“You don’t know what it’s like to grow up in chaos until you’ve lived it.”
I was seven when I first understood what addiction was. My dad had always been the life of the party—fun, loud, and always with a joke ready. But behind that smile, there was a hidden truth. My dad had been using for years, and I had seen it all—empty bottles, needles tucked away, and the days when he wasn’t around at all. At first, I didn’t even know what was happening. I just knew that there were days when he was too high to get out of bed, or too drunk to remember what he had promised me the day before.
I remember being angry a lot, even at my mom, for staying with him. It felt like betrayal. But as I grew older, I realized she was just stuck too—caught in a cycle of hope and disappointment, thinking each time he promised to get clean would be the time he actually did. Watching her struggle with that, always walking on eggshells, affected me deeply. I became withdrawn, distant. I didn’t trust people, didn’t let anyone get close. I felt like I was constantly in survival mode—getting good grades, hiding my emotions, trying to avoid confrontation at all costs.
But eventually, I found a way out. I went to therapy in my early twenties and learned that my anger wasn’t just about my dad’s addiction. It was about the pain of never knowing if I could trust the people who were supposed to be there for me. The hardest lesson was realizing that you can’t change someone else—you can only change how you respond. And I’ve learned to set boundaries, to love from a distance when needed, and to stop letting someone else’s addiction dictate my happiness.
To anyone reading this, struggling in a similar way: It’s okay to let go. Loving someone with an addiction doesn’t mean enabling them. You don’t have to carry their weight. It’s not your fault, and you are allowed to have your own life.