In my last post, I told you a little bit more about myself and how I grew up mostly on a farm with my dad, because my mom left when I was just a baby.
Before I start telling you about some of the horrible things my dad did while he was addicted to meth, I really want to tell you about the man he was before meth. He had his flaws, like any human, but he was a good man and an excellent father. In fact, part of the reason he got involved with meth, to begin with, was to try to take care of me. It’s part of why I have so much guilt over his death, even though I know deep down I’m not genuinely responsible.
My dad was tall and thin, with a lanky, boyish frame, even though he was in his late thirties and early forties at the time of this story. He had brown hair and big, down-turned brown eyes that always made him look sad, like a puppy, even when he was smiling.
He was a very sensitive guy and a caretaker. Before teaching at a middle school, which was the job he had while he was married to my mother, he worked at a nursing home taking care of elderly residents. He was thoughtful and introverted and loved helping others.
I was the center of his universe. He told me all the time that I was his “favorite part of life” and “the best thing that ever happened to him.” Even when he would complain about my mom, he would usually end it with looking at me and saying, “But she gave me you, so she can’t be all bad.”
When my parents divorced, they sold their house in the city. Mom moved out of state with her boyfriend and dad moved to the farm in Texas. He wanted to try his hand at farming and have me grow up away from the influences of the city.
Unfortunately, even though he was a hard worker, my dad wasn’t experienced as a farmer and had a hard time making ends meet financially. This is how the trouble began.