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I knew my father abused drugs. I watched that man abuse drugs since I was five. I had memorized the shape and texture of the turquoise tiles of our old bathroom floor. I picked my unconscious father off of that tiled floor more than once. The weirdest part of his addiction was that he always managed to convince me that I was either misreading the situation or being too hard on him.

I didn’t have much time to pay attention to his addiction. My brother and I were sharing a room in a small apartment with my grandmother who had Alzheimer’s. I was in high school trying to pass statewide tests and find a boyfriend. Senior year of high school arrived, my parents separated, my grandma died, and I got ready to leave for college.

One of the worst parts is the constant remembering. I have to bring my brain to a place where I remember my dad is dead and that we will never, ever mend our horrifically fragmented relationship.

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