Going through puberty when your single parent is a meth addict

TW: explicit substance use content. 

For me, being raised by a single parent who was a meth addict felt like total chaos. I was 11 when my dad’s addiction spiraled out of control, although he had been using my whole life. I was 11 when my dad was using speed on a regular basis, combined with various opioids and sometimes crack cocaine. I was 11 when my dad was arrested for the final time. I had breast buds n body hair  and my life felt like total chaos. 

 

I think now all the time about what it would be like to raise a daughter. I would love her so much, and give my all to be totally present for her when she needed it most. And now, as a woman who has felt so thoroughly connected to, and in love with my Womanhood, I think about what it would be like to guide a young girl through this physical, emotional, and mental transition. I’ve never been someone who felt connected to the narrative of “well I didn’t have a mom, so how would I know how to mother?” Since young adulthood, I’ve nurtured my maternal energy for myself and for others. In thinking about my most tender times as a girl, I fixate on this time. 10–14 years old. What a precious, important time. A time that I grieve, heal from, and remember vividly. 

 

I think about this time, and how my dad had the opportunity to participate in Drug Court instead of being forced to stay in jail. And he did. Drug Court was a whole experience for my dad and me - a story for a different time. What I want to share, is that during this time, my dad decided to go back to school. He went to one of those technical colleges - it was called Heald - and pursued an AA degree in computer science. He was so proud of himself. And I was proud of him, too, for completing it and for completing Drug Court. This compelled me to write this piece. I am reminded that most - if not all - of us desire to heal, to be better, to do better. My dad was so proud of this AA degree and brief stint of sobriety. And so was/am I. But more than that, I know that his worth and his value existed far beyond all these things, that his desire to provide for his child, and simply his being, were everything to me.

My dad raised me by himself. He struggled. He had substance use disorders, and other problems. During the times I needed him most. And my life felt like total and complete chaos. And even like that, I love him. I see his pain, I know his trauma.

Rest easy, dad. And blessings to me, in my journey of re-parenting myself, mourning my single father, and living the healthiest life I can during Late Capitalism.