My father’s addiction claimed everything but my love for him
I lost my dad when I was 9. Thirteen years of missing him later, I want you to know about him and why he mattered.
By Maiah Jezak Updated February 17, 2024, 3:00 a.m.
The author schooling her late father, Ryan Jezak, in wrestling in an undated photo.Maiah Jezak
I am a Catholic. In case of an accident, notify a priest.
This
is the inscription carved into the pendant my dad was wearing when he
overdosed. He was a Catholic, I suppose. He dragged us to so many
churches in his final days that I lost count. My favorite was the church
where the Sunday school gave out 2-liter pops to whoever correctly
answered the most Jesus trivia questions. These attempts at faith did
very little to guide my dad to sobriety. On Jan. 30, 2011 (a Sunday), he
collapsed on the stairs alone at his home. Nobody knows exactly what
his final moments were like as his lungs filled with fluid and his heart
stopped beating, but it’s safe to say he was insanely high. He abused
prescription pain killers, alcohol, and God knows what else. He had been
an addict for the majority of his life. When he died, I was only 9
years old.
I couldn’t give answers to anyone who inquired about thecause of hisdeath
until I was an adult. Most of the time these memories feel like
recalling a movie I watched instead of my actual life. I don’t remember
the funeral. I don’t even remember the last time I saw my dad. What I do
remember makes my grief all the more complicated. People incorrectly
assume that because of his lifestyle, my dad and I weren’t close. In
truth, we were thick as thieves. He would take me to Chinese buffets and
make me snow globes out of baby food bottles. He would catch mice to
keep as pets and rub my back until I fell asleep. I would sob
uncontrollably every time our weekends ended and I had to leave him.
True,
he smoked a lot and would get into loud fights with strangers in the
grocery store parking lot. He’d tell me long-winded stories about how my
mom had “abandoned” him and then would pass out for half the day. He
never kept his promises. I even watched him punch a cactus once.
This
was my life. If I heard his lungs rattling when we snuggled, I would
throw his cigarettes out the window. If he got into a fight with
someone, I would give them dirty looks out of solidarity. Nine-year-old
me would give my infant brother baths while my dad was asleep in the
middle of the day. I’d find beer cans in his room and watch him squish
grapes with his feet to make homemade wine. My father was recklessness
personified.
Needless
to say, I became an exceptionally anxious child. Dad spent my brother’s
first birthday in the hospital. Kids don’t know everything, but they
can feel everything. I could feel him slipping away throughout my entire
life.
It
has been 13 years since he died. Grieving a man like my dad has been
almost impossible. Addicts are people, and they often have children.
Addiction and its warpath permeate every aspect of an addict’s and their
loved ones’ lives. This is the reality for millions of people.
I
want people to know about my dad. I want people to know about me. Last
year I found a letter my dad wrote in AA where he likened his fight with
addiction to a brave knight fighting a dragon. He signed that letter
“Ryan J. Dragon Warrior.” I like to remember my dad as a warrior.
I
will never understand the pain that led him to drugs and alcohol. Or
how addiction could be more powerful than his love for me. I will never
understand how he could love so hard and still hurt so many people. And I
will never understand a God or a universe that could rip him from this
world at 35 years old. I’m beginning to be OK with not knowing. Perhaps
this is my version of faith.
Maiah Jezak is an educator, writer, and cat lover who is pursuing a master’s degree in Lansing, Mich.
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