Hope is a funny thing. We have it. We lose it. Then we find something to be hopeful for again. Sometimes it is what gets us through the week, the day, the hour. We have this desire that something will turn out the way we want it to, yet, at times, it doesn’t turn out. However, we find ourselves in situations where we feel hopeful again. I struggle with hope.
As I have previously written, I made it my personal mission to help my dad. I really thought that my love for him and his love for me was stronger than his addiction to prescription drugs and alcohol. I HOPED that I would have my old dad back. The man who I grew up with and adored would reappear, and life would be as normal as it could. I struggled to put my experience with addiction into words, which is why it has been awhile since the last post.
My dad must have been struggling with prescription drugs for awhile before I even noticed. He was quiet anyway, so it would have been hard to see, even if I was looking at an addict. It seemed that it was normal for people to pop Oxy like candy after a major procedure. The doctors kept filling the bottles, so they must have thought my dad needed the pills, right?
I had always HOPED to get my dad back, but then I HOPED it would all just stop. My expectation had shifted. I privately had that thought for a long time. Sometimes, I would see him sleeping and think he was dead, which scared the shit out of me. I don’t know if I wanted him to die to relieve us from the pain or so he no longer had to live with his pain. His body was emaciated, the light in his eyes was gone, and he hated himself for it. The dad I knew and loved was gone.
And here I am still hoping. I hope that he is a peace. I hope that I will see him again. I hope that he knows that I did everything that I could. I hope that he knew that I loved him unconditionally.