.
Leaving the warmth, bright lights, and tiring crowd behind me, I walk out into the darkness of this cool June night and I weep. I sob like I never have before. All that is before me now is the multitude of stars, the weight of certainty and a fundamental belief in love. I know that every day for the rest of my life, I will cry when remembering this moment.
We are all the center of our own world. We think in “I.” Even those we love are “they.”
Inside, in a corner away from the crowds, soft light illuminates a small table. On that table are eleven lovingly framed pictures of my daughter. With her best friend, who was always going to be her maid of honor. Posing for a group selfie, ready for a party. Dressed up for a night out. Flashing a mock gang symbol on a street I’ve never seen with a guy I never met. Beside the eleven photos there is a clear plastic sign “In loving memory of those who are.” The full inscription reads ‘In loving memory of those who are not here,’ but candles and fake roses obscure the bottom. What remains means more. It would be easy to dismiss each person in those photos as addicts. But “they” were people first. Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Best friends. Sons. Daughters.
Bright souls whose addictions were perilous mountains to climb. And those bright souls fell on their journey.
If someone had asked me to describe the defining moment of my life, like most, I would have given them a safe answer. “The day I met my wife.” “The day my child was born.” “The day I got divorced.” I realize now that’s just bullshit. It’s today. The day I weep like a baby, falling to my knees, and utterly helpless beneath the weight of the moment.
I remember the day she was born. November 4th, 1995. Like any new father, I was terrified. How would I fail this precious, helpless, spiky black-haired being placed into my arms? And I remember her first laugh, her first steps, her first “I love you, Daddy,” her first day at school, her first recital, her first boyfriend, her first “I hope you die” screamed in anger and pain.
What would be the cost of my failure?
Memories last forever, but in the moment the consuming struggles of the “I” can cause your attention to slip for a moment. Or several. Or many. And in those moments, terrible things can happen. You ignore the early signs. You excuse anger as acting out. You fail to comfort a strong-willed teenager who needs desperately to be loved.
I remember my hopelessness as addiction took my child from me.
I remember the first time I committed her to rehab. The first time I slept in the emergency room next to her bed after her overdose. The second time in rehab. The endless group and family therapy sessions. The time she crashed my car while high. The midnight calls from the police. The third time in rehab. The fourth. The fifth. The tears and the “I’m sorry,” and “it will be different this time” from both of us. The endless parade of well-meaning addiction counselors. I don’t remember the sixth or seventh times in rehab and I was absent for the eighth as I fought my own demons, but I know their awful cost in the lost months and years of her youth.
I fought against her pain and the downward spiral with every fiber of my being, foolishly thinking it was mine to fix.
And her pain ends with her lying on the floor of her bedroom, foaming at the mouth, overdosed. The price of my failure. Her heart stopped beating.
My daughter died.
I wasn’t there to save her.
People are drinking and mingling behind me. Their voices drift outside to where I stand. And then one voice rises above them all to ask, “Where’s Dad?” and comes to find me. The person whose picture could easily be on a table in the corner at someone else’s wedding. A daughter stronger than her father. A daughter, who, by the grace of the Universe, was brought back to life by her brother and an emergency ambulance team I never met. A daughter who climbed her mountain and built a life beyond her addiction.
A daughter, who came back to ask the question. “Where’s Dad?”
He is in the garden. Sobbing like a baby and offering his wretched soul to the universe in gratitude for this moment. He knows that, even if he died today, he has been blessed with walking his daughter down the aisle.
The person who comes to save me is the daughter I wasn’t strong enough to save.
She walks into the darkness to find me. Bringing me to my feet, she places her hand gently on mine and asks if I am okay. What is, and what forever will be, the defining moment of my life.
Oni’s wedding.
Author’s Dedication
The ‘girl who saved me’ is dedicated to my daughter, Oni, and the professionals who give their energy, commitment and time every day to help those struggling with substance abuse and mental health challenges. The story is based on the real-world challenges faced by Oni. I am so proud of how she overcame her addiction and built a successful, loving life. I know that without the assistance and support of the professionals who worked with her, she would most likely be a photo at someone’s wedding and I would be writing a very different story.
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