WEBVTT - Dancing with a Demon

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<v Speaker 1>This is our American stories. And this next story comes

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<v Speaker 1>from Lily Dan Singer and this piece was originally written

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<v Speaker 1>in Psychology Today for her mother and father.

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<v Speaker 2>I was eight the first time my father and I

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<v Speaker 2>spoke about heroin. He was working on a sculpture, sitting

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<v Speaker 2>cross legged on the floor with his curly hair hanging

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<v Speaker 2>down over his face. I started his bookshelf, perusing the

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<v Speaker 2>thick art volumes.

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<v Speaker 3>Talks.

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<v Speaker 2>Between the pages of one, I found a piece of

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<v Speaker 2>tinfoil folded into a square and marked with small circular burns.

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<v Speaker 2>I'd never seen one like it, but I had a

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<v Speaker 2>hunch this peculiar object had something to do with his

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<v Speaker 2>drug habit.

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<v Speaker 3>I asked, Pop, Uh, what's this?

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<v Speaker 2>He frowned in the same way he would when I

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<v Speaker 2>declined to try out a new drawing technique. But I

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<v Speaker 2>knew I wasn't the source of his disappointment this time.

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<v Speaker 2>Some ten seconds ticked by before he finally answered, that's

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<v Speaker 2>from doing.

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<v Speaker 3>Drugs, but it's from a long time ago. It must

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<v Speaker 3>have gotten lost in that book.

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<v Speaker 2>There was another pause, and guilt must have overcome him,

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<v Speaker 2>because he then confessed that the tinfoil square wasn't actually

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<v Speaker 2>from that long ago, though, he assured me that he

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<v Speaker 2>had stopped using drugs again and was doing better this time.

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<v Speaker 2>Smelling of tobacco and pilaster, he planted a kiss on

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<v Speaker 2>the top of my head and went back to chiseling

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<v Speaker 2>a block of wood. I knew from a young age

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<v Speaker 2>that my parents were heroin addicts. Doesn't take the world's

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<v Speaker 2>smartest kid to figure out the purpose of a methadone clinic,

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<v Speaker 2>or to decipher a loud, tearful arguments about how it's

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<v Speaker 2>time to stop, muffled by only a thin wall when

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<v Speaker 2>you're supposed to be asleep. Growing up where and when

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<v Speaker 2>I did, in New York's East Village in San Francisco's

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<v Speaker 2>Mission District in the early nineties, their predicament was common.

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<v Speaker 2>Plenty of people were slowly kiving in on themselves, their

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<v Speaker 2>skin growing sallow and their eyes becoming vacant as they

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<v Speaker 2>were eaten alive from within by drugs. But despite knowing

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<v Speaker 2>that my parents struggled with addiction, I had only a

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<v Speaker 2>patchy understanding of what that meant, either for them or

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<v Speaker 2>for the hollow eyed strangers on the street and in

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<v Speaker 2>the clinic waiting room. I'd picked up enough for movies

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<v Speaker 2>and foreboding commercials to know that drugs were bad for you,

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<v Speaker 2>But I understood it in the same abstract way I

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<v Speaker 2>knew broccoli.

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<v Speaker 3>Was good for you.

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<v Speaker 2>I couldn't really differentiate between my parents' drug problem and

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<v Speaker 2>all their other grown up problems, like making the rent

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<v Speaker 2>and keeping the house clean. In the years after the

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<v Speaker 2>tinfoil incident, after my parents split up and my mother

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<v Speaker 2>successfully kicked her heroin habit, my father and I had

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<v Speaker 2>an ongoing coded dialogue his efforts to do the same.

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<v Speaker 2>He would tell me that he was healthy, which was

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<v Speaker 2>his way of saying that he was clean. He couldn't

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<v Speaker 2>bring himself to be completely frank about his struggle, but

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<v Speaker 2>he knew that I worried about it, and he wanted.

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<v Speaker 3>To reassure me.

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<v Speaker 2>In fact, he told me how he was doing, no

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<v Speaker 2>matter how euphemistically, made me trust him. It made me

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<v Speaker 2>feel even more invested as I rooted for him from

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<v Speaker 2>the sidelines of this invisible battle. I believed in him

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<v Speaker 2>so intensely that I was probably the only person who

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<v Speaker 2>didn't immediately assume drugs were involved.

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<v Speaker 3>When he died, I.

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<v Speaker 2>Was twelve and living in Upstate New York with my mother,

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<v Speaker 2>He had gone to live in a cabin in the

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<v Speaker 2>northern California Redwoods to be in nature and away from drugs.

