Arwen Faulkner wrote this stunning piece about her father, ACEs, their relationships and his death. Like life, it's complex, painful and beautiful all at the same time.
What I know about my father could fit on a grain of sand. He wore Drakkar Noir cologne, rode a Harley Davidson, and loved Jimi Hendrix. And he was an addict with a brilliant mind who struggled most of his life to shake the monkey off his back, until one day, that nasty monkey killed him. A few other things I wish I didn’t know: he physically assaulted my mom before she left him, beat a murder rap in the 1970’s, and ran a prostitution ring in the 1980’s.
I cringed as the funeral home minister began his eulogy. “Rick was a loving father and grandfather…”
Is he kidding?
“…who was well-respected and loved by his community. He will be deeply missed.”
I can’t listen to this.
I looked over the gaunt faces in the crowd, and tried to meet the haunted stares of my father’s friends—the people he’d given his time and energy to, the ones he’d chosen over me. I wanted to be angry, furious. But instead, I felt intensely sad. Not for me, but for all of them, and for the people who loved them. In the downcast, empty eyes of my father’s comrades, I saw his shame and fear. Finally, I was able to acknowledge the oceans of guilt and self-loathing that had stood between my father and the life he could’ve lived. Between us. I realized then that Dad hadn’t chosen to leave—addiction had stolen him away.
That changed everything. Full essay.
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