and I wasn’t mad when they told me.”
“You weren’t?”
“Not at all. I was waiting for that call for months, but I thought it would be to find out you were dead. I was just so grateful that you were alive.”
Before I knew it we were crying together on the phone.
“I’m so happy you’re sober. Please stay this way.”
She told me she loved me. I told her I loved her too. Then we said goodbye. As the call ended and the line went dead, I sat there, overwhelmed knowing that I had a whole new life ahead of me to figure out.
Now, it has been three years, I am almost 24, and I am back on the grid. I am about to finish school, still healthy, and chilling in bed right now instead of looking for trouble. My life could not be more different. I focus on slowness, kindness, self-care, my health, personal growth, and my mental well-being in ways I never could before. I do catch myself longing for love again, thinking about what I would and wouldn’t do if it ever came back into my life. Until then, I am practicing showing myself the love I hope to give my lover. It has been a great way to prepare to become the person who truly deserves them.
I know some people probably get tired of hearing me talk about my sobriety, but if they truly understood the battle against the monster that nearly took my life and has haunted my family for generations, they would see why I am committed to maintaining this hard-won victory.
I refuse to be the one who leaves others trying to convince themselves that I loved them. I will not become the hazy figure in a child’s dream or the lost lover who can only be glimpsed through the eyes of my offspring. Yes, I may carry the resemblance of my father, reminding my mother of him, but no one will ever have to seek out another pair of eyes in hopes of finding me in them. I am here, and I will remain present— as a strong individual, a loyal friend, a devoted daughter, and a loving, grateful partner.
I have broken the cycle, and I know I will find someone who has done the same. We will celebrate each other every day because we willunderstand better than anyone that finding each other would have never been possible without breaking free from our pasts. It is in that shared strength that our love will thrive.
God knows that a lack of love was never the problem for any of us. I no longer hold anyone at fault. I did this for all of us.