-Submitted by a recovering family member

It was still dark when I woke up that morning. The air was still. The cold throughout the house felt as though the heat hadn’t been on in weeks. I quickly sprung from my bed and wrapped my blanket firmly up over my head to keep the cold from hitting my skin. I headed down the hall of our little apartment to the kitchen and poured some Frosted Flakes into a bowl. As I opened the refrigerator, a foul stench hit my face, filling my nostrils. The electricity had gone out and whatever food was left, went bad.

I took a deep breath, threw away my bowl of cereal, and trudged back down the hall to my dad’s bedroom. The door was locked, which happened quite often, so I knocked softly. He must’ve not heard me, so I knocked again, and again. Still no answer. “Great, he’s passed out,” I thought to myself. I went back to my room and got ready for school, my stomach rumbling with hunger. Before I left that morning, I made sure to grab 8 quarters from the change jar in the cupboard, so I could buy a bagel on my way in.

As it always did, school flew by that day. From there, I went directly to my after-school job at the local pizzeria; 4 more hours later, and I was back home. The apartment was still cold; it was still dark; the quiet remained. “What the hell?” I said to myself, “What has he been doing all day?” I knocked on his bedroom door again, still no answer. I could hear the T.V. on, so I knew he was in there. At this point, I was worried. Really, more than worried, I was terrified. I wanted to kick down the door, but I was afraid my dad would be really angry with me when he found out.

I called my cousin Janet and explained what was happening. She told me to kick in the door and call 911; she was heading right over. Janet is a few years older than me, so she had to be about 20 or 21 at the time. She was the closest thing I knew to a reliable adult family member. My mother left years ago; we don’t talk about her much. I proceeded to kick the door. Kick, kick, kick. At first it wouldn’t budge, until I lined my boot directly up with the knob. The door swung open and the rest is still a bit blurry. It was as if I was having an out-of-body experience.

He laid there, slumped halfway off of the bed, needle still in his arm. His skin was cold and blue. What had he done? How much could he have taken? He had overdosed once before, so I knew what I needed to do; “hopefully the paramedics get here in time with the Narcan,” I thought to myself. I laid him flat on the bed and proceeded with CPR, but deep down I knew it was too late. Soon after, the EMTs came rushing in, pushing me aside. They confirmed my worst thoughts. He was gone. My dad was dead from heroin.

Growing Up Alone

I was 17 when my dad died from a heroin overdose; 11 when my mom left us for another man. I had a total of five living relatives, one being a grandmother who was 92 and in late stage Alzheimer’s. Other than Janet, I was pretty much alone, all of the time. Although my father drove me crazy, almost every day, he was still my dad. Most of the time I felt like the adult, managing most of the bills, cooking dinner, cleaning up after him, and nursing him back to health when he would decide to quit the junk. For most people this may sound like a horrifyingly tragic childhood, but for me, it was all I knew; it was normal. Now, with him gone, I didn’t know what to do; I no longer had anyone to take care of.

Being strong was never an option; it was a necessity for survival. So why should now be any different? Months after the funeral, I still found myself drifting through life. I couldn’t feel anything, as if I was the one with the heroin addiction. His death still wasn’t a reality to me. I sometimes look back on that time, and wonder if my subconscious was protecting me from the guilt I was about to endure.

The Noise

Yearning for noise, I moved as far away from the silence as possible. I finished high school and got the scholarship I was hoping for. I packed up the few belongings I owned and headed to college; getting away from that town, those people, that apartment. College would do the trick. The people there didn’t know who I was or what kind of family I came from. In essence, I could finally be whoever I wanted.

Although the numbness was just that, it was comfortable for me because I didn’t have to feel; I didn’t have to think. I thought the “noise” of college would help me become the person I was supposed to be, leaving behind all of the heartache and chaos. The first month or so was mostly a blur. Class, study group, work, sleep. That was my standard routine. I would occasionally go to parties with my roommate, but never had much interest in it.

Then, the night came that I thought would never arrive. My dulled senses finally came to life, as if every emotion I had stuffed for the last few months decided to have revenge on my lifeless soul. I’m not entirely sure why it happened when it did, or what even brought it on, but when the floodgates opened, the feelings began pouring in; I was no longer able to avoid them. The guilt consumed me. I wondered if I had done enough. What if I checked on him before I went to bed that night? What if I knocked on the door harder before school? What if I didn’t take so long to kick the door in? Would he still be alive? What if I made him go to heroin rehab or stay in one when he got there? I should have never given him money to feed his addiction or meet his dealer when he was too “sick” to go himself.