I once knew a staggeringly handsome man who wore high cheekbones and a goatee. An extraordinary extrovert, this man had a jovial laugh and a jubilant energy; a kind of energy that spread like fire and radiated to all who encircled him. He loved his kids and basketball and Chex Mix and and REO Speedwagon and slapstick humor like Billy Madison. He made everyone around him feel like the most important person in the world. He owned a lovely four bedroom home in an upscale suburb outside of Louisville, Kentucky where his perfect wife and his precious three children lived, along with their two Labrador Retrievers. He had a fantastic career in the home development industry and enjoyed vacationing in Destin, Florida each year. This man died of a heroin overdose on September 4th, 2013 at the young age of 53. This man was my father. That's right, Julian Leon Westbrook, Jr., husband, son, father, brother, family man, heroin addict.
I share this with you, not because I am in search of pity, on the contrary, it's because I yearn for the moment when those that suffer from, and have fallen victim to the horrific disease that is addiction will one day be given the memorial that their souls truly deserve.
Many of us, and particularly those that are lucky enough to have never been touched by this disease, are unaware that addicts are powerless against their addiction. Until recently, this has been a difficult concept for me to grasp, as I saw my father shift from a hilarious, confident, and powerful man to an individual quickly dwindling away, as if a cancerous python was slowly constricting around his neck. None of us are every in competition with that python. For addicts, there is never a choice to be made.
For years I wondered if I could have been a better daughter somehow, if I could have changed him in some way. I practiced tough love and sent him books and information on recovery. What I didn't realize was that I am apart of the vast majority of humans that can have an alcoholic beverage or two and not feel the NEED to continue feeding that beast. I've never ingested a substance and yearned for something more powerful to fill the darkness within me. My father woke up every morning, physically ill, his body surging with pain until he would succumb to the desire to resort to numbness. True, unabashed addiction is a level of suffering I cannot fathom.
This morning I saw an image come across social media. The image depicted a spoon with heroin and a lighter underneath "cooking" the substance (to be injected). The meme read, "CANDLELIGHT VIGIL FOR PHILLIP SEYMOUR HOFFMAN." Now, I am the first to stand up and say that allowing an idiotic and insensitive image on Facebook to affect me is absurd. I'll admit that it's something I could have truly ignored. However, such an image begs to ask, are the families of the people that have died from drugs and alcohol not entitled to a candlelight vigil? Is this such a shameful way to leave this earth that we, as their families, aren't allowed proper grieving? Can I mourn without having to feel as though someone is going to poke fun at my father's passing?
My father died on September 4th, 2013, in his tiny studio apartment in downtown Louisville, with a belt around his arm, and needles and snowy powder scattered about his coffee table. Many of his belongings had been stolen, and it was apparent that there were other drug users present at the time of his death, who did nothing to alert the police or authorities when my father was dying or unconscious. I was the first of my family to be alerted, as my information was in my father's wallet, and the Jefferson County Coroner called me herself the morning ofSeptember 5th. At 25-years-old, I was given the weight of telling the rest of my family of my father's passing. Yes, this is a very jagged pill that I must swallow every morning. It has taken me many months to overcome the embarrassment I have felt and to describe the details of my father's death and now, to share it with many, is allowing me to truly embrace the fact that as his daughter, I still love him and am still proud of the man he once was (and the man that will forever be emblazoned in my memory as my dad).
When my very brave and amazing 21-year-old brother went to help clean out my father's apartment a few days after he died, he told me something that would stay with me forever. On my Dad's fridge were pictures of us (my brothers and I), my mom (who he'd been divorced from for several years), and many of our achievements. There were newspaper article cutouts of events I had planned for my animal welfare organization, some local community groups where I was featured, a poem I wrote that had been published when I was younger. Even through his struggle and haze, and when I had nothing nice to say to him whatsoever, my dad still went out of his way each time we spoke to tell me that he was proud of me. He bragged, to the point of my own embarrassment, and never faltered when it came to expressing his love.
He once told me that the only thing he ever did right in this world was having a part in creating my brothers and me, and he clung to that until the day that he left this earth. My only hope is that, in his final moments in this life, he knew that did more than just create us. In my 25 years with him, I have been supplied with a lifetime of hilarity, the drive and desire to reach out to others, memories of my father making an absolute fool of himself simply to bring joy to those surrounding him. I see him in both of my brothers and I see him in myself. Not a "junkie," a "waste" or someone "deserving of death" because, you know, "what do you expect when you do heroin?" Yes, these are all things I've read about Phillip Seymour Hoffman's tragic heroin overdose.
I see him as a husband, son, father, brother, family man. Compassion over judgement is how I would like everyone to see him. Because each person that has fallen victim to addiction was once someone to somebody.
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