Daddy's Little Addict

The man I am writing about passed away many years ago. Out of respect for his family, I will not disclose his real name; I'll refer to him only as *Simon.  

*Simon was like a father to me and I loved him dearly... eventually. For the first few months, my hatred burnt with the fire of a thousand suns.

*Simon had just been released from prison for heroin trafficking, but before you judge my mother for allowing him into our lives, you must first understand that he had just served a 5 year sentence. Theoretically he should have been clean for half a decade; a reformed member of society, if you will. We would later learn just how readily available heroin had been to him in prison.

My mother was put through hell by my father and then along came a good looking, kind-hearted man. *Simon fell in love with Mum and was even willing to put up with her emotionally unstable little brat (me), who never missed an opportunity to tell him how much she hated him. *Simon was patient with me when my mother was not; he never bit back or retaliated. Not in the beginning...

My trust issues from my abusive and absent father ran deep.  I couldn't let another man into my broken heart until I was sure he wasn't a fraud. I regularly rummaged through his overnight bags. The first thing I found was his diary: ' I am in love.  She must never see Simon the addict.  I know what I can get like, I know how bad I can be.  I have to stay clean. '

~

Over time, my heart gradually opened to *Simon, allowing him to be the father figure I desperately craved beneath all my false bravado... but my distrust remained. I incessantly searched. When I found a large ounce-sized bag full of marijuana my heart splintered. I took it to my mother, hysterical tears of rage streaming down my face. *Simon came to see what all of the commotion was about and the colour visibly drained from his face as he saw the package.

The First Lie: ' I shouldn't have picked it up and I shouldn't have brought it here. At McDonalds earlier, 2 teenagers were doing a drug deal in the toilets. When they saw me they dropped it and ran out. I didn't know what to do, so I just picked it up and brought it home. '

How smoothly *Simon concocted and executed that lie is incredibly disturbing, in hindsight.  But we believed him and I felt horrible for doubting him. What ever actually happened to that ounce of weed, to this day I do not know.

~

The years went on and my walls eventually crumbled completely. I was the apple of *Simon's eye and he earned my trust...until once again, my illusions were shattered. I was in the garden shed looking for paint when there sitting on a pile of boxes was a used needle. My blood ran cold and I dropped to my knees sobbing.

When I composed myself enough to stand, I wiped my eyes and ran inside to the bedroom he shared with my mother. I yanked open his drawers and shoved his clothes aside, not caring how much mess I made. And there it was: an open chemist packet filled with more syringes. I tossed it aside and just sat there amongst the mess I'd made, crying. I didn't feel victorious, only broken and empty.

The Second Lie: ' Because of the car accident that smashed my pelvis, I need to insert a needle to urinate. I was too embarrassed to say anything about it. '

Yep, we believed that one too.

~

Life resumed and I was grateful to be forgiven for my outburst and overreaction.

It sometimes makes me sad to look back at that little girl, always thinking it was my fault and that I was finding drama where there was none. I was a child who endured so much at the hands of my biological father, only to be gaslighted by the man I viewed as my father, looked up to and adored; a man who didn't exist. Not as I knew him anyway.  

When my grandfather fell ill was when the make believe world *Simon had built fell apart. He consumed Grandad's oxycontin pain killers and replaced them with Paracetamol, thinking nobody would notice. I vividly recall us being at a BBQ with *Simon so high he went on the nod in his chair, mouth hanging open and head lolling back. His stash inevitably dried up and *Simon became physically ill with withdrawals in the days that followed.

The Third Lie: 'I have a stomach bug.' 

The sweet natured man we fell in love with slipped away, replaced by a nasty, manipulative creature that we didn't recognise—*Simon the addict—the very thing he had written about. His relapse progressed beyond concealment, smooth talk, and quick wit. Bent and blackened spoons, sometimes still coated with residue, were left here, there, and everywhere; homemade bongs mocked me with their permanent-marker smiling mouths and judgey eyes. It was no longer a random needle in the garden shed. This was our new normal. My mother did the only thing left to do: she terminated the relationship.

~

I never forgot *Simon's kind side and when I found myself addicted to crystal meth in my late teens, I asked around the drug world until I found him. We hugged, we cried, and I forgave him. I took him into my home and he introduced me to morphine. *Simon was facing another string of drug charges and after fronting Court, he never returned home. He left with no explanation and no goodbye, breaking my heart all over again.  

I have often wondered if he left that way to protect me from himself. It's a comforting thought if nothing else. At the end of the day, I like to believe that Simon was a good man who made some terrible choices; choices that he was unable to find his way back from. And in the end, those choices cost him his life. Rest in peace, *Simon. ❤

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