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<v Speaker 3>He died in his sleep, even though I was across

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<v Speaker 3>the country. Wouldn't happened. I felt certain that my father

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<v Speaker 3>was clean because of the postcards.

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<v Speaker 2>He'd set me, always mentioning how well he was doing

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<v Speaker 2>and how he couldn't wait for me to visit so

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<v Speaker 2>we could camp out under the ancient majestic trees. The

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<v Speaker 2>autopsy report eventually confirmed that there was no oh heroin

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<v Speaker 2>in my father's blood when he died. The coroner couldn't

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<v Speaker 2>determine a cause of death, which left many open questions.

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<v Speaker 2>But I had the answer to the one question that

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<v Speaker 2>mattered to me. As far as I knew, the only

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<v Speaker 2>way heroin could become fatal was through an overdose, and

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<v Speaker 2>I took the absence of the drug in his system

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<v Speaker 2>to mean that his death was unrelated.

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<v Speaker 3>To his many years of drug abuse. I felt vindicated.

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<v Speaker 2>When I hit my twenties, I realized that I didn't

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<v Speaker 2>actually know that much about my father beyond my rosy memories,

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<v Speaker 2>so I started reaching out to his old friends. The

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<v Speaker 2>hazy view of heroin i'd had as a child became

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<v Speaker 2>sharper and more detailed. I learned that he'd been using

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<v Speaker 2>it with far more regularity and for a longer period

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<v Speaker 2>of time than I'd ever known. I eventually came to

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<v Speaker 2>face the obvious. The damage done by poisoning yourself for

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<v Speaker 2>almost two decades doesn't instantly reverse the moment you stop.

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<v Speaker 2>Forty three year old man's organs don't just shut down inexplicably.

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<v Speaker 2>There may not have been heroin in his system when

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<v Speaker 2>he died, but that didn't mean heroin wasn't.

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<v Speaker 3>The cause of his death. I started to see his

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<v Speaker 3>death not.

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<v Speaker 2>As some freak occurrence, but as something he let happen,

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<v Speaker 2>and I was furious.

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<v Speaker 3>Letting myself rage.

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<v Speaker 2>At him at the memory of him was like releasing

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<v Speaker 2>a breath I'd held for almost twenty years. As a child,

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<v Speaker 2>I'd thought of addiction as a big, bad demon. My

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<v Speaker 2>parents were fighting to escapes that we could all live

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<v Speaker 2>happily ever after. Now I had to wonder how they

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<v Speaker 2>let themselves get into that position in the first place.

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<v Speaker 2>How could they have looked at the peaceful face of

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<v Speaker 2>their sleeping child in one room, then closed the door

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<v Speaker 2>and gotten high in another. My father was a good

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<v Speaker 2>parent in many ways. He read me Grim's fairy tales

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<v Speaker 2>and Greek myths, cherished my every piece of art, and

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<v Speaker 2>encouraged me to voice my thoughts loudly and clearly. But

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<v Speaker 2>all the while he failed his number one duty to

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<v Speaker 2>me to do everything he could to make sure that

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<v Speaker 2>he'd stay in my life. The central requirement of being

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<v Speaker 2>a parent is to be present. All the rest is

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<v Speaker 2>a matter of style and degree.

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<v Speaker 3>You can't be a good.

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<v Speaker 2>Parent, or even a bad parent, if you're not there

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<v Speaker 2>at all. He hadn't really died by accident. I came

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<v Speaker 2>to realize he'd committed a suicide by neglect, like a

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<v Speaker 2>lie of a mission. In a way, feeling my anger

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<v Speaker 2>at him has lessened its power over me. The story

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<v Speaker 2>we often hear about the loved ones of addicts, pat

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<v Speaker 2>tale of anger resolving into forgiveness doesn't acknowledge the complexity

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<v Speaker 2>of feelings layered upon each other, all of them shifting

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<v Speaker 2>continually with time. I don't know if or when I'll

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<v Speaker 2>ever fully forgive my father, but that's okay. Anger hasn't

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<v Speaker 2>diminished my love for him, or my appreciation of everything

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<v Speaker 2>that was wonderful about him. It's just made him feel

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<v Speaker 2>more real. It's let me see him with bracing clarity.

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<v Speaker 2>Not only is the adored father I lost too soon,

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<v Speaker 2>but as a flawed human being who I can now

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<v Speaker 2>mourn more fully and honestly.

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<v Speaker 1>And what a beautiful and thought full peace. Thank you,

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<v Speaker 1>Lily for what you wrote, and thank you for sharing

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<v Speaker 1>it with us. Lily Dancinger's story, her mother and father's

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<v Speaker 1>story here on our American Stories. Folks, if you love

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