Honestly I would love to share more detail of my story, but for legal reasons I cannot.
My father was involved in MANY nefarious/illegal (nothing sexual or pedophile-like) activities up until a few years ago. I will not name any, but some of them are downright evil. He also has about fifteen diagnosed mental disorders. He went through electroshock therapy every Saturday, and I’d go with my mom to sit in the waiting room and read Harry Potter. He was always In and out of mental hospitals and jail. He is, however, highly intelligent. Think super villain shit.
Anyway, his drug of choice when I was a kid was crack. This resulted in me basically being left alone at home or stranded places that he’d leave me at all the time. He would always somehow make me feel sorry for him, and I’d forgive him, but it would always happen again as anyone living with an addict knows. He taught me how to be a criminal, and how to read body language and observe minute details in people’s speech to basically lie-detect, but use it to an advantage. He never abused me, but I was always caught up in some sort of manipulation or abandonment.
Fast forward to my teen years. I lived with my mom after their divorce, and she resented me for still caring about him. We got in a huge fight every day, and finally I up and moved back in with my dad. I took care of him, as at this point he had nothing and nobody left. All of his friends went to prison or died. We became best friends, and he was on the right sober track for about a year. He relapsed a couple of times. I was becoming a man, and had learned early to handle myself and take care of myself. I’d bring friends home from school and he would have pawned our TVs, my Xbox, etc.. at the time, I couldn’t care less about school, or anything really. It was sort of like a fog, I don’t really remember much of it. The first time I drove a car I was 13, and he had come home after her herniating a disc in his back from beating somebody up and throwing them through a window (he’s a really big dude) and I had to take him to the hospital.
Skipping more serious events that I can’t share, I moved out at 18, and he would go on binges and continuously call my cell phone from 2AM on, until I’d answer, and have an elaborate story why he needed money. “There’s bad people after me and i need the money to pay them”, etc. I was still naive, and gave him most of my graduation money through that summer.
When I turned 21, he did it again, this time I had become a man. I told him to come to my house. When he got there, he was drenched in sweat and smelled like crack (a very distinct smell if you’ve never smelled it before). I took the car keys from his hand and put them under my mattress. I gave him some pajamas and told him he wasn’t leaving my house until he was sober. I hid my own car keys, all of my money, my debit cards, and my gun and knives too, and stayed up all night to make sure he didn’t try anything.
He’s been clean since then.
Someone reading this may not even understand it, even I don’t. But I have unconditional love for my dad. I’m about to turn 24, and we talk on the phone four times a day and I go see him once a week. His mother (who raised me the majority of the time) passed away this March. This devastated the both of us. I was beyond concerned that that would trigger some serious shit, but so far he is doing great. He is living with a girlfriend and they have a great relationship. He does not even drink beer anymore.
I kinda rambled, but here’s how my life has been affected;
I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD, Panic Disorder, GAD, OCD, and the obvious abandonment, attachment, and trust problems. I’ve been in therapy for a couple of years. I started going because I had a complete breakdown and he took me to his house and took care of me until I was back on my feet. I’m 6’1 and dropped to about 130 pounds. I wouldn’t eat, and lived in constant panic and anxiety. I have nightmares. I cannot trust a soul, but I’m learning to. My panic attacks have subsided due to psychiatric medications, but when I do have them I’m certain that they’re my final moments. My own perceptions are warped, as I’m subconsciously always listening to what people are saying and identifying motives/analyzing them out of mistrust.
I’ve never opened up about this to anyone but a therapist